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Nanatsu no Maken ga Shihai suru - Volume 4 - Chapter 3




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CHAPTER 3

Magicity

Kimberly was a boarding school, and everything students needed could be found on campus. The cafeterias served an endless variety of meals, and the many shops were constantly rotating in fresh stock. Ask an embroidifairy, and you could get any clothing you liked, custom made. Students had every liberty they needed to go about their lives.

But Kimberly was dangerous. The risks of campus life were high enough to undermine all those perks. Their first year had been more than enough to hammer that point home, and that was time enough for most students to get pretty strung out, longing for a breath of fresh air.

And when that happened, one place called to them. Few could resist.

“…Hup…!”

Spotting the landing zone beneath them, Guy steered his broom down, reaching the ground first. His feet hit solid earth—but the momentum was too strong, and he reeled forward. As the others landed behind him, he staggered several steps, narrowly avoiding a face-plant.

“Ahhhhh! Sweet freedom!” Guy yelled.

The view before them was certainly a sight for sore eyes.

First, the sky—partitioned off by a latticed dome. Below that was the sprawling town with throngs moving about the street by the landing. Shops and homes of all shapes and sizes lined the roads, and if you looked up, there were a number of other shops suspended, bagworm-like, from the dome’s frames. These were accessible only via flight.

Countless brooms and magic carpets were carrying people and cargo to and fro, following paths marked by light. In the square nearby, a magicraft fountain was writing letters in the air—and over the rush of its waters, they could hear merchants hawking their wares.

“…I know it’s been a while, but I don’t remember this place being so loud,” Katie mumbled.

Meanwhile, Guy looked ready to rush off on his own—but Chela put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“Cool heads, Guy. It’s a thrill for us all, but if you start yelling, you’ll startle the locals.”

“Actually…they don’t look the least bit startled,” Pete said as he surveyed the area. “Seems like they get this a lot…”

Both the mages landing around them and the ordinary folk walking past were doing little more than flashing smiles of recognition.

“Well, yeah,” Oliver said with a smirk. “They get a lot of Kimberly students cutting loose here.”

“…Fair,” Katie muttered. “I’m struggling not to lose my head, too…”

She was positively vibrating.

Meanwhile, Nanao was still soaking in the view.

“It has been a while. I spent a few months here before school began,” she explained.

“Oh, when you were learning Yelglish, right?” said Oliver. “Nice place to live?”

“Entirely. I merely had to explain that I would soon be a Kimberly student, and everyone around bent over backward to assist me.”

“They would.” Oliver nodded and glanced up ahead. “Most people here have a high opinion of Kimberly and anyone connected to it. The whole town is reaping the benefits of having a famous magic school nearby. Definitely a mutually beneficial relationship… It’s a bit remote, but it basically functions like a college town. And among the town’s benefits is a financial payment from the school. Essentially…reparations.”

“But that in turn makes it a popular destination for students on their day off,” Chela added. “The whole town is so welcoming that…it just feels right.”

She glanced back, noticing several other students landing and racing off into town. Seeing her own group itching to follow suit, she turned to face them.

“…However! Make your hearts like dragons and remember always the words I am about to say—”

But Guy was quicker. “Don’t do anything to harm the rep of our school or its student body, right? We know already!”

The wind fell from Chela’s sails, but Katie and Pete were both frowning.

“What does that even mean…?”

“I thought the same thing.”

Neither of them had any clue how outsiders expected Kimberly students to act. Sensing the source of their confusion, Oliver stepped in.

“Think of it the other way around. Take anything that’s typically Kimberly and put it away in the back of your mind. Don’t go for your athame without very good reason. Assume no real trouble will arise, and even if we do get in some, remember that a fight here is not usually fatal. Even against another mage, you don’t want to blast a spell the moment you say hello.”

A year in that hellscape had warped all their sensibilities.

“…Oh, right,” Katie said, grimacing. “That’s…usually a bad thing, huh… You see that all the time on campus, but…that’s actually wrong…”

“Don’t you start crying on us, Katie. I might have to join you.”

Guy was already dabbing at his eyes. The shock of being dragged back to earth really drove home just how nuts their school was.

“Chin up, you two,” Chela declared. “Today is a respite from all that bloodshed. Come! Follow me!”

She led the way, and everyone else trailed behind. They joined the throngs on the main street and took care to stick together.

“So many people! Mages and otherwise…!” said Katie.

“Yeah,” said Oliver. “Eighty percent of the town’s population are nonmagical, yet they live hand in hand with magic in nearly every way. It’s a quintessential magicity.”

“Oh, a panini shop!”

That caught Guy’s interest, and he darted off. The others slipped to the side of the road, waiting, and he soon came back with a paper-wrapped bundle.

“Wow, that’s massive…”

“Guy, are you sure you should be eating all that? They have food where we’re going, you know,” said Chela.

“Farmer’s sons can pack it away, lemme tell ya. I grew up on five meals a day! And in my experience, ordinary folk make the best food.”

Guy peeled open the wrapper. The panini had been sliced neatly, and there was steam rising off it. He pulled out a piece and bit into it, and his eyes went wide.

“Maaan, that’s good. You gotta try a bite!”

That certainly got everyone’s attention. Hand after hand reached out for a piece. Everyone looked astounded when they took their first bites.

“Oh my gosh, that’s amazing! What’s in this sauce?” Katie asked.

“I’ve never had anything like this before, myself,” said Chela.

“Lemme go ask! Hold this!”

Guy shoved the bundle at Katie and rushed off back to the stall. They watched as he spoke to the shopkeeper, then slipped back through the crowds to them.

“He said it’s a Ytallian technique involving fermented tomatoes. Apparently, it’s starting to take off over here, too!”

“Aha,” said Oliver. “That makes sense. I’ve heard Ytalli has a big foodie culture.”

“This is delicious! I must have another.”

“…Wait—it’s gone?! Nanao! You ate mine, too?!”

Guy had left the group for mere seconds and came back to find nothing but toast crumbs. Nanao happily polished off her third piece, ignoring Guy’s fury. The others laughed. It was Guy’s fault for leaving food unclaimed in front of her.

“Kimberly mages, take a gander,” called a voice behind them. “We’ve got all manner of study aids in stock.”

Their spot outside the flow of foot traffic was in front of a shop, and an old woman was waving them inside. The shelves were covered in all sorts of things—far more than you’d ever expect a shop of this size to carry.

“Whoa, that’s a tenfold memory tonic!” Guy cried. “Never seen a real one before! Supposedly, you drink one of these, and for the next hour you can even remember the cracks in the floorboards.”

“Wait, really? If they’re that good, I oughtta get—”

“Don’t you dare, Pete. Sure, they work, but they force you to remember all sorts of unnecessary stuff, too, so it’s a net loss. It’s one thing if you’re cramming for exams, but for daily use, you’d want something a little milder. I can brew one for you.”

“O-oh. Got it.”

Pete pulled his hand back, minding Oliver’s warning. Chela laughed at this—Pete would likely have argued with anyone other than Oliver.

“Oh, the decoration on this pen is amazing! So detailed! What mage did this?”

“Ha-ha-ha! Little lady, that’s by a nonmagical artisan.”

“It is?! Wow, you can do this without magic? How?!”

Katie had found a fountain pen in the shop window with a unicorn motif. She was clearly captivated; her eyes nearly bulged from their sockets when the shopkeeper said who had made it. Chela peered over her shoulder.

“If mages make it, they call it rodmade, but this is handmade,” the ringlet girl explained. “We may rely on magic for everything, but that means we’ve lost any number of crafting techniques. Including this sort of nonmagical metalwork.”

“That approach was commonplace in my country as well. Though I saw nothing of this artistry in the markets. It must be the work of a true artisan.”

Now Nanao was peering at the fountain pen. Katie stared at it a moment in thought, then asked the shopkeeper, “Um…h-how much is it?”

“That pen would be eight thousand belc. You want it, little lady?”

The price tag took Katie aback. She slumped her shoulders. “Th-that’s a lot…! I could buy two treatises with that much…”

“It’s a fair price considering the craftsmanship involved,” said Chela. “They do have cheaper rodmade products over here.”

“…They’re cheap, sure, but…clearly mass produced…”

“That’s what makes them affordable. I’d say they’re likely made by familiars.”

As Chela evaluated the quality, Katie worked her way down the heap of pens. Ultimately, her budget forced her to narrow her purchase down to two pens. Everyone else was just window shopping, so they all left together. Guy was in a very good mood, having feasted his eyes on all sorts of trinkets.

“They had real magic tools just sittin’ there with the normal stuff. Do nonmagical folks buy those, too?”

“Memory tonics could well be poison, so I doubt the shop would let them,” Oliver said, looking at the passing shop windows. “But otherwise, I’m sure if the need arises, they do. There’s a whole field of magic tools designed for ordinary use.”

“…The boundaries are fuzzier than I’d assumed, then,” Nanao said. “The tales of Western magicians passed down among my people involved toiling over a cauldron in the depths of the woods. Nothing like the reality I see before me.”

“Wow, that’s hilarious! You thought we lived like elves?” Katie asked.

“Well, it’s not entirely baseless,” Oliver said, stroking his chin. He imagined how these stories might have spread overseas. “What Nanao describes is how magic was practiced before the magic industrial revolution. Before mages became the ruling class of human society, they either rejected contact with ordinary folk and formed small communes or lived in isolation like hermits. That’s probably where Nanao’s ideas came from.”

“Pre-Union—or while there were still only a handful of members. Naturally, even then there were rulers who took mages in and valued them, but that was the minority,” Chela explained. “Clearly, we’ve since formed healthy relations with the ordinaries, but that was not always the case. I’ve heard there were times when betrayals were common and persecution rampant. Now it’s downright unthinkable.”

Katie had been listening to Chela’s passionate lecture with great interest, but then her attention was caught by a big carpet on the side of the road. People had been waiting for it, and they started climbing aboard. Her eyes gleamed.

“Oh, a carpetpool! I love those! Can we take a ride?”

“What? Don’t be a weirdo,” Guy teased. “We’ve got brooms.”

“Carpetpools are a part of the magicity spectacle, though. We can take a ride if you like, Katie,” said Oliver.

Ultimately, they all agreed—and took up seats on the carpet. Once the stop had emptied, the cross-legged rider up front patted the surface, and the carpet lifted up, carrying its twenty passengers into the sky.

“Flying carpets… You often see the little ones from the Rug order, but creatures this large are only seen in magicities. It’s quite a comfortable ride,” said Chela.

“Hrm. I find it rather unsettling. So floaty!”

“…………”

“Pete? Why are you scowling?”

“…I once stepped on a wild carpet, and it flipped over on me. Brings back bad memories.”

“Ha-ha-ha, I know the feeling!” Guy said. “I got punched in the crotch by a wild broom once.”

Oliver had similar childhood memories. Flying magical fauna were so integral to people’s lives that no matter where you grew up, you likely had a story to tell.

Gazing down at the streets of Galatea, Katie gave the carpet a pat on its back.

“Your fur’s a bit mussy. I know it’s hard to keep you groomed with everyone you carry around, but… Oh, I wish I had a brush.”

“You’re such a kind soul, Katie,” Chela said. “Perhaps some other time, though. Our stop’s coming up.”

It wasn’t long before the carpet began descending. When it reached street level, all six friends hopped off. Oliver got his bearings—according to his mental map, they were a good mile from the previous stop. At that speed, it was clear why nonmagical people valued carpetpools.

“Well, we’ve done some sightseeing—shall we get lunch?” Chela suggested. “I have a reservation at a favorite, unless anyone objects?”

“That’s what I wanna hear! I’m starving!”

“The very words I awaited!”

The group’s biggest eaters were the first to chime in, and Chela escorted them to their lunch destination.

Not surprisingly, the Lily of the Valley was crowded—Chela had been right to place a reservation.

Wooden tables were packed in, with customers rubbing elbows at them; soot-stained lamps hung from the rafters. Bottles of alcohol with labels in various languages lined the windowsills, as if insisting this was a pub, not a restaurant.

The six of them gathered around a table in the corner, and the staff boomed a welcome. Menus flew toward them, alighting at the center of the table. Clearly a prompt to decide their orders before a server got there. A brusque approach to customer service, even for a pub—but somehow that felt right.

“This place is hoppin’!”

“Chela, what’s good here?”

“This establishment specializes in traditional Yelglish cuisine. The Kimberly cafeteria menu is impressively international, but I do feel it’s somewhat lacking in anything explicitly Yelglish. I thought we could make up for it here.”

“Especially for our two overseas students,” said Oliver. “Nanao, Katie, let me warn you: Our food might not be as fancy looking as Ytallian or Lantshirian food, but they make up for it in heartiness… At least, I think so.”

“No need to get defensive before we even order, man! Should we start with fish and chips?”

“Yes, and shepherd’s pie is obviously a must. Perhaps some sausages—?”

“Oh, I want this! The jellied eels!” Katie said, pointing at the edge of the menu.

A shudder ran over the table.

“……You’re really going there, huh, Katie?” said Guy.

“……It is on the menu,” added Chela. “I just…unconsciously put it out of mind…”

“Er…wh-what? It’s a famous dish, right? Is it not good?”

“I’ve always found eel delightful,” Nanao said, blinking.

Guy crossed his arms pensively. “…Your thoughts, Chela?”

“…Flavor is a subjective concept. My father delights in this dish and regularly polishes off entire bowls.”

“…I’m staying out of this one,” said Pete.

The four of them settled into an uncomfortable silence, but this seemed to pique Katie’s curiosity further, and she decided she was definitely getting the jellied eels. A server soon swung by, took their order, and retreated to the kitchen. The group chatted away while they waited, when…

“Pardon me, young mages. Could I trouble you for a moment?”

