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Nanatsu no Maken ga Shihai suru - Volume 5 - Chapter 4




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CHAPTER 4

Forghieri, the Mad Old Engineer

They might hide themselves in the light of day, but traumatic memories have a way of crawling back up in the middle of the night.

“…Unghhh…”

Midnight, not long after they’d laid down to sleep, Oliver heard a groan from the next bed over. He knew what it was.

“…Haah, haah…haah…!”

“……”

“Haah, haah… Ah, ah… Ahhh, aughhhhhhhh!”

“…Pete!”

There was no sign of it dying down; the noises were only getting worse. Oliver leaped out of bed and moved to his friend’s side, shaking his shoulders to rouse him.

“Relax, Pete, it’s just a dream. I’m right here. Right here with you.”

“…Huh… Uh…? …Oh…”

It took several seconds after Pete awoke. He stared at his roommate for a moment, then darted his eyes around the room. Certain everything was as it should be, he at last separated dream from reality, and the tension drained from his shoulders.

“…S-sorry. This again…”

“Don’t. This is not your fault. Try to catch your breath.”

Oliver kept his tone soft, rubbing the boy’s back. No wonder Pete’s having nightmares.

What the mad old man had shown them in his workshop took morality and ethics and trampled them into the mud. An insane invention that hurled countless lives into the kiln; seeing the Dea Ex Machina, hearing how he’d arrived at the concept and execution, and worse—understanding it. That would rattle anyone, especially someone who’d been introduced to magic just two years before.

Oliver could tell it had shattered any number of things within his friend. Concepts of right and wrong he’d still been clutching to, nonmagical norms he could have lived a lifetime without questioning, all leveled in one go.

Pete knew better now. He knew what mages were, where their extremes lay, that those extremes might well lie at the end of the path he treaded—and that no one pursuing sorcery would criticize him for it.

He was forced to redefine everything—ethics, morals, right and wrong. Concepts at the core of one’s personhood shaken and questioned anew. That would be an ordeal for anyone. Oliver had been through it once himself.

“…Pete, over here.”

Oliver put one arm around Pete’s back and the other under his knees, hefting him up.

“Er…?”

Blinking, Pete let himself be carried from his own night sweat–soaked bed over to Oliver’s. He was laid gently down and embraced from behind.

“ Uh…?!”

“Sorry it had to be my bed. But if you’re willing, we can stay like this awhile.”

Oliver pulled the covers up, covering both of them. Their bodies pressed tightly together.

“…Your pulse is racing. Mana circulation’s off, too. Might as well do some healing while we’re at it.”

“Wai—! …Mm…!”

Before Pete could protest, Oliver slid his hand up the back of his friend’s pajamas. Pete could feel mana flowing into him through his skin. Oliver had done this for him any number of times but never in such close contact, and…

“…Er, um… Today, I’m…!”

“Mm?”

He had almost said he was a girl today but let the words die on his tongue.

He knew saying that would make Oliver let go, apologize for the lack of consideration, reflect upon his own actions, and draw lines he shouldn’t cross.

Oliver might never touch him like this again.

Oliver’s contact with him, this narrow distance between them—both were clearly that of a close male friend. That hadn’t changed since he awakened as a reversi. Pete had preferred it that way and said aloud he wanted them to stay as they were before. Oliver had taken him at his word.

And so Pete was sure if he even once said he was a girl today, that spell would be broken. And he might lose this warmth forever.

Each time he felt the words crawl up his throat, he choked them back down.

“…Never mind.”

“Should I keep going?”

“……”

Oliver felt a slight nod and took that as permission. He resumed healing, unaware of how much this contact rattled the boy’s heart.

“…This takes me back,” Oliver said. “I was in your position, but my mother used to do this for me. On windy nights, or…”

Oliver’s smile had grown wistful. Relaxing into his friend’s palms, Pete listened closely.

“If I begged for a story, she always had a new one. So many stories, so good they just kept me awake, and my father would have to stop her. And all three of us would oversleep the next day. I loved that.”

As he spoke, Oliver’s fingers tousled the ashy hair in front of him. He spoke of days lost, and Pete’s chest tightened. These rare glimpses of his past were the one time his stalwart friend seemed fragile. Like a single push would send him tumbling down.

Pete could tell this scar ran very deep.

And if he stayed weak, he’d never be able to ease Oliver’s pain.

“…Don’t…worry too much,” Pete said.

“?”

He squeezed Oliver’s hand back. Last year was one thing, but he’d survived a year here. He was a little bit stronger now.

“…I’m not about to swallow that stuff whole.”

Pete wanted to clear that up, at least. Given what they’d seen in the old man’s workshop, he knew what his roommate’s primary concern would be.

“Same goes for Katie. She’s learning a lot from Miligan, but that doesn’t mean she’ll end up like her. She’s taking the knowledge and techniques and applying them in her own way, forging her own path forward. I’m doing the same thing.”

He was doing his level best to sound tough, but he could tell Oliver’s fears still lingered.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Pete added. “I don’t have a clear goal like she does. I’m well aware of that. I’m still feeling my way forward on everything. But…”

He paused, tightening his grip on Oliver’s hand. He wasn’t Katie. He wasn’t striving toward conceptual ideals. But he had someone worth following.

“…But…I do have a role model.”

Pete’s voice shook; it took all his courage to say that. It felt like leaping off a precipice. You’re my goal. It’s your path I’m following.

And this admission of a lifetime—earned him a smile.

“…Good. It’s good to have someone to look up to.”

“…!”

That reaction told Pete the most important part had not gotten across at all. Oblivious to his roommate’s feelings, Oliver tightened his embrace, smiling.

“Gah—?!”

And Pete jerked his head backward, hitting Oliver’s jaw. Once wasn’t enough, and he landed two, then three more blows, a series of dull thunks.

“O-ow! Wait, Pete, why are you—?!”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Requests for clarification just added insult to injury. Oliver was stuck taking a headbutting to the chin for a solid ten minutes before Pete’s tantrum subsided.

When the night ended, Oliver woke up and opened the curtains, letting the summer sun stream in. Not too hot, not too cold. The blue sky was pocked with low-hanging clouds. A gentle breeze from the west ruffled his hair.

“……”

A peaceful morning. Ironic, given what today held in store.

“…Morning, Pete. Sugar in your tea?”

“……Two, please.”

Oliver glanced back to find Pete sitting up, rubbing his eyes. Then Pete’s memories caught up with him, and he turned bright red, avoiding his roommate’s gaze. Laughing, Oliver got the tea ready, just like always.

Guy joined them in the dorm hall, and on the path to school, they met the girls coming out of their dorm. Katie spotted them and waved.

“Oh, morning, Oliver! Pete and Guy!”

“You must hear this at once! This morning, Katie spoke in her sleep, saying the most amusing—”

“Augh! You can’t start with that!”

Katie clapped a hand over her roommate’s mouth. Watching them make merry, Oliver smiled. He worried he might look tense.

“…When we first got here, only me and Nanao really filled our plates,” Guy said, looking around the table.

They’d headed right to the Fellowship and were tackling their breakfasts amid the hubbub of the morning rush. Guy’s comment was specifically directed at Katie and Pete, who were both really packing it away.

“But man, these two are getting nuts. Like shoveling wood onto a hearth.”

“Not eating is a waste! You’re no better, Guy! Here, oatmeal!”

“What, oatmeal?! I mean, sure, I’ll eat it. But still!”

Katie shoved a bowl Guy’s way, and he dug straight in. Stifling a laugh, Oliver glanced to his side, and Pete caught the look. He dropped his toast, stabbing a fork into his steamed veggies instead.

“…I’m eating my greens, see?”

“Nice. Proud of you, Pete.”

Oliver patted his head. Pete snorted and kept eating. Chela took a quiet sip of tea, saying nothing. It was just like any other morning.

Morning classes wrapped up without a fuss—a few injuries, but nobody batted an eye at that anymore. Katie shot out of the room first thing, headed to her next appointment.

“Okay! I’m off to see my griffin!”

“I’ll be in the library. Guy, Katie, don’t forget! Study group after dinner.”

“Yeah, I know! I’m literally about to go do some spell practice.”

Pete and Katie were gone, and Guy stayed behind for a little elective study. Waving to him, Oliver followed Nanao and Chela out, but then turned the other way.

“…I’m gonna stop by the bathroom. You two go on ahead.”

“Certainly,” said Chela.

Making it seem natural, Oliver slipped through the bathroom doors. Luckily, it was empty, and he hid himself in a stall.

“Blegh…!”

No sooner had the door closed then the contents of his stomach hit the bowl. The acid made the back of his tongue sting; he heaved again and again.

“Haah…hah…”

When there was nothing left to expunge, he finally righted himself, resting against the stall wall. One hand pulled the handle, and water washed the contents away. He felt like his face was a far more convincing actor than his stomach.

After a minute’s rest, he left the stall, washed his hands thoroughly, and then rinsed his mouth out. He checked his face carefully in the mirror. He wasn’t sure he was hiding the tension completely, but at least his eyes weren’t bloodshot from lack of sleep. Perhaps Pete had helped him sleep well. With that thought in mind, he left the bathroom.

“Feeling a tad under the weather?”

The voice echoed through the deserted hall, and—there was a small girl next to him. He was past being surprised by this.

“You’re one dedicated covert operative,” he said. “You usually follow me into the men’s room?”

“Certainly not under ordinary circumstances. But today…”

Teresa trailed off, looking up at him with concern.

Marveling at that fact, he mustered a goofy shrug. “Don’t be too worried. Given who we’re up against, I think this is the right level of stressed.”

“Any means to ease it?”

“There are, but I have no wish to bring in potions that’ll affect my mental state. Can’t risk any dull to my edge.”

He slowly balled up his fist. He had to be in peak condition. No way he could ever face the warlock otherwise.

“You aren’t scared, Teresa?” he asked, gazing back at her.

She looked down, considering the question.

“I’m…not sure,” she replied. “Scared of death? Not especially. I was born and raised here in Kimberly, after all.”

And that meant risking her life was a daily occurrence. Fear and cowardice only got in the way, so she’d long since eliminated them both. That was the education she’d received, and her answer served as a reminder to Oliver.

“………”

“……?”

Without realizing it, his hand had reached out to her, his fingers mussing her black hair. He was sure Teresa herself had no clue what that meant. She shot him a baffled look, and he grimaced.

“…We’re all messed up, huh?”

Each was concerned for the other, but their feelings never quite connected. Perhaps they had that in common. Deep down, neither one of them could admit they were worth caring about.

And their mutual damage felt good right now. Though part of him hated himself for finding salvation in that feeling.

“Don’t worry. Same as before,” he told her. “Once the fire’s lit, the shaking subsides.”

He met her eyes, the vow unwavering. Teresa nodded.

“I believe in you, my lord,” she said. She recalled the night he’d claimed their first target. If she could see that sight again—that was all the motivation she needed.

Meanwhile, on the labyrinth’s fourth layer, deep in the Library of the Depths’ shelves of forbidden tomes…

“What’d you make of him?”

Parked at a reading table, checking over their athames and magic tools, Karlie and Robert were waiting for the operation commencement. Groups of their comrades were on standby around the labyrinth, ready to converge on the battlefield when the time came.

“…Y-you mean our lord?”

“Yep. The kid.”

Robert looked up from his cursed tools.

Her feet up on the table, Karlie went on, “I ain’t talking about his current combat skills. That’s our thing, and it’s the king’s job to sit at the back looking regal. If he’s weak, it’s no big deal.” Then she added, “What I don’t get is why it’s him. Not Gwyn or one of the other upperclassmen. But this kid. He’s a good kid! Too good to be at Kimberly at all. And forcing a kid like him to play boss puts a bad taste in my mouth. Even if this is about his mom.”

She was among the eldest of their comrades and acting like it.

“…I th-think…I get it, though,” Robert said quietly.

“Elaborate,” Karlie barked, thumping her heel on the table.

“I d-don’t know how,” Robert started, shaking his head. “Just…he has something I d-don’t. Something you don’t; n-none of our other comrades do. Deep down inside his…his c-character.”

Karlie listened to his halting speech intently, frowning. She pouted her lips.

“I hate abstract shit like that.”

“Ha-ha-ha. You always h-have.”

Robert smiled at her, and she snorted. This was how they usually were—and how they’d remain until the fight began.

The day seemed endless, but at last it was nine PM. Oliver stepped onto the labyrinth’s first layer.

“Yo!”

He was met by an older girl just beyond the painting he’d entered. He nodded at her and moved right past.

“Assides Imitantor Vitae.”

As the spell left her lips, she was enveloped in a thick fog—and when it cleared, there stood a second Oliver Horn. A perfect imitation, down to the hairs on his head and even the shape of his nails.

“Got your alibi covered. Go all out.”

“I will.”

And with that, Oliver headed for the labyrinth depths, leaving no lingering concerns behind.

His first friend was nonmagical. This is true of many mages, though few talk of it much.

It’s hardly strange for mages born to ordinary parents, or mages residing in ordinary towns and villages, to befriend nonmagicals. But it’s surprisingly common even among the children of storied magical houses, although they have a mage’s mentality drilled into them from an early age and tend to look down on ordinary people as a result.

A famed magical comedian once put the reason in plain terms—they were suffocating.

“The more history your family has and the greater your talent, the greater the expectation and responsibility riding on your little shoulders. Children under that pressure day and night grow weary of it, and when they hear of a world outside where the rules are different—they get curious. But if you want to get there, you need a go-between.”

He was clearly speaking from experience, and his words had carried weight accordingly. In his case, it had been a boy who delivered milk to his manor every morning—and that boy had been his point of contact to ordinary society. There were plenty of mages who had ordinaries employed as servants, but there were many ways to make first contact.

And not all of them were particularly commendable.

“ aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAHH!!!”

As the dawn sky lightened, a boy on a broom came flying in, his scream trailing behind him. He was maybe eight years old. He wore beautiful, tailored robes poorly, showing both that he came from money and that he didn’t know what that meant.

“…Uh-oh, him again.”

“He’s extra loud this morning…”

A farmer couple glanced up from their just-heading cabbages. Everyone had long since stopped being surprised by his arrivals. “The crybaby’s morning broomrides” were famous in these parts. They happened once a fortnight.

“Aughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

His broom carried him across the fields, and the rustic town spread out below him. As new ground was broken, the population was starting to expand, but it was still very deep country. There were towns just like it all across Yelgland.

Fixing his tear-blurred vision on the streets below, he turned his broom’s head down, flying straight to his destination—past the houses on the outskirts, toward the central shopping area’s west side, where little shops catered to morning shoppers. The boy chose a clearing just outside as his landing zone.

“Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

He failed to slow in time and lost his balance. His feet barely hit the ground, and he dropped his broom, stumbled forward, and went rolling across the street. He crashed headfirst into some empty barrels, and splintered timber flew everywhere.

“Waaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”

His head popped out of the wood piles, his wails growing extra powerful. He’d gotten off with minor scratches—mages were sturdy like that—but they still hurt. Heads popped out of buildings all around, wondering what the racket was, and saw him lying there. Then a girl came running around the corner.

“…I thought that was you! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! What, you blow the landing again? You’re so dumb!”

“Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”

The boy’s cries seemed liable to split his throat. Subjected to that at point-blank range, the girl snapped her hands to her ears, laughing.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha! You sure can belt it out! My ears are splitting!” She pulled out a lollipop. “Come on now, stop crying!” she told him, shoving it right in his mouth. The boy’s wails ceased.

“…Mmph.”

“Mm, mm! There’s a good boy!”

She took a knee, rubbing his frizzy hair with both hands like he was a dog. An older woman’s face popped out of the crowd around—she ran the candy store.

“Him again, Noemi? He can come all he likes, but he needs to land quietly! I’m always scared he’ll come crashing through my roof next time.”

“Aw, he’s not that bad,” the girl said. “He’s picking safe places to land! And if you do smash someone’s house, you can fix it for them, right, little mage?”

The boy sniffled and pulled the candy out of his mouth. He moved it to his left hand, then pulled his white wand and cast a spell. The smashed-up barrels were soon restored to normal, lining the street like nothing had happened to them.

The girl grinned and turned back to the candy store lady.

“Can we get some candy, Aunt Monica? Four lollipops, please.”

“So why were you crying today?” Noemi asked.

They were walking together, working on their lollipops, and she’d decided the boy was calm enough to talk. His hand clenched the candy’s stick tight.

“…I was drawing a blueprint. It’s gonna be the biggest golem in the world! I told you about my dream, right?”

“Mm-hmm. I remember. You talk about it a lot. You said with normal construction, it won’t move at all if it gets too big?”

She remembered him babbling excitedly, clearly prepared to talk her ear off until the sun went down.

“Mm, so I need technological revolutions in fuel, materials, and construction. I don’t even have a clue yet on fuel, so I’m working on the other two.”

He shoved his hand into his robe and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. He spread it out and showed it to the girl.

“This is it. The red parts are my mom’s corrections.”

“Yikes.”

Noemi didn’t know if the blueprint itself was any good, but the sheer detail and energy of the lines spoke volumes about how fired up he’d been.

What made her yelp were the red comments scrawled across it, like barrels of ice water dumped on a fire. Requesting grounds for the numbers, pointing out poor material choices, lists of flaws in the design—she’d been merciless. That alone was enough to kill a boy’s spirit, but the final evaluation was extra merciless: Blueprints are not for drawing your fantasies.

“I can’t take it anymore! Day after day of staring at data and other people’s work, and she never lets me make anything my way! If I ask, she just says I’m not ready yet! I’ve gotta be a perfect builder first! Better than perfect!”

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Your mom sure doesn’t pull her punches!”

Noemi laughed heartily, one eye on the boy’s downcast face. He was still licking that lollipop.

“You gonna quit the whole mage thing?” she asked.

It took him a second, but he shook his head.

“…No. I haven’t made anything yet!” he said. “But…the more work I have to do, and the more mean things she says…I…I just can’t breathe. Before I know it, I’m on my broom. It’s like I’ll explode if I don’t scream across the sky.”

He looked up at the girl.

“Do you ever get like that, Noemi?”

“Sure!” she said, hands on her hips. “I can’t fly, but the rest? You betcha.”

“Really?”

“Yep! Our shop’s pretty big, right? You gotta be nice to some not-nice people. And I’m gonna be running the place one day, so I’ve gotta be there to help.”

This sounded all grown-up, but she was just telling the truth. The boy knew she wasn’t showing off or making herself sound important. Her family ran the second largest dry goods shop in town. They’d opened their doors to meet a rise in demand as the town expanded, and that had paid off, their profits rising steadily over the past decade.

But growth like that often caused internal conflict, and as their eldest, she was dragged right into the middle of it. She might be ten years old, but in a small town like this, that was almost grown-up. The future of her family business could well depend on her proving she had what it took.

Truth was, she was probably too busy to hang out eating candy. Part of him knew that, but he kept coming to see her anyway. This girl might be two years older, but she was his first friend, and her advice had helped him a lot.

“…What do you do when it gets tough?”

“Laugh,” she said.

He gave her a shocked look, and she demonstrated.

“If I feel like crying, I let out a laugh. So loud it makes everyone jump,” she explained. “And the weird thing is, it helps everyone. They get caught up in my laughter and start to see the upside. Sometimes they scold me for it, but— Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

The laugh ripped out of her so loudly the people around them jumped. She stopped in her tracks and turned toward the boy.

“So when you feel like crying, eat some candy.”

“…Does that help?”

“Yep! If your mouth is filled with something sweet, the rest doesn’t feel so bad.”

She brandished her own lollipop with a flourish. She’d given him one the day they first met, and it had become their thing. A spell to stop his tears.

“Then go on and laugh. So loud it shocks your mom. Take all the energy you got for crying and use it up!”

Her arms were in the air.

“Candy makes you smile! Smiles are invincible! Remember this simple formula, and everything will be okay.”

Noemi flashed her teeth at him. The boy didn’t know how she did it, but seeing that smile always banished the clouds in his heart.

“But if you still wanna cry, then go on and come to me. I’ll be right here! When I hear you wailing, I’ll come running.”

With that promise, she started walking again. He scrambled after her. She glanced back his way, the morning sun catching her bashful smile.

“So give me a ride on your broom someday, crybaby Enrico.”

Many Kimberly faculty members were also cutting-edge researchers in their respective fields of sorcery.

Naturally, the contents of their work were a closely guarded secret. They each had workshops in the school building, but it was the norm for genuinely important research to be conducted elsewhere, namely: deep in the labyrinth—for the most part, beyond the fourth layer barrier, in the fifth layer—or even lower.

This was true for Enrico Forghieri. The Library of the Depths contained a wealth of data, and his trips between that and his workshop inevitably led him through the helicoid halls. The mad old man rather liked the quiet and generally kept his nose buried in a borrowed tome during the long trek down. Servant golems trailed behind.

Ideal for an ambush.

“ Mm?”

Sensing someone up ahead, Enrico’s eyes left the page.

There was a figure standing twenty yards away. Not very large—perhaps a student? He couldn’t make out any details; some sort of spell was preventing him from identifying the individual. The mask covering half the figure’s face seemed the likely cause.

“Don’t often run into students in these halls,” the old man called, pausing his advance. “You have business with me?”

There was a long silence before the figure answered. The voice, too, was magically altered, making it impossible to hazard a gender.

“The night of April eighth, 1525, of the Great Calendar. Where were you, and what were you doing?”

No mistaking the purpose of that question. The old man stroked his chin, thinking.

“April eighth, 1525? …Oh! That day,” he said. “I remember it well! Such a busy day. I gathered some prickly colleagues, paid a visit to a witch’s retreat in some out-of-the-way locale—”

He spoke fondly, the words flowing smoothly.

“—and beat a student of ours to death. Taking our time with it.”

Not an ounce of hesitation. Like sharing a pleasant memory.

“…And how did that make you feel?” the shadow asked.

“Oof, that’s tricky. Very tricky. How to put those feelings into words?” The old man paused dramatically, his lips twisting into a smile. “That distinct guilty pleasure of taking a peerless treasure and smashing it to pieces, grinding those pieces beneath your feet. At your age, I’m sure you’ve yet to savor the like, yes?”

Enrico spoke like he was consoling a recalcitrant child.

“Indeed not. I know only one thing,” the shadow said, its tones measured. “The torment she endured when betrayed, smashed, and trampled.”

No understanding could be reached here. That had never been in the cards. The shadow—Oliver—released the enmity he’d barely held in check. The time was ripe. The passage began filling up. Enrico scanned his surroundings, taking in the crowd. Each figure wore a mask, their uniforms bereft of anything that would identify their year.

“Revenge, eh?” the old man whispered. “I assume this is connected to Darius’s disappearance, then.”

Even surrounded, he did not seem the least bit disturbed. The gleam in his eyes suggested he was enjoying this.

“You have the numbers, and you’ve chosen your location well. I can see this plan has been carefully considered. You’re an organized group with personnel inside campus and out.”

He grinned.

“I approve! An admirable degree of dedication.”

Analysis and evaluation. Oliver had no ears for it. And the comrades behind him caught his intent.

“Deploy it, Shannon,” Gwyn said.

“Mm.”

She nodded, and something expanded around her. The feeling was like being wrapped in invisible cloth, and Enrico frowned.

“…Hmm? What did you—?”

““““““““Tonitrus!””””””””

““““““““Fortis Flamma!””””””””

He was interrupted by incantations from fore and aft. Waves of spells buffeted the old man, the flash and smoke obscuring him from sight. With the first blow struck, Oliver stepped back, his comrades taking his place.

“A singlecant to pin me down, and a double in a different element to crush me. Quite the greeting!”

He sounded positively giddy. As the smoke cleared, they saw the mad old man on a multi-legged golem, protected by sturdy armor. Neither he nor the golem were the worse for wear—he’d successfully weathered the group’s opening volley.

“Shall we begin? Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

His hands emerged from both sleeves, a lollipop between each finger—eight in all. Enrico crunched down on all of them at once, issuing a declaration of war. The six-legged golem darted forth at speeds too fast for the eye to follow, clearly much higher spec than anything he’d assigned in Oliver’s class. There were balls at the tips of every leg, and these could spin in any direction, allowing for complex, precise motion.

 

 

 

 

“A multipedal on ball rollers…!”

“Disrupt its footing!”

“Fragor!”

Oliver’s comrades scattered magic tools, combined spells that made the terrain mildly worse, and hammered them with spells. But Enrico’s golem ran right up the walls, its progress unimpeded. Misaimed spells struck the walls fruitlessly. The tubular passage and the ball rollers were an uncannily good match; the modest impediments laid down proved to be of little consequence as the golem raced across floor, walls, and ceiling at will. Oliver was not surprised. Enrico had chosen his golem with this terrain in mind.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! Now it’s my turn! Tonitrus!”

And then the old man started firing spells between the chinks in the armor. Under a barrage from thirty-two mages, avoiding their attacks with every mobility trick in the book, his aim was uncannily accurate. Nearby allies barely managed to negate it with the oppositional element before it struck home.

“Don’t panic! We’ve got his retreat blocked in both directions.”

Gwyn’s voice urged calm, but nobody here would lose their nerve this soon. They were up against a Kimberly instructor. None of them had thought this would be easy.

“However agile it is, in an enclosed space like this, it can’t evade forever. Try one thing at a time.”

This brief exchange had been enough that they were starting to get a handle on the foe. It looked like the old man was trying to avoid big hits, so he wasn’t moving toward groups of three or more. They started using that to their advantage, baiting the golem, giving it an escape route, and leading it where they wanted.

“ Hng!”

As Enrico hit their mark, every athame turned his way. Gwyn’s call planned for every escape route.

“Flatten it!”

““““““““Extruditor!””””””””

Sideways pressure slammed the golem against the wall; not enough to stop it, but it was forced to strain its legs, pushing back against the pressure.

““““““““Ducere!””””””””

“ Mm?!”

And that was their real aim. As the golem pushed back, their next spell yanked it the other way, peeling it off the wall. Its own force used against it, the golem and Enrico spun through the air, exposed to the attacks of every mage around. However good the ball rollers were, they could do nothing without solid footing.

““““““““Magnus Fragor!””””””””

Over twenty double-incantation spells buffeted the golem before it hit the ground. Each struck with sound and fury. And the golem was defenseless—surely this had done more than their first volley. This time, Enrico must have taken damage. Oliver watched with bated breath.

“…Ack—”

“…Gah…”

“ !”

Three comrades went down, smoking at the mouths. No one had expected that, and every face tensed.

“What happened?!”

“Spell recoil!”

“That was no accident—something induced it!”

The analysis and inferences matched Oliver’s own. Doublecant spells were powerful, but a loss of control would cause a backfire, harming the caster. Yet, no mage here would make such a basic error, much less three at once. There was clearly another factor at work, something that had made their spells detonate.

“…Kya-ha-ha-ha! That was good!”

Adding insult to injury, the multipedal golem came bounding out of the smoke. There were some burns and dents on the armor, but that was it for visible damage; far less than they’d hoped. Oliver’s comrades were incensed.

“…Enemy’s alive and well! Golem damage minimal!”

“That thing’s armor is too damn hard!”

“Durable alone doesn’t cover it! There’s gotta be a trick to it!”

This golem’s design was clearly built to prioritize mobility. No matter what it was made from or how ingenious the design, it should not have been sturdy enough to weather twenty-plus doublecant spells. That was a constructional limit based upon the fundamentals of magical engineering.

“…You catch it, Shannon?”

“……Mm, got it.”

It was Oliver’s sister who solved the contradiction first. Within the zone she’d deployed, she felt a faint—yet clear—shift.

“…Lots of little ones, all around… Like elementals…but not.”

Not the most articulate, but enough for Oliver and Gwyn to grasp her meaning. The enemy golem’s inexplicable defense, the induced recoil—this explained both of them, so Oliver yelled with conviction.

“Look out for disruption magic! There’s nano golems in the air!”

That caused a stir. The multi-legged golem stopped dead.

“…Fascinating. You noticed them?” Enrico’s voice emerged from the chinks in the armor, sounding impressed.

Oliver raised a hand, halting his comrades’ attacks.

“That requires more than simply on-the-scene analysis,” Enrico said, delighted. “You must have had a pre-prepped hypothesis proven by events that transpired. Excellent work!”

Oliver let him finish, engaging him. Any new discoveries required a tactical adjustment. It was best to buy some time.

