Nanatsu no Maken ga Shihai suru - Volume 6 - Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Ashbury, Fleetest of Heart

Two years and several months prior, on the labyrinth’s fourth layer—the Library of the Depths.

“……”

Within a tower bursting with books, in a corner reserved for reading, a man sat buried amid a mountain of forbidden tomes. Oblivious to the shadow approaching from behind.

“……Hey, nitwit.”

“……………Mm? Oh, Ashbury.”

Morgan turned and found Ashbury hovering on her broom, looking particularly disgruntled. He waved a hand dismissively but soon realized the deeper implications and put his chin in hand.

“You’re here alone? That’s pretty risky.”

“Because you didn’t come back! The next league starts in two weeks! How long are you gonna hole up down here?”

He knew all that, which was pushing her to the brink. Seeing the library guardians turn toward her voice, Morgan clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Sorry, sorry, has it been that long? My research is at a critical stage. I got lost in the details, planning the experiment.”

That was news to her. Ashbury brushed off his hand, scowling.

“The experiment? You won’t tell me much, but it’s tír related, right?”

Her eyes shot through him, and he folded his arms.

“Given what lies ahead, you have a right to know. Okay, come take a look.”

It depended on the research topic, and there were shared lairs, but for the most part, mages never invited anyone to their bases. And not for lack of personal connections, either. Thus, this was the first time Ashbury had set foot in Morgan’s workshop.

“I’ve been studying Luftmarz. Based on the cycles, that tír should get close four months from now. I’m planning on carrying out my big experiment then.”

Morgan had his hand on a massive glass sphere at the back of the room.

“I intend to open a micro-Gate in this and summon fire through it. I’ll be observing and analyzing the flames to fully understand their nature, with the goal of placing them under my control. That’s the gist of the experiment.”

“…The moment I heard ‘tír’ I had an inkling, but…that’s risky as hell. One false move with the Gate, and it’ll be a disaster. Even if that part works out, do you actually have a legitimate shot at getting tír fire under your control?”

“If I didn’t, it wouldn’t be much of an experiment. And this is all approved by the faculty. I’ve pored over all prior research on the subject and made sure I’ve eliminated any possible errors made in the past. I’m confident enough I can pull this off,” Morgan insisted. “But nothing in this world is certain. That’s why I’m giving you a heads-up. Whatever the results, once the time is here, I’ll be holed up in my workshop for at least three months. You’ll need someone to take over for me, right?”

At that suggestion, Ashbury tore her eyes off the sphere, glaring at the man.

“…Four months from now, you’ll go down to the labyrinth, and three months later, you’ll come back up.”

“At a minimum, yes. Assume it could be one or two months more.”

“Then let’s go with the full five. I won’t wait another day. Keep me waiting beyond that, and there’s no place for you on the Swallows. No matter who argues otherwise, I won’t let you back,” Ashbury told him. “So promise me you’ll emerge unscathed. And that you’ll be my catcher again next year.”

The harshness of her terms concealed a simple wish—his survival. That was her way of offering encouragement. Morgan grinned back at her.

“Always planned on it. Don’t you crash and die while I’m away.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

She swung a fist, but he caught it in his palm. Like he’d known she’d react that way. It was so smooth, they both had to laugh.

She waited. But the promised day came and went without his return.

The league match was about to begin. The broomsports arena stands were packed with students. Among them walked a small boy, his face hidden behind long bangs as he pushed his way through the crowds.

“…Er, coming through… Do you mind…?”

Each time he met a wall of people, a whispery voice emerged. That would be one thing if this worked, but most students were too busy talking to even notice him. He was forced to tug on people’s sleeves and get their attention.

“…Coming through… In a hurry here… If you could just let me pass…”

This mostly earned him baffled looks. Some stubbornly refused to stand aside, but when that happened, he had a last resort—his armband. Flaunting that got him shocked looks and always opened a path, but today, he hadn’t needed it. He threaded his way through the last of the crowd, reaching a table. The broomstick flying instructor was already seated at it and waved him over.

He took a seat, offering a simple greeting. Before him lay the arena’s field and the sky above it. Opening-act riders were executing fancy maneuvers for the crowd’s entertainment, and he could feel how primed this audience was for the main event. The boy slipped a hand into his robe’s pocket, taking out a small box. Inside was something goopy, and he scooped out a bit, rubbed it on both hands, then brushed his hair back from his hairline.

That switched him on. He took a deep breath, used his wand to cast a voice-amplification spell, and yelled, “On your feet, savages! It’s tiiiiime—for the broom fight senior league!”

His voice cracked across the stands like a whip to a sleeping behemoth. This was Roger Forster, Kimberly’s star broomsports announcer.

“Some of these first-years might not know the rules, so here’s a brief rundown! While broom wars are all about teamwork, broom fights are one-on-one battles showcasing each rider’s skills! No tricky dogfights or side fights here! Only head-to-head bullfights! Every clash could be the end! And I can’t get enough of it!”

All traces of his timidity were gone, blown aside the moment he sat down and put his hair back. Nobody loved broomsports more, nobody got more into each twist and turn, and that’s why he was so good at whipping the crowd into a frenzy. That was Roger’s style.

“Our analyst today is Instructor Dustin! Things are real crazy on campus right now, and I’m sure he must have a lot on his plate, but he took time out to make this first day a good one! A big ol’ thanks to you, sir! Can we get you a cider?”

Roger handed him a cup (it was already on the table), and Dustin glared at him. The dark circles beneath his eyes made it clear he hadn’t been sleeping much.

“…Make it an ale. One of those extra-hoppy brews from up north. And put it in a mug the size of a sink.”