…a voice came from the aisle. They turned to find an old woman—she looked nonmagical—with a younger woman in tow. Certain she was talking to them, Oliver responded.

“Yes, madam? Can we help you…?”

“Just a small favor. Nothing that’ll put you out. Could you cast a spell on my daughter here? She’s seven months pregnant, you see.”

The younger woman’s belly was visibly swollen. Seeing this register with all of them, the old woman continued.

“All of us want nothing more than for the baby to be born healthy and sound, and if the child has a knack for magic—well, that would be a delight. I hoped you might indulge us there.”

The mages looked at one another. Oliver was soon appointed spokesman.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do that would turn an unborn child into a mage. We can certainly say a charm for safe delivery, if that would suffice…?”

“Oh, oh, absolutely. I’m sure she’ll love it!”

A smile appeared on her wrinkly face, and she pushed the other woman forward. Oliver aimed his white wand at her belly and whispered a spell…but to ensure it had no negative influence on mother or fetus, he kept the health boost at nigh placebo levels.

“…Th-thank you!”

“Isn’t that nice, dear? I’m sure your child will be a fine mage one day! Then everyone will be happy.”

Oblivious to Oliver’s reluctance, they bowed repeatedly and went back to their table. Oliver turned back to his friends with a sigh.

“…That superstition isn’t going anywhere fast,” he said. “With few exceptions, it’s impossible to predict the magical aptitude of a child from ordinary parents, and there’s nothing we can do to influence it.”

“No, there isn’t,” Chela agreed. “But I sympathize with the urge to do anything you can, no matter how low the odds. Having a mage born from a nonmagical family is simply that big a deal. It changes the entire family’s future, not just the child’s.”

“…It’s not always celebrated,” Pete muttered.

“? Pete, what was that?”

“Nothing.”

Katie blinked at him, but he just shook her off, and then their food arrived: fresh fried fish and potatoes, pie oozing juices from the cuts, and an array of beautifully browned sausages. Guy had knife and fork at the ready, eager to dig in.

“Ooh, here it is! Mind if I put vinegar on the fish and chips?”

“Better save that for your own plate, Guy. Oh…this came, too.”

Oliver pushed one particular dish away from him—a grisly-looking horror amid all the tantalizing gastronomic delights. It was a yellowish gelatin in the shape of a pudding, with chopped-up fish meat suspended in it. A kinder person might call the visual arresting, but most would go straight to gross.

Oliver took a spoon, scooped out a portion, and handed it to the curly-haired girl.

“Your jellied eels, Katie. Let’s hear your unvarnished opinion.”

“…H-here goes nothing.” She gulped.

A hush settled over the table. Clearly sweating it, Katie raised the spoon to her lips. A mass of jellied eels landed on her tongue—and she gingerly bit in.

“……………”

“How’s our local delicacy treating you, Katie?” Chela asked.

“…Man,” said Guy, “that face just screams uncomfortable.”

“Looks like she’s racking her brain for the right phrase,” said Pete.

“Hmm? I must sample this for myself.”

Nanao scooped a serving of the jelly onto her own plate and took a bite. They heard her swallow, but only silence followed.

“……Nanao……?”

“……………”

The Azian girl was mechanically working her way through the portion, saying not a word. Two bites, three bites, four—like a duty had befallen her, not a single variance in the motion. Her friends quickly grew perturbed.

“…Uh, wait. I’ve never seen Nanao eat without a smile!”

“Consider carefully, Nanao! If you don’t like it, you’re under no obligation to finish!”

“…Your concern is unfounded. All foods are a gift from the land, and it would never do to waste—”

“Okay, we’ll all eat a share! Even split! Just…stop, please!”

Oliver pulled the plate away from her. Chela, Guy, and Pete each grimly forced a portion into their mouths. Once the plate was safely emptied, Oliver put his spoon down, sighing.

“It’s been years since I last ate this, but the experience…hasn’t improved,” he said. “Here, Nanao, maybe some cider will wash the taste away.”

“Much appreciated.”

Nanao took the drink and chugged it, then put the glass down with a sigh. A long silence followed before she slowly turned to Oliver, who sat next to her.

“…Oliver, might I ask you to place your face closer to mine own?”

“Mm? …Is there something on it?”

Blinking, he leaned toward her. She put her hands on his cheeks, examining him closely.

“…………”

“…………?”

Oliver had no idea what this meant. Then—her hands reached around his head, and something soft pressed against his face, blocking his line of sight.

It took him a moment. Then he realized what she’d done, and his whole body quivered.

“…Wha—?!”

“Huh?!”

“My.”

“H-hey!”

“Wow, bold move.”

Nanao had just thrown her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. Each of their companions reacted in their own way, not that Oliver himself was in any state to notice. The gentle scent invading his nostrils, the warmth of her breath on his nape, and the soft, supple yield of her flesh pressed against his face—each of these alone would be downright dangerous, and all three of them were hitting him at once, without any warning.

His rational mind flailed, struggling against the shocking onslaught. This made no sense, it concluded. Nanao was certainly touchy-feely, but never had she demanded such forceful contact out of the blue.

There must be some other factor involved. Armed with that supposition, Oliver’s suspicions turned to the glass she’d been holding. He twisted, freeing one hand from her embrace—she didn’t let go, so he was left fending her off with the other—and sniffed the glass. It smelled exactly like he’d feared, and he glared at his friends.

“Why is there booze at the table? Who ordered this?!”

“Huh? I only ordered cider,” Guy said, blinking at him.

Chela quickly took a sip from her own glass.

“Oh. This is definitely hard cider,” she said. “Made almost the same way, but they don’t stop the fermentation as early. With this much alcohol in it, it absolutely will get you drunk.”

“Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-hehhh… Oliverrrrr…!”

As if confirming Chela’s analysis, Nanao leaned her whole body against Oliver, cheeks visibly flushed. He hung his head, convinced. No doubt about it—Nanao was plastered.

But then he realized they had a solution. It was a bit forceful, but there were ways to sober her up. He reached for his white wand…

“ !”

…but before he could, a shock hit his nether regions like a hammer to the groin, and a heat shot up his spine so fast it made him dizzy. The rest of him went cold—this was bad.

He quickly shoved Nanao away and got up with such a start that his knees bumped the table. As everyone gaped at him, he wheeled around and headed for the back of the restaurant.

“Er—where are you going, Oliver?” Katie asked.

“…Bathroom. Might be a while,” he managed and then moved as quickly as his trembling legs would allow. Nanao tried to follow him, but Chela grabbed her collar.

Casting a spell to sober her friend up, the ringlet girl narrowed her eyes at Oliver’s retreating figure.

“…………”

Perhaps because of the sheer crowds, the bathrooms in the restaurant weren’t enough for all the customers—and there was an overflow set in the building next door. Oliver followed the signs to those, going out the restaurant’s back door and into the door opposite.

“…Shit.”

There was no one else here, thankfully. He stopped trying to keep himself together and braced both hands on the mirror. The sensation of Nanao against him would not stop looping through his mind, and the heat shooting up from his groin was only getting worse. Trying to get his ragged breath under control, he spoke aloud, chastising himself.

“…Simmer down… It’s been months…!”

He gritted his teeth. This was a disaster. Two months had passed since he last had symptoms. He’d been handling contact with girls just fine. So he’d just assumed it was out of his system. Did Nanao just matter more than other girls, or was it the intensity of the contact combined with the surprise factor—or all of the above?

“…Aftereffects?”

“?!”

A voice came from behind, and he jumped, spinning around. The ringlet girl was standing there, carefully monitoring his reaction.

“Chela…?! Why are you—? This is the men’s room!”

“No matter. It’s you I’m here for.”

She stepped closer, examining him. His elevated breath, the sweat on his brow, his fists clenched tight, the nails digging in. She even checked the disruptions in his mana circulation—all without actually touching him.

“I’ll ask once more. Is this a lingering effect from the Ophelia incident?”

Her tone didn’t suggest she was going to let him dodge the question. He couldn’t meet her eye.

Panic rising, he muttered, “…It’s no big deal. Just a little Perfume left over.”

“After four months? That’s a very big deal!”

She angrily shot his protestations down, then took another step closer, grilling him.

“I know you may not want to talk about it, but you have to. Have you had any contact with the opposite sex since then? Not an accident like just now, but…the real thing?”

“…………”

“…I thought not. No, I knew better.”

Taking his silence as denial, Chela sighed. Still very grim, she caught his eye and held it.

“I could see Guy or Pete being ignorant of it, but you—I’m confident you’re well aware of the simplest and most effective means of removing any remnant Perfume influence: Satisfy the urge. And not alone, but with someone.”

“……!”

“You inhaled a considerable amount of Perfume after we reached the third layer. That alone would have a critical effect on anyone, but the density went through the roof once the Grand Aria deployed. From the very start, I knew it would be a problem. There’s no way you could remain impervious to the effects.”

Chela bit her lip—mad at herself. Oliver shook his head.

“…There are other means,” he insisted. “Appropriate potion dosage, exercising self-control, aligning mana circulation with the rest of your systems—it’s manageable. It takes a while, but—”

“Four months is not ‘a while.’ Stop being so stubborn and admit it. Your approach was clearly not enough to rid you of this much Perfume. You made the wrong choice.”

Chela was not letting him weasel out of this one. Oliver scowled at the floor, clenching his jaw. He couldn’t argue with her point. But…

“…Even so…it’s not your problem.”

His voice was a growl. A clear rejection. He almost never talked like this.

“This is my body—it’s a personal problem. You’ve got no right to be telling me—”

But even as he tried to draw the line, she reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him close. They glared at each other, noses almost touching. Her eyes shimmered.

“Say that again,” she hissed.

“ !”

“It’s not my problem? …We’ve explored the labyrinth depths together, fought side by side, faced mortal peril, our hearts as one. And something that happened to you as a result isn’t my problem? Are you honestly saying I don’t have a right to be concerned when you’re suffering?”

Her voice shook. Anger—but mostly hurt. They fought together and survived—and he’d rejected the bond that fostered. That wounded Michela McFarlane to the quick.

“If you really think that, deep down…then shake me off. Reject me, push me away, tear up my feelings with your own hands. Along with any bonds we forged in that battle!”

She was forcing a choice—well aware it was hardly reasonable. But she had to.

Because she knew he’d been suffering ever since that day—hiding that, acting as if nothing was wrong—and she was the only one who’d noticed.

More than once, she’d considered doing something. But he never asked for help, never even grumbled, just kept his dire discomfort to himself…and she read that as a conscious choice, one that mattered to him. So she’d done nothing, not wanting to stomp into a friend’s inner sanctum.

But she could only bear it so long. This moment was the end of the line for her—and Oliver got that. He realized how much she’d been worried about him, how much it had pained her to let him be…and how keenly she felt for him.

“……!”

And—that just made Oliver feel responsible. He’d been about to reject her, his arms raised to push her away, but they fell limp to his side, and he instead lashed out at his own failings. Chela picked up on that, too—and felt a massive wave of relief.

“……Good. You’re not going to shake me off.”

“……………”

Oliver didn’t speak, didn’t look up. Her hand still on his wrist, she led him, unresisting, into a stall. This surprised him, but before he could protest, she closed the door.

“Chela?! What are—?”

“You’re suffering, and I’m here with you… There’s only one thing for us to do.”

Face-to-face with him in the narrow stall, her eyes didn’t waver. She’d picked a course, eliminated the obstacles, and was now carrying it out as best she could. That’s how witches did things.

“Hardly the best locale, but at least they’ve cleaned it. Nothing ruins a mood like filth.”

She chuckled softly, then took a step closer. He tried to back away but came up against the door, and as if to brush aside his last shred of resistance, she leaned in, whispering in his ear.

“Don’t worry. We’re not doing the deed here… You know as well as I do. At times like these, mages often take care of things without resorting to intercourse.”

She slowly reached a hand toward him, tracing his side with her fingers—a sensation that sent a tingle through his entire body.

“……! ……Ah……!”

“A variation on healing arts… Caresses use the same principles. Just relax. Leave all of this to me.”

Making it clear she knew what she was doing, Chela slid her hand slowly up his body. Rubbing his skin, touching the muscle beneath, tampering with the flow of mana. A wave of irrefutable pleasure ran up the boy’s spine, like cold water sliding down a parched throat. Sensual contact with the opposite sex—regardless of what his reason dictated, that was what his Perfumed body desperately craved.

“No one’s ever touched you like this, have they? …Goodness knows how much you’ve trained. There’s not a part of you not honed. Not a muscle, not a drop of manaflow that isn’t polished to perfection. Like a handmade craft: detailed, yet nothing wasted…”

“……Wait, Chela—don’t…!”

As her exploratory caresses continued, Oliver tried to resist, his arms lacking all strength—but they were both mages, and she had more mana than him, which made her stronger. She easily overcame his feeble resistance, whispering in his ear again.

“……Would you rather ask Nanao, if you’re dead set against me handling it?”

“……!”

“If you promise you’ll ask her, I’ll stop. But if you can’t do that…then I’m finishing things up here.”

Then she put her lips on his earlobe. Oliver’s sight instantly whited out. This stimulus was far beyond the caresses. His blood and magic all flowed to his groin, forcibly activating the biological phenomenon he’d been struggling to control. He tried to pull his crotch away, but Chela went against that, wrapping her hands around his waist to pull him close.

 

 

 

 

 

“Don’t pull back. No need to hide it. That’s exactly what we’re doing here. And feeling your excitement makes me feel secure.”

As she whispered, her eyes glanced down. His pants bulged outward. The stiffness of it pressed against Chela. She felt not only the tension but the heat of it, despite the fabric between. Reflexively, she started to reach for it—but he grabbed her wrist.

“…Unh…”

“…Sorry. We’re not ready for that yet, are we?”