“…A pillar of your research, Enrico Forghieri?”

“Indeed. You can see the logic, I’m sure! To achieve macro success, I must first master the micro. If you’ve read a few of my papers, I’m sure you’re already nodding along.”

Enrico dished this out like it was a reward for seeing through the trick. This placed him at a disadvantage, although the mad old man himself didn’t seem to care. In his mind, he was a teacher, surrounded by students.

“You all know perfectly well elementals form symbiotic relationships with certain magical beasts. My connection to these aerial nano golems is much the same, albeit with one exception—they serve at my behest. They automatically cancel out any attacks directed at me—or deflect them.”

That was the secret to the impossible defense. The multipedal golem wasn’t blocking the spells at all; the nano golems hovering around it were. Just like the wind elementals had protected the garuda Oliver fought, countless nano golems were protecting Enrico. And these were far more durable than those elementals.

“Naturally, they are not merely defensive. At my prompting, they can attack directly or interfere with spell activation, causing denotations. You know very well spell activation is the most unstable moment!”

Oliver gritted his teeth. This, too, was exactly like the disruption magic the garuda had used. The same trick he’d used to knock Nanao out in his workshop. And what was most galling was that without knowledge of the nano golem concept, you could never hope to defeat them.

“So what next, children? You chose this location to minimize my repertoire, but things aren’t quite going according to plan, are they? After all, here I am, with this utility golem and—”

He broke off as glittering gas jetted out from between the multipedal golem’s legs, spreading around it like mist caught in the sun. He had clearly made these nano golems light up so they’d be visible to the naked eye.

“—approximately two hundred trillion nano golems. The odds are slightly in my favor,” Enrico added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

He could easily have released them unseen, without any warning, but chose not to. He wanted the students facing him to correctly perceive the threat—that he might savor their attempts to foil it.

“How will you handle this? Summon winds? High heat? Or perhaps freeze them? Try anything you like!”

The glow vanished, and the nano machines blended into the air itself. Oliver concluded none of those approaches would work. It would boil down to a contest of strength—the force of their spells against the golem’s capacity for interfering with them. If the air had enough nano golems concentrated in it, they could easily deflect twenty-odd doublecanted spells. And given their foe’s wild movements, trying to focus any extra fire would be impractical.

So Oliver flipped the logic. The nano golems were not evenly distributed through a space this large. With that in mind, he aimed his athame high.

“Go red! Repeat! Densa nebula!”

““““““““Densa nebula!””””””””

All comrades chanted after him. Red mist poured from the tips of their athames, and the wind currents carried it to all corners.

“…Interesting,” Enrico purred.

This was just a red mist—no magical effect, no elemental affinity. So the nano golems did not react to it.

A gust came down the tunnel, sweeping much of the mist with it. Yet, several red pockets remained, including one directly above the multipedal golem.

“The shadow is cast,” Oliver said, his eyes on the mottled red mist. For microorganism-sized golems to remain suspended in the air, or move around, they had to follow the air itself. And that meant that the greater the density of golems, the more mist would remain.

“Can you order them to remove the red, Enrico? Is that a function your beloved golems have?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He was certain they could not. Issuing an order would render Enrico defenseless. The golems themselves could not detect plain red mist, and any means of handling this would require instructions from Enrico himself. And while they obeyed that, their autonomous defense would be lost.

“Go on and try, if you dare. We’ll be waiting to pounce,” Oliver growled.

Currently, the field of microengineering was solely Enrico’s domain. That meant it was highly likely any attempts to directly deal with the nano golems would be fruitless. If they had time for trial and error, that would be one thing, but they were in a battle to the death.

Yet, they were mages. This was hardly their first time dealing with things invisible to the naked eye. There were ways to handle things not directly observable—as they did the ether and the soul. And now that they’d caught their shadow, the nano golems were no longer an unseen threat.

“And here, you cannot draw more mana from the labyrinth itself. Keeping countless nano golems active must be a titanic drain on your reserves. I imagine you’re feeling it in your bones, old man.”

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! I like it. No one’s insulted my age in years!” Enrico cackled. “Let’s find out, shall we? Can you all stay standing until I start to wheeze?”

No longer concerned about the nano golems’ visibility, Enrico’s multipedal golem began moving again, dragging the red cloud with it. Oliver’s comrades moved to resume their attacks, so Oliver barked further orders.

“…Concentrate your spells to dissipate the nano golem distribution. Then, break off two of the multipedal’s legs and seize our chance to crack the armor. We’ve got to expose Enrico himself.”

Observing the movements of the mist made it clear how the nano golems’ magical interference worked. If they were canceling or deflecting, the space in the spell’s trajectory would always take a deep red hue. And if one location darkened, another grew light. There was a limit to their total number, so this was inevitable. Even if two hundred trillion was no exaggeration, it was nowhere near enough to fill a hall this size.

“Once that’s done, I’ll finish things.”

Oliver saw a path to victory. He quivered with anticipation, tightening his grip on his athame. If he could reach one-step, one-spell distance, there’d be no escaping. His spellblade would end this charade.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! No one’s hesitating now! I approve!”

And matching that lack of hesitation, the ball rollers went wild, the golem’s movements growing snappier, trickier. Make it block a spell, then strike again where the red mist had thinned—that was all they had to do, but the nimble motions of Enrico’s transport prevented it. Watching this, Oliver was forced to admit the mad old man was not just the world’s best builder but a top-class golem operator.

“We’ve gotta stop those legs,” came a voice. “Colligationem.”

Yet, as long as a person controlled it, the movements would be biased. And one of their number had been watching long enough. Her spell slipped through the gap in the mist, slamming down on one of the legs. The golem slowed, and Enrico let out a cry.

“A powerful spell, devoid of any delicacy! That must be you, Ms. Buckle!”

“Ah-ha-ha! Brutal! I know my magical engineering grades sucked, but I still passed!”

Their other comrades were already firing off spells, and Karlie herself didn’t hesitate to close in. She was heedless of the spells burning her flesh in passing. Before her very eyes, the golem tried to dodge a concentrated burst of fire—but Karlie’s athame flashed a step ahead of it.

“…What?!” the old man yelped in surprise.

There was a clang, and the tip of the severed leg rolled across the floor. The most damage they’d done so far.

Karlie quickly backed away, mindful of counters.

“One down!” she said, grinning. “Don’t need delicacy to smash someone’s work to pieces, do ya, Instructor Enrico?”

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! You certainly don’t beat around the bush! You’re the last person I’d want as a student.”

“Ah-ha-ha-ha! Is that any way for a teacher to talk?”

Their laughs echoed through the hall. Oliver felt a chill run down his spine. They’d been student and teacher for over six years and were trading quips and sarcasm even as they tried to kill each other. That was a mage’s battlefield for you.

““““““““Fragor!””””””””

With the golem down one leg, they seized their chance, pounding it with spells. Enrico tried to dodge like before, but the loss of a leg was no small matter. The old man knew that perfectly well.

“Playing defense will just whittle me down! Very well—time to change the game!”

No sooner had the words left Enrico’s lips than approximately half the red mist around the multipedal golem scattered to the air. Oliver’s comrades tensed. This significantly lowered their foe’s defenses—but obviously not just that.

“Tonitrus!”

As his golem swiftly dodged another volley, the old man chanted a spell of his own. A perfectly ordinary lightning spell fired through the chinks in the armor. He was a Kimberly teacher, and the power was absurd, but there was more than enough distance to dodge it. The few comrades in its path easily moved to avoid it—and then the bolt bent in the air, striking two of them at once.

“Kahhh!”

“Guh…”

“?!”

“What? It curved?!”

The unexpected hit rattled them. Enrico was firing spell after spell, each one changing course in midair, raining down upon his foes. None of these changes were ordinarily possible.

Six more were hit in rapid succession, but no one let that get them down—they were all focused on figuring this out. The red mist was spread out through the air, forming a number of clusters. And the spells were changing paths in those. The first to notice that called out.

“Wait—he’s using the nano golems…to change the direction of his own spells?!”

“Careful! No telling what angle they’ll take!”

“Right answer! But I’m not slowing down!” Enrico hollered. “Tonitrus! Frigus! Flamma!”

Spells shot in all directions; blocking them was clearly impossible. The comrades aimed at the red mist, scattering it with gust spells—but once scattered, the mist merely collected again nearby, forming a new deflection point. Some tried creating magic bubbles to enclose the nano golems, but their interference easily broke them free. And worst of all, the hail of spells continued unabated.

“Crap, this isn’t just curving!”

“Spells from head-on are hitting us in our backs!”

With no signs of an effective strategy, eight more comrades were down in a few dozen seconds. Focusing on defense and raising a barrier could allow them to weather things, but if their side stopped attacking, victory grew distant.

Oliver made his choice, turning to his brother.

“…You’re up.”

“Got it.”

Gwyn pulled the instrument from his back, using his modified white wand as a bow, and began to play.

“I can go on all day! Toni■■us!”

Enrico made to cast another spell, but—his athame remained still. Frowning, he tried again.

“…Mm? ■■nitrus!”

There was a crackle, and it dissipated. The incantation was incomplete, and the second’s pause in his onslaught did not go unnoticed. Spells from both sides, limiting his retreat, and two circling ahead of his path, cut in. One slash caught a leg, severing it at the halfway point.

“Two down… Careless, Forghieri,” Oliver said. One step closer to check.

Now it was Enrico’s turn to figure out an unexpected attack. His eyes lit on Gwyn’s viola.

“Auditory spelljamming? And only affecting my voice. How deft!” he said. “Mr. Gwyn, to think I’d find you here.”

“Are your ears burning, Instructor Enrico?”

Named but undaunted, Gwyn had known full well his actions would identify him. Much like the late Carlos Whitrow’s enchanted voice, the enchanted music he played was a rare talent indeed. No one else at Kimberly could do it.

“Which naturally means that must be Ms. Shannon accompanying you. You’ve dragged the Sherwood siblings into this? That is shocking.”

Enrico’s eyes had gone from Gwyn to Shannon to the figure behind them. It seemed like the mad old man was finally wondering exactly who he was up against.

“You there, leader. Who might you be?”

“You’ll learn my name—at the moment of your death.”

Even as they spoke, the battle raged on. With two legs gone, the golem’s movements were notably less precise, and it was surrounded, buffeted by spells from all directions. Enrico was forced to put his nano golems back on defense. But that tactic had only been so effective because his alacrity had allowed him to evade the bulk of the spells. Now that he was soaking those head-on, he wouldn’t last long.

“Hmm, the tide seems to be against me,” Enrico muttered. “Best I change the premise.”

Oliver had been biding his chance to step in—but Enrico’s multipedal golem abruptly transformed. This was no mere minor alteration; the entire framework of it was reshaped like starting a clay pot anew.

“Don’t let him!”

Certain the fight could hinge on this, Oliver cast a spell of his own. His comrades joined him, throwing in everything they had. But—in response, the nano golems began to spin, forming a tornado-like barrier around Enrico, letting no spells pass through. This resistance required immense mana from their operator and clearly could not last long—but it allowed the transformation within.

Of the remaining four legs, two became razor-sharp arms. The other two remained legs but thicker, sturdier ones. Enrico was encased in the torso, but it was now streamlined, anything extra stripped away. In less than a minute, what had been a multi-legged golem had transformed into a vicious looking exterior, somewhere between a man and a carnivorous beast. The overall size was greatly reduced, and it was less like Enrico was riding the golem than wearing it.

“All done! And ready for more.”

Like drawing a breath, the new golem used the vents coating it to inhale all the nano golems, drawing them inside itself. As its defenses thinned, the spell barrage began to get through.

They had him now—or so they thought. But before the spells reached it, the golem jumped—rocketing upward.

“ ?!”

“Above us!”

Oliver’s comrades raised their athames high, following the golem—but found no trace of it.

“Nope! I’m over here.”

The voice came from right beside them, in the ear of a comrade—who immediately lost everything above the waist. Blood and guts spattered across the floor, a feat managed with a single sweep of the golem’s arm. Another comrade flung himself at it—but his athame caught only air as the wind whistled through the hole in his belly.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Pardon me; that jab was a bit too strong!”

The golem’s metal arms were covered in blood; Enrico laughed maniacally. Oliver clenched his jaw, eyes like daggers. Both comrades had escaped instant death, but neither could anyone stop to heal them properly. While the old man’s attention was elsewhere, nearby comrades were stopping the bleeding and dragging them to the side, but nothing more.

The sight cut Oliver to the quick, but he forced himself to keep his focus honed on the enemy before him—on this new, as yet undefined threat.

“…A golem exoskeleton?”

“Oh? You’ve heard of it? You’ve done your homework.”

The old man sounded impressed, but Oliver was well aware just how fringe this technology was. Not just the exoskeleton. This and the nano golems that had been tormenting them—these were all magitech that should not yet exist. Concepts that by all rights would be confined to theoretical papers.

“Isn’t it cool? By having the nano golems circulate through the interior, I can make it both lightweight and high-output! The downside is that it compositionally doesn’t allow much mana storage, so it’s a huge drain on the operator’s mana reserves. It works because I’m running it! Mages less blessed in the capacity department would dry up in seconds!”

The mad old man was living all on his own, a century in the future. As this thought struck him, Oliver was forced to put aside his own opinion of the man’s character and face the truth—Enrico Forghieri was undoubtedly a genius.

“But it’s not a bad prototype at all. It enhances a mage’s physical prowess, completely negativing the sluggish response endemic to the golem arts. With the mana drain, spells above doublecants are rather a challenge, but in exchange—”

Enrico broke off, and the golem vanished from view. Two comrades sensed it approaching and swung their blades its way—but both of their dominant arms were torn off at the shoulder at exactly the same time.

“—it enables this barbaric fighting style! Isn’t it just the best?”

Enrico brandished the severed limbs proudly, with the innocent cheer of a child showing off their new toy.

“I want a go with it, Instructor!” Karlie yelled, shoving the athameless pair to the side. Several others skilled in sword arts joined her, starting a close-range battle with Enrico in his exoskeleton cocoon. But he was more than twice as fast; he dodged every blow aimed at him, and the risk of friendly fire meant they couldn’t risk flinging spells around. Even Karlie found herself barely able to avoid a fatal counter.

“……!”