“No booze in the booth, Instructor! But even as we speak, the first match is getting started!”

Roger dropped the banter, focusing on the match ahead. In the skies above, two riders had started their descents. As they passed each other, their clubs clashed. The impact shook both, but they soon recovered, speeding up, skimming along the surface, and rising again. The crowd whooped as they headed higher, ready for the next clash.

“Whew, they aren’t holding back today! Beverly Lonergan versus Monique McKay! They’ve fought before, and their record stands at six to four! Dustin, what’s your call?”

“Two veterans showing how it’s done. Whoever wins, we’re in for a long haul. And while they’re at it, we should teach the younger kids a thing or two. What’s the founding principle of broom combat?”

“Your commentator can handle a pop quiz, no problem! The answer—speed makes altitude, and altitude makes speed!”

“Exactly. It’s easy to fixate on the clashing clubs, but that principle is still active here. The better you are at flying, the better you are at fighting.”

Dustin was in full teacher mode now, and Roger knew just what response he was looking for.

“But, Instructor, flying in this sport looks so simple! One goes to the top right, the other to the top left, both turn together, rocket back down, and BAM! Then they switch sides and go again! If that’s all you’re doing, does flying skill really make a difference?”

“Yes, and a clear one. First of all, when they clash together, whoever is flying faster will have a major advantage. They hit harder! Which means both riders here have to think about how much speed they can pile on before the hit.”

Dustin’s eyes never left the match. Up, down, clash, up, down, clash. Tracing a figure eight through the sky, both players were constantly vying for the speed advantage. They were gaining speed and keeping it.

“The most important moments come when you’re moving from a descent into an ascent or vice versa. A lot rides on their cornering and their sense of timing. A bad turn means a loss of speed, and a loss of speed means they lose the advantage at the clash. And that disadvantage isn’t just that one clash, either. These blunders tend to add up over time.”

And that cumulative effect was obvious even to an untrained eye. Each rider was tracing an arc through the air—and when those arcs were matched, the bout had yet to tip in either’s favor. But as the speed disparity opened up, the symmetry broke down. The rider with the speed advantage traced the bigger arc, while the slower player’s arc shrank. The longer the bullfight went on, the more inevitable that became. The clash was set at the midpoint between them, and as they both headed toward it, the player at a speed disadvantage was inevitably at a lower altitude than their opponent.

“The nature of this event means the path of the turn and the timing of it change each time. The impact of the clashing clubs always causes some discrepancy in the flight trajectory. They have to decide in the moment how to minimize the loss of speed while correcting that and how to gain as much speed as possible before the next hit. They go back and forth a bit before a decisive gap opens up, but that is the basic flow of a broom fight.”

“Makes sense! It may look simple, but it’s packed with technicalities!”

“Exactly. And that gap’s starting to open up here.”

The battle had raged on as they spoke. Six clashes in, the player on the right was starting to trace the larger arc. An advantage a mere correction of speed or altitude could not overcome. This was the second phase of a broom fight and where the crowd started wringing their hands, sweating the results.

“As the gap in speed widens, it gets harder to turn the tables. Once things end up like this, the disadvantaged rider has only one option—try to end things before that gap becomes insurmountable. As you’re about to see.”

The disadvantaged competitor on the left had shifted her grip on her club. A small motion to be spotted from the ground, but not one Dustin or other veteran observers would let pass unnoticed. At full speed, the pair plummeted toward each other, their shadows passing. The crack of club on club was extra loud—and the rider heading right did not ascend again. Her body was off the broom, dropping straight down, snagged by the catcher below. The crowd roared.

“Down she goes,” said Dustin. “She went for an Encounter, but her opponent hit her with the same move. That could still pay off if you’ve got the sword arts skills, but…eh, this time, things went as well as expected.”

“Lonergan wins the clash! She kept her accumulated lead and rode off with the victory! The catchers have escorted the plummeter off the field, and the second-round players are entering! We don’t waste time between matches in the broom fights! Don’t worry, people—your favorite riders are coming right uuuuup!”

“Using the first match to guide new viewers—Instructor Dustin’s zeal for audience engagement and expansion is an asset to us all.”

Chela nodded, impressed. They were seated on the north side of the stands, directly opposite the commentary booth.

Watching the new contestants enter, Pete folded his arms.

“They really made that match easier to follow. But broom fight or broom war, they still haven’t answered my biggest question—why do mage sports not involve spells?”

A natural question for anyone from a nonmagical background. Oliver and Chela both turned toward him.

“Why are there no spells in broomriding? Well, basically, that’s asking why the broomsports rules settled on a variation without,” said Oliver.

“Strictly speaking, there are variant rules that allow spells. There was even a time when that was the primary discipline. Yet, as time passed, the spell-less variant took to the fore.”

“The path to that was anything but simple. But we can name two of the biggest factors: First, broomsports are, above all, games played while flying. Flying faster, better, smoother—that’s what the riders strive for and what the audience craves. And that core factor works against the inclusion of spells.”

“Why? Does casting disrupt the flying?”

“It makes you slow,” Chela replied. “For the simple reason that you’re feeding mana into your broom as you fly, so if you’re casting, the broom itself receives less power. The deceleration is unavoidable. In a sport emphasizing speed, that’s clearly less than ideal.”

“…Oh. So allowing spells takes the shine off the flying.”

“That’s the first reason, yes. Additionally, we might add that hitting people with spells midflight is easier said than done. The exact challenges vary by type, but dogfight, side fight, or bullfight, the deceleration from casting leaves you at a disadvantage. So not only are you unlikely to hit anything, the attempt undermines your position.”