She moved her hand back to his torso. She had things running at her speed, but he was still deeply resistant. Going too fast would provoke further rejection.

“…I’m getting a feel for this. Right here, isn’t it? Your weakness. I can’t just prod it hard. I need to stroke softly, coming in waves…like this.”

“…………!”

She was carefully working out where he wouldn’t fight her and focusing her caresses. Where to push, how to stroke, how hard to prod—not just looping but trying new patterns, teasing out his vulnerabilities. She was good at this sort of trial and error—and soon got results. The sensual intensity had Oliver’s eyes unfocused, a heat on his breath.

“You’re getting more responsive. Then…shall we go a little harder?”

Deciding it was time, Chela stuck the middle finger of her right hand into her mouth. Moistened with her spit, she brought it to his belly and slipped it into the center—his navel. His hips jerked instantly.

“ Ah ?!”

“Ripples through you, doesn’t it? The belly button once linked you to the womb, so it’s always been a channel for mana. And it’s very sensitive to stimuli and close to your genitalia…but of course, you know all that.”

Even as she spoke, her finger was digging around inside his navel. A wet squelching sound echoed through the stall. The boy closed his eyes, trying to endure the heightening pleasure.

Caressing him, Chela thought, Hearing nothing in return certainly makes this a bit lonely.

Since they’d first met, she’d always been herself with him. They were equally well educated, commanded a wealth of spells, readily looked after their friends… Having so many points in common was part of why they got along so well. But it was more than that.

Their shadows lay equally deep. This boy was a mage of her caliber. She’d felt as much since they first met, and much more clearly than with Katie, Guy, or Pete. They still had the brightness of youth, their heads held high above the waters of the magic world—but Oliver Horn was watching that from deep below the surface.

“…………”

She’d plunged those depths countless times herself. The McFarlanes were one of the five oldest families in Yelgland. Everyone involved shouldered some of that shadow. In that sense, she’d even sensed a kinship with Ophelia Salvadori—descendant of a succubus, born to an ancient lineage.

And she felt something similar from Oliver. Deep in their hearts, she felt sure they understood each other and empathized. That was why he always understood when she made a mage’s choice—she almost never had to explain. That made her happy, comfortable—and sad.

“……Mm……”

Still stimulating his navel, she put her lips to his cheek. In a sense, what they were doing here only worked because they had that understanding.

A mage would do this when it was necessary. Both of them knew that, which made it possible—barely—for this to register as treatment. It allowed them to reduce a physical act of love to a medical procedure.

“……Your self-control is still holding strong. If you just accept this, you’ll feel much better.”

“……Unh……!”

No, she was the only one reducing anything. Even as she whispered sweet words to accompany her touches, she kicked herself for it. He might not be stopping her, but he had definitely not wanted this. This was sex without mutual attraction, a heartless exchange demanded only by sorcery—and Oliver loathed that more than anything. Their year together had made that very clear.

He was trapped in a contradiction. As deep in the darkness of magic as any ancient family heir, yet stubbornly resisting the corruption that darkness demanded. Two things that could not coexist.

“Being on the receiving end too much for you? …You can touch me, if you like.”

She took his hand and pulled it to her, echoing the thought in her mind. This contact had heart. She felt for his suffering and yearned to free him from it. That was why she was doing this…even if she’d used their friendship to force him into it.

“Hahh, hah……hah……!”

Their guilt hiding beneath the pleasure, her petting went on. Oliver’s arousal had been rising steadily—but it reached a pitch it would not move past.

She didn’t need to ask why. He was holding himself back. She was impressed despite herself—the lust and stimulation of this act and the Perfume could easily have overwhelmed him. She was prepared to grant him what indulgence that drove him to, within reason. But he had yet to lay a finger on her of his own accord.

This was a true feat of endurance. She genuinely respected the effort. But more than that—as a witch, she was frustrated. She was doing all this for him—and couldn’t push him over the edge.

“…………”

Then, what? Keep massaging until all logic failed him? Touch him somewhere more direct? Chela considered both options, then ruled them out.

They didn’t have much time to spend on this. And if she pushed her luck and he rejected it, the setback would be costly. She needed a third angle of attack.

“All right, then… Let me tell you a secret.”

“…………?”

Oliver looked perplexed. She changed up the pattern of the finger in his navel, putting her lips to his ear.

“Do you remember our conversation before we headed into the labyrinth? …I didn’t plan on involving you or Nanao. I was going to make contact with the upperclassmen and plunge into those depths all on my own… But you stopped me. You took my arm and swore you wouldn’t let me go alone…and with such strength it felt like you would never let me go,” she told him. “…That felt so good. I was…overjoyed. I almost burst into tears, right then and there.”

Those emotions had stayed with her, lingering. And Chela was no longer hiding them. Stimulating his carnal desires alone would never break through this boy’s self-control. Breaching those defenses required an emotion he couldn’t push away: genuine affection.

“……Che…la……,” Oliver stammered.

The ringlet girl spoke plainly, with a warmth he could not refute. She felt his mental walls crumble ever so slightly and did not let that pass. She stepped in through the gap, whispering the words—nay, the spell—that would seal the deal.

“I still remember it. The look on your face, the warmth of your palm on my wrist,” she said softly. “Sometimes, when I think about it…I touch myself—in bed, stifling my breath…”

“ !”

Vivid images filled his mind: her breath as ragged as his was now, her cheeks flushed, indulging herself under cover of darkness. The covers slipping aside, the curve of her shoulders peeking out. Sweat glistening on her breast, slim fingers sliding between her legs. And that imagery all connected to the waves of pleasure rushing through his navel…

“ Auhhh……ah……!”

A shock ran up his spine, and everything went white.

The pleasure robbed him of all thought, his resistance rocking like a dinghy on the waves of a storm. And at the height of that ecstasy—like clutching for the last shred of self, his nails dug into Chela’s back.

“……!”

She accepted that pain head-on, embracing him as he did her—and seeing it through. Watching Oliver’s body convulse with the ultimate pleasure, releasing a fraction of his mana to the world, feeling the corruption he’d been harboring pass out of his system. A faint, sweet odor of Perfume teased her nostrils.

“…Good. We got there.”

Chela smiled and brushed his hair. Not yet recovered from the climax, there was no strength in his limbs, and he clung to her like a child. As a witch, she felt pride; as a friend, she felt guilt.

“Any mess down there? I tried to lead you to a dry orgasm, but I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with these things… If I got it wrong, please let me know.”

She spoke tenderly, supporting him in her arms. At length, he recovered enough to shake his head and pull away. With his head still down, she could not read his face.

“Okay. I’d love to linger in the afterglow, but if we take too long, our friends will start to ask questions.”

She spoke with regret, then stepped in close, pulling his head to her chest once more. Then she kissed his brow three times. Like making excuses, she thought. Like insisting this was not an act of lust but one born of genuine concern for him.

“I’m going to head back first. You’ll follow a few minutes later. Once we’re all back at the table, it’ll be just like always. No need to dwell on this further.”

She left him with that and tore herself away. Once he was sure Chela had left the bathroom, Oliver leaned back against the wall, sliding down to the floor.

He buried his face in his hands and let out a sigh so long it was as if he were trying to expel his internal organs.

“…This again…”

Meanwhile, Chela made sure the coast was clear and slipped out of the men’s room. She headed straight for the women’s restroom next door and into the furthermost stall, where she locked the door. And like the boy across the hall—buried her face in her hands.

“ ~~~~~~~~~!”

A voiceless scream escaped her fingers. Never before had she been so ready to die of shame. It felt like every inch of her skin was being pricked from within by an infinite number of needles, her skin crawling, mingled with pain—a sensation the likes of which she’d never experienced.

“…What…what am I even doing…?” she croaked, her voice shaking.

She couldn’t believe her own actions. Doing that, with a friend… It was all too much.

That had not been the plan at all. She’d only followed him into the bathroom to tell him she knew what was wrong with him; aware he couldn’t talk to anyone about it, she couldn’t let him suffer alone. And she’d thought that would be the end of it.

“…I have so much more to learn than I ever realized…”

She bit down on her lip, well aware of what had lit a fire under her. Oliver’s words—“It’s not your problem.” Nothing that followed had been a measured response. She had to prove him wrong. Had to take his suffering on, even if it cost her their friendship.

And once she’d made that choice, she’d acted without a moment’s hesitation. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she wasn’t behaving rationally but led him to the heights of pleasure anyway. You could say she’d acted like a proper mage. If you like someone—take them. Whatever her feelings for the boy, that instinct had definitely been a part of it.

Had she hurt him? A whole storm of emotions was raging inside her, and that single fear rose to the surface. What transpired between them had not been entirely consensual. In hindsight, she’d definitely forced him into it. He hadn’t stopped her, but that was because she’d used their friendship as a cudgel. Had she simply let her selfish impulse take control and molested him?

And that wasn’t all. The final step she’d taken was clearly too much.

“Sometimes, when I think about it…I touch myself—in bed, stifling my breath…”

Her own words echoed in her ears. When she’d voiced them, she’d been so sure it was the best way to reach him. And it had worked. His stubborn refusal to climax had melted, and she’d brought him to orgasm. She could still feel the triumph and exaltation of that moment.

But once it was all over? Now that she’d calmed down and remembered what she’d actually said? She could never do that again. She’d bite her own tongue off first. That was unlikely to prove fatal in her case, but it would at least prevent her speaking.

“…Even if the treatment was a viable argument…I didn’t need to go there…!”

She let out a soft moan. No matter who it was or what their connection—some things were best kept to oneself. No friend should ever have to know something like that. It had been completely inexcusable. She’d lost count of how many inexcusable things she’d done today.

“…I’ve got to head back before Oliver does,” she muttered.

She had no end of regrets, but she couldn’t sit here scolding herself forever. She slapped her cheeks a few times, getting it together—and made her way back to her friends.

Oliver returned five minutes later and found everyone sitting at the table, just as he’d left them. Guy looked up from the sausage he was cutting and yelled, “That took forever, Oliver! You got the runs?”

“Guyyy! We’re eating! …But seriously, are you okay? We saved some food for you if you can still eat.”

As Oliver took a seat, Katie gave him a worried look. Next to her, Chela did the same.

“I’ve got some stomach medicine if you need it, Oliver. Would you like some?” she asked, pulling a little bottle from her pocket.

She made this seem perfectly natural, acting just like she always did, and that helped Oliver get himself back under control. Chela was right. It was better for everyone if they both acted like nothing had happened.

“…No, thanks. It’s just been a while since I left school, so it got the best of me. All better now.”

Oliver waved off the medicine and gave Katie an awkward smile. Back to normal—but as he let himself relax, Nanao leaned closer. He blinked in surprise, and she studied his face for a long moment.

“Indeed, you seem far more hale than you did earlier… Like an ill spirit has left you, perhaps…”

“ !”

His heart skipped a beat. She had keen eyes—exactly how much did they know?

He was worried she knew everything, but a fresh wave of guilt quickly drowned that out. Still, he bottled both emotions up tight, responding with a veneer of aplomb.

“…I see you’re no longer drunk, Nanao. We would’ve had a rough time exploring the town if you’d stayed that plastered.”

“Ha-ha-ha! A disgrace, for sure. I have sampled spirits during New Year’s celebrations but am hardly an old hand with them. I had no idea they induce a state of such euphoria!”

“Glad you’re over it!” said Katie. “And since it’s Guy’s fault for ordering that stuff, he’s gotta pay your portion of the tab.”

“?! Wait, since when?! Augh, there goes my shopping budget…”

Guy’s punishment left him white as a sheet, and as Oliver chuckled at that, someone tugged his right sleeve.

“…You’re not forcing it, right?”

He turned toward the voice and found Pete leaning in, looking up at him with concern. Oliver felt the last shred of tension leave his shoulders. He smiled for real and put his hand on the bespectacled boy’s head.

“Not at all,” he said. “Thanks for worrying, though.”

He mussed his friend’s hair, and Pete snorted, pulling away. They were always like this in their room, and that really came as a comfort now.

With lunch finished and their check paid, they headed out into the bustling crowds once more. Guy looked both ways, then turned back to his friends.

“So? What’s the plan?”

“Katie wanted to stop by a magical creature shop,” said Chela.

“Ms. Miligan asked me to pick up some supplies while we were in Galatea. It won’t take long, I promise!”

“Just don’t keep us stuck there until dark,” Pete insisted. “I’ve got places I want to go, too.”

“I—I wouldn’t do that! I’m not buying any animals today. Just running Ms. Miligan’s errand, then looking around real quick…probably…I think…”

Katie’s eyes started shifting back and forth. Everyone steeled themselves for the long haul—but followed her lead to the magical fauna shop. A five-minute walk from the pub, they found a big sign with wings on it.

“Oh, this one! Müller’s Magical Creatures! Let’s go in!”

Katie was already in the door. The others filed after and were met with a zoological musk. The shop itself was spotless, with high ceilings and magical creatures of all shapes and sizes huffing about in their cages. Some were highly active, while others curled up asleep; still others had their tails dangling, eyes on the intruders. Katie was already making the rounds, clearly enchanted.

“Wow—this place is huge. Guess it ain’t the closest shop to Kimberly for nothin’.”

“They can even get oversized creatures in on special order,” said Chela. “Though they aren’t regularly in stock.”

“We get enough of those at school… Does this place have any, like…cute creatures? Something more wholesome?”

“They’ve got lots! Pete, come look with me!”

Katie pounced on Pete’s shred of interest and began pulling him around the store. He’d had a year to know just how animal-obsessed she was, and he was long past trying to fight it. The rest of the group followed.

“Aw, warg pups!” Katie said, stopping. “Look, it’s drinking milk! So cute!”