This thing’s specs were overwhelming. It was anybody’s guess as to whether Godfrey would have stood a chance against it. They’d almost had Enrico in check—and he’d cleared the board again. As Oliver scrambled to figure out their next move, one comrade after another dodged too late and went down.

He turned to Shannon. “…Get it ready,” he said. They couldn’t afford to hold back here. Shannon knew why he’d given the order but still flinched.

“Not yet,” Gwyn said, raising a hand. “Trust the upperclassmen.”

His unshaken confidence settled Oliver’s nerves. Oliver kept watching—and a moment later, a subtle shift occurred.

“…Mm?”

The sound of metal scraping could be heard. Enrico had failed to fully dodge an athame, letting out a quizzical grunt. More comrades pounced. Mere moments earlier he’d been running circles around them, but more and more of their blows were getting through. They were adapting to fighting this thing—but that wasn’t the only reason.

“…It’s slowing down?”

Hovering around the outskirts, it was obvious even to his eye. The exoskeleton was clearly not maintaining its initial speed. Like it was shouldering heavy baggage, each move it took grew steadily heavier.

“F-finally k-kicking in. You’ve b-been too sloppy, Instructor Enrico.”

A gloomy voice echoed over the battlefield. The old man turned toward it.

“Mr. Dufourcq! One of your curses, I assume?”

“Lead turtles. A th-thousandfold. H-heavy even for you.”

Oliver squinted and could just make out shadows swarming the exoskeleton golem. A curse of encumbrance. In accordance with the law of curse conservation, Robert had scattered tiny camouflaged cursed items on the floor, mingled with the obstacles his comrades had laid down. Enrico had been treading on these since the battle began, unawares. Without the golem’s weight, the shells wouldn’t break—so his comrades were at no risk of infection. And the clincher was the curse effect latency caused by the delayed activation formula. Each curse he’d trod upon was kicking in, weighing the old man down.

“Colligationem. Let’s see if you can dodge the next one, Instructor.”

Karlie piled on a binding spell, and Enrico’s legs paused for just a moment—

““““““““Frigus!””””””””

““““““““Magnus Flamma!””””””””

—but nonetheless a moment long enough to turn the tide. A singlecant to pin him, and a focus-fired doublecant—the same strategy they’d stuck to from the start, but here at last it achieved results. With the nano golems absorbed into the exoskeleton, he could no longer block the spells. The moment he no longer had the mobility to dodge, the exoskeleton was done for.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Wonderful! Simply wonderful, children!”

Just before the barrage of spells wrecked the golem, the air was filled with flashes and explosions. And in the instant their eyes were blinded, Enrico detached the torso from the limbs, rocketing himself upward.

“After him!” Oliver yelled.

Was he ejecting the nano golems like propellant? The exoskeleton’s torso had the old man flying at broom-like speeds into the depths of the helicoid hall. The students had a barrier up to prevent escape, but Enrico hurtled right at it. The battle so far had drastically reduced the number of people who could intercept him.

“Good barrier! But not quite thick enough!”

Enrico started spinning like a drill, forcing his way through the barrier. It took a good five seconds to break it, but the surviving framework was still sturdy enough to weather that long a barrage. On the other side it began falling off, and he hit the floor—the impact of that finally destroying it for good. Fully exposed, Enrico scrambled to his feet.

“Kya-ha?!”

With no warning at all, a blade shot right toward his heart. Enrico’s athame struck it almost purely on instinct. The deflected blow gouged deep into his side—the first blood he’d shed since the battle began.

“You’re—” He blinked. The covert operative leaped safely away. Teresa Carste had been on standby outside the barrier from the start, in case he attempted to flee. But even with the element of surprise, her blade had not managed to claim his life.

“Kya-ha… Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Enrico tore his eyes off the girl and raced down the helicoid hall, peals of laughter echoing in his wake. He had more ball rollers embedded in the soles of his shoes and was swiftly gaining distance. Oliver’s comrades took the barrier down and were forced to give chase on broomback, Teresa among them.

“…I failed to finish him,” she said. “I have no excuse.”

“No, you did good,” Oliver told her. “Don’t let him get away! He’s injured!”

An injury like that made all the difference. Certain of that, he and his comrades shot after Enrico at top speed.

Broomriding students were hot on his heels. Enrico could feel the hostility; they would not be easily dissuaded. He bounded down the helicoid halls as fast as his feet could carry him.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha…!”

Spells aimed at his back pelted the air like rain, forcing him to dodge or fire oppositional spells to cancel them out. On even terrain like this, ball roller boots’ top speed was a match for any broom. He could keep his distance for the length of this tunnel, at least.

But he’d lost both his main golem and the nanos. The students’ plan had been a clever one, a real threat to him, and the sheer depths of their brilliance was causing explosions of joy.

“This! This is what makes being a teacher worthwhile!”

Enrico was delighted. Becoming a teacher was the right choice. Even with a flock of students out for his blood, he was having fun.

Oliver’s team raced down the multi-mile tubular passage. As they neared the end, they could feel the air changing on their skins. Where the library layer had been quite comfortable, the air here was hot and dry.

“Careful! Fifth layer coming up!”

They cleared the tunnel exit, and the fifth layer spread out before them—Firedrake Canyon. Undulating rocks, a deep ravine, and winged shadows soaring through the space between. The titular canyon was like a maze branching in all directions, and many a dragon nested in its walls. Most breeds were as aggressive as they were powerful; getting through here required the proper strength to fight one’s way past them.

“Don’t engage the dragons!”

“Focus only on Enrico!”

The comrades in the lead barked orders. These weren’t bird wyverns like the second layer; these skies were ruled by real wyverns, all with the proportionate size, flight skills, and ferocity. An inexperienced student lost down here could easily be burned to a crisp in a single breath.

But this environment wasn’t enough to make any member of this group balk. They broke through the waiting wyverns with suppressing fire and mobility, eyes on Enrico as he slid down the ravine’s sides on his ball roller boots. If he’d merely jumped down, they’d have hit him in the air, so he kept his feet grounded. Spells were raining down upon him, but despite the sheer rock face, he was still proving fully capable of evading everything coming his way.

““““““““Tonitrus!””””””””

But as he reached the canyon floor, the old man’s route was cut off. He was trapped with his back to the wall, students landing in all directions, pelting him with spells. Enrico threw up a barrier spell and held fast, but this was clearly but a momentary respite.

“You’ve chosen this as your grave, Forghieri.”

This time they really had him in check. No more nano golems, and even if he tried generating more from the ground around him, their spells would incinerate him first. The next doublecant volley would punch right through the old man’s barrier.

“…Do it!” Oliver yelled.

““““““““Magnus Flamma!””””””””

Magic lights fired from twenty-one athames, all bound for Enrico…

“I don’t think so,” came the mad old man’s voice. “Behold.”

…but a massive hand broke free of the rocks, slipping between them and the old man.

“Wha—?”

Massive wrists, arms, and shoulders emerged from the tumbling rock face. A torso the size of the irminsul’s trunk, eyes burning with enmity. Every inch of the three-hundred-foot colossus was covered in adamant plating. And worst of all—the drumbeat of life echoed within.

“Noll!”

“Your Majesty, get back!”

Shannon yanked Oliver away, putting him behind her. Karlie and the front line were gaping up at the giant.

“I can hardly leave this lying about, can I? After that fight, serving up any old golems would hardly be a fitting reward!”

Enrico was perched on the golem’s shoulder, far above the ground. A sight that should not be—the worst imaginable outcome.

Oliver gritted his teeth. “…Dea Ex Machina.”

The giant living golem he’d seen in the man’s workshop. That one had been missing the lower half but had certainly made an impression. It was the last thing he ever wanted to fight. Choosing a battleground far from that workshop had been mandatory, and this location was supposed to fit the bill.

“…You made two.”

But there had always been the potential for something to throw a wrench in their plans: the existence of a second living golem.

“You knew about it? I did show it to a few promising students,” Enrico said, seeing they were aware of the concept. “But I must make one correction! This is Deus Ex Machina. Look closely—this is not the incomplete goddess you know. This one’s form is masculine!”

The old man was pointing down the machine god’s length. Certainly, this golem’s skeletal structure was more robust, without the slimmer portions Oliver remembered.

“Deus here was the first variant of the concept to reach completion. The Dea I showed off was the second, still mid-construction. Well? Nifty little invention, isn’t it?”

Enrico beamed down at the students. They gulped, staring up at it…and then felt a rumble from underfoot. They quickly looked around and saw a massive four-legged dragon charging through the canyon toward them, easily three hundred feet long, with scales like boulders. Had it not been moving, they could well have mistaken it for part of the terrain.

“…Lindwurm coming,” Gwyn muttered.

Fighting these head-on was a nightmare, so most students passing through here dedicated themselves to avoiding its notice. But…

“Oh, don’t spoil the party. Go on, get!”

Enrico had his machine god, and was not like most people. He hopped into the control seat in the head and stood before the charging dragon.

“GRRRAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!”

Furious at this violation of its territory, the dragon let out an ear-shattering bellow. Its charge was capable of toppling mountains—but the machine god caught it with two hands, not sliding back a single step.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

The machine god grabbed the dragon’s neck with one hand and swung it around like a toy. Oliver watched in awe, unable to step in. This was a sight like no other. Lindwurms were the apex of all magical ecosystems, and this one was helpless before the golem. Their sizes were similar, but their power was not.

“Whoops, not supposed to kill it,” Enrico muttered. “It would disrupt the whole ecosystem here!”

The dragon was already unconscious and foaming at the mouth, so he simply tossed it away. The fifth layer’s overlord slid across the canyon floor and did not get up. In the Deus’s driver’s seat, Enrico turned his eyes from the lindwurm to the wyverns wheeling overhead.

“There are far too many of you. Let’s thin your numbers a tad. Spiritale!”

The golem’s raised hands fired a beam of purple light from the tips. Any wyvern unlucky enough to be caught in the light was instantly incinerated. A few breathed fire back, but Enrico ignored this entirely, thinning the wyvern numbers like he was swatting mosquitoes.

“Hmm, mana packing efficiency at less than ten percent.”

As wyverns fled, Enrico waggled the machine god’s fingers, checking the functions.

“Hardly peak performance, but it is an emergency activation during maintenance. Fuel reserves are inadequate, but nothing to be done about that.”

These checks complete, the golem’s massive bulk turned with surprising ease, facing Oliver and his comrades. It lorded over them, making everyone flinch. The relentless pressure was no longer directed at the lindwurm or the wyverns, but at them.

“Shall we go on, children? How are you going to kill me now? It’s only right that you do so by overcoming my greatest invention!”

He was clearly champing at the bit. The students, meanwhile, didn’t move. All of them had yet to falter in their attacks, but now they were frozen stiff. They were at a loss. How could they fight this monster? How could they avoid being decimated within the next minute?

Despite everything they’d achieved so far, Oliver’s comrades were back at square one. The multi-legged golem on ball rollers, the nano golems, the exoskeleton—they’d racked their brains and overcome them all, only to find this nightmare looming above them. Deus Ex Machina, the most horrifying thing imaginable.

“Ha-ha.”

But despite all that, Oliver alone…was laughing.

“Right? You dare talk about what’s right?”

The laugh tore out of him like he couldn’t endure it otherwise. His nearby comrades stared wide-eyed with alarm.

“Please, Forghieri. Don’t go acting like you have principles. An animal like you who’s betrayed and turned on his own student has long since lost that privilege.”

He glared up at the machine god. All seemed lost, yet the fight had not yet left him—he was here to kill this man.

“You will die like a dog. Like an insect. Like the trash you are. A fate more miserable than those of the countless lives you’ve trifled with. That is the right way for you to die.”

He took a step forward, athame brandished at his side. Then he called over his shoulder to Gwyn and Shannon.

“Do it.”

“…!”

Shannon shook her head. A refusal far more adamant than she was ordinarily capable of. Fully aware of why she was so reluctant, Oliver commanded her again, his voice like steel.

“That was an order from your lord. Release the seal, Shannon Sherwood!”

He spoke to her not as his sister but as his vassal. She looked ready to burst into tears, but Gwyn put his hand on her shoulder.

“……Shannon.”

His voice said it all. This was the only option left.

“………”

And it forced her to act, knowing this would put her cousin through hellish suffering.

“…Duaedetroni.”

Her mind made up, Shannon raised her white wand, chanting. As he heard the words, Oliver felt a familiar presence join him. A great and powerful soul, using him as a temporary solace.

“Misce, misce.”

“……Ah……”

It overlapped with Oliver’s soul, merging with it. Pouring into him like molten gold.

“ kk ”

Dizzying heat, pain racking his body. Every ounce of his flesh rejecting the invasion, resisting, trying to force it out. This response was a defense mechanism, one Oliver had to override with inflexible willpower. That intractable contradiction caused yet more pain—yet that, too, was but a taste of what lay in store.

“ AH ah ”

In accordance with the golden flow, the change advanced from his soul to his etheric body, from there unto his flesh. The flow of mana expanded and accelerated, rebuilding his very bones, causing an eruption of hurt a hundred times that of growing pains. An orchestra of maddening torment that the boy squashed with incessant loathing for the enemy at hand.

“ A A ”

He embraced the pain, like a cup of hemlock willingly downed. From the depths of his melting reason rose an ironic relief. This was an apt punishment for defiling his mother’s soul.

The blood vessels in his eyes were ripping open. Crimson tears flowed from both eyes, flowing down over his mask and onto his cheeks below.

“ GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

With a howl, he hurtled himself into the air. The broom on his back was quick to react and took flight, catching his feet atop its back.

Aboard the sprinting broom, Oliver assumed a stance, turned right, hand low. A heretical form found in none of the three core sword art styles—but one he’d shown a hint of before, when dueling Nanao.

Chloe style, unleashed.

Arts once lost, now reborn. By swallowing the soul of a genius, the boy became a comet, trailing tears of blood in his wake as he shot toward the machine god.

“Gladio!”

He swung his athame in passing. The impact of the severing spell struck the machine god’s shoulder, and shards of torn-off adamant fell through the air.

“You broke through the armor with a singlecant?!” Enrico gasped.

Behind the giant, Oliver wheeled around, coming back in. The machine god swung its arms to swat him out of the sky, but he evaded this with daredevil maneuvers and dove beneath the arm, raking the torso’s side with a doublecant severing spell. A metallic screech assaulted everyone’s ears, and once again, a deep gash appeared in the armor.

