The Second Life of Demon King

Episode 10: The Mysterious Magic Teacher

The sky was overcast that afternoon. Clouds hung low over the Ackerman estate, as if welcoming the arrival of someone unusual. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating, as an old carriage came to a stop right in front of the stone gate.

The household servant quickly bowed as the carriage door opened.

Out stepped a tall, hunched man, wearing a gray robe that was too long, sweeping the ground. The robe was patched with fine stitches, but it was clean. His silver hair was tied back, and his eyes—ah, his eyes—were sharp like needles, ready to pierce any illusion.

"Magister Orland, welcome," greeted Butler Graham with a stiff voice.

Orland merely nodded lightly. "Where is the study?" he asked bluntly, his voice heavy and hoarse.

Isaac peeked from behind the second-floor curtain. His eyes narrowed.

He looked like a retired mummy... but for some reason, Isaac could almost smell the scent of lies from a mile away.

Isaac took a deep breath, straightened his back, and practiced his signature silly smile in front of the mirror. "Lazy kid mode, activated," he muttered softly, then walked down the stairs.

---

In the study, the scent of ink and old wood filled the air. Magic books were neatly lined up on the shelves. In the center of the room, a large table had been prepared. Isaac sat at one of the chairs, glaring at the pen as if it were going to bite him.

Orland stepped in and immediately sat down without any introduction. He scrutinized Isaac from head to toe, his eyes as sharp as daggers.

"You're Isaac?" he asked.

Isaac nodded slowly, then scratched his head. "Err... yeah. I’m usually a bit… slow, so don’t expect too much, okay?"

Orland didn't respond. He placed a worn-out book on the table, opened to the middle page, and said, "Let’s start with the definition of mana. What is it?"

Isaac stared blankly for a moment, then looked up at the ceiling. "Mana is... sort of... energy? Or something?"

"Explain more."

Isaac shrugged. "Energy... that can be used to... make fire?"

Orland clicked his tongue softly, then jotted something down in his notebook. Isaac tried to peek, but the old man’s writing looked like cursed chicken scratches.

He wrote everything down. "Even my fake stupidity. Be careful, Isaac. He’s not an ordinary teacher."

The lesson was stiff. Orland didn't talk much, but every question he asked was sharp. He observed Isaac's expressions, hand movements, even his breaths. When Isaac deliberately answered the basic wind spell structure incorrectly, Orland simply nodded... then handed him a book two levels harder.

Isaac almost chuckled.

"Oh, so this is a challenge? Fine, the game begins."

---

The next day, Orland brought a pair of mana crystals that his pupil was supposed to balance. Allegedly, only children with enough sensitivity could maintain resonance between the two for more than five minutes.

Isaac held the crystals with trembling hands. “Uh… which one first, the left? Or the right?”

"No need to pretend," Orland murmured softly.

Isaac froze. His eyes fixed on the crystals, but his soul screamed.

"What did he mean by that?!"

However, when Isaac lifted his head, Orland was staring straight at the window, as if he hadn't said anything at all.

"Err... what did the Magister mean?"

"I said: don’t tense up. Breathe. Slowly."

"...Oh. Right. That." Isaac nodded quickly, then laughed awkwardly. "I thought you were talking about... something else."

Orland squinted, then went back to writing.

In his mind, Isaac began to adjust his persona. "Don’t be too stupid, but don’t be too smart. A bit confusing, like half-cooked beans. That’s safe... for now."

---

In the third week, Orland secretly dropped a piece of ancient spell paper on the floor near Isaac’s seat. Full of archaic symbols, a summoning technique even adult magicians hesitated to touch.

Isaac picked it up without expression.

"Sorry, Magister. Did this... fall?" he asked, handing the paper with slightly trembling hands—not because he was afraid, but because he was holding back the urge to analyze it further.

Orland merely nodded lightly, but his eyes lingered on Isaac's fingers.

"He’s testing me. Again. And damn it... I’m a little excited." Isaac grinned inwardly.

---

One night, after the lesson was over, Isaac sat on the balcony of his room, staring at the sky.

"He knows something’s off with me," he murmured softly. "But... he doesn’t accuse. He’s just waiting."

Light footsteps approached from behind. Evelyn, his mother, came closer and sat beside him.

"You seem... more alive lately," she said gently. "Have you started liking magic lessons?"

Isaac turned to her. A tired but sincere smile spread across his face. "I think... my new teacher’s interesting. Though a bit scary. Like... an old cat who can read minds."

Evelyn chuckled softly. "Well, you’re a good match. You’re like a little cat who likes to hide its claws."

Isaac returned the laugh, though his mind couldn’t be still.

"If he knew I was the former Demon Overlord in disguise, maybe he wouldn’t compare me to a cat."

---

The next morning, Orland brought a scroll of ancient magic maps.

"Today, we’ll learn about the mana pathways in the body," he said flatly. "But... not from a book. I want you to feel it."

Isaac squinted. "Feel it... how?"

Orland stood, then touched Isaac’s chest with the tip of his wooden staff.

"Focus your mind here. Find your flow. Don’t imagine it. Feel it."

Isaac closed his eyes. For a moment, he almost revealed the true form of his mana flow—dark, deep, like a black whirlpool stretching into another dimension.

But at the last second, he pulled back. Only a small, chaotic, weak flow appeared.