“Those things from the welcome parade? They were a little larger, but I guess ones this young aren’t much different from ordinary dogs.”

“Wargs are man-made magical beasts—basically, regular animals altered with magic,” Oliver explained. “Just as loyal as regular dogs but with heightened senses and strength. Of course, it depends on the owner, but they’re usually just as affectionate, too.”

The warg pups were all wagging their tails. They were already as big as a midsize dog but clearly still very young. Katie reached into the cage, and one of them licked her fingers.

“Hee-hee-hee! You’re a friendly one! Maybe two months old? The fur on the tail’s still not all grown in.”

“Only two months? Why, a full-grown creature must be the size of a foal!”

Seeing their interest, a clerk came over.

“You Kimberly students interested in a warg pup today? These ones are bred for nonmagical homes, so I think you’d find them a bit lacking. We’ve got tougher breeds in back, if you’d care to have a look.”

“Oh, no—I’m not buying any animals today. They’re just super-cute!”

They all turned toward the clerk; a young man in his early twenties, he wore a short-sleeve shirt with the store name embroidered on it and plain cotton slacks. But the athame and white wand at his hips made it clear he was a mage.

He seemed quite approachable, so Pete glanced once more at the cage, then asked, “Um…I’d read about it before, but do ordinaries really keep wargs? Isn’t it dangerous for nonmages?”

“Mm? Oh, that depends on the breed. Anything you find at Kimberly is gonna be a lot more aggressive and retain its prey drive,” the clerk replied. “But the majority of breeds wouldn’t pose a problem. In fact, wargs were originally bred largely as guards for nonmagical households. For most of their history, people wanted them as fierce as they are loyal. In those days, kobold attacks were a lot more common, you see.”

He spoke with practiced ease—he probably had to rattle this speech off a lot, working here.

He glanced around the nearby cages, adding, “Of course, that’s not all they’re prized for. There are hunting wargs, tracking wargs, or wargs that are best kept as pets. They’re bred for all types of owner needs. Our shop’s got a motto, ‘A warg at home, and you’re ready for anything.’ Which is a bit exaggerated, but they are great value for the price. Smart, obedient, don’t eat too much, don’t demand too much of your time. The life expectancy’s just shy of six years, which is a bit short, but that’s because they’ve been bred to mature faster and not linger on into old age. A pup today is fully grown before you know it, and they go out just as quick, too—never a burden on you. You can just buy a replacement!”

He seemed quite proud of that, but Katie’s brows were twitching. “…Not even six years?”

“Mm? You wanted a longer life expectancy? There are special breeds for that.”

He seemed to think that would be reassuring, but Katie’s friends knew better. She took a long look at the tail-wagging pups and shook her head. “No, not today. Um…do you have diagnostic equipment for trolls? It’s for a purebred Gasney.”

“Oh, sure. The demi-human corner’s over here. You’re keeping a troll in your second year? Unusual!”

“Um, yeah. It’s a collaborative research project with a fifth-year named Miligan…”

She intended that as a simple statement of fact, but the clerk spun around like he’d been shot. His cheery smile entirely gone, he was eyeing her sternly.

“…That explains it,” he said. “You’re Katie Aalto, right?”

“Y-yes, I am…”

She took a step back, a little freaked out. The clerk rubbed his temples, sighing dramatically.

“You should’ve said so. I’ll take twenty percent—no, thirty percent off your order.”

“……Huh?! Wh-why?”

“Show of support…or condolences. Either way, with her snake eye stuck on you, I’ve got no end of sympathy. Just accept it—please.”

With that, he turned on his heel. As they followed, he called over his shoulder.

“And fair warning—don’t turn your back on her. She’s got a screw loose and will pop your head open like it’s a box of candy. And the fact that she doesn’t mean any harm makes it worse. She genuinely doesn’t get why it’s a big deal.”

That hit way too close to home. For all Miligan had helped her, Katie was not inclined to argue. But the clerk had one last final blow.

“Also, send her a message from me. ‘Your stunt has the civil rights crowd after our shop! Customers are scared, and we’re losing sources! How you gonna make up for that, huh? How?!’ Give her that verbatim!”

Contrary to expectations, they wound up spending very little time at Müller’s Magical Creatures. They bought what Miligan had asked for, and Katie immediately said, “Time to go.” No one argued.

“……………”

Outside, Katie was clearly taking it hard. Her shoulders slumped, her whole frame visibly smaller.

Guy was searching in vain for a way to cheer her up, but all he managed was a spluttered, “Uh, so…well…”

“L-let’s go somewhere a little more cheery, shall we? I know just the place!” Chela suggested, unable to bear watching. She quickly led them away.

Up ahead, they saw a particularly gaudy sign. On it was a glowing wand striking down a silhouetted magical beast. In the bottom right corner was a note saying MAGES ONLY.

“A shooting range,” Oliver said, nodding. “That would get our minds off things…”

“…The targets aren’t alive, right?” Katie asked, peering over his shoulder.

Chela put a hand on her hip, wheeling around to face her. “Don’t worry,” she said. “This place only uses dummies. There are shops out there that use live targets, but given the cost of managing and keeping the creatures, they’re very expensive. And the civil rights people have been up in arms, so they’ve been closing down.”

Katie looked relieved. Guy proceeded to roll up his sleeves.

“Then we can go all out, work up an appetite for dinner! C’mon, Katie!”

“Eep…!”

He’d put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her right in the shop. Maybe a bit rough, but it was clearly his stab at cheering her up. The others were right on their heels.

Inside, they could hear incantations echoing. There was a counter right by the door, and beyond that, a series of lanes—rather like the ordinary folk game called bowling. Several lanes were already occupied, and mages were firing spells at the targets in back. Cheers went up on a successful hit, and feet were stomped on a miss.

“Welcome! First timers? Confident of your skills?” the man at the counter asked.

They inched closer, eyes moving to the blackboard with the rules.

“Looks like we can set the difficulty… Easy, normal, hard, and very hard, huh?” Pete had to think about that one.

“If you can clear very hard, there’s a luxurious prize!” the middle-aged clerk said. “Nobody’s managed it yet this month, but will you try your hand?”

He pointed his thumb at the board behind. There was a row of brand-new magic tools, prizes given out for set difficulty clears. Guy and Katie were both moaning. Given how much these cost in shops, the price of an attempt might well be worth it.

“…Fascinating. Care to test our mettle, Oliver?”

He blinked. Guy was prone to that sort of challenge, but this one came from Chela. She’d seemed more like the type to accept a challenge, not make one.

“…You…don’t have to,” she added, suddenly looking worried.

That explained it; she was still worried about the incident at lunch.

He knew exactly why—and what she’d be most concerned about. She’d challenged him to gauge his reaction, to see how he felt. Was he holding the earlier incident against her? Did he hate her now? Had she hurt him?

“…………”

It pained him to know he was making her feel that way. It was his fault she’d done that for him and his fault she was feeling anxious.

He could never hate her. He knew this was all his fault. Letting the Perfume problem linger, not being able to hide it properly—all of this was because he’d failed to take care of things himself.

It did hurt—but that was an old wound he’d carried for some time. Not one Chela had made. None of this was her doing.

If that wound was still festering, still bleeding—that was all his sin.

“I don’t mind. But if I’m up against you, I’ve gotta go all out.”

He smiled, accepting his friend’s challenge. She looked both pleased and relieved. Good, he thought. He didn’t want to drag her into his own feelings or cause any unwarranted anxiety or guilt.

“We won’t be able to keep up with them, so why don’t we stick to normal? Let’s see which of us is better, Nanao!”

“Challenge accepted, Katie! I have been practicing my skills.”

“I’m no slouch in marksmanship, either. Pete, what’ll you do? Gonna try out easy mode all by yourself?”

“Obviously not. And I’ll make you eat those words.” The bespectacled boy glared back at Guy, clearly fired up.

The clerk grinned. “Two for very hard, and four for normal! Very hard pair, come right this way.”

He led the group into the main shop and waved Oliver and Chela to the far left. It was much larger than the other lanes, with several piles of parts and a twenty-yard-wide magic circle on the floor. He directed them to its center.

“…Does this mean there’ll be targets all around us?” Oliver asked.

“This mode is all about realism! And they’re not just targets. These dummies fight back.”

“That’s certainly not what I imagined…,” said Chela.

But nonetheless, they took their positions. The clerk stepped out of the circle, drew his white wand, and tapped the tip to the floor.

“Two players…and you’re both Kimberly students, so: Begin Kimberly Mode.”

““Kimberly Mode?!””

That sounded incredibly ominous. But the magic circle was already live. The heaps of parts were putting themselves together. Oliver and Chela braced themselves as the beasts moved in for the kill.

The battle raged for thirty minutes, and their spells echoed the entire time. Finally Chela’s magic crumbled the last of them, and the glow at their feet died away. “All done!” the clerk boomed, and a roar went up from the gallery.

“Great job! Wow, I can’t believe you actually beat it!”

“Those numbers were nuts! I was freaking out the whole time!”

“………”

“………”

“That didn’t seem like a game at all… Here, drink these. You need a break.”

They stepped out of the circle and took the drinks from Pete without a word. Both chugged the contents and slammed them down on the nearest table.

“So many enemies! So long! And those dummies are stupidly efficient!”

“It demands curved shots, piercing and broadsides, and you’ve got to vary the elements?! Any dummies that slip through are brutal! How was that a game? This is essentially combat training!”

Oliver and Chela were basically shrieking, their friends nodding along. They both collapsed onto the table, and the clerk came over, beaming.

“Amazing victory! Can’t believe you’re both in year two. We don’t usually get any victories until at least year four!”

He jabbed his thumb at the counter. They looked up at the shelves lined with prizes—being packed up by another staff member.

“There’s a bunch of extra prizes, so we’ll have them delivered by carpet later. But the real prize is this! The two-player trophy!”

He grinned and set it down between them: a weighty brass trophy depicting two mages, wands at the ready.

Chela took it, and the clerk started clapping.

“Great fight. You’re today’s best couple! Survivors of a battle that fierce are bound to be together for years to come!”

With that blessing, he slapped them on the backs and returned to the counter. They gaped after him for a long moment, then their eyes went to the trophy.

“…It seems a bit late for that,” Chela said. “We’ve been fighting side by side all year.”

“True. But nothing wrong with a belated acknowledgment.”

They both pulled out their white wands and tapped them together above the trophy. They’d won this prize together. And this gesture was their little celebration.

But when she saw that, the Azian girl clutched a hand to her chest.

“……?”

“……Nanao, what’s up? …Stomachache?” Katie whispered, pulling her aside. Nanao’s hand never left her heart, clearly at a total loss.

“I know not what this means. My chest just…clenched up.”

Her eyes drifted over her shoulder, to where Oliver and Chela were chatting happily. Nanao might be confused…but not Katie.

Oh…I knew it.

After that, they all stuck to regular lanes, giving one another handicaps where needed and thoroughly enjoying their matches. A year’s experience made a big difference; Nanao had barely been able to launch a spell at first, but now she was shooting down dummies like the rest of them. Pete unveiled a curve shot he’d been secretly practicing, and the uproar never subsided.

After a solid four hours of fun, the light outside turned crimson, and they settled the tab for all that bonus time. Outside the shop, they breathed in the fresh air, savoring the evening chill.

“Woo, I had a blast!” Guy said, stretching. “Already sundown? Time sure flies when you’re having fun.”

“You sound ready to go back in,” Chela said with a laugh. Then she tapped her pocket watch. “But it’s high time we head to our dinner reservation—once again, it’s a popular destination, so I took the liberty.”

With the sun setting and dinnertime approaching, the streets were somehow even more packed. Sticking to the main drags would be a hassle, so they quickly stepped onto a side street. It might be a little out of their way, but it was much easier to stay together.

They headed out, keeping a safe distance from the maddening crowd, with Chela leading—until she suddenly stopped in her tracks. The others looked up ahead and saw three small figures, maybe half their height, seated on the side of the road and looking exhausted. They wore gray coveralls and hats, but beneath that, green skin and long, hooked noses were visible.

Recognizing those traits, Katie leaned forward. “They’re…”

“Goblins? Don’t see them in town often,” Guy said.

Green-skinned goblins were, like trolls, one of the more common types of demi-human. The six friends watched as the goblins passed through a gate into the building beyond; it seemed like someone had called them in.

A few seconds later, Katie stood where they’d rested, gazing at what they’d left behind.

“…They dropped this.”

“A hat?” said Pete. “Given the size, it must belong to one of those goblins.”

Katie picked it up, examining it. “Goblins don’t usually wear hats,” she said. “Is this a factory…? I’m gonna ask inside!”

As soon as the idea struck her, Katie was inside the gates. She reached an unadorned iron door and knocked.

“Hello? You dropped something!”

“…No answer,” said Oliver. “But I can hear sounds…”

“It doesn’t appear to be locked. And we have a fine excuse to intrude. Shall we step through and inquire within?”

At Chela’s suggestion, Katie nodded and pushed through the door. The interior did not seem to be well ventilated; they could smell the dust in the air.

Behind the door was a wide-open space with a low ceiling and several long, narrow tables. The place was packed with over a hundred goblins, each of them silently trimming or polishing bits and pieces, parts for something. When work was completed, the pieces were placed on carts pushed around by roaming goblins, then replaced with a new batch. Aside from the odd confirmation, no words were exchanged. Just tiny bodies, laboring away in matching uniforms, and eerie silence.

“…This is…”

“…A workroom. These goblins are employed here,” Oliver said.

As he did, someone came down the stairs next to them. A nonmagical man, wearing the same uniform as the goblins (save for the size). He frowned at them.

“…Mm? What brings Kimberly students here? This isn’t open to the public, you know.”

“Oh, we just found this outside…,” Katie said, holding up the hat.