 


 

 

 

“…An adamant-piercing Gladio.”

The mad old man’s voice had dropped deep and low.

The machine god’s palms went out, aimed at Oliver’s trajectory. The same purple light that had decimated the wyverns now became a barrage of shots peppering the vicinity. The blasts were far too dense to evade, no matter how good you were with a broom.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

But faced with that unavoidable bombardment, Oliver leaped off his broom. Freed from his weight, the broom easily slipped safely through the gaps, and Oliver stepped on the air itself, dashing in three dimensions through the onslaught. A few steps later, the broom wheeled back, and his feet landed on it once more.

“…Acrobatic broom tricks mixed with Sky Walking…”

All these moves defied magical combat de rigueur, making the word masterful seem like an understatement. But the old man had seen them all before.

“Who taught you to fight like that?” Enrico demanded.

In lieu of an answer, Oliver fired a severing spell at the machine god’s head. It used its arms as shields, weathering the strike as Enrico remained fixated on deciphering the situation.

“…No. Nobody did. Even if she personally trained you, they’re not moves you can imitate. Moreover—how are those absurd maneuvers not tearing your body apart?!”

Flying a broom at impossible speeds, pausing only to dash across the air well beyond the limits of what Sky Walking could do. These maneuvers were beyond what even mages should be capable of. Forcibly turning that hard would crush your organs. Enrico had seen someone prove him wrong on that before.

“…Mm—”

But there was one clear difference here. The red stream of blood left in the boy’s wake was no longer mere tears. Blood was pouring from every inch of his body, his long-since-sodden robe unable to soak up any more. Enrico tweaked his observations accordingly.

“…They are tearing you apart. Yet, you are healing in tandem. Maintaining a healing spell to match the toll on your physique? Who is…? Where? How?”

Successive impossibilities should long since have destroyed him, yet someone’s healing was keeping that at bay. Enrico could tell that much, but he had no clue who was capable of that or how they were pulling it off. It was clearly beyond the boy himself, but the distance was too great for his comrades to be offering remote support. Healing was a delicate art to begin with, generally requiring the finesse afforded only within the range of spatial magic. It couldn’t be done to someone performing mid-aerial maneuvers.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

But reality refuted that theory. Damaged but not downed, the boy’s aerial display continued unabated. His crimson-stained eyes gleamed with hellish hostility, and Enrico felt a chill he had not felt in years—and this sensation, too, gave him pleasure.

“…What a thrill! So many mysteries…!”

His bleeding eyes left his vision stained red. Bottomless pain and loathing strobed in and out of his mind.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Heat like molten lava was running through his veins. Oliver fought like the embodiment of hell on earth.

The word pain had long since ceased to have meaning. His body shattered, his soul splintering; there was no part of him that didn’t hurt, no moment of relief. All five senses merged into the agony, and external information was carried to him on waves of torment. And that’s what made this so essential. Just as Deus Ex Machina was fueled by a curse, he was running on pain.

Spell light fired from the machine god’s fingers. A single hit would evaporate his flesh, forcing him to dance across the sky heedless of inertia. The enormous strain ripped the flesh from his extremities, but every wound was healed within moments. It was like a punishment. He was a damned soul not even allowed the privilege of an end.

As it should be, the boy thought. As it has to be. He laughed. There were two indelible sinners here. And he had never dared dream that one might be spared from torment.

Oliver was going solo against Deus Ex Machina, fighting like nothing in this world. Feeble attempts at support seemed liable to undermine that, and his comrades below were unsure what to do.

“Where do we aim?!”

“The joins! Armor’s too thick elsewhere!”

“Anyone think they can punch through adamant?!”

“At point-blank range, sure! Someone back me!”

“Wait, no reckless charges! If we can’t get to Enrico himself—”

Even battle-hardened upperclassmen were left in disarray. Frustrated by their lack of options, some comrades broke away from the pack, hopping on their brooms, determined not to let their young lord fight alone.

But their actions didn’t go unnoticed. They were barely in the air before a purple light swept toward them from the machine god’s palms.

“Ah—”

“Crap—!”

Realizing their blunder, their faces blanched. When taking flight, you had to hit a set speed before evasion was possible. And that left them fatally exposed, helpless to avoid bathing in that merciless purple light.

“Extruditor!”

Oliver slipped in a spell and a hand, saving his two comrades from death by a hairbreadth.

“Huh…?”

“L-Lord…?”

He’d knocked one away with a spell and dragged the other by their collar. All of them just managed to get outside the kill zone in time. Leaving them stunned, the boy was back on his broom, rocketing skyward.

“ GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

He roared for Enrico’s undivided attention. Comrades safe behind him, he took on the terrifying machine god all on his own. They were no longer protecting that boy; he was protecting them.

“Dammit, Gwyn!” Karlie roared. “What the hell was that?! What’s he thinking, stepping in to save anyone?! One false move, and we’d have lost our king!”

“…I doubt Noll is capable of thinking,” Gwyn said, his bow wand never pausing. The tones he put out were a mess, betraying the emotional toll that putting his cousin in harm’s way took on him. But he couldn’t afford to stop. The enchanted healing music was the only thing easing Oliver’s suffering.

“He’s fused with the soul of Chloe Halford, the mage of the millennium. It was sheer luck that his body didn’t explode on the first attempt, and it’s honestly a miracle that he’s still fighting. He’s got no room left for logic.”

Harboring his mother’s soul—to Oliver, this was like putting a lion’s heart inside a mouse. It could not fit; it could only tear him apart. Even if it was somehow forced inside, a single beat would cause a rush of blood so powerful his flesh would explode.

“Even a momentary fusion is risky. And right now, he’s maintaining it, even as he fights. That’s not a sane act. Regardless of the foundation he’s built from repeated prior fusions…”

Gwyn knew what a titanic feat this was better than anyone but the boy himself. As a mage of the Sherwood clan—their eldest son—this was a hand fate should have dealt to him first.

“I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t handle the pain for even a single second.”

And he would never forget the sin of forcing his burden onto his cousin.

“Sanavulnera… Sanavulnera… Sanavulnera…!”

In Gwyn’s shadow, Shannon was casting healing magic through her tears. This was keeping her cousin’s body intact, yet also torturing him with ceaseless pain. Rapid healing went hand-in-hand with recovery pain. The wounds themselves hurt, and so did the repairs to them—Oliver was fighting while buffeted by both at once. And the pain Gwyn mentioned, the one brought by Chloe’s soul—that was yet a third source of suffering.

Karlie looked at the siblings, then at Oliver above, catching up on just how bad all this was.

“He’s not capable of thought…?” she asked. “Hang on—then why would he protect us? He’s basically in a trance! He shouldn’t be capable of protecting his pawns…”

Unable to find a reason why he’d have stepped in, Karlie was at a loss. But in Gwyn’s mind, the answer was obvious. Even as he played his instrument, he put it into words.

“It’s the other way around. Without the constraints of his rational mind, Noll is incapable of abandoning anyone. Even with his mother’s killer before him, even with his body racked by pain.”

Gwyn bit his lip, and a drop of blood ran down his chin. It wasn’t nearly painful enough, but without it he could not stay sane. He couldn’t let his cousin suffer alone.

“…Deep down, he’s just nice. Incorrigibly kindhearted…!”

His voice was an anguished cry. And the emotion in it was what allowed Karlie and her brethren to fully understand who their lord really was, what kind of person she’d allowed to lead her into war.

“…Holy…shit…!” Karlie swore, emotions boiling up inside: shame, inadequacy, and something beyond both she did not have a word for. And not just her; the other comrades were shaking as mana raged within them. They resisted the urge to leap right into the fray, holding themselves in check, eyes on the battle above.

“…How long does it last?” Karlie asked.

“We’ve never tried longer than two minutes,” Gwyn growled.

That clinched it for everyone. Their lord was carving his own life to ribbons, buying them time—time to come up with a plan worth what he was putting himself through.

Up in the machine god’s driver’s seat, Enrico had already ceased to see these students as a threat, his enthusiasm entirely directed to Oliver alone. He found his opponent’s inexplicable strength and the mechanism behind it deeply fascinating.

“…I think I’m starting to piece it together. Still a lot of guesswork, though.”

He’d made enough observations to voice a hypothesis.

“Her soul lies within you, yes?” he said, certain that much was true. “The soul of Chloe Two-Blade Halford herself.”

Oliver was past responding. His very bones creaked from the speed of his broom. He ducked beneath the golem’s mighty swing, doggedly aiming for Enrico’s perch before chiseling away at the armor with yet another severing spell.

The mad old man paid him no heed. He just kept musing away.

“A soul merge! I was aware of the theory but have never seen it in practice before. I heard only two demi species in history have ever pulled it off! To blend another’s soul with your own, making their nature and experience yours… What a feat! We have scarcely any method of directly observing the soul, leaving soulology a sadly nascent field, so I have no way of proving this, but…”

Successes in an unobservable domain had results in an observable one. That, too, was commonplace where mages operated. And it allowed Enrico to narrow down what must be happening within his opponent.

“But once I eliminate the alternatives, a soul merge is the one remaining option. Chloe’s sword arts were hers and hers alone. Even Garland could only learn a fraction of the whole and proved unable to copy her fighting style in any measurable way.”

A particularly strong slash struck the golem’s hand, slicing off a finger. Enrico remained unperturbed. Indeed, he seemed impressed by how smooth the cut was. A spell indifferent to the hardness of adamant—was it severing the bonds between matter at a micro level, or was it just yet another testament to Chloe Halford’s superiority?

“A once-in-a-generation ability, one that cannot be passed on through blood or education—we mages call that a soul skill. And Chloe had more soul skills than any other. There is but one way to obtain them—if you have access to that very soul. As you and the headmistress do.”

When the seven of them had taken Chloe Halford down, the headmistress had absorbed her soul. That was her role—that, and the surprise betrayal.

But the sight before him contradicted what he knew—and led him to a different conclusion.

“On the night in question, the headmistress didn’t manage to steal all of Chloe’s soul, I see. A portion of it escaped her clutches and made its way to you. That’s the only explanation.”

Enrico was sure of that. He didn’t understand how that worked, but a portion of Chloe Halford’s soul must have split away and was here inside his foe, allowing this boy to use her arts against Enrico.

And having reached that conclusion, the instructor drew a deep breath.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

His laugh tore up from the diaphragm as if trying to drown out his opponent’s murderous roar.

“Compare us to the demis, and you shall see! Humans—are creatures of individuality!”

The mad old man was yelling now, to a foe who seemed unlikely to be capable of conversation. Yet, he raised his voice to make his words reach home—nay, hit home.

“That is especially true for mages! The art of the soul merge is fundamentally not for us! The stress of two souls melding must be beyond imagining! The headmistress is managing to dominate the soul she stole, but even a witch like her is left with chronic headaches!”

Oliver didn’t need to be told this. He knew how impossible this feat was. Even as they spoke, he shed blood, stifled his agony, and groaned under the strain. These sensations were telling him that same thing. But he didn’t listen. If he paid them the slightest heed, the spell would break. And he knew that would leave him unable to lift a single finger.

“Meanwhile, what you’re doing is far more demanding! The vessel of your flesh cannot match the soul skill! Each move you make destroys you, necessitating constant healing!”

Accurate. Oliver’s body was only in one piece because his cousin’s healing was faster than his physical collapse. Without her support he would have been long since rent asunder. He’d lost count of how many times his tendons had snapped in this fight alone.

“Humans can receive only a finite amount of healing in one lifetime. I’m sure you know that! How much of your total lifespan are you sacrificing for each minute you fight like this?!”

The old man’s words called forth a memory. At the back of Oliver’s mind was a step on the road to what he now was.

“Feel that? You’re starting to hit that wall.”

On all fours in a cold cellar, Oliver listened to the even colder sound of his father’s voice. For fifteen hours straight, they’d been training, leaving every inch of his body in pain. Oliver had lost track of how many bones he’d broken or how many times he’d passed out. Liberal use of medical treatment and potions forced his recovery, but that was proving to be increasingly fruitless to get him moving again.

“…Kah… Hah…”

“That’s the limit of your talent. Obtaining any techniques above your level will take ages, or prove entirely impossible. Only the truly gifted can overcome that wall. And I’m afraid you have no such talent.”

Even with his son on the brink of death, his father’s tone stayed flat. No trace of any emotion. The purpose of this attempt was to break his son’s body and mind; they had no use for feelings here.

“Physical growth and experience can supplement it to a degree, but that won’t be nearly enough. Each of your targets are real talents,” he told Oliver. “That’s where Chloe Halford’s soul comes in. Inputting the experience of a genius—experience you could never hope to reach—will allow you to break through this wall and nothing more. That is, of course…only if you can withstand the soul merge.”

Too tired and hurting to speak, Oliver still somehow managed to grasp his father’s words. Thought alone must never be abandoned. The cessation of thought meant the loss of all meaning. If meaning was lost, then the pain to come would be unendurable.

“Do you know why we hurt you to your limits before we attempt a fusion? Because we require your soul to feel the need. To convince it that you flesh will not survive otherwise,” his father explained. “Human souls are fundamentally not capable of accepting outside input. The shells of our selves are very hard and can only be changed via the filter of our own experiences. That remains true even with the soul-sucking progenitor power. But if we meet a number of conditions, that can change. And one of those involves weakening the soul’s resistance to the merger.”

The voice droned on, no variation to it. All the training and pain so far had merely been preparations for the real goal. Oliver felt a cold wave of fear—fear he’d thought long since paralyzed. He couldn’t begin to fathom it. Suffering greater than this? How was that even possible?

“The pain will be unimaginable. There is no guarantee you’ll endure it. When you are ready, say the word.”

He offered no smidgen of reassurance, merely a promise of a future filled with agony. And his father was well aware how merciless it was to demand a decision from him here.

“…Will…?”

Oliver feebly tried to string the words together. He hadn’t spoken in hours, and now that he did, it was not to voice his own suffering but to ask an urgent question.

“…Will it hurt…Mom…?”

“……!”

All this time, his father had kept that mask of indifference over his heart, but these words caused its facade to crack. His nails dug into his quivering cheeks, stilling them. Between those fingers, Oliver caught the briefest glimpse of the man his father once was. Of the time when Oliver had been happy.