“Meanwhile, blunt strikes with clubs take advantage of the speed. The faster you’re going, the harder they hit. Naturally, the strike itself does cause a slowdown, but that just makes the battle all about finding ways to increase your opponent’s speed loss while minimizing your own. And that means the match is about flying speed and skill.”

Chela had brought it back to that core concept. Eyes on the match above, Guy nodded, mulling this over.

“If the brooms are the star of the show, the spells are just a distraction.”

“Yep. And that’s not just broomsports. Aerial combat with brooms—real fights—follows the same principles. If you’ve ever seen the Gnostic Hunter riders in action, the way they fight is a logical extension of broom wars and broom fights. A clear representative of that ethos is the existence of an athame built specifically for aerial combat—the balmung.”

Oliver’s descriptions of the Gnostic wars carried grisly implications, yet they brought a smile to Chela’s lips.

“The balmung riders!” she said. “I heard the stories as a little girl. Many of us grow up on them.”

“One of them’s sitting right there in the commentary booth,” Oliver said, shooting their broom instructor a meaningful glance.

Dustin Hedges was leaning back in his seat, scowling at the skies above, looking like any other die-hard broomsports fan. Yet, he had been one of the world’s foremost heroes on the aerial front lines. It was hard to imagine now, and the attempt made everyone laugh.

“…Our turn’s coming up, Nanao,” Oliver said, getting to his feet. “We’d better head in.”

Nanao was one of many entrants waiting for her slot; she and Oliver were already in uniform.

“Mm, let us proceed,” she said, standing up. “Friends, we shall meet again anon.”

“Knock ’em dead!”

“We’ll be cheering for you!”

With those cries buffeting their sails, they ran off. Just as they were out of sight, someone stepped forward from the other exit, and Katie called out to her.

“Ms. Miligan!”

“Oh, there you are. I’m running a little late. I meant to be here for the first match.”

The Snake-Eyed Witch was carrying a very large satchel. One eye on the start of the fourth match, she took a seat next to Katie.

“Pardon me. I assume Nanao and Oliver already headed out?”

“You just missed them!”

“That’s a shame. I would have liked to wish them luck.”

She shifted her satchel to her knees. Something inside it was moving.

Guy shot her a quizzical look. “…? What’s in the bag?”

“Were you aware that the league victors are allowed to make a speech before the crowd, Guy?”

That wasn’t really an answer, but it was clearly relevant somehow. Guy’s frown deepened.

“And during election seasons, the victors generally mention who they’re voting for. If Nanao wins, I figure she would happily do that for me.”

Miligan unzipped one section of the satchel, and Guy caught a glimpse of a cage within. Behind the bars: the face of an adorable bird.

“So naturally, I’ll be offering a salute in return.”

The arena’s western clubhouse. From here, it was a straight shot down the corridor to the field; the room was currently packed with riders waiting their turn.

There was some tension, but their opponents were all in the clubhouse across the field, so nobody was starting anything here. They were focused on communing with their brooms, polishing their clubs, or kicking back with magazines.

“…Ready, Nanao?” Oliver asked, looking her over.

She was seated on the bench next to him, but in answer, she turned her head away.

“Far from it,” she said.

“…Something bugging you?”

“My catcher has not motivated me sufficiently.”

Oliver’s eyes went wide. There was a long pause; then he reached out with both hands, snagged her cheeks in his fingers, and pulled.

“……Let’s not get needy,” he said.

“Nya-heh-heh.”

She was giggling like a mischievous child. Oliver let go of her cheeks and drew her into an embrace instead. Feeling each other’s hearts beat, they remained like that for a full ten seconds—and feeling the time had come, he let go. Nanao shot to her feet.

“Strength—a hundredfold! I must go fetch Amatsukaze!”

She raced off to the broom corner, and he grinned after her.

“…That’s your true strength,” said a voice in his ear. He turned to find a sixth-year girl standing there. She was on the Wild Geese with them—Melissa Cantelli, the team’s vice captain.

Embarrassed by the scrutiny their actions had drawn, Oliver looked away, but she just smiled and shook her head.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. Love between players and catchers is ideal. If your bond is unstable, so is her performance. And I’ve seen more than enough unstable pairings to know how that ends.”

Realizing he couldn’t just ignore Melissa, Oliver bent an ear her way.

“Ashbury’s a good example. In her prime, she was something else. No one could stop her, no matter which discipline she was in. But when she lost her catcher, she was a wreck. I can’t say I ever liked her, but it was still rough to watch.”

“……”

“So go on and dote on Nanao all you like. Don’t take that affection for granted, either. You can never have too much. A mage’s desires know no limits.”

What had started as advice from a teammate was swiftly deteriorating into a busybody aunt’s fussing. Oliver’s nod was rather wobbly. This failed to discourage her—if anything, she hitched herself a notch closer down the bench, whispering in his ear.

“…Are you taking time for sex? No skipping foreplay because you’re tired, now. It’s critical! You’ve gotta get her engines going or—”

“Stop!”

“What’s all this?” Nanao said, returning with her broom just as the escalation proved too much for Oliver to handle. He jumped to his feet and grabbed her hand.

“Nothing!” he said. “Let’s go, Nanao!”

He pulled her toward the field. As Melissa watched them go, a fist landed on the back of her head. Another sixth-year teammate—the Wild Geese captain, Hans Leisegang.

“Don’t stick your beak that far in right before a match, numbskull. What if you get them all distracted?”

“S-sorry… I know, but when I see them together…”

“I mean, I get it. But I also like that about ’em. The way they’re teetering on the brink, stopping themselves from taking that last plunge.”

He glanced up at their retreating backs and grinned.