He came over and took it from her, nodding.

“Ah, yeah. This is one of ours, all right. You shouldn’t have.” He turned toward the floor. “Yo! Who dropped their hat? These kids picked it up for you!”

A hundred pairs of goblin eyes turned toward them, and Katie flinched despite herself. A moment later, one goblin left their desk, plodding over to the group.

“You again?” The man sighed. “No matter how many times I explain it, you just won’t keep the uniform on. How thick can one goblin be? …Go on, thank her.”

He held out the hat, and the goblin took it with both hands. The demi-human looked up at Katie and said, “Tanks,” but before she could react at all, they were already headed back to their station.

“Ugh, sorry. They’re not much for manners. They are just goblins, after all—they’re like that with everybody.”

“Th-that’s fine, but…aren’t these clothes uncomfortable? Snow goblins might be okay, but these are forest goblins, right? They don’t usually wear long sleeves like this.”

“Mm? Sure, that’s true, but there are rules for them living in human towns. They roam the streets with that green skin showing, they’ll scare people. Covering it up makes a big difference.”

He made a face, but not out of any guilt. Clearly, this was just a fact of life to him.

When Katie fell silent, he added, “They do good work, though. Little hands are good for the details. They don’t complain, and we don’t have to pay ’em much. If we hired humans to do the same work, it’d cost us five times as much, so a little rudeness is well worth it.”

This just made it worse, and Katie was left entirely speechless.

“So…anything else?” the man asked. “If you’ve got business, we do have a reception room.”

“……………N-no,” Katie said after a long, strained silence.

She turned on her heel, and the others followed her out.

“I dunno if this helps any, but…that’s probably one of the better places, y’know. They get treated way worse out in the boonies. The civil rights people probably put the pressure on.”


They were walking through the sunset-drenched side streets once more. Guy wasn’t the only one worried about Katie’s mood; Chela also chimed in.

“…All I know is that demi labor is the foundation of modern magical society. And that knowledge makes it hard to call this situation ‘wrong.’”

Katie stopped in her tracks, spinning to face Chela.

“You think that was right, Chela? …Honestly?”

“…………”

“Stuffed into that cramped space, forced to wear constrictive clothing, paid a fifth of what humans get—and that’s all okay just because they’re goblins? You think that’s right? You think that’s acceptable? They’ve got feelings! They should be living the way they always have!”

Everything she’d been holding back tore out of her. Faced with this tirade, Chela kept her face blank, merely lowering her eyes.

“Easy, Katie,” Oliver said. “Before this town was founded, this whole area belonged to the demis, goblins included. We’re living on stolen ground. Insisting they still have to live the old way is…pretty presumptuous.”

“Presumptuous how?! It’s obviously better if everyone’s happy!”

“Even if your pens cost five times as much?”

He glanced toward the bag in her hand, and she froze up completely. Oliver nodded. What they’d just seen directly affected their lives.

“You knew already, didn’t you?” he said. “This problem isn’t simple enough to discuss in black-and-white terms. Our country—the entire Union—is built on the backs of the demi-human working class. The two pillars of the industrial revolution were magic-based technology and their labor. And the result is a human population that’s grown to a point where life is unsustainable without it.”

“……!”

“I sympathize with your frustration. And that’s why I want the discussion to be specific and constructive. Chela was speaking the truth from her position. Lashing out at her for it won’t accomplish anything.”

Oliver’s placating tones gradually got through, and Katie turned toward the ringlet girl. Seeing how sad her friend looked, she threw her arms around her, tears in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Chela… I shouldn’t have gone after you like that…”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. It’s a friend’s role to face these feelings head-on.”

Without a word of reproach, Chela hugged her back. That seemed to settle things, and they started moving again. It was another ten minutes before they spotted the lights of their restaurant destination.

“That’s the place, right?” Oliver said. “Let’s hope some food’ll lighten the mood.”

Inside, they looked around. This place, too, was packed—but unlike the lunchtime pub, everyone was keeping their voices low. There was more space between tables, and the ambience was more suited to enjoying a relaxing meal.

“Reservation for McFarlane, party of six, if you’re ready for us.”

“Ms. McFarlane, we’ve been expecting you. Your table is in back.”

The waiter bowed his head politely and led them to the far right table. Chela explained that she’d signed them all up for the course dinner, and they need merely wait for their food to arrive—but then they heard voices at the next table.

“…Hey, aren’t those uniforms…?”

“Yep…”

Getting an ominous vibe from this whispering, Oliver perked up his ears. He found an excuse to glance behind him and saw a group of eight mages, boys and girls alike, in dark green robes seated around a nearby table.

He kept an eye on them, and soon enough, one of them got up and headed their way.

“You’re all from Kimberly Magic Academy, right?” the mage boy said, stopping by their table.

“We are. And you would be…?” Oliver asked, picking his words carefully.

“Featherston Sorcery School, third-year, Daniel Pollock. My friends and I are doing what we can to earn civil rights for the demi-humans. And I’ve got words for you.”

The moment he said his name, Oliver was 80 percent sure where this was going. Featherston lay to the southwest of Galatea, and their school motto was all about reason and friendship. That alone pitched them against the Kimberly approach, and the two schools’ students frequently clashed. Plus, the current Featherston principal was a hard-line civil rights supporter.

But as Oliver considered his response, Pollock slammed a hand down on their table.

“Don’t get too comfortable!” he roared.

Eyes were turning toward them all around.

“…Kimberly Magic Academy second-year, Oliver Horn,” Oliver began quietly. “Please, settle down, Mr. Pollock. We’re not looking for a fight. We’re just here to have dinner.”

“You say that, but you’ll attack as soon as we let our guards down.”

“We’re done losing! We know full well none of you have any scruples.”

More Featherston voices were coming in from the nearby table, backing Pollock up.

“Do you have any idea how many demi settlements got crushed last year, despite our efforts to protect them? And the bulk of them wound up at Kimberly, to be experimented on.”

“Dissecting your way through countless innocent demis…! Their blood’s still on your hands, and you think you have the right to eat here?”

“……Urgh……!”

Katie let out a groan, clutching her head. And that provoked Chela.

“…We’ve heard your complaints,” she said. “But it’s a mistake to consider Kimberly a unified front. This girl, too, is a civil rights supporter—just like you. At the very least, your complaint does not apply to her.”

She took the curly-haired girl’s hand, holding it tight.

The Featherston students frowned. “A supporter…? Ridiculous. No one who cares about civil rights would go to Kimberly.”

“You’re not one of us. You probably just think demi samples make good decor.”

“Urghhh…!”

“Yo, I’ve heard just about enough! Can’t you see you’re hurting her feelings?”

Guy jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. The whole Featherston contingent were on their feet now.

“Kicking your chair, you brute? You ready to take this outside?”

“Sure, why not? Let’s go! If you wanna lose your teeth before your meal arrives, I’m happy to help!”

“My, my, how savage. They can’t even tell how outclassed they are. We’ve got third-years on our side!”

Guy was now midway between the two tables, facing down two Featherston students at once. Any false moves and everything would erupt. Oliver tried one last time to prevent it.

“Wait…! Everyone, settle down! We’re all enjoying our weekends; no need to butt heads!” He thought for a second. “I know, let me show you a trick—a gesture of goodwill!”

Oliver pulled out his white wand. The Featherston students all reached for their athames, but he waved his free hand, smiling, and pointed his wand at himself.

“Elemusal!”

As his incantation echoed, countless sprouts grew from his collar. The tip of each formed a bud, which bloomed, covering his entire head in baby’s breath.

His face peering out from beneath the blossoms, he nervously turned to the Featherston students.

“…Wh-what do you think?” he asked. Even if they didn’t laugh, he’d hoped he could at least ease the tension. But instead, something cold hit his face. The boy in front of him was sneering at Oliver, an empty glass in his hand.

“No need to thank me,” he said. “You gotta water flowers!”

Cold water ran down the back of his neck, dampening his shirt and robe. This got Katie and Chela on their feet, furious, but before either could speak—a flash of light shot across the room.

“Aughhhhhhh!”

There was a scream. As the light faded, the Featherston student dropped to the floor, face covered in blood. Nobody knew what had happened.

“ Huh?”

“……What?!”

He’d been attacked. As that realization settled in, the Featherston crowd looked up—and found a boy in glasses scowling at them, arm still extended from the burst orb he’d thrown.

“Say you’re sorry,” he hissed. One look in his eyes showed he was well past angry and borderline homicidal. Even Oliver gulped. He’d never seen his roommate this worked up.

“P-Pete…?”

“Heads on the floor and beg Oliver for mercy. Now!”

Pete was drawing his athame as he roared. The hostility was so raw that the Featherston group took a step back.

“Y-you little—!”

“How dare you!”

They all reached for their own athames—but Guy’s hand clamped around one member’s wrist.

“Outside,” he growled. “I ain’t in the mood for sorrys.”

The tall boy’s voice was so low his opponent gulped. The only thing keeping Guy from punching him right here was a desire not to brawl in a place that served good grub. Pete was well past that and already picking out the first spell he planned to throw.

And as the shop buzzed over the brewing fight—three customers rose up from the next table.

“This clearly isn’t fizzling out. Okay, set the stage.”

“Eight against six, and Featherston started it. Those odds work for me.”

“Get those tables back. Chef, we’re good, right? Damages on our bill.”

Three young men and women had stood up in turn, their wands casting magic on the tables and chairs before shoving the food and diners to the sides of the room—and clearing enough space for a brawl.

Katie, Chela, and Nanao moved from the table before their chairs were swept away, then joined their male compatriots. The Featherston students gathered around their fallen friend; the two groups glared each other down.

“Listen up, second-years!” the man clearing chairs said. “Lemme give you a word of advice. I’m only gonna say this once, so don’t you dare forget it: This is Kimberly’s town! And if someone starts a fight—you end it.”

The three older mages stood around the ring like referees, grinning. All three were Kimberly upperclassmen—and the chef shrugging in the kitchen an alumnus. Oliver winced. Galatea could be terrifying.

“Wha—?”

“Huh…?”

“Uh…um…”

The Featherston folk hadn’t caught up yet; they stood frozen with their hands on their hilts. But two boys in the front weren’t waiting.

“Fragor!”

“Rahhh!”

Pete’s explosion spell hit a third-year girl head-on, and Guy’s fist bounced off a second-year boy’s head. Neither Featherston student had time to react at all, and as the others scrambled to respond, the two boys plunged directly into the fray.

“This is a joke, huh? You ain’t half as scary as the folks at our school!”

“Grab that asshole who dumped water on Oliver and heal his damn face already! The rest of you aren’t getting off that easy!”

Outnumbered but undaunted, their relentless charge clearly unnerved the Featherstons. The key to victory in a sudden brawl was not technique or strategy—but starting it yourself. Getting momentum on your side could sweep you all the way to victory—if nothing went wrong, of course.

Guy and Pete weren’t thinking about that, though; they didn’t need to. They’d managed a year at Kimberly, a year in which their lives were in danger on a regular basis. They’d long since internalized the attitudes required to survive.

“Y-yiiikes…!”

“They’re insane…!”

The Featherston crowd was not so lucky. Their civil rights–loving principal kept order, and their campus life was so peaceful it might as well not be on the same planet as Kimberly. None of them had ever been in real trouble. Fights at their school followed rules and were minor scraps at best—but Kimberly fights were one step shy of “to the death.” Before you even compared their abilities as mages, that mindset alone left Featherston kids permanently one step behind their Kimberly counterparts.

“W-we can’t let them—gah!”

Three fellows went down in the blink of an eye. Only then did a Featherston girl attempt to fight back, but as she swung her athame toward Guy, a lightning bolt from the back of the room struck her chest, knocking her to the ground.

“Katie…”

The curly-haired girl had her athame out, a few steps behind the boys. Chela shot her a look of pure shock.

“…You think you can say whatever you like…?” Katie said, her voice trembling. “W-well, not—not with me around…!”

Sadness, anger, self-reproach, frustration—and emotions she couldn’t even put a name to—all churned within her gaze. No one from Featherston could know what she’d gone through last year: getting a harsh dose of reality, rethinking her ideals, struggling to find a balance between the two—desperately trying to work out what it was she should do.

“Allow me to join you, Katie.”

But Nanao knew. And so she took her place at Katie’s side. After a year of sharing a room, she was the closest friend Katie had—and her greatest emotional support.

Chela took one look at the two of them and sighed.

“…Fine, you’ve forced my hand!”

Abandoning all hope of stopping things, she drew her own athame. Fights like this were clearly beneath her, but she’d heard her friends be insulted enough for one evening.

Only one person was still attempting to maintain order: the Featherston leader, Daniel Pollock. Face twisted in anguish, he was trying to rein his own friends in.

“Wait! Don’t—! Dammit, this isn’t what—”

“…I agree, Mr. Pollock.”

A boy came up to him, brushing the baby’s breath off his collar. Pollock took a step back, but Oliver kept talking.

“This is a quiet restaurant, and I’m sure you expected our exchange would end with a simple argument. I won’t blame you for that error in judgment—I missed my chance to rein in my friends, too.” He paused. “And I think we both underestimated what proximity to Kimberly means.”

He’d voiced his own regrets and expressed sympathy. Pollock chewed that over, but Oliver’s hand was on the hilt of his athame.

“We’re past the point of settling this with words. If you agree, then you may draw at will.”

“…Argh!”

Regardless of what each wanted, their path was set. Realizing that, the Featherston leader drew, and Oliver did in kind. The next moment, they threw themselves into their reluctant duel.

It was over in less than five minutes.

“Uh, Featherston students, anyone still able to stand?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Then victory goes to our Kimberly kids! Hooray!”

A soft round of applause went up from all corners of the restaurant.