“…A being that exists only as a soul does not have a conscious mind like the living. Only when the body, ether, and soul are assembled does the mind truly function. Chloe is not capable of feeling the pain you do.”

This was the first and only respite Oliver had been granted since this training began. A small hint of relief amid the pain he’d been through and had yet to experience, none of which would reach his mother.

“Put that unneeded concern out of your mind. Focus, else your personality will be lost on the first attempt.”

The man aimed his white wand at the room’s sole door, calling, “Come in, Shannon.” Opened with a spell, the girl plastered to the door this whole time came tumbling into the cellar: Shannon Sherwood, her eyes red with tears.

“Noll!”

Seeing her cousin barely breathing, Shannon scrambled over to him, wrapping her arms tight around his frame. The corners of his lips twitched. He could barely feel anything but pain, but her warmth pushed through. He could feel her love for him.

“Do it. You’re from the main line; you know far better than I do that this is the duty our lineage demands.”

And his father was already snatching away that small comfort. Oliver knew that was for his benefit. If he was allowed a rest here, if the thread of tension snapped, then he could never endure the pain to come.

“…Do it…Sister…”

And so he sought it himself. So that his gentle sister—who felt the pain of others so deeply—would blame herself less. So that all this pain would be his and his alone.

And Shannon got that, too. She hesitated for a long, long moment, then wiped her tears and drew her wand. There was never a choice. This was a burden carried by blood, and from the moment of her birth, she was at the heart of this.

“…Duaedetroni… Misce, misce…”

Her voice shook as she chanted, and something massive flowed into Oliver. Like the fate of a ceramic dish into which lava has been poured. The first crack in his soul.

“ !!!!!!!”

The first instant evaporated all the pain he’d felt so far. It was so much worse. Like he was losing the essence of himself, a sensation that could not be contained within concepts like pain or suffering. His body’s rejection was extreme, surpassing the rotary limits of his joints, and his father and Shannon were desperately holding him down, lest he destroy himself by his own hand.

“Noll… Noll…!”

Shannon had already finished the soul merge on her end. Only a portion of Chloe’s soul had poured into Oliver, a mere drop mingled with him. But that was already a fatal dosage.

“You see now? This is the torment brought by an invasive soul.”

What seemed eternal was but a few minutes. The self-destructive rejection began to subside. The hyperventilation died down, but it took a few more minutes before the light of reason returned to Oliver’s eyes. Seeing that his son had not died, his father spoke again.

“A minuscule degree of her experience has flowed into you. Experience by a master you could never hope to match through mere training. But that is not yet your experience.”

He pulled a small bottle from his pocket and poured the contents into Oliver’s mouth. Oliver swallowed, and the liquid slid down his throat. The resulting heat spread to all corners of his body like a fever. An elixir so pure it was said it could wake someone from death’s door.

“Only by making use of that experience will your soul accept it. And this must take place immediately after the soul merge. Like hammering iron while it’s hot.”

His father stood up, moving to the center of the room.

“Draw your blade. We’ve got more training to do.”

His athame was at the ready. His son had endured a lifetime of pain to body and soul, and he planned to fight him more.

The first to move was not Oliver but Shannon. She pointed her white wand at the man, hiding her cousin behind her. A girl who never picked a fight herself—this might well be the first time she ever had.

“…Let Noll…rest…!”

“That will make this all for nothing.”

And he cut her courage down with a single line. Seeing this, Oliver forced his leaden body to move. It took several tries, but at last he was on his feet.

“…Thank you…,” he whispered.

Oliver took her hand, pulling her aside, facing his father in her stead. Seeing his son’s quivering arms raise his athame, the man nodded.

“Good. That’s how it should be. Unless you swallow the pain, we will get nowhere,” he told his son. “And we’ll repeat this process more times than you can count.”

Oliver knew that. He’d never once desired to reject it.

This had never been forced upon him. This suffering was not at his father’s command. By his own free will, he had inherited his mother’s intent, sworn revenge, and sought the power that lay within her soul.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Burning his life away on a broom, striking the machine god with an athame wet with his own blood. Fending off the attack, the mad old man fought back with words.

“It’s like—your soul is a chimera. To accept the outstanding soul of one Chloe Halford, you were forced to warp the very core of your being!”

“Gladioooooooooo!”

His severing spell gouged the armor on the arm as if trying to drown out a voice he detested. Oliver swore he’d cut it off next time, his broom turning in the air and charging back in.

“That is not hard work—it’s self-abuse! To let her soul in, to recreate her skills postmortem in an average body—you must have torn apart your body, ether, and soul, time and time again!”

In the corner of his mind, Oliver admitted it. He had done just that. To gain the power needed to take down the seven, to borrow a fraction of his mother’s soul, his innate mediocrity had left him no other choice. Even if that meant a fatal distortion to who he had once been.

“The effort to better yourself is unquestionably admirable! But what you have accumulated is torture and abuse, the denial of self! And that is nothing but pain and futility,” said Enrico. “Alterations to the soul have an irreversible effect on the personality! The price of learning to fight like her has cost you more than your lifespan alone! You must have sacrificed something far more essential!”

The mad old man was relentless. Forcing him to look at what he’d cast aside, what he’d thrown into the furnace to obtain this strength. Oliver’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth cracked.

“I’m sure you know what! There must be something you could once do but no longer can, no matter how you try! A gaping hole left behind!”

And Enrico’s words forced him to look inward. To remember how he’d been before he did this to himself. He knew it was meaningless but did not fight it. It was a scream from the soul forced through irrevocable alterations, a loss he could not bring himself to let go of.

I give! Mercy, please! My sides are killing me!

Oh, my son. Noll! You are so good at making people laugh!

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Tears of blood flowed without end. A frigid wind whistled through the hole in his heart. Even his loathing felt like salvation. Using that to fuel his sword arm was the only warmth he had left.

He had no lack of fuel. Oliver had hatred and loathing without end. This man had put an end to his mother’s laughter, triggering a change that continued until nothing of him was left.

“And the saddest part of all?” Enrico said. “You’ve done all that, yet come nowhere close to replacing her.”

His tone had suddenly grown still, and that dug far deeper than any attempt to rile Oliver up.

“You know that better than anyone. You’re nothing alike. You’ve forced yourself and forced yourself and copied but a fraction of her arts—but the real one was never…this.”

Enrico knew the genuine article, and it was all too obvious. The blinding light of Chloe Halford’s blades, that unparalleled beauty—the sight would never leave him.

And in light of those memories, this foe was clearly but a pale imitation. However close the forms matched, even if they were copies from the original’s soul—the arts this boy delivered were not her sword. Merely a shadow with her shape, cast by the light of Chloe Halford.

“Up against Gnostics, up against tír gods, even up against me on her last night—she was always herself. Laughing, crying, raging, or sympathizing as her emotions drove her, swinging her blades as an expression of that. Ruled by no logic, consumed by no spell, she lived on her terms, as Chloe Halford and no one else. Her sword was always free.”

True, Oliver admitted. No other master had been able to match his mother’s style because it derived so wholly from her own personality. Things every other mage cast into the mud early on she had miraculously kept with her. That’s why she captivated everyone. Inspired them to be like her, lit a fire under them. Like the one under him now.

“That is what your blade lacks most. What you cannot obtain no matter how hard you try. Precisely because you denied yourself time and time again to let Chloe’s soul in. You would not allow yourself to be yourself. The worst of all the restrictions humans place upon themselves! The furthest thing imaginable from Chloe’s way of life!”

Each of Enrico’s words was like a knife piercing through him. Shut up already, Oliver’s soul screamed. I know all this. I don’t need you telling me. I know better than anyone!

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

He flipped in midair and came back in swinging. But as he turned, his body was yanked downward, hard.

“ ?!”

“…Mm?”

Caught off guard, Oliver plummeted—then two arms reached out and caught him, like he’d fallen during broomsports.

“Don’t be mean to our king, Instructor Enrico.”

Karlie’s face was right by his, her arms around him. He struggled, trying to get back into the fight.

“GA A !”

“Okay, take a breath. There, there.”

Even as she soothed her lord, Karlie shifted to a grapple hold, keeping him still. Seen up this close, he was a fright. Blood oozing from torn veins left every inch of him crimson. Impossible movements had broken every bone in his body, and the rapid healing had connected them all wrong. Less than two minutes of combat had left his body seconds from total annihilation.

“…Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! Pardon me. I may have gotten a tad carried away!”

Enrico did sound mildly repentant. Confronted with the lingering scent of his former student, Chloe Halford, he had not exactly been his usual self. Realizing that, he switched back to his teaching voice, addressing the students below.

“Just to be clear, I will accept your surrender. Rebellion against Kimberly is among the most dire crimes in this world, but if I speak to the headmistress, there may well be some wiggle room. Perhaps not all of you will die! And I would like to credit your hard work.”

A magnanimous gesture, from a mad old man certain of his superior position. Karlie glanced up at him, then leaned in to her injured lord’s ear.

“What say you, Your Majesty?”

The decision was his. And the question—once again, brought forth memories held within his mother’s soul.

“…I’d take an alien god any day.”

The man’s voice oozed contempt. Chunks of his body had turned to translucent crystal, his arms turned to flintlike blades—but he was no longer capable of swinging them. Everything below the waist had been mercilessly shattered.

The bodies of the man’s comrades lay all around in pieces. The boon provided by the tír god crushed, the man’s own life flickering like a candle before Chloe.

“…Magic, my ass. To hell with mages. All you people do is toy with lives, chasing after madness.”

Chloe spoke not a word. Given the events leading up to this, she was disinclined to argue with his spite.

The Lantshire mages had blown an experiment on curses, tainting the surrounding land. Breaking the curse quickly had proved impossible and left thousands trapped. The area was under strict quarantine, and faced with a slow and inevitable death, they had turned to their last resort, praying to a tír god, becoming Gnostics—and the Gnostic Hunters had been ordered to dispose of them. The man before her was the lone survivor.

“…Go on, burn me. That won’t end a damn thing. Not in the least!”

His last words were a prophecy—one Chloe would later discover had been all too true.

“Please, let me go…”

For every vicious condemnation she heard, there was a plea. And those beat Chloe down more than any monster’s roar.

A trembling woman sat in a basement nook, cradling a nursing baby in arms as frail as withered branches. That alone told Chloe everything she needed to know. Impoverished folk wandering until a group of Gnostics took them in—all too typical.

For better or worse, magical society had made pursuit of sorcery its sole priority. Other concerns—like welfare programs—were seen as comparatively trivial. The result was that the lower income ordinaries were abandoned to their fates, and Gnostic followers had learned to expand by absorbing these outcasts.

“…Please…even just the baby…!”

The woman lurched forward, holding up the child—and the third arm hidden behind her shot out, swiping with jagged claws.

“……!”

Gnostic Hunters had a hard rule to never hear out a plea—to avoid surprises like this. Chloe’s team stepped back, dodging the wild swings. This opened a gap wide enough for the woman to bolt through, headed for the stairs. Her last hope.

“Ignis.”

But it was not to be. One of Chloe’s companions fired a spell at the woman’s back. Mother and child were enveloped in flames and collapsed on the stairs. The baby’s wails echoed through the basement. The mother staggered, clutching her child, glaring at the mages through the fire. Clear loathing in her eyes.

“You’ll pay for this…! All of you! This will come back to haunt you!”

Her final shriek was seared into Chloe’s brain. A sight she could not escape and would never forget.

“…Haven’t you taken enough…?”

The goblin elder lay dying before the burning embers of his town. Treatment of demis without civil rights was even harsher, and mere suspicion of Gnostic activity often led to villages being burned to the ground without any attempt to confirm the truth. Chloe despised the practice; it made no difference what she felt nor whether these demis really were Gnostics. More often than not, by the time she reached the scene, the fight was already in progress.

“…Where will this lead…? All the lives you burn… A city built on corpses…”

Chloe had no answer. She already knew. If a Gnostic Hunter survived a battle, the next fight was the only thing waiting for them.

“…If you torch…even your own heart…what is left…?”

With those words, the goblin drew their last breath, leaving her standing with fists clenched. To end this fight for good required a fundamental change.

“It took me a whole lot of punch-ups, but I finally figured it out.”

This one was different. This wasn’t from his mother’s soul—it was Oliver’s own memory.

This was how he remembered her. Her tone stayed bright no matter the subject, but on this one occasion, she’d grown grim. Oliver had listened carefully, sensing that this was really important.

“Even the Gnostics have people they love. Just like I love you and Ed, Noll. They have family and friends they can’t bear to lose. All they want—when you get down to it—is a world where no one gets in their way.”

Coming from the most lauded Gnostic Hunter of her day, this was unthinkable. Yet, Oliver also thought it was very much her. Coming to understand her foes by exchanging blows with them—that was how Chloe Halford had always communicated.

“Dragging in alien gods is just a means to that end. It’s never the goal. And we’ve gotten that wrong this whole time.”

This was her regret and a lesson for him. And he took it as such. His mind was young, not fully formed, yet it tried to grasp her meaning. Chloe saw that and smiled, then gave her young son a big hug, whispering in his ear.

“Noll, I’m gonna teach you a spell that can make the whole world better.”

She didn’t mean it to be, but these words became the lynchpin of his life.

“It’s easy. We all just have to get a little bit nicer. That’ll make the world get better, too. That alone will end the Gnostic wars.”

He’d been so young, the memories were fuzzy. But he had believed in that magic.

Oliver pushed Karlie’s arms away, but that seemed to snap the strings holding him. He landed on his knees.

Palms on the ground, a torrent of vomit. His comrades gasped. The bloody vomit was filled with chunks of a necrotic, ejected lung, and the pool below him was the size of a throw rug.

“Noll!” Shannon shrieked. The constant healing only added to his pain, but if she stopped—he’d be dead. She had never had any choice but to inflict ceaseless torment upon him.

“…We…”

The last of the blood out, a whisper fell from his lips. So faint that only Karlie heard.

“We can’t…let them put anyone else…through the wringer…”

He sounded delirious. But this was a vow that had never once changed, no matter how much his loathing of their enemies corrupted his heart, no matter how many times he shattered his own soul.

Lives as tinder, Oliver thought. That tinder fuels the flames of this madness. No one—be they demis, ordinaries, even other mages—hesitated to sacrifice their own lives. That was the way of the mage, a slate that could hardly be wiped clean. The mad old man was guilty of it, as was Oliver himself.