“Flowers like that don’t bloom at Kimberly often. They don’t even bud. I ain’t gonna scold the nosy grandma in you, but some fur is best left unruffled.”

“…I’ll try. But it’s just… Go for it already! Argh, I have so many tips to give!”

“That’s just your pent-up frustration. I heard you had another lover bail on you?”

“Aughhhhh! Are you trying to start a war?!”

He’d hit a sore spot, and Melissa made a grab for him. Hans ducked away, calmly glancing after Oliver and Nanao once more.

They had stopped at the line on the floor, waiting their turn. A few minutes later, the official ahead of them flashed the sign, and they hopped on their brooms, flying the rest of the way. As they entered the field, the lights blinded them, the roar of the crowds buffeting their ears. This was a moment that turned many a rider into a lifelong addict.

“Mm? Oliver, over there.”

Nanao had turned her eyes toward their friends and spotted something odd. Letters being written in the air—by a number of birds flying above the stands, the glowing tips of their tailfeathers leaving trails in their wakes. A few moments later, the message was complete: Good luck, Nanao Hibiya.

“…Ah, that must be Miligan,” Oliver said, figuring out the trick. He soon found the Snake-Eyed Witch seated near their friends. Nanao waved back, and Oliver grinned. “Perhaps not the purest of motives, but she is hoping you’ll emerge victorious. Let’s take it at face value.”

“Mm!”

It certainly seemed to have lit a fire under Nanao. Spotting her opponent and his catcher, Oliver ran through the final reminders.

“You’re up against a fourth-year endurance fighter. Tends to deflect club strikes, draw out the match, wait for you to slip up. He won’t bite on a direct clash in the early- or mid-going.”

“Then I shall just have to make him.”

Nanao shot him a confident smirk; he grinned back. She headed upward, and he headed down to his post on the ground.

“I’ll be watching you win down below, Nanao. Go get ’em!”

“On my word!”

Two figures rising, one right, one left. And the crowd cheered for a single player—the announcer louder than anyone.

“She’s here, she’s here, she’s here! The girl you’ve all been waiting for! Arrived at Kimberly in spring of last year, never held a broom before her first flying class—and barely a year later, she’s already tearing up the senior leagues! Making waves like no one around, it’s Nanao Hibiya! Give it uuuuuuuuuuuuuup!”

“You get way too hyped when Ms. Hibiya’s around. You haven’t even mentioned her opponent!”

“Don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten. She’s up against a fourth-year named Arnaud Jonquet! He’s also a young hopeful of the senior leagues, having moved up in his third year. Can he hold on to that title against his opponent’s dizzying rise?”

The horn sounded, and the match began. Both players shot downward, clubs clashing together at the heart of the field. The blows were so hard, they rattled their very bones. Nanao went right and Jonquet left, but Nanao already had the clear speed advantage.

“Baaaam! Jonquet failed to deflect that hit and struggled to keep control! Hibiya’s already in the lead!”

“Ha-ha! Hibiya’s figured out to lay the pressure on. Guess wielding a two-handed weapon every day helps there! Even the best player would have trouble deflecting a strike like that.”

Dustin was grinning like a maniac. He may have ribbed Roger for it, but he was clearly more than a bit keyed up himself. No matter how long you’d watched or how much you knew, when Nanao was in the air, it was impossible to react otherwise. Every eye in the house upon her, she steered her broom back into the skies above.

“They’ve completed their post-clash turns and are headed into a second plunge! With the speed advantage, Hibiya’s also coming in from higher up! This blow will be even stronger than the first!”

“It’s only clash two, but Mr. Jonquet needs to show his mettle here. If he loses this clash, the fight will be entirely at Hibiya’s speed. Hang in there! You can’t afford to hold back!”

Dustin got a bit too carried away and forcefully slapped the table. His eyes were locked on Nanao’s and Jonquet’s approaches. They passed, their arms swung—with shocking results. The instant their clubs clashed, Jonquet’s broom went into a wild spin. Unable to maintain flight, he was flung helplessly toward the ground. Nanao swooped off to the left, making a beautiful turn and easily ascending once more. The outcome was all too clear, and the audience was left gasping.

“Ohhhhhhh?! Jonquet falls! That hit had him spinning like a top! Hibiya wins on the second clash! A much faster bout than anyone expected!”

“He went for the Koutz Tour, and it backfired. I applaud the decision to play his ace this early, but he clearly hadn’t practiced it enough to use on Hibiya. Perhaps it might have worked on the first clash, but we’ll never know.”

Dustin was scowling now, pinpointing the cause of this result. The refs confirmed Nanao’s victory, and she waved at the stands before descending toward the exit tunnels.

“Day one of the league, and Hibiya started things off with a stunning victory! Awash in the roars of the crowds, she’s back on land. But oh, it was not nearly enough. We can’t wait to see you fly again! You there, fly up and put the sun to bed! Go round the world once and make it tomorrow for us all!”

Landing in the exit passage, Oliver soon caught up. They high-fived, then headed down the hall on foot.

“…That was a fast one. But not as easily won as it looked, right?”

“Mm, the second clash was a turnup. Had that move been a tad more polished, I may well have been the one downed.”

“That’s a high-level Koutz move. Don’t think he’s ever shown that in a match before, so probably still practicing it. Don’t forget how it felt—the next time you face him, it’ll be that much stronger.”

But as they discussed the match, they saw someone up ahead. Diana Ashbury was leaning against the left side of the corridor, a vicious grin on her face.

“Your first match, and a two-clasher. Think you’re a big shot now, Ms. Hibiya?”

“You were watching, Ms. Ashbury? Fortune favored me. My opponent made his move early.”