Orland drew his staff back. His face remained neutral, but the corners of his eyes narrowed.

In his mind, Orland thought, "This kid... is hiding something. But what? And... why?"

Meanwhile, Isaac, slowly opening his eyes, thought to himself, "This old teacher isn’t just a mentor... he’s a watcher. Or maybe... a hunter."

Morning air slipped in through the cracks of the window, carrying a thin mist and the scent of damp earth. Sunlight was still reluctant to pierce through the gray curtains of the sky. Inside the Ackerman family’s study room, the soft sound of pen on parchment filled the silence. Isaac sat upright behind a large wooden desk, surrounded by chest-high stacks of books. His eyes squinted, brows furrowed as he read a particularly complex page from Ars Sigilum Primaris.

“I can’t believe humans need three symbols just to light a flame the size of a candle. They’re clearly inefficient,” Isaac muttered inwardly. His left hand scribbled alternative symbols on a blank parchment, connecting mana lines with almost mathematical precision. “But… if I tweak this part just a bit…”

“Isaac,” came the raspy voice of Magister Orland, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Do you understand the explanation about natural catalysts?”

Isaac blinked rapidly and turned with a neutral expression. “Uh, that’s… like a rock or leaf that… zaps people, right?”

Orland frowned. “‘Zaps’? An interesting… highly technical analogy,” he murmured, then turned to write on a magical board made of obsidian. His hand trembled slightly, but his movements were still precise and trained.

Isaac stared at Orland’s back. No laughter. No scolding. Strange. Most teachers would have lost patience and given up. He began scribbling again, more carefully this time. But before he could expand his new theory, a small orb of blue light floated above the desk—then exploded into shimmering dust.

Isaac leapt from his chair. “Whoa! What was that?!”

“Just a reflex test,” Orland said casually without turning. “You were too quiet. I needed to check if you were alive or just sleeping with your eyes open.”

“I’m alive, but my heart almost retired just now,” Isaac grumbled, clutching his chest dramatically. “What a… delightful teaching method, Master.”

Orland turned with a faint smile. “Magic is the art of tension, Isaac. If you’re too relaxed, you explode. If you’re too tense… you also explode.”

Isaac chuckled. “Nice. So there’s no safe option, huh?”

Orland slowly approached, his robe sweeping across the old wooden floor. “Now, let’s talk about the basic structure of a fire spell. Try casting Ignis.”

Isaac looked down, pretending to think hard. In his mind, he already knew the three core symbols: Pyr, Flaros, and Entra. But deliberately, he drew one symbol incorrectly.

Orland watched. No change in expression. But his eyes… oh, his eyes memorized.

“He knows I did that on purpose,” Isaac thought. “And he let it slide. Why?”

Orland tapped the desk lightly. “Continue. Create a small spark.”

Isaac inhaled, placing his index finger at the center of the magic circle. He activated the spell with a slow incantation. “Ignis minor.”

A faint flash ignited. The spark was weak, barely surviving the air.

“Lacks a catalyst. You need sulfur stone or a salamander feather,” Orland said. He looked at Isaac for a long moment, then added, “Or do you know an alternative?”

Isaac shrugged. “Maybe a strand of Lord Vermillion’s hair. Full of fire and arrogance.”

Orland laughed—a deep, brief, and unexpected sound.

He can laugh? Isaac nearly choked in surprise. Noted. Orland still had a sense of humor… a terrible one.

Days passed swiftly. And each night, beneath the shadows of the rear hall, Isaac continued his experiments. The west pavilion became his secret sanctuary. No servants, no supervisors. Just dust, books, and darkness.

He replaced the Flaros symbol with a version based on an inverted triangle. When he activated the spell, the fire emerged more stable, forming a thin line of flame like a needle.

“Ha!” Isaac whispered in satisfaction. “Sharper form, more focused energy. They’re all wrong about circular symbols.”

He jotted it down on a parchment hidden beneath the false cover of a book titled The Noble's Guide to Table Manners. Anyone who opened it would only find diagrams of spoons and forks.

Humans were too obedient to books. They forgot that magic was born from will, not ink.

One afternoon, as Isaac was transcribing his modified spell, Orland suddenly appeared silently behind a bookshelf.

“I’m curious,” he said softly. “Why would a boy who seems lazy rewrite a complex mana theory from Liber Incendia… in the ancient tongue?”

Isaac quickly closed the book. “Eh… I was just copying the symbols. They look cool, like… snakes dancing.”

Orland didn’t laugh this time. He simply stared. Deeply. Long.

“Isaac, do you know what happens to those who try altering spell structures without full understanding?”

“Their fingers explode?”

“If they’re lucky.”

Isaac swallowed hard. But behind his nervous expression, his mind raced. He knows. But he’s not sure how much I know. Good. Maintain the illusion.

As Orland walked away, Isaac caught something else—a faint symbol drawn on the inside of the man’s robe. Not an ordinary magical symbol. But an ancient one, from the First Mana War.

He wasn’t just an observer. He was a survivor.

Isaac leaned back in his chair, eyes on the darkening ceiling. “Alright, Master. If you want to test me… then let’s play this game.”

With pen in hand and a small flame dancing at his fingertip, Isaac gave a subtle smile—not the smile of a child. But the smile o

f a demon who once ruled hell.

And now, was rebuilding magic… from its core.