In a world run by mages, lives were but a means to an end.

In the pursuit of sorcery, hearts were there to be trampled.

That was what made it so tantalizing. If the world could just be a little bit—even a tiny bit—nicer.

Then maybe his mother wouldn’t have died like that.

Maybe his father wouldn’t have suffered the way he did.

Maybe his sister could have escaped this torment.

Maybe his brother would be free of sin.

Maybe Alvin Godfrey could have been a great student leader without being anyone’s final visitor.

Or Carlos Whitrow could have been by his side, best friends for life.

Or Ophelia Salvadori could have been there laughing with them.

…And maybe, just maybe—Oliver could have stayed a happy boy who made everyone laugh.

A comedian who lived a life full of smiles.

He knew better. Those were all just dreams. What was lost would not return.

But still. Even so.

His heart yearned to use this life for a world where those things were possible.

He put his feelings into words. Just as his mother once wanted—the one thing of hers Oliver had sworn to hold to, steadfast, forevermore:

“…So the nice things…can stay nice…!”

Karlie’s gaze turned grim. Her comrades tightened their grips on their athames.

This was a lord worth dying for.

“…Okay,” she said. “You got it, Your Majesty.”

She patted him gently on the shoulder. He’d bet his life to buy them two minutes. And they’d used it to decide their course of action.

Karlie spoke over her shoulder to one of their comrades, the one she’d been closest to.

“Robert. Go on ahead.”

Blunt and to the point. Robert knew exactly what she meant and made a face.

“Y-you could s-soften it a bit. I am y-your husband.”

“Shut up. This ain’t the time for griping, sourpuss! I bore three kids for you.”

When she still didn’t pull any punches, Robert smiled.

“Yeah. And I can’t thank you enough.”

Perhaps the first time in his life he’d expressed his feelings without stumbling over the words.

With several other comrades, Robert stepped forward. Realizing what that meant, Gwyn started to speak, but—

“The rest is yours,” Karlie said, dusting off her hands. “We’ll crack it open for you.”

Then she looked down at Oliver.

“…Our youngest didn’t turn out so good. Might not make it as a mage.”

The boy listened in silence. Carving this into his memory so that he might not forget. Knowing it was her last words.

“If you can make this a world where a kid like that can be happy, well… I couldn’t ask for more.”

Oliver nodded. This was all he could do, the greatest honor he could grant.

“Sorry I was harsh on you,” Karlie said, grinning. “Bye, Your Majesty.”

And with that, she made eye contact with her husband one last time. Robert’s team of six ran straight toward the machine god.

Enrico frowned down at them from his perch. Their plan seemed foolhardy.

“Mm…? A desperate last charge?”

They were firing spells at the golem’s knee. Scarcely any threat to him at all.

“Such a shame,” the mad old man said. His foes really should have surrendered. “Such a waste of life!”

A giant palm slammed down from above, flattening Robert’s team in a single blow. Oliver gulped—but Karlie just grinned.

“We won’t waste a single one of ya.”

Her eyes were locked on the hand that crushed them—which shook. The vibration moved up the wrist, traveling along the arm. Puzzled, Enrico tried to lift it, then realized…he couldn’t.

 

 

 

 

“A curse crafter’s true value comes in death. Right, Robert?”

As she spoke, the machine god’s entire right arm turned toward its own head. Metal clashed against metal. The impact left the driver’s seat rocking, and Enrico instinctively grasped what had happened.

“Oh d-dear…!”

All six dead mages had been curse crafters, Robert included. They might not have been in Baldia Muwezicamili’s league, but they had quite a lot of curse energy stored. And the law of curse conservation meant everything they were harboring flowed into the machine god.

And Dei Ex Machina ran on cursed energy from the lives that fueled them. The newly added curses mingled with the existing energy, and the focused purpose Robert’s team had died with provided a new direction: kill Enrico.

“Hnggggg!”

The result was that one arm was completely out of his control and pounding away at the driver’s seat. He tried holding it back with the left arm, but before he could, the right arm got its palm wrapped around the head, firing the purple light he’d used against the wyverns.

“Ngahhhhhh!”

The machine god’s head was melting. The heat had already reached the driver’s seat, and Enrico was desperately using the one arm he had to try and stop it. He got a hold of the wrist and pulled the right arm away, but it took all his strength to keep it in check.

“My man does good work.”

And while both hands were occupied, Karlie and two comrades flew in, landing right above the driver’s seat. The head’s armor had partially caved in before getting melted by the purple light. The trio pointed their athames at it and did not hesitate.

“““Magnus Fragor Ultimata Omnisvitae.”””

The limit-breaking quadcant caused their bodies to explode. Even as they died, none of them lost control of the spell, and the impact of it hammered home a single point. The driver seat’s armor was already heavily damaged, and this new spell dug deep.

“Kya—kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! So close! But not enough to break—”

But even as Enrico thought his armor had held—a blood-soaked robe caught the corner of his eye.

“Gladio.”

The armor-cutting spell sliced a triangle in the last of the adamant and pierced straight through, taking Enrico’s left arm. With the other arm, he managed to activate the emergency eject. He and his seat were flung free, and a deceleration spell slowed his landing.

“…Magnificent.”

The slice Teresa had taken from his side, and now the arm Oliver had claimed. Both the mad old man’s wounds were still oozing blood, and behind him, the machine god collapsed with a roar.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Without a second to catch his breath, Oliver’s broom came rocketing in close. All surviving comrades were hot on his heels. Enrico barely managed to dodge their opening salvo, but he was out of golems to protect himself with.

“No way out, hmm?” he said, wincing. “Kya-ha-ha-ha. Why would there be?”

 

 

The moment a Gnostic is detected, they become a prime target to mages everywhere.

In order to have any chance of survival, they must ensure that no mages realize they are Gnostics. They must keep their faith hidden.

But that is easier said than done. Tír gods give their faithful many favors, but the cost of these is invariably a strict oath. To remain a believer, one has to follow ordained rules. The nature of these varies by the god in question, but one thing they all have in common—is how hard they are to hide.

They might grow strange plants in their gardens.

They might have unexplained eating restrictions.

They might meet regularly in the dead of the night.

If he had been watching carefully all along, he might well have spotted the signs.

“…Mm…?”

The first sign the boy saw was black smoke rising ahead of his broom.

At first, he assumed some farmers were doing a controlled burn. But as he drew closer to town, that was ruled out. There was too much smoke. That was not controlled.

Was a building on fire? Concerned, the boy flew faster. Fall had passed, and the first snow had recently fallen. The faster he went, the more the frozen air stung his cheeks. White breath trailed in his wake.

Ordinaries often struggled with fire, so he was worried. It was hard to put fires out without magic, and breathing even a little smoke could kill them. He was scared for Noemi. If there really was a fire, and she got caught in it, he had to save her.

If only it had been just a fire.

When he reached the skies above the town, he found a good 80 percent of it aflame.

“…Huh…?”

Unable to believe his eyes, he spent several seconds just gaping.

There were flames leaping skyward from every corner of the town. The red glow mingled with belching black smoke obscuring everything, but from beneath it, he could hear yelling and screaming. Occasionally he saw figures moving. The closer he got, the stronger the flames. Half the buildings had already fallen.

This could not happen in any accidental fire. It was easy for fire to spread in the dry winter weather, and towns like this always had steps taken to prevent that. Whether this town had done a good job of that was another question, but the roads were wide enough that there was little risk of flames crossing them, and once the fire started, the villagers would not stand idly by. They’d pour water on it, and if that was too late, knock the house down—and prevent it ever getting this bad.

In that moment, the boy was unable to imagine any reason why that wouldn’t have happened. He learned the reasons later—that more than half the residents were Gnostics, and that a conflict had broken out within the faith regarding practices that could not be made public. A group of villagers advocating for abandoning their faith had taken violent steps, moving from one godtree to the next, setting them on fire. This had split the town against itself, leading to all-out war. And the result—was literally divine retribution.

“Ah wahhhhhhh!”

Snapping out of his stupor, he lowered the pitch of his broom, dropping rapidly. The heat buffeted him, but he was in no shape to care. He held his breath through the smoke, flying directly to the girl’s house.

“Noemi! Where are you? Are you in there? Yell if you can hear me!”

It was on fire but not yet leveled. He did a circuit of the three-story building, calling her name, eyes and ears peeled for any sign of her. Finally he caught a faint voice.

“Here?”

Following that lead, he slammed through a third-story window, shutters and all. He let go of the broom before he hit the far wall, rolling across the floor. He banged into a bunch of furniture and knickknacks, but pain didn’t matter now. On his feet, he looked around, then heard noises and ran next door. And found who he was looking for. Noemi, her back against the wall, surprised to see him here.

“Noemi, you okay? Can I—?”

“Stay back, Enrico! Run!”

Only now did he hear the word she’d been screaming. The urgency in her voice gave him pause, and a heavy blow caught the air in front of him. He jumped backward and only then saw his attacker. A strange, twisted mass of plant, impossible to tell where root ended and vine began. Standing on two footlike things, like a twisted copy of a man.

“Augh! Wh-what is that?! A monster?! Where’d it come from?”

The threat, at least, was clear. He pointed his white wand at it.

“Don’t come any closer! I will shoot!”

He tried to sound intimidating, but the tip of his wand would not stay still. But when a club made of vines swung up at him, he couldn’t stay hesitant.

“Dammit! Flamma!”

He dived away from the blow, casting a spell. Even he was surprised by how strong it was, and the man-sized thing was enveloped in flame. It let out no scream nor showed any signs of pain as it burned. In time, it toppled forward, no longer moving. When he was sure it was done for, he wiped the sweat from his brow and turned back to his friend.

“…Let’s get out of here, Noemi. On my broom! Don’t worry, I’m better than—!”

“Dad!”

Her shriek cut him off, and he froze.

“……What?”

Noemi ran right to the charred remains at his feet. She reached for it, despite the lingering embers. But where she touched, it crumbled. She flinched, was silent for a long moment, and then slowly raised her head to the boy.

“…You…burned my father…”

Her face twitched, trapped between a smile and a sob. Like she’d tried to smile away the sad and failed. Tears ran down her cheeks, dripping into the ash and hissing as they evaporated.

He couldn’t breathe. But as he stood there, his brain kept working. What he’d done, what he’d set alight—before his mind reached the answer, he forced the thoughts out of his mind. His instincts telling him he shouldn’t know.

“W-we’ve gotta run,” he said again. There was nothing else he could say.

They stared at each other in silence…and then the girl clutched her chest, keeling over.

“…Gah…… Ah……!”

“Noemi?! What’s wrong? Are you hurt—?”

Scared, he reached for her—and found himself reeling backward.

“………?”

He wasn’t sure what happened, but he felt a heat in his nose. Something warm ran into his mouth, and his tongue tasted of iron. His hand shot up to his face and came away crimson.

“……Run…Enrico……”

He’d been hit. As that realization dawned, Noemi got to her feet—moving funny. Her limbs turned in all directions, like a marionette with a layman’s hands upon her strings.

“……It’s not…me. I’m not…in control,” Noemi rasped.

And he saw what was wrong. Countless rootlike things jutting out of her skin and clothes, swarming around her. There weren’t too many yet—but they were clearly the same thing he’d just burned.

He knew—something was inside her.

“I’ll—”

His vision tunneled. Cold sweat ran down his back. He lost all feeling in his limbs. Barely resisting the urge to scream his lungs out, even as Noemi grew steadily less human, he forced the words from his mouth.

“—I’ll save you. I’ll do something. I’ll—I’ll find a way.”

“……En…rico……”

“I promise I will! I’m a mage. I can fix this with a wave of my wand!”

Shouting to drown out his fears, the boy brandished his white wand. Noemi’s body staggered toward him, and he watched closely, thinking furiously. First, he’d have to stop her from moving.

“Sorry,” he said, pointing his wand at her head. “Lemme put you to sleep. Altum somnum!”

An anesthetic spell to minimize her pain and injuries. She didn’t even try to dodge. It hit home…but she still leaped forward. Surprised, he managed to jump aside in time.

“It didn’t work?! Th-then… Impediendum!”

He switched to a paralysis spell. This time the spell landed right on her chest, and she swayed backward—but stayed upright. She was still coming after him, and he was starting to panic.

“…Why…? Why doesn’t it work? Why…? Why…?!”

The boy ran through every means of stopping a foe he knew. Every means of inducing unconsciousness failed, and he was soon out of peaceful options—he was forced to switch to his athame and use force. He fired lightning and freezing spells at the legs, slowing it down, then moving closer to cut the roots off the surface of her body. He even stuck his blade inside her—avoiding critical areas—and chanted a spell, healing magic designed to strengthen the immune system. Trying everything he could think of, even if it hurt her.

“…Me…”

When none of it worked, and he was left standing there, out of options, Noemi’s voice came as a whisper. His eyes turned to her lips as she echoed the words once more.

“…Burn me, Enrico…”

It felt like an icy hand clenched around his heart.

“……You can’t…say that……”

“……Please…… I can’t hold on……”

Her rasping plea came again. Her voice the only thing she still controlled, but that, too, would not last long.

“……It’s…not just my body. My thoughts… They’re going wrong. I want…to plant something…in you. That urge… It’s growing stronger… Pushing my feelings…to the side…”

The invasion of the sinister roots was pushing into Noemi’s mind. They did not have much time left to speak. She could feel it coming, and her pleas grew even more desperate.

“……Burn me…like you did my father… You can do it… You’re a mage…”

The boy shook his head, rejecting it out of hand. The one thing he wouldn’t do.

“…Please, Enrico. Please…”

As she spoke, the arm trapped by the freezing spell twisted in an unspeakable direction. Her legs did the same, with a series of horrible creaks. The roots embedded deep in her were forcing her body into motion. The boy’s grip on his athame tightened painfully, and Noemi gasped out one last plea.

“I don’t…want to be…anything that…can’t laugh…!”

“ !”

The horror of it fully sank in. Noemi’s mind, her very personality—was about to disappear for good. And he had no way of saving her from that fate.

All he could do was be here for her. Hear her last request.

While she was still human.

“……Thank you……”

He’d struggled with it for a long moment, but when his shaking hand pointed the blade at her—Noemi thanked him.