“Riiiight, ’cause you forced his hand.”

Ashbury cackled merrily. Then she turned away, calling over her shoulder.

“The rest of these gnats don’t matter, but be there for my fights. They’ll be worth the look.”

She put that promise into practice not ten minutes later. When the crowd saw the Blue Swallows’ ace take to the air—they fell silent. Their mouths became dry.

“Just the sight of her puts tension in the air. She needs no introduction! Empress Diana Ashburyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

“She’s been focusing on broom races, improving her time, but still entered the broom fight league. Very like her.”

“She’s up against a sixth-year, Lauro Scarlatti. Their record stands at eight to two, Ashbury advantage. Instructor Dustin, what do you reckon?”

“His recent matches show Mr. Scarlatti’s in good form. While Ashbury’s been out of the fight and war rotation. We’ll have to see how that affects her.”

“Does the Empress’s club still live? Oh, and the round is a go!”

The players on the field had started their descents. Everyone assumed the first clash would be feeling each other out—and that assumption was trampled. Her opponent put the momentum of the dive into a swing of his club, but Ashbury left hers resting on her shoulders. Not swinging at all, she shot in close—and his swing caught empty air. As Ashbury flitted beneath his arm, the tip of her club caught him, dragging his body the wrong way.

Pulled off his broom, his body sailed through the air, falling to the ground below. A catcher’s spell caught him, and he lay there stunned, unable to process what had happened to him. His eyes were locked on the sky, where Ashbury was already headed to the exit tunnel, heedless of the crowd.

No cheers, no applause, not even any gasps. The stands were silent.

“……………………………What?”

“You’re breaking character, Announcer! Not that I blame ya. The senior league is full of heavy hitters, but it’s rare to see anyone downed on clash one.”

Dustin’s voice was hoarse. The very nature of the format made a one-shot victory exceedingly unlikely. Even with significant skill discrepancies, the most you’d see was two or three clashes. But there were shock attacks specifically designed for that, and Ashbury had just demonstrated one. They were a rare sight in high-level bouts, more the stuff of acrobatic maneuvers.

Generally, Dustin was not a fan of such cheap tricks. They went against the intended purpose of competing on the merits of your flying skills. But this time—he was forced to see it in a new light. He was all too aware Ashbury had used the move in answer to Nanao’s two-clasher earlier on.

One was the only number less than two. That was the sole motivation behind her decision. By pulling off a move harder than threading a needle, she’d proven her continued claim on the throne. She hadn’t used the surprise to steal an unjust win—she’d chosen a one-clasher from a broad range of paths to victory. How could anyone complain? “Impressed” was the only option.

“It’s often said the three broomsport disciplines are one and the same. Races, fights, or wars—practice in any of them leads to strength in the others. Naturally, everyone places greater emphasis on one or another, but Ashbury has always made that tenet clear. She improved her race times by knocking people out of the sky. And now she’s done the opposite.”

That was what had brought the Empress back to the leagues. Here, Dustin slapped his own cheeks, and the noise startled Roger, who turned to look—and found the circles under the instructor’s eyes had vanished.

“Ashbury and Hibiya woke me right up. This league’s gonna be a wild one.”

That evening, they gathered in the Sword Roses’ secret base to celebrate Nanao’s victory.

“You made it through the first day! You’re the coolest, Nanao!” Katie cried. Everyone clinked glasses—Marco’s was more a wooden barrel—and cider droplets flew.

Chela wet her lips, remembering the match. “A two-clasher—it certainly got things off to a lively start. Are swift victories the plan?”

“More like Nanao has no interest in giving anything less than her full strength on each hit,” said Oliver. “We’ve decided to let her run with that. Results are all that matter, not the speed of them.”

“Ha-ha, that’s so Nanao! I like it! And this victory gives us an excuse to party all night!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Guy. Once we’ve eaten, we’ll be studying. You’ve been slacking off on alchemy practice.”

“Aw man, Pete with the wet blanket! How do you know what I’m slacking on?”

“Katie and I will get you up to speed. Isn’t that great, Guy? You get to brew potions all night.”

The mood remained celebratory. They talked about the matches today, who she’d face next—the chatter never ceased. And the party lasted well into the night.

By three AM, everyone but Oliver was in bed. He slipped out from his covers, careful not to wake anyone, and exited the base.

He soon left the first layer behind and stepped into the bustling forest. Breathing in the smell of wet leaves, he cautiously picked his way through the woods, hurrying to the base of the giant irminsul tree within.

“Huff… Huff…”

A root bulged from the ground and connected to the towering trunk above. Before he climbed onto it, Oliver took several deep breaths, consciously accelerating the circulation of both blood and mana. Making sure he was at peak performance from the first step.

“…Good to go!”

Warmed up, he checked the hands on his pocket watch and broke into a run. Soles pushing off the bark with force that surprised even him, his body bounding higher and higher, the uneven terrain proving no obstacle.

(My Lord! I’m afraid—at that speed, I can’t keep up!)

Teresa’s warning came over their mana frequency, and the yelp in her voice was a genuine surprise. His covert operative had far more experience racing through the labyrinth than he did. Barring extreme circumstances, he’d never once managed to outpace her.

(…Fine, remain on standby! I’ll call if anything comes up!)

(Yes, sir… I’m…sorr—)

Her voice cut out before she finished. Without a path created by a powerful contract, it was hard to maintain mental communication over long distances via mana frequency alone. He’d be out of touch with Teresa until she caught up—but conscious of that, Oliver maintained his speed.

“Phew…!”