“Only five minutes?” a Kimberly upperclassman scoffed, glancing at the pile of downed Featherstons. “I know you’re a bunch of nerds, but try and tough it out a little longer.”

“Nah, our juniors were just that good. All six fought well.”

The victors were getting their share of praise. Guy, Pete, and Katie all had burns and bruises but were still standing. And the remaining three were completely unharmed.

None of their opponents had been especially skilled fighters, so the moment the three friends took control of the fray, this outcome had been inevitable. With their friends rampaging, Oliver, Chela, and Nanao had kept their involvement to a minimum.

“Good show. Head’s up; moving the tables back!”

“And let’s heal the losers up. If you were older, we’d be heaving you out the front door, got that?”

Spells flew, and tables and chairs were yanked back in place. Oliver had feared the customers would complain, but they just kept on eating, shrugging off the whole debacle. The kitchen had paid the entire brawl no heed at all, cooking away—a fracas like this was undoubtedly a regular occurrence.

“Hey, big guy, over here. Your lip’s split. I dig the rough-and-ready approach myself, but you got a bit reckless in the back half.”

“Oh…uh, I’m good, thanks,” Guy said, shaking off the upperclassman.

He turned back toward his friends, the rush of battle already faded. He looked pretty repentant.

“…So, uh…sorry ’bout all that…”

“…I’m not sorry,” Pete retorted, pursing his lips.

Oliver had to laugh. There was no point in yelling at anyone now. If anything, he was disappointed in himself for not putting a stop to things in the first place.

“I know… This is all my—”

“And I’m not letting you say it, either!” Pete snapped, knowing exactly where Oliver was going. He slapped a hand over his roommate’s mouth, and now everyone was laughing.

“Fine, nobody’s sorry,” Katie said, putting her athame away. “…Besides, it made me feel better, in a way.” She had a pretty big bruise on her cheek and wore a sheepish half smile. “Plus, I did my part this time! That’s a good thing…I think.”

This reminded them—shortly after they’d started here, an insult directed at Katie had prompted a brawl in a classroom. Unable to stand the abuse, Oliver had gone in swinging, and Guy and Nanao had backed him up; as a result, all three had been sent to detention. They’d been satisfied with their actions—but apparently, Katie had always regretted standing by.

“Ha-ha! Yeah, you sure didn’t hold back out there,” said Guy.

“Yep,” Katie replied. “When the chips are down, I throw down.”

Guy held up a fist, and Katie bumped it. A sight that reminded Oliver how much they’d all grown.

As they settled back down at their table, someone came over. They looked up to find a Featherston student, his head hanging low.

“……………”

“…Mr. Pollock,” Oliver said.

Pollock met his eyes for a second, then hung his head again.

“…I swear I didn’t mean to start a fight. I didn’t, but it was my side that started one. And honestly, I’ve clearly got a lot to learn.”

He seemed pretty upset. Oliver had a lot of sympathy for that, so he nodded in kind.

Then Pollock looked up, his eyes landing on each in turn—especially the bespectacled boy, who was still clearly holding a grudge.

“But I do have a complaint. Everything after the fight started, we’re good. But responding to some water to the face with a blast orb is blatantly overdoing it.”

“……I’m not sorry,” Pete said again, meeting Pollock’s gaze. He was clearly not budging on that point.

There was a long silence. Then Pollock swayed slightly, still not recovered from the damage he’d taken. Chela glanced at a nearby empty chair.

“You’re in no shape to stand,” she said. “Feel free to pull up a seat.”

“…Thanks, but no. I may have disgraced myself, but I am their leader. And I’m disinclined to embarrass my school any further.”

With that dignified refusal, he forced himself to stand upright. Chela elected to respect that and said nothing further. This boy, too, was a mage.

They’d each said their piece, but before he left—he turned to the curly-haired girl.

“May I ask one thing? They called you Katie, right? Are you Katie Aalto?”

Caught off guard, her eyes went wide. She nodded, then frowned slightly.

“…Um, yes, it is…”

“…I thought so.” Pollock put a hand to his brow and sighed. “Ms. Aalto, when I heard the daughter of pioneering activists had chosen to go to Kimberly, of all places…well, I had many thoughts on the decision to stay in an environment diametrically opposed to your ideals. It seems your choice has led you astray.”

“……………”

“Consider a transfer to Featherston before they corrupt you completely. Our principal will welcome you, I’m sure. Perhaps this is none of my business—but I mean it as a friendly warning. I pray you give it some thought.”

Groans echoed through the shop, and Pollock turned toward them.

“My friends are waking up. It’s time the losers left,” he said. “But don’t imagine this matter is settled. Featherston has long suffered at the hands of Kimberly tyranny. And there will be a price for that.”

His pride and competitive spirit palpable, the boy walked away. Oliver watched him go with a sigh.

“Seems we’ve soured relations with Featherston even further…”

“Who cares? They started it,” said Guy.

“Still…they’re not all wrong,” Katie added. “That one boy’s probably telling the truth about what Kimberly people have done to them…”

“But that’s not our fault,” Pete snapped. “He has no right to lump us in with everyone else.”

At this point the waiter brought the appetizer.

“Ah, it seems the first course has arrived,” Chela said. “It may not have been how we intended the evening to begin, but let’s try to enjoy the meal. No mage could fail to love the pot pie here.”

Everyone tucked in. The courses to come were so good they banished all other thoughts, and by the time the fabled pot pie arrived, even Katie was all smiles.

They’d taken their time eating and talking, so once they left the restaurant, the last traces of sunset had almost faded. The foot traffic had died down, and the town was slowly going to sleep.

“Time seems right,” Oliver said. “Let’s head to the broom launchpad.” No one argued with that.

You took off from a launchpad, stuck to the flight paths, and landed on the landing pads. To avoid midair collisions, Galatea flight was strictly regulated, and express permission was required to deviate from said regulations.

Oliver led the way, his friends trailing behind. But it wasn’t long before Katie caught up, walking by his side.

“…Oliver,” she said.

“Yes, Katie?”

He glanced her way and found her looking unusually grim.

“…Do you think…Kimberly’s corrupting me?” she asked.

“ !”

He felt his mouth go dry. This was clearly prompted by what the Featherston students—especially Mr. Pollock—had said. And that concern was very real. No matter how much time she spent bucking Kimberly’s methods, it was impossible to just shake this accusation off.

They walked in silence for a moment as Oliver searched for the right words. Katie waited patiently.

“…Everyone’s had to adapt to Kimberly’s environment—it’s not just you.”

“…………”

“But that doesn’t mean Kimberly’s swallowing you up. You’re still you, Katie. At your core, you’re exactly the same as the day we met.”

He could say that with authority. Katie Aalto was still Katie Aalto.

That might not be a concern—but the future still was. If she could stay kind even after a year in that brutal hellscape, if that much time still failed to corrupt her—was it really the place for her?

“…But…,” he started, “if you ever feel like you want to get out…”

He didn’t want to say this, but nonetheless—he felt he had to. A friend wouldn’t keep quiet here.

“…………then I can’t stop you. None of us have that right. Like Mr. Pollock said…a transfer to Featherston is an option.”

“……!”

Katie flinched like she’d been shot through the heart.

She knew he was trying to be fair. Bottling up his own feelings and thinking about his friend’s future—that was what Oliver Horn always did. A year with him had made that very clear, and she respected him for it.

But…that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She didn’t want him to be fair or considerate. She wanted him to be selfish and try keeping her at Kimberly. She’d hoped—prayed—he would throw caution to the wind and tell her he didn’t want her to go.

“……”

She was ashamed of that. It seemed so full of herself. Here she was blessed with a friend like him, yet she craved something more than that. That was stupid. She had no right. She hadn’t earned that. She’d never laid a claim on him.

Then as her gaze drifted to her feet, she heard his voice again.

“…But if that happens…”

Her eyes turned toward him…and she saw his fists clenched tight. Oliver was staring up at the night sky, looking anguished.

“…it would really suck,” he said. “I just know…I’d miss you a lot…”

The feelings he’d bottled up were now spilling out—a drop of what he really felt. And that was all it took to make Katie feel warm inside.

“…Like I’d ever do that!” she said. “Come on, Oliver!”

“Gah—?!”

Her glee drove her to slap him hard on the back. The surprise blow made him stumble.

“I told you before that I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to fight here at Kimberly. Maybe if I was at Featherston, I’d meet a lot of people who think like me…but that would just make me even weaker.”

As she said it, she felt the storm in her heart dying down. Ah, she thought. I got caught up in all these problems and lost track of where I started.

“I remember now!” she said. “I never wanted to stick with like-minded people and feel secure. I wanted the exact opposite! I wanted to meet people who didn’t think anything like me, clash with them, get mad, cry—and find common ground. And there’s nowhere better for that than Kimberly! That’s why I love it!”

Katie’s hands were on her hips, her head held high. Oliver grinned, relieved to see no signs of regret in his friend.

Conscious of his eyes on her, she quickly got embarrassed and looked away.

“Maybe that’s dumb,” she admitted. “My parents were vehemently against it. I had to fight hard to get here. Argh! I’ve always talked big, but—!”

It was her turn for a surprise. Her hand was wrapped tight in something warm, and she slowly turned her eyes toward it.

“Er, um…Oliver…?”

He’d taken her hand as they walked—a smile on his lips and a tenderness in his gaze, like he’d spied a single flower growing in a wasteland.

“…You’re brilliant, Katie. Like a bright light.”

 

 

 

 

 

That was all he said. And that was all it took to shoot her down. She turned beet red. No one behind them was crass enough to say a word.

Five minutes later, they reached the launchpad. Each of them mounted their brooms. Oliver had been leading the way, but he moved to the rear of the group, letting Chela guide them through the skies.

“Flying at night is more dangerous than by daylight. Watch out for bird strikes and other accidents—”

“Oh?”

But as she launched into her spiel, a new voice interrupted. She flinched, recognizing it instantly.

“My, my, my. If it isn’t my beloved daughter and her companions!”

“Father?!”

They looked over their shoulders and found a man with the same ringleted hair as Chela—Theodore McFarlane. Seeing the shocked look on his daughter’s face, he shrugged.

“You look like you’ve seen a behemoth, Chela. Even I venture into town on occasion.”

“I’m not surprised you’re in town,” she said. “I’m surprised you’re back at all. When did you return?”

“A few days ago. I’ve been running here and there around the Union.”

That seemed to be as much explanation as he cared to give. Leaving the specifics of his journey a mystery, he turned toward the Azian girl.

“But this timing is fortuitous!” he declared. “Nanao, may I have a moment of your time? I was away during spring break and missed the chance to discuss your first year.”

“Mm? Me, not Chela?”

“I’d love to talk to my darling girl as well, but that will have to wait. If I put this talk off any longer, I’m sure she’d never let me hear the end of it.”

 

 

 

 

 

He stuck out his tongue at Chela.

“A laudable goal,” she said. “But we’re headed home. Can this discussion not take place at school?”

“It could if we have to, but…as a reward for all her hard work her first year abroad, I thought I’d buy her something nice. And doing that at the school shop would be rather shabby.”

It was hard to tell if he was joking. Chela glanced at Nanao—who was looking at someone else.

“Hrm,” Nanao began. “My concern is—”

Clearly, the boy in back was foremost in her mind. Chela didn’t even need to ask. Though Nanao had certainly enjoyed the views Galatea had to offer, her real joy had come from flying by Oliver’s side. She’d been in high spirits the whole way here. And if she stayed behind, she’d have to return without him.

“…Mm? Hmmmmmm. Mm-hmm!”

Theodore seemed to have picked up on this as well. He glanced from Nanao to Oliver and then clapped his hands together.

“…Very well! Young man—Mr. Horn, wasn’t it? What say you join us?”

“Huh?”

“Naturally, not for nothing. Accompany Nanao, and there’s a gift in it for you as well—and a few Kimberly secrets. I was quite a troublemaker in my time there. I know things.”

That was an odd carrot to dangle. Oliver wasn’t sure what to make of it, but Kimberly secrets certainly sounded tantalizing. Even just knowing the location of a secret room could be a big advantage over other students.

“…Chela.”

“…Have it your way,” the ringlet girl said to Oliver with a shrug. “No telling what madness he has planned, but if you’re both inclined to go with him, you’re free to do so.”

Chela wouldn’t presume to know her father’s exact intentions, but she could clearly sense he had inclinations of his own. Talking him out of it would be challenging, and if Oliver stayed behind, then Nanao’s wish would be granted.

With that settled, Oliver and Nanao got off their brooms, stepping away from the group.

“Okay, everyone,” Oliver said. “Sorry, but we’ll have to take our leave here. The two of us will be back later tonight.”

“That appears to be the case. We must part here.”

“S-sure…”

“Okay…”

“…I’ll be waiting in our room,” Pete replied, seeming rather cross.

Chela looked her father right in the eye. “Take good care of them, Father. Please.”

“But of course! Good night, my darling child.”

Theodore stepped up and kissed her on the brow. Then he turned with a flourish and joined Oliver and Nanao on the sidelines. Chela and the other four watched them go and, once they’d vanished into the darkness, flew off into the night sky themselves.

“Well, Nanao? How was your first year?” Theodore asked as they strolled through the darkened streets.

She folded her arms, considering it. “In a word: chaotic,” she answered. “I would have died many times over were it not for my companions.”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! I’m relieved to hear it. My first year was much the same! Kimberly never changes.”

Boisterous laughter might not be the typical reaction here, but he was a Kimberly instructor. Noting Oliver’s silence, Theodore glanced his way.

“Garland tells me you and Nanao are blade bound, Mr. Horn.”

“…Can’t say I’ve heard that expression before.”

“Just me waxing poetic. No need to be so uptight! I admit, I had not counted on anyone like you. I assumed my daughter would be the only one able to keep up with Nanao from the get-go.”