“…Promise me…one thing?”

“……What?”

He couldn’t look at her. His eyes were on his feet.

Staring at the drops splattering against his toes, Noemi used the last of her strength to turn up the corners of her lips.

“……Lift your head.”

His tearstained face rose—and he saw her smile. Noemi’s smile. The thing he came to town to see, the thing that brought warmth to his heart.

“…Keep laughing, Enrico. Enough…for both of us.”

He nodded. In that moment, the crybaby died.

“Ignis.”

The funeral pyre lit, enveloping her body in an instant. All of it burned. The thing consuming her body, her pain, her smile. The happy times they’d shared.

In less than ten seconds, her body fell apart. But the flames kept burning where she’d been. The heat blasted the boy’s face. He took a step closer, drawn to the heat and light.

“…Ah…”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was so beautiful. The fires of Noemi’s life.

Her fire is as beautiful as her heart, the boy thought. She was always so warm because she had this heat inside her.

And he realized the irony of it.

Something that burned this marvelously had been right in front of him all along.

“……Ha……ha-ha……”

This would make anything move. No matter how big it was, the fires of life would set it in motion.

And he swore when the time came, he wouldn’t hesitate. Never again would he cry and shake his head.

He’d already burned the thing that mattered most.

He could throw any kindling on the fire with a smile. He’d promised to laugh enough for the both of them.

“…Kya-ha-ha… Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…… Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

He felt the flames of that day had never gone out, burning inside of him ever since.

“ Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaa!”

The mad old man’s athame flashed, and three advancing comrades went down, blood spurting from their throats. Spells flew in, aiming for a spare momentary opening, but even down an arm, Enrico was dodging them all. A spell fired mid-dodge finished off yet another foe.

Oliver’s comrades were unsure how to attack. Even with gaping wounds in his side and shoulder, the old man hadn’t slowed—the crisis was clearly forcing him into peak performance.

“You thought you could take me now? Without my golems, down an arm? Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! That was silly. Very silly. I’m Enrico Forghieri! This is easier than licking a lollipop!”

He slammed the words into his foes. The warped frames of his glasses finally gave up their grip and fell to the ground, the eyes behind them gleaming. The fire within was far from extinguished.

“Don’t worry, Noemi! I can handle this, just like you taught me!” he yelled. “Candy makes you smile! Smiles are invincible! I won’t lose to anybody!”

The old man’s madness never wavered. In the face of it, Oliver had to admit—the man was strong. His golems lost, his arm lost, vast quantities of blood and mana lost, all the advantages a builder had were long since gone, and still he remained a powerful foe. More tremendous than his talent or his techniques was his refusal to waver in the face of danger. Even driven this far into a corner, defeat never once crossed his mind.

That was Enrico Forghieri, the mage said to have advanced magical engineering a hundred years in a single generation. Oliver felt a sense of awe that was almost profound. He could practically see a wall around the man, a wall that pierced the heavens.

“ Non.”

And yet.

He was closing in. Almost in range. He’d been kept at bay when the man still had his golem, but now Enrico was fighting his comrades head-on. Oliver hastened to join them. Feinting like he was casting a spell, then leaping off his broom instead, shoving off the ground into a forward lunge the moment he touched down.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha! Here comes the false sword!”

Enrico didn’t miss it. He was ready, in a mid-tier stance. Certain he could face down his foe and finish him off. Confident in the skills the years had given him.

As his lunge began, the tip of Oliver’s athame rose ever so slightly. As his last step began, he reached one-step, one-spell range. The next instant would spell death for one of them.

The old man had made but one mistake.

Borrowed or taken. False or facsimile. Though it may pale compared to the real thing—

—at this distance, certainty was on the boy’s side.

“ !”

Every future lay before him, the outcome his to choose. The torrent of time pushed against him.

Dismissing countless fatal outcomes, he plucked a single strand.

He had walked a bloody path, making sacrifices for which there were no amends.

And at the end of it, at his destination—was a present he could never have reached without each and every one of them.

The fourth spellblade—Angustavia, the abyss-crossing thread.

The riposte of a lifetime shattered every wall and pierced the old man’s heart.

“…Kya…ha.”

The laugh halted. Strength faded from Enrico’s arm, and his athame slipped from his fingers.

It hit the ground with a shrill clink, sounding the quiet end to their long battle.

It was over. The wyverns continued to flee, leaving an eerie hush over the fifth layer’s canyon.

“…You hit the flaws in the design…,” Enrico said, lying on his back at Oliver’s feet. “When I designed Deus Ex Machina…I admit, I backburnered defense against curses. That weapon was only designed for battle against tír gods. I never intended it to fight human mages. If the mana packing efficiency had been higher, perhaps I could have retained control…”

“……”

“…But that’s just an excuse. I knew the risk of using curses as fuel from the get-go. Allowing you to take advantage of it was my oversight, and a credit to Mr. Dufourcq and his team for spotting the weakness and striking it. Such…magnificent students.”

Enrico sang praises to the fallen.

There, Oliver cut in. “Nothing else to say?” he asked, his voice devoid of warmth.

Enrico’s remaining hand scrabbled at his pocket, pulling out a lollipop and offering it up.

“…Would you like some sweet candy? To celebrate your victory?”

Oliver batted the candy aside and pointed his athame at his dying foe.

“Dolor.”

And the torture began. Enrico was racked by incredible pain, the same that once hit this boy’s mother. But even then, all it earned him was another peal of mad laughter.

“Kya—kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“…Stop that. Stop laughing. Don’t you fucking laugh!”

With this explosion of rage, the mask fell from Oliver’s face. For the first time, Enrico recognized him.

“…Mr. Horn. So it was you.”

Oliver tried to cast another pain spell, but Gwyn pinioned his arms.

“That’s enough! I’ll cast for you—!”

 

 

 

 

“Lemme go!”

Oliver tried to throw him off, but Gwyn was begging.

“Please, Noll… You’re at your limit… And so is Shannon…!”

“…?!”

Oliver spun around, looking behind him. Shannon was there, white wand raised, tears streaming down her cheeks. As long as Oliver’s breaking body wielded magic, she was forced to keep healing, to prolong her cousin’s suffering.

And that forced him to stand down.

Looking up at him, Enrico asked, “…Are you related? To Chloe?”

“…My mother,” Oliver croaked, his fists clenched tight.

“Oh,” the old man said, his smile forlorn. “There really is no resemblance. How sad.”

“……!”

Unable to find a retort, Oliver gritted his teeth again. He knew the man wasn’t even trying to wind him up; he was just being honest. Oliver knew better than anyone that it was true.

Still holding Oliver’s athame hand down, Gwyn stepped forward and aimed his own athame at Enrico in his injured cousin’s stead. It took several seconds of silence before Oliver could bring himself to accept this kindness.

“The answer to this question will be your final act,” he began. “Why did you do that to my mother?”

He had always planned to ask this.

“You ask that now?” Enrico said, raising an eyebrow. “Surely, you must know what she was trying to do to the world.”

The answer he’d expected. But he clenched his jaw even harder.

“And you couldn’t handle that? That she was trying to keep the progenitor vow?” Oliver demanded. “Not just saving those you deem people but the other demis and Gnostics, too?”

“No? In fact, I thought that was very her. I couldn’t imagine Chloe doing anything else! Just—we had a drastic difference of opinion. We disagreed beyond all hope of reconciliation. And she was a great woman. She could well have changed the world… And so we killed her.”

Enrico spoke with ease, but the words left Oliver shaking his head.

“…I’d like to make a hundred—no, a thousand concessions!”

“…Mm?”

“When your difference of opinion reached a fever pitch, you struck first, betraying my mother and assassinating her. I can look at that sequence of events and even comprehend certain parts! Accept, absolutely not, but…begrudgingly understand.”

He had looped through this thought so many times before. What twist of fate had led his mother to that end? Gathering every scrap of information he could, trying to find a reason that made sense. Doing so was the only thing that kept the hatred from burning a hole in him. But no matter how fine a microscope he used, no matter how thoroughly he examined his enemies’ positions, one fact still stood before him.

“But if that’s true, then why did you make her suffer? Not satisfied with just killing her, the seven of you inflicted every form of torture on her, stealing her very soul! What possible justification is there for that?!”

Oliver’s voice had become a howl. His mother had not just been slain; she’d been beaten to death. Stabbed through the heart by a trusted friend, and when she could no longer fight back, subjected to every torment imaginable. He knew all of it. The memories and experience he gleaned from merging with Chloe Halford’s soul were by no means complete, but the agony of her final moments was definitely there.

And Enrico peered through the boy’s rage, spying the truth inside, and with the clarity afforded only to those who know they are about to die.

“I see! That’s the core of your grudge. Not the fact of your mother’s death, but the assault on her person.”

“So answer me!” Oliver yelled. “If it weren’t for that, I might not have been driven to this point! I might not be defiling her sword with these despicable acts!”

He remembered again what his mother had told him. “Get angry with the unreasonable. But try not to hate. That’ll turn into a poison that eats you up from the inside. Forgiveness will save your heart most of all.”

“Maybe I could have managed it. Eventually, in time…maybe I could have let this grudge go.”

He could no longer hold back the tears. The more he thought about her torment, the more he hated the sorcerers who’d trampled her dignity—the further his life grew from what she’d wanted for him. His loathing corrupted the sword he gleaned from her soul, and he had long lived with the sin of that.

Yet, he’d made his choice. He’d chosen to follow this path for the sake of the future she might have brought to pass.

“…You really hate yourself,” Enrico said. Once again, he saw it all: love for a mother, hatred for her killers, the ordeals he inflicted on himself, the crippling weight of this burden—and the screeching void that had been left in the boy’s heart. With all the friction and conflicts he shouldered, it was nothing short of miraculous that he was still in one piece.

There was irony in the boy’s strength, the old man thought. He could tell this intense self-hatred was a key reason this boy could withstand the pain of the soul merge. This boy yearned to be punished and therefore accepted both the denial of self and the shattering of his soul.

“I wish I could answer you, but I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m not trying to be dramatic; I simply don’t have what you seek.”

Oliver glared at him like he was trying to kill with looks alone.

Enrico’s tone didn’t even waver.

“Our treatment of Chloe was symbolic. We pulled her star down to earth, desecrated it, and trampled it beneath our feet. Like proof of our shared complicity,” he said. “Even mages can conceive of sin. Especially when casting a great soul into the fire. The feats she might have done, the bright and shining future she might have brought to pass, the possibilities now lost—all of that weighs upon our shoulders.”

“……”

“Achieving results that can make up for that loss. That is the task set before us, as mages. Even if no such thing exists.”

A faint sigh escaped the old man’s lips. Chewing over this answer, Oliver asked, “…The torture was neither a means nor a predilection, but…the shared experience itself was the goal?”

“That was my perception of it, at least. If you ask the others, you may get a very different response. Even I cannot begin to imagine what was going through their minds.”

Enrico shrugged, staring up at the boy.

“But the answer you want is nothing so intangible.”

“……”

“In which case, I am not the one you should be asking. Speak to Esmeralda. It was her idea to torture Chloe and steal her soul. Thus, she alone knows the reason for it.”

But even as he provided a lead, he had to laugh.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Good luck with that, though. Getting a real answer out of her, as she is now…?”

Further talk would teach him nothing more. Oliver put his athame to his foe. As weak as the man’s breathing had grown, his life had entered the final countdown either way.

“Are we done?” Enrico asked. “Then one last piece of advice.”

“You think I’ll just let you talk?”

“Do listen. It’s for your benefit.”

There was a strength to the mad old man’s voice, something in his eyes Oliver could not ignore. And so he stayed his hand.

“I’m sure you are well aware that going up against the witch of Kimberly is akin to turning on the whole of the magical world. Against the very systems that our world runs upon.”

“……”

“Chloe might have been able to pull it off. That, I won’t deny. That is why we feared her. However—can you do the same?”

Oliver said nothing. And to that silence, the old man offered a parable.

“An ordinary pot and molten gold made from half of a priceless urn. That’s what we have here. You swing your hammer and smash the pot, piercing the pieces together to contain the gold. Smash and weld, smash and weld. That’s all your merges with Chloe’s soul are accomplishing.”

“……”

“But no matter how much you hurt yourself, you will never be gold. You’re nothing but a patchwork chimera. The more you chase after Chloe, the more you reach out desperately toward her light…the farther you will get from it and the more you will hate yourself.”

Oliver offered no rebuttals, felt no irritation. Just the empty nothing of being told something you already know.

“Your best choice would be to pursue an entirely different path. Forget everything and move to some remote location, bury yourself in the activism of the civil rights crowd or find somewhere to look after the ordinaries. Any one of those would suit you well.” Enrico then asked:

“Haven’t you done enough? You got Darius and me. That’s very impressive! Chloe would be proud.”

Silence was sufficient to reject this proposal. There had never been a way to turn back. Especially now that he’d thrown so many lives on the pyre.

“…But if you choose otherwise…”

Enrico went on, pouring what little life he had left into this warning.

“…then along this thorny path…at least meet someone. Not a replacement for Chloe, but someone all your—”

He was interrupted by a blood-laced cough. As Oliver stared down at him, it turned into a fit.

“…Kya-ha-ha. Pity. I’m afraid…I can speak no more.”

Realizing this, his hand—almost reflexively—reached for his pocket. He felt around inside.

“…Oh… I’m out of candy…”

Deprived of this comfort, he looked terribly sad.

“…We’ll have to go get some more. What flavor would you like…?”

As the light died from his eyes, he spoke like a little boy again. Lowering his athame, Oliver listened, forgetting all about finishing him off.

“…I like cherry best.” Enrico answered his own question. “Same color as your cheeks…”

There was a bashful smile on his lips, his eyes on a sunrise from the distant past.

And with his last words addressed to someone precious—the old man breathed his last.

Gwyn took a knee, his hand moving about the body. The final confirmations. Then he turned to his cousin and nodded.

“……It’s done, Noll.”

Oliver stood where he was, letting it wash over him. There was no joy in this victory, no shouts of triumph. He could find nothing inside himself at all.

Thirty-two entered combat on the fourth and fifth layers.

Combat goal achieved. Enrico Forghieri slain.

Eleven comrades lost in battle.

With that, the second target of his revenge met his end—just as he’d wished.



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