When he finally stopped, he was at the peak of the irminsul—the highest contiguous point on the second layer. From here, you could see almost the entirety of the forest spread out before you. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Oliver checked his watch again.

“Base to peak in thirty-two minutes. That’s nearly ten minutes off my previous record.”

That previous run had been recorded before the Enrico fight. He’d been well aware how much faster he was going as he climbed—he never got stuck. Tricky sections he’d been forced to take on hands and knees he could now run right through. And at that speed, the magic beasts avoided him. Perhaps it was also the right hour—he’d made it this far with little to no interference.

“…This is definitely no ordinary improvement,” he muttered.

Like Chela had said, even a growing mage would never see this much physical enhancement over such a short period of time. You saw cases like Nanao’s, but her baseline improvement speed was always “extremely rapid.” Compared to her leaps and bounds, Oliver’s growth had been unsettling, like a bug scuttling slowly across the ground—and then suddenly sprouting wings.

It felt wrong in a way that made one thing clear—this was a life-span compression.

A simple fast-forward could hardly explain it. Growth meant for the future had occurred preemptively—concentrated and poured into him now. His flesh and ether were running on that survival mechanism. His own soul had deemed him unlikely to pull through otherwise.

The trigger had clearly been the two-minute-plus merger with Chloe Halford’s soul and the ensuing intense battle with Enrico Forghieri. His headlong rush toward the brink of death had forced his soul to reject itself. It grew convinced that the operations of flesh and ether it had planned—that is, a life lived typically—would not be enough for him to last another second.

The result was a fundamental alteration in his soul. To maximize the experience siphoned from Chloe Halford’s soul, a swath of Oliver Horn’s total life span had been begrudgingly condensed—like an hour candle burned through in a mere five minutes. Anything else would have resulted in his flame flickering out.

“……”

In exchange for this power, he’d lost a lot of future. Fully aware of that, Oliver decided he didn’t care. This was the smallest of the prices he had to pay. Nothing compared to the other lives he was to cast upon the pyre.

“Heyyyyyy! OOOOOOliverrrrrr!”

His quiet reflections were shattered by a bellowing voice rushing toward him. Flinching, he turned and saw another boy climbing the irminsul toward him. Oliver was still aghast when the interloper caught up.

“Whew, I made it! Damn, you’re fast. I almost lost you!”

“…Mr. Leik,” Oliver said, reluctant to believe his eyes.

Yuri Leik, the self-proclaimed transfer student, was breathing heavily, grinning back at him. The cast around his torn-off limb was already gone. As soon as he caught his breath, he slapped Oliver on the shoulder.

“Please, call me Yuri! Man, this feels amazing! My fifth try, and I finally made it to the top! Ahhhh…that’s the stuff.”

His eyes swept the view, and he threw his arms out wide. His profile looked so unguarded, Oliver found himself making conversation.

“…You just kept hitting this layer? Even after losing an arm?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I said I would! I dunno about anyone else, but if there’s places I haven’t been yet, I gotta check ’em out!”

This boy had the soul of an explorer.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, turning to Oliver. “This kind of triumph is best shared.”

“ ”

It was so utterly guileless, it left Oliver speechless. Yuri’s eyes were eagerly drinking in the view. The joy of a new discovery, his heart dancing at the sights before him—signs of an open, carefree mind. And all with a purity nigh impossible to perform.

Perhaps this boy had no ulterior motives. Oliver’s gut told him so, despite all arguments to the contrary. His rational mind objected, and these two conclusions clashed within—and as a result, he chose to learn more.

“…Mr. Leik, are you—?”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”

But Yuri’s shout drowned out his question. The transfer student darted off, bent over, and came back holding a bug in his hand. He proudly showed it to Oliver.

“Look, Oliver! I found a bug! This thing is so cool!”

“Don’t pick it up if you don’t know what it is! There’s no telling what it’ll do to you! Throw it—”

Oliver broke off mid-sentence. A wave of hostility had hit them, and only that mattered now.

He drew his athame, suddenly on guard. Yuri glanced around, bug in hand.

“Uh, Oliver…are we, like…surrounded?”

“…We clearly are. I probably should have stopped you. This isn’t exactly a place for tourism,” Oliver said. “But I didn’t expect this. The peak here is kind of a buffer between the different beasts’ domains. Normally, you never encounter any large magifauna here—much less find yourself under attack.”

This could be a real problem. He alone could easily break through the pack and get away, but Yuri was still new to this layer, and bringing him along made things far more difficult. Plus, he was just starting to warm up to the boy, so he was disinclined to ditch him.

“Seems they’re leaving us no choice… Can you fight, Mr. Leik?”

“Of course! There’s a first time for everything!”

“You’ve never fought before?!” Oliver yelped, hoping like hell that was a joke.

Yuri just grinned at him. “Don’t worry! What I don’t know, I can pick up by watching.”

He pulled a weapon from his scabbard. A rod with an edge—a construction far too simplistic to even call an athame.

“GYYYYYYYYYYYY!”

And a beast burst out of the brush, bound for Yuri. A midsize monkey. Light on its feet, it darted around Yuri, planted its hands on the ground like a somersault, and grabbed at him with its prehensile toes. Yuri leaped back, dodging, looking very impressed.

“Wow, your feet are as strong as your hands!” he exclaimed.

As he made his observations, Oliver was firing a spell at a new assailant. The bulk of the troupe seemed focused on Yuri, easing his burden. While the transfer student’s unpredictable behavior kept them confused, Oliver was steadily thinning their numbers.

“Getting a good grip down below would be so useful! My toes are shorter, but I wonder if I can do the same thing!”