He certainly was eyeing Oliver with great curiosity. This forced Oliver to reevaluate the situation—he hadn’t been invited along merely to keep Nanao company. Theodore was also interested in Oliver. And that meant Oliver would have to watch his words.

“…I’m not sure I’m still a match for her. She’s been improving at dizzying speeds.”

“But you hardly spent the past year resting on your laurels. By all means, keep polishing those skills. We don’t want Nanao losing motivation, do we?”

Oliver decided not to take the lead in conversation and instead stuck to noncommittal responses where he could. It would do him no good to come off as too interesting; best practice was acting solely as Nanao’s plus one. Theodore was not one of Oliver’s targets, but he was a faculty member and had close ties to Headmistress Esmeralda. Proper caution was warranted here.

Either he noticed Oliver wasn’t feeling chatty or was simply not that curious—regardless, the ringlet man soon turned to Nanao and the broom on her back.

“I’ve heard you’re doing great things on the broom, Nanao. But to think you would pick that broom.”

“Ah, you mean Amatsukaze? As you can see, a fine partner.”

She patted the handle, looking proud.

Theodore’s mind seemed to drift into past memories. “I envy you more than you can know. Have you heard tell of the mage who once rode that broom?”

“In no great detail. Merely that she was quite skilled.”

“That she was. Like you, everyone admired her. She was a dear friend.” His eyes turned to the night sky, as if peering back in time. “Chloe Halford. You should know her name, at least.”

The emotion in his voice was evident, causing the armor encasing Oliver’s heart to develop another steely layer. You’re going to talk about her? Here, of all places?

“An unexpected connection indeed,” said Nanao. “Where is she now?”

“Nowhere, I’m afraid. She’s…entered the demon registry. Isn’t that what people in your country say?”

Faced with Nanao’s ignorance, Theodore deliberately chose a foreign idiom—looking rather sad while doing so.

“Since her loss, that broom has accepted no other riders. Not me nor any other teacher. Even Emmy couldn’t tame it.”

“Emmy?”

“Esmeralda. The headmistress. She was our junior back then. How the times have changed! You have to laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

He threw back his head, guffawing like he was trying to banish the gloom. And from that point on, he was his usual dashing self.

“There you have it!” he said, wheeling back to Nanao. “Your broom is lucky to have found a rider like you. Amatsukaze, was it? A splendid name! Make sure you take good care of it.”

Nanao nodded promptly, and all discussion of the previous rider was abandoned. Oliver was secretly relieved but grew more anxious as Theodore led them around corner after corner.

“…Rather a twisted path you’re leading us on,” Oliver commented.

“You’ve already seen the main roads at daytime, yes? But here we are! Galatea at night! What an adventure.”

There was a mischievous grin on his face that gave Oliver yet another reason to keep his hackles raised. The man himself had said he was a troublemaker, and that was likely an understatement.

“Let’s talk about something spooky,” Theodore said. “This town’s had a rash of slashings, lately.”

The deeper they went, the dimmer the streetlights. They were now shrouded in darkness, in which anything could lurk. As if trying to match the mood, the ringlet man lowered his voice to a sinister whisper.

“The culprit has targeted no ordinaries—only mages. The injuries have not proved fatal, but there have been three victims since the month began. In each case—their dominant hand was severed at the wrist.”

Oliver winced. If this was a tall tale to frighten them, good. But if this was true, then it was no laughing matter. Assuming the worst, he said, “…The culprit has some skill in the sword arts, then?”

“Oh, much more than some. One of the three victims was a Galatea guard. That’s a post that demands significant skill. Not someone any old mad mage could take down.”

This was sounding worse by the second.

“And you’ve chosen to take a stroll at night with this trouble afoot?” Oliver asked reproachfully.

“Heh-heh-heh. A fair point, Mr. Horn. But must I remind you who it is you’re following?”

He swung around to face them, theatrically placing a hand to his chest.

“Exactly! I am Theodore McFarlane. Interim though I may be, I am nonetheless Kimberly faculty. No slasher’s mad swings will best me. If the fool attacks, I will strike him down! …Well? Feeling any better?”

Despite his spiel, the man himself seemed less than convincing. Oliver concluded they could not place too much faith in him—and then Nanao spoke up.

“Beg pardon, Lord McFarlane—who do you suppose that is?”

Her eyes were focused on a darkened alleyway. When the two males followed her gaze, they saw a figure wrapped in a dingy cloak, standing dead center, blocking the path. The figure wore a hat pulled low, obscuring their face.

Theodore snorted derisively. “…Who knows? A passing villager, no doubt.”

“Yet, they seem disinclined to let us pass…”

Oliver already had his hand on his athame. The figure felt far too out of place to be a mere passerby.

There was a soft whistle, like a gust of wind through a crack. Poised for a quick draw, Oliver saw the mystery figure’s knees bend—

“Nanao, incoming!”

Even as he cried a warning, their foe lunged forward. Oliver fired a lightning spell, but they dodged to one side, feet touching the wall. Pacing never slacking for an instant, they sped past Nanao, perpendicular to her—and as they passed, a flash of steel came from beneath the cloak.

“Ngh—!”

This was an angle of attack she had never faced before, but her parry was instantaneous. Sparks flew as their blades collided. The enemy finished their wall run, landing six yards away, and turned back to face them.

This exchange had turned Oliver’s expression even grimmer. Using gravity control to let yourself run across vertical surfaces was a Lanoff technique known as Wall Walk. He could use it himself, but to start with that in a three-on-one battle was a bold move. Their foe was either unusually confident or did not value their own life.

“My, my,” Theodore said. “Speak of the devil…”

He drew his athame with aplomb. Oliver would have preferred he jump in on the first exchange, but perhaps the man was just that poised.

“Step back, please,” Theodore ordered. “I’ll handle him. Foul fiend who disrupts the town’s peace! You have the honor of facing me.”

He struck a stance—perhaps not surprisingly, the same Rizett style favored by Chela. Oliver and Nanao retreated behind him, watching carefully. The slasher was not to be trifled with, but more importantly, this was a rare chance to observe a Kimberly instructor in action.

Oliver heard that whistling wind again. The foe stepped forward, not hesitating to enter the one-step, one-spell range. Oliver gulped. Once again, it seemed this opponent was disinclined to use any spells.

For a moment, they stared each other down.

“Hahhh!”

Then both blades swung. Theodore used a downward strike, aiming for the arm, his blow as swift and true as befit a Kimberly instructor, easily besting—

“…Hmm?”

But when the strikes were done, it was Theodore’s wrist that sliced open, red blood seeping forth.

Silence settled over the darkened alley. The ringlet man looked down at the gouge in his wrist, then grinned.

“Run!”

He spun around and dashed toward the two second-years. Oliver blinked once, but he and Nanao quickly turned and gave chase.

“Wha—?! Wait! I thought you had this!”

“So did I! But this is a time for survival, not vanity!” There wasn’t a trace of shame in Theodore’s tone. A moment later, he sensed danger closing in and let out a most undignified shriek. “Augh! They’re after us!”

Of course they are, Oliver thought. He threw an explosion spell over his shoulder, hoping to delay their pursuer, but it caught nothing but pavement. Running the wrong way, his aim was hardly true, and an opponent this skilled was not exactly a sitting duck. They could up the number of shots, but Nanao’s athame was two-handed and not meant for casting to the rear.

“Why aren’t you casting? That cut isn’t that deep!” Oliver yelled, hoping Theodore would be of some use.

The man just shook his head. “I’d love to, but the tendon’s severed! I can’t move it, and it hurts like hellfire!”

Oliver had suspected as much, so he didn’t take it too hard. Theodore was clearly going to be of no help whatsoever. Then Nanao spoke up.

“We cannot escort this foe to populated territory! We must turn and fight, Oliver.”

“…That seems to be the only option.”

He nodded and stopped, turning to face their pursuer. The slasher stopped as well, athame at the ready.

“Careful!” Theodore cautioned. “That was no ordinary blow! Else I would not have been harmed!”

“…I’ve got my doubts about the latter claim, but at least we can agree on the former.”

Oliver let a bit of sarcasm slip, but he was also sure Theodore’s wound had not been caused entirely by carelessness on his part. Oliver, too, sensed that something had been off about that blow. The advantage in timing and speed had been Theodore’s, and by all rights—he should have won.

Nanao had seen it, too. And yet, she’d chosen to fight. For the first time, she addressed their assailant.

“I see you are of some skill,” she said. “I am Hibiya Nanao, a warrior born of Yamatsukuni, Tourikueisen. Might I know your name?”

Recognizing their skill, she honored them as a fellow warrior, and thus, requested their name with not a trace of ill will—yet no voice responded.

“…They can’t answer, Nanao. See the mouth?”

“Hmm.”

Oliver had spotted the cause moments before. The streetlight behind had reached just far enough beneath the hat.

And what lay beneath—were lips sewn shut. A mouth sealed so that no voice could emerge.

Realization dawned—this foe hadn’t been avoiding spells. They couldn’t chant anything. Oliver also realized that whistling wind sound was coming from the throat below those sewn lips—the sound of their breath. They’d opened a breathing hole in their neck to replace the mouth they’d sealed.

While not exactly sane, Oliver could fathom the intent. Sewing the lips meant sealing their casting, forcing them to hone their blade skills—there was historical precedent for this method of training. To overcome the limitations of one’s sword art skills, trainees cast aside their reliance on magic, driving themselves into a corner. The practitioner before them had taken these extreme measures.

Naturally, this was not an approach anyone had done in modern times. The effectiveness of it alone was questionable, and to a mage, abandoning magic was like abandoning breathing. If any capacity for thought remained, this individual would never have chosen such a deranged approach. And that meant…

“…They’ve been consumed by the spell. No longer in their right mind,” Oliver said. The only reasonable conclusion from the evidence before him.

“…That much is readily apparent,” Nanao replied, nodding. “Yet, I felt no murk upon their blade.”

Despite their dire circumstances, that made him laugh. He should have known. It mattered not to her if their foe was sane or mad—that was but a triviality.

“Oliver, might I have the honors?”

“…This won’t be easy.”

“I am aware. But it seems our foe desires a duel.”

Nanao’s eyes were on the slasher. She did not need words to read their intent. To know this foe had the clarity of purpose achieved only with madness.

Consensus achieved, she stepped forward.

“Careful, Nanao,” Theodore warned. “When they cut me, I knew that blow was downright bizarre. I have no clue how I could have blocked it—no, worse.”

He paused, weighing his next words.

“I don’t even know how he cut me. It might be…a spellblade.”

A terrifying notion. But even with this dire portent, Nanao never wavered.

“The warning is appreciated. But I highly doubt that.”

She seemed awfully certain. Oliver held his breath, watching as the Azian girl stepped into range, katana raised high.

“We have waited enough. Have at thee!”

The only response was a hiss of breath. There followed several seconds of stifling silence—then both shadows moved as one.

“Hahhh!”

Blades clashed, and sparks flew. The furious sword dance alone drove back the darkness of the night. As Oliver stared, unblinking, Theodore moved to his side.

“It begins,” the ringlet man said. “What’s your take, Mr. Horn?”

The boy frowned. Theodore’s tone and energy were noticeably different from a moment before. There was a fire in his eyes as he absorbed the battle. Suspicions rising, Oliver answered carefully.

“…It’s heavily modified, but the base is Rizett. They’re quite good. Seems they favor avoiding the offensive, keeping up the pressure, and aiming for the moment their opponent retreats.”

“Good eye. Anything else?”

Was this a test? Oliver watched the slasher closely a moment, mulling over his next words.

“…They’re injured. Likely the chest and leg. Perhaps they fought someone before us… Either way, they’re not in peak condition.”

He spoke with conviction. The slasher’s techniques were obviously polished, yet beneath that surface lay oddly sluggish, off-balanced movements. Reason enough to assume their wounds were not fully healed.

“If you can spot that, I have nothing to add,” Theodore said, sounding impressed. “How would you fight them?”

“Keep calm, don’t back down, parry and counter.”

“A model Lanoff reply. And you’ve got the confidence to follow through.”

Then the man’s voice lowered a notch further. “And Nanao?”

Given his previous analysis, Oliver didn’t even need to think.

“…If her opponent were in peak condition, perhaps things would have been different,” he said.

This was not a foe to be trifled with. Without the handicap, they’d be a match for most Kimberly upperclassmen. The fact that they’d lasted this long against Nanao with the injuries proved it. Yet—

“She’ll cut straight in. Their blade is no match for her.”

He knew her strength better than anyone; there wasn’t a shadow of doubt in his mind.

As they watched, the slasher lost ground, unable to withstand the force of Nanao’s blows. There, her unrelenting offense halted. Just outside the one-step, one-spell range, the slasher waited—clearly trying a different tactic.

“They seem to have reached the same conclusion.”

“…Then the time for talk is over,” Oliver said.

This was the turning point—if anything strange were to happen, it would be here.

The blow that had cut Theodore’s sword hand—this foe had yet to use that move on Nanao. This was unquestionably the moment for it. They stood no chance otherwise—which forced their hand.

But Theodore’s voice broke the silence.

“Four hundred years since the foundation of sword arts.”

“?”

He spoke not to Oliver. This was more of a monologue.

“As style after style rose and declined, techniques deepened, giving birth to the six secret spellblades. Yet, even now, there is no end to claims on a seventh.”

“………”

“Your foe here has sewn his mouth, been consumed by the spell, lived for the sword alone, and given birth to a technique all his own. He demands only to know if it can be parried or dodged.” Theodore then continued: “His life is devoted to that inquiry, Nanao. Show us your answer.”

He wasn’t even trying to hide his expectation and excitement. One look at that, and it struck Oliver like a bolt of lightning—this was Theodore’s goal. Everything the man had done tonight was to bring about this very moment!