Yuri might be fending off multiple foes at once, but he sure didn’t sound like it. Intrigued by the monkeys’ movements, he was actually trying to imitate them himself. He used spatial magic to make his soles stick to the ground, then manipulated his internal gravity to bend over backward.

“Oh, it worked! Look, I’m just like you! Monkey see, monkey do!”

“GYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”

One monkey seemed to take this as an affront and came charging at him. Still bent way over backward, Yuri put his hands on the ground and used them as an axis for an overhead kick, taking the monkey down. Oliver just gaped at him. Not the most logical way to fight, but the fact that it had worked at all spoke volumes to his natural talent.

They’d downed eight monkeys now, and the remaining beasts turned their backs and began retreating. Yuri looked surprised.

“Oh, they’re running? They still had numbers!”

“No creatures fight to extinction. I’m more surprised they stuck around long enough to lose a third of their troupe. It’s not like it’s mating season…”

Oliver sheathed his athame, frowning. But a second later, Yuri’s free hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“I knew I could count on you, Oliver.”

“…Your point being?”

“What say we stick together? I’ve come this far. I’d like to see the fabled Battle of Hell’s Armies.”

He made this suggestion with no compunction—and even threw in a thumbs-up. Oliver couldn’t believe pressing forward was even in the cards. Nonetheless—he was disinclined to refuse. The boy could clearly handle himself, but not to the extent that Oliver felt comfortable abandoning him.

“…I’ve already made it through. I can watch over your attempt, if that’ll suffice?”

“It will! Just you wait—I’ll get it in one!”

Yuri ran off, beaming with glee. Oliver turned to follow, and a thought struck him—the way this boy knew little of the world yet had the talent to overcome that, the way he just kept stepping closer even if you pushed him back… He was more than a bit like Nanao.

Amid the swirling schemes and conflicts in its midst, the broom league was making steady progress.

Chela and Miligan were in the stands watching a match featuring the Snake-Eyed Witch’s main rival for the presidency—Percival Whalley. He had not given an inch in five clashes and had just downed his opponent.

“…Your opposition is rather good.”

“Yes.” Miligan nodded. “I’m certainly no match for him on a broom. Were it not for Nanao, he might even be the senior league’s brightest young star.”

She watched as he flew a slow loop, waving at the stands, then snorted.

“He’s a thorn in my side but will probably make a good rival for Nanao. Just…I do rather hope she downs him. Their battle could well have a significant impact on the election.”

She was never one to hide her motivations. As Whalley flew off, her eyes turned to the next contestant—the Empress of the broom, twelve matches in without a single loss.

“But clearly winning the league itself would be asking too much… Ms. Ashbury is in a league of her own.”

“Ashbury winning like this is less than ideal.”

That same evening, in the old council’s first-layer base, Leoncio was growling at his followers.

“She has no interest in elections. She won’t voice support for anyone if she wins; in fact, she has a history of blowing off the speech entirely. And all anyone will be talking about is how she trounced everybody. Most vexing.”

He shook his head. Whalley gritted his teeth, then put a hand to his chest and stepped forward.

“…I will down her. If I win, then no problems—”

Leoncio had a death grip on his skull before he could finish. Watching the fear on his junior’s face, he hissed, “That competitive spirit is an advantage. But you expect me to count on it?”

“……!”

“…Hmph. Don’t be petulant, Percy. The moment Ashbury chose to enter, we all knew your odds of victory faded. This outcome is expected. And we will not blame you for losing to her.”

With that, he released Whalley, who was forced into an embittered silence. Leoncio fixed him with a steely glare.

“That said—you must defeat Nanao Hibiya. That second-year girl is supporting Miligan. And she has many eyes on her—if she steals the show here, the ripple effects will hit the election hard,” Leoncio cautioned. “Your purpose in this league is to take her down a peg. Etch that into your heart.”

His tone brooked no argument, and Whalley took a knee in acknowledgment. The rest was in his hands—yet Leoncio had his hand to his chin, considering an alternate solution.

“That said, it’s hardly fair for us to be sitting around fretting about it. Don’t you agree, Khiirgi?”

His gaze turned to the elf by the wall. He offered no specifics—but Avarice took the hint. A smile flickered across her eyes, dark as the hollow of an ancient tree.

They came for her on the path back to the dorms from late-night practice—when a broomrider who trained longer and harder than anyone else would be all on her own.

“…One on the right, two on the left, one above,” Ashbury muttered, stopping below the arch over the path to the dorms. The darkness around her shimmered, returning no sound.

“I can hear grass breathing these days. Wriggle on out here, grubs.”

She drew her athame, and spells emerged from the darkness in all three directions. The aim and timing were designed to give her no escape—yet they caught only air. The broom in her left hand had yanked her to the side.

“Tonitrus.”

Her return fire flushed an assailant out of the darkness. The attacker came rolling to their feet, aiming again—but Ashbury had broken into a run the moment her chant ended, moving ahead of them, her athame slicing across her foe’s wrist.

Their hand was left dangling by the skin alone, their athame clattering on the ground. As the three remaining assailants gaped in horror, Ashbury wheeled toward them.

“…You move so slow, I got time to yawn. We done here? Then good night.”

She rolled her eyes, and the shadows grew incensed. They leaped back, gaining distance from her. Abandoning the iron rule of nighttime attacks—keep the spell volume and power down to avoid unwanted attention—their voices chanted as one.

“““Frigus Intensum!”””

“Ignis!”

Flames flew over Ashbury’s shoulder, far greater than the first spell’s combined might, shielding her from their blizzard’s gust.

“Morg—”

The flames struck a chord in her mind, and she spun around. Her eyes searched for a big man’s face, that confident grin of old—though she knew it was in vain.