“—Hahh!”

From a high stance, Nanao stepped in, unleashing a bamboo splitter. The sheer speed and power of it need hardly be explained. The slasher moved in response, but his motion was clearly fatally slow. Anyone could tell Nanao’s blow would land first.

Exactly as Theodore’s was supposed to.

“ !”

Before Oliver’s eyes, Nanao’s strike moved at unnatural speeds—faster than she intended. Too fast. A blow meant to strike an advancing enemy, timed to their step into range—struck ahead of schedule, striking naught but air.

The sewn lips twisted in celebration of victory. Her missed swing left her wrist exposed, and his blade was closing in—

“ ?”

The slasher could not believe his eyes.

The girl had swung downward from a high stance… He’d been sure of it—the swing faster than she expected, passing harmlessly an inch from his nose…as he planned.

But…if that had actually happened…

Why was her katana at chest height? Why had it not been swung?

“ Hmph.”

Now her blade fell. Right at the slasher’s wrist, this time for real.

His athame and the hand gripping it fell to the ground, severed. A moment later, blood gushed forth. Staining the pavement below.

“ ”

The pain forgotten, he gaped up at her. She stood unmoved, her eyes so clear it spoke more than any words could have—to his defeat.

“The loss is yours, slasher,” a man’s voice said.

The slasher had neither the means nor the will to resist the blow that followed. He promptly lost consciousness.

“You never fail to astonish, Nanao,” Theodore said, athame in hand. The electric bolt he’d cast had left the slasher prone at her feet.

“…I thought your tendon was severed,” Oliver said, glaring at him.

“I must have imagined it. Once I tried, it moved just fine!”

The instructor merely replied with an offhanded comment. Oliver lost all desire to argue the point. Moreover, Theodore wasn’t even looking at him—he had eyes only for the Azian girl.

“First, if I might ask—you knew the trick going in?”

“The details were lost on me,” Nanao replied, sheathing her katana. “But I knew the gist. ’Twas a move designed to throw off one’s timing.”

Theodore put his hand to his lips but failed to hide the smile behind it.

“The gist, hmm?” he said. “Fascinating. Simply fascinating. Mr. Horn, what do you make of it?”

He lobbed the question Oliver’s way when least expected. The boy made no attempt to hide his look of suspicion but turned his focus back to the defeated foe.

“…Read an opponent’s stance, predict the path their blade will follow, and if within the range of spatial magic, control the gravity and quality of the air in said path. Momentarily accelerate the opponent’s strike, allowing it to pass harmlessly, creating an opportunity for a counter. Something along those lines?”

Seeing it twice was enough to draw that conclusion. Spatial magic affected an area close at hand, creating limited magical effects without the need for a chant. The slasher had employed a high-level variation thereof.

Mages could only use spatial magic within range—effectively a magical variant on the concept of personal space. Just as Nanao used it to control the power within her body, a skilled mage could meddle with a variety of forces within their spatial territory.

Gravity and momentum were powerful examples but were rarely used in actual combat—for the simple reason that controlling them required great skill, and in most cases, the results achieved were not worth the effort.

For instance, imagine you strengthened the gravity in the space before your eyes, momentarily slowing the enemy’s movements. Even if that aim succeeded, would you be able to attack much faster?

Of course not. The mana diverted to gravity control was simply that much less magic coursing through your body. And since physical enhancement was more cost effective than gravity control, even with the gravity-based deceleration, your opponent would still be moving faster. Lowering gravity to speed yourself up would fare no better. Controlling either was a waste of magic—that was the common perception all sword arts practitioners shared.

But by shifting the concept, the slasher’s move had upended that notion. Oliver found himself genuinely impressed at the artistry of it.

“Neither speeding yourself up nor slowing your foe down. Speeding up your enemy’s attack, forcing them to miss. The idea hits a blind spot. Versatile and flexible, it’s definitely a viable technique,” Oliver continued. “Though the skills involved may be too high level to be easily reproduced.”

“My, excellent theorizing. I see why you make such a good pair.”

Theodore had his arms folded, nodding repeatedly.

“His ignorance of Nanao’s swordcraft proved his undoing,” Oliver explained. “Sight unseen, how would he know that Yamatsu’s two-handed blades can cut a man with the wrists alone—no need to swing the arms.”

The slasher had bet everything on the move they’d developed, and to fight against it, Nanao had started with arms held high, and swung them down—without swinging her sword. Her arms moved to chest height, but the tip of her blade remained pointed skyward. In other words—she’d simply shifted from a high stance to a middle one.

The slasher had expected her to swing and miss, there—but instead, she unleashed her actual swing a beat delayed. Yamatsu katana grips were long, allowing space between the hands clenched round it. And that space had proved key. Push the right hand forward, and pull the left hand back, and the principle of leverage meant that small motion could produce dramatic movement at the sword’s tip. She’d cut the man’s hand off with her wrists alone.

Adding nothing to Oliver’s explanation, Nanao kept her eyes on the downed man. Despite her triumph, there was no smile on her face—regret was clearly winning out.

“His skill was worthy. A shame he was injured,” she said.

A flicker of repentance crossed Theodore’s visage. “Yes, right you are… There was no need for all that.”

Oliver didn’t let that mutter go unmissed. He swung round, his eyes like daggers stabbing the man—who ignored him completely.

“Well, I’d better haul this slasher to the authorities. I’m sure they’ll have endless questions, and there’s no need to rope the two of you into that mess. We’d better part here,” said Theodore. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t steal your credit. I’ll make sure the guards hear all about your exploits. In return, promise me you won’t tell my daughter I stood idly by.”

He held a finger to his lips. Oliver deepened the furrow on his brow in protest.

“…………”

“Ha-ha-ha, don’t be so vexed. I’ll make it up to you in due time, I swear.”

Theodore patted the boy on the shoulder. Oliver clenched his fists but then turned away.

“…Fine. We’ll take our leave,” he replied. “C’mon, Nanao.”

“Oh?”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her away. It was rare for him to be that forceful, and she gave him a look of some surprise.

“What’s wrong, Oliver? You seem downright irate.”

“Of course I am. You know why, too. He tricked you into that fight.”

But even as he spoke, Oliver was well aware that she knew this and just didn’t mind. Theodore, meanwhile, had known she wouldn’t mind and taken advantage of the fact. That was what infuriated Oliver.

“Don’t trust that man,” he cautioned. “He’s one of the many sorcerers dwelling in Kimberly’s depths.”

Theodore McFarlane’s clown act disguised the nature of his madness. And that certainty was what prompted Oliver’s warning.

Left alone with the unconscious slasher, the Kimberly instructor stared into the darkness after his students, scratching his head.

“…Perhaps I was a bit too obvious. He’ll be holding a grudge against me now. But be that as it may…”

He turned on his heel, drawing his athame before moving to the slasher’s side. Athame in hand, he cast a spell on the severed wrist, leading it over to the arm—and then fused it back in place with a healing spell.

The treatment was over in minutes, and he followed with a low-grade lightning spell, jolting the slasher awake.

“Arise, slasher. I assume you’re not yet satisfied?”

The slasher bounded to his feet, then moved the once-severed hand about, ensuring it was in full working order. Then he looked to the man before him.

“My apologies. The price of your participation in that little farce was a glimpse of the real thing, wasn’t it?” Theodore said. “Nanao’s progress defied my expectations. It seems you were unable to even corner her.”

The slasher didn’t budge. Theodore shrugged, chuckling.

“But fear not. Our bargain stands,” he continued, his smile fading. “I am a man of my word.”

He struck a mid-stance—the Rizett style, like his daughter.

“Do your worst. You will not regret it.”

The ferocity in his glare was a mere courtesy. But it was enough to still his opponent’s trepidations. For a third time, the sewn-mouth slasher staked his life upon the technique he’d crafted.

Among the stories shared by nonmagical folk is the legend of the doppelgänger.

Originating in Daitsch, the story is a simple one:

A man arrives home one day, and his wife asks him the strangest thing: “Why did you come in twice?” The man is most perplexed.

From that day on, similar events occur. He meets an old friend for the first time in ages only to be told they met yesterday. He encounters a total stranger and is accused of having insulted them. He goes to a new location and is told they’ve seen him there before.

As these oddities pile up, the man’s state of mind declines. All he can think about is this other version of himself. His wife leaves him when he is unable to work.

Just as things can’t seem to get any worse, he wanders in a daze through the market—and at last sees it with his own two eyes. A man coming toward him, the spitting image of himself—height, face, even the clothes.

No use running. His mind made up, the man heads straight for his double. As they near, the double grins.

The two of them collide head-on. A burst of light erupts, blinding all witnesses.

Then when the light fades and their vision returns—they find the man’s body in pieces. Two of each limb, one torso and head—all the pieces together make only one corpse.

Far more gruesome true stories abound in the world of magic, although we can safely assume the bulk of this legend is fiction.

But magically speaking, the phenomenon described is possible. It could be the prank of a ghost or a fairy, or an illusion used by an ill-tempered mage to trick the ordinaries. However—there is reason to think the roots lie deeper.

There is a real event that could be the basis of the legend—the result of a magical experiment recorded in ancient documents.

Once there was a mage living in northern Daitsch. Busy with the pursuit of sorcery, he lamented the lack of research assistance until one day a thought struck him. Why was there only one of him? Why not two?

Perhaps a ludicrous thought born from lack of sleep, but he was quite serious about it. Mages and ordinary folk have very different concepts of self. Surpassing the boundaries of your flesh is an instinct all mages share. At the heart of his attempt lay the notion that it was a trivial concern how many of him there were—at least, that’s what he assumed.

Not one to waste time, the mage set about the task. After much trial and error, he made an attempt. Specifically, he projected half of his proportional existence two feet in front of him, within the range of spatial magic—itself essentially an extension of his body’s interior. The mental image was rather like shifting his left foot’s center of gravity to a right foot placed in front of him—except done at the plane of his very being.

The results were a failure—and a spectacular one.

In other words: a massive explosion. One that took out his manor and the surrounding land.

It is said that the doppelgänger myth is the result of nonmagical people hearing the tale of this astounding experiment and embellishing it over time. Its popularity among ordinary folk—and no one else—lends credence to this notion, resolving the mystery of the tale’s origin.

But to mages, a much bigger mystery remained. Why had the man failed?

Naturally, mages are hardly dissuaded by the explosive death of a predecessor. The experiment was replicated a number of times. Movement of the proportional existence was itself exceedingly difficult, so few of the early mages even managed to reproduce the failure—but as those reproductions stacked up, analysis of the phenomenon progressed.

Some sixty years after the initial explosion, a consensus was achieved. Namely: The experiment’s failure was inevitable. The world simply did not allow two of the same thing to exist.

What happened at the moment of the explosion? Convergence. Divvying the proportional existence into two selves resulted in the lesser self being drawn into the greater one. They simply joined up. But the force of this was too great for the body to bear. The mage making the attempt exploded, and the energy unleashed sent shock waves into the vicinity.

This was an example of a frenetic principle—a term for clearly excessive corrections that occurred when mages violated the rules of the world. As if some higher power was offended and ruthlessly punished the mage for their sin. A strong argument for staying the hell away.

But even with that much established, mages never learn.

Far from the start of all this and a considerable time later…

To the Union’s west, in southern Yelgland, a mage from an old bloodline read the conclusions of the Daitschian mage’s sixty-year study and thought, Hmm. As long as that principle exists, it may be difficult to maintain two of myself.

But then he looked at it from a different angle. The two selves converge, generating tremendous force. Could that force have other uses?

If the explosion was the result of an inability to contain the force—then all you had to do was be strong enough to control it.

First, face forward. Move slightly more than 50 percent of his proportional existence to the far limit of his spatial magic.

Thus creating a second Theodore—a forbidden double. Convergence began instantly. An inescapable correction, merging the two back into one, hitting the original Theodore like a tremendous tailwind.

He didn’t have to move a muscle. A step ahead was another Theodore with a greater proportional existence—and the rules of the world agreed that that was where he belonged.

“ !”

He need merely focus on surviving it. In keeping the incredible force from destroying him.

Unfathomable energy coursed through him, all of it supplementing his mana circulation. He knew this was a feat like coursing supersonic mercury through his veins. One slip of control and he would wind up like the failed experiments of centuries past.

But if he did not fail?

The result was a blow none could withstand, delivered without so much as a flick of his blade.

The second spellblade—Creumbra, the self-racing shadow.

As the two shadows merged, everything above the slasher’s waist was rendered a bloody mist.

“That’s a real one,” Theodore McFarlane growled.

The duel was over, and no one was left to hear those words. His hand held his athame aloft as if he had just thrust it forward…but no stab could result in this.

When Theodore’s spellblade hit the slasher, the man’s upper body was reduced to particles too small for the eye to see. The blow did not pierce—it evaporated. The forced convergence of two identical beings, the world correcting an error—when controlled and focused into an attack, this was the result.

Theodore brushed the charred smoke from his suit. The slasher’s legs toppled over, as if just realizing they were dead.

“My apologies,” Theodore murmured. “Perhaps I got a bit too worked up.”

He looked down at his blade hand. It had been trembling since before their battle began, since he’d witnessed the Azian girl’s fight. A dark joy roiled up within, a high he could not control.

“Ah, I cannot wait. I cannot wait, Nanao, my little sunshine,” he moaned. “Please, don’t stop. Run ever forward—until you’re where I am.”

A giddy monologue. He bit his lip, drawing blood. He bared his canines, his ringlets shaking—like the mane of a raging lion.

“I swore an oath to Chloe…and you must deliver on it!”

His cry echoed through the night. The warlock’s frenzied lamentations shook the canopy over Galatea.

 



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