And her hopes were soon dashed. The man behind her was every bit as tall—but clearly not Morgan.

“Attacks on campus are not allowed. State your names and years!”

There stood the student body president, Alvin Godfrey, his voice ripe with fury. The three shadows turned tail and fled. No use lingering—this man’s arrival meant their ambush had failed.

Godfrey made no effort to pursue. He merely glared after them.

“…Not giving chase?” Ashbury asked, raising a brow.

“I’d love to, but getting you back to the dorms intact is my priority here, Ms. Ashbury.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You’re getting it anyway.”

He was clearly insistent on that, and she knew him well enough to know no further argument would get her anywhere. She put her blade away and moved toward him.

As they walked side by side down the path to the dorms, she suddenly put two and two together.

“Ohhhh, it’s election season. Was this part of that mess?”

“You fought them off unawares?”

“What do I care? No skin off my teeth. But if they’re after me, then I guess they’ve got a candidate in the league?”

“…Candidates have entered. But I can’t say for sure this is connected,” he said grimly.

It was easy to make assumptions, but since he was backing a candidate himself—voicing those speculations carelessly could be deemed improper. That thought sealed his tongue. Ashbury was never the best at gleaning intent, but this much she could manage, and his straight-shooting style left her shaking her head.

“You haven’t changed, then. Always were a meathead. Probably why you got along with him.”

“…Morgan?”

There was a sad smile on his lips. Ashbury’s old catcher had been a good friend to him as well.

“Those were the days. He gave me a lot of tips on controlling fire. Without him, I’d still be burning my own arms with every spell.”

“He’s good at handling threats. Be it fire or beast.”

“…Hmm.”

Godfrey was scratching his face thoughtfully. Ashbury shot him a baleful glare.

“…And I’m one of those?” she snapped.

“Y-you read my mind?! Since when can you—?!”

“It doesn’t take magic to tell what’s on a dipshit’s mind. Context! Countenances! Creepy pauses!”

This man was an appalling actor. But even as she shuddered, a thought struck her, and she stopped in her tracks.

“Wait, speaking of dipshits—if these are election hijinks, then should you be shooting the shit here? There’s someone with a bigger target on her back than mine.”

Godfrey stopped dead. He wasn’t that dumb.

“…Nanao Hibiya? They might go for it, but she’ll be fine. I’ve got other Watch eyes on her. And she’s not prone to late-night solo pract—”

“That’s assuming she heads back to the dorms after practice. You really think the leagues would be enough to make her turn in early? She’s every bit as dumb as you.”

Ashbury took a step closer with every line, and Godfrey’s expression turned grim. He turned toward the school building.

“…Ms. Ashbury, I’ll have to take my—”

“I said I didn’t need help! Go on, get!”

Her roar on his heels, the man broke into a run. Few words hit harder than “as dumb as you.” If that was true, there was no way she would cooperate.

Meanwhile, amid the teeming life of the bustling forest, beneath the everlasting artificial sun, Oliver was once more at the base of the irminsul for rehab—and shaking his head.

“…You again, Mr. Leik.”

“I’ve been waiting for you, Oliver!”

He let out the loudest sigh he could muster. But Yuri was not discouraged, and he came dashing over, grinning merrily. Oliver kept a few steps back, on guard.

“…I don’t remember ever agreeing to meet you at the base of the irminsul. Did you spot me coming from up above and dash down to meet me?”

“Oh, you noticed?! That’s right! I’ve just been hanging out up there. Resting a while, taking in the view—then I saw you coming and was like, I just gotta!”

“What a fortuitous coincidence!”

Yuri’s excitable yammer was interrupted by a new voice as someone else landed behind him. Oliver realized who she was and nearly jumped out of his skin.

“…Nanao?! Why are you here?! Where did you even come from?!”

“Like this gentleman here, I was lying in wait atop yonder tree. You have neglected to invite me on your labyrinth excursions of late.”

“Because things are dangerous right now, and I told you to stay on the surface!” Oliver yelled, advancing on her. “You’re in the league! And everyone knows you’re on the current council’s side. There’s danger even on campus, and you come sauntering down into the wilds of the labyrinth—what if someone attacked?!”

“Fair points, all,” she said, hanging her head.

That was when Yuri smacked a fist on his palm and stepped in between them.

“I think that’s just about enough, Oliver. Lots of light on this layer and plenty of people around. And since voices carry on the air, it’s probably safer than the first layer.”

“You stay out of this, Mr. Leik. This is between—”

“Calm down, Oliver. Deep breaths.”

When he tried to speak again, Yuri pulled him away from her, over by a root. Then he jerked a thumb back at Nanao.

“See that face? She knew all along what you’re saying is true. And she came anyway.”

“? That’s worse! Why take the risk—?”

“Obviously. She just wuvs you so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, soooo much! She came to see you! She couldn’t wait till tomorrow! She needed to be with you so bad, she didn’t even factor in the risks!”

Yuri was shaking Oliver’s shoulders now, getting rather worked up himself. But Nanao was far enough away that she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Head down, she murmured, “…I just wished to be with you, Oliver.”

And that struck Oliver like an arrow to the heart. It took his breath away. He had to clear his throat several times before turning back to her.

“…Well, acting in haste will just draw attention. Let’s head back up carefully, making sure we don’t run into any sketchy characters,” he told her. “There are lights in the lounges and study groups burning the midnight oil—far less risk of ambush than here. If you wish, we can sit and talk awhile. How does that sound, Nanao?”

Her face lit up.

Yuri gave them a satisfied nod, then said, “I’ve had enough exploring for one day. Much as I’d love to give you two some room, best we stick together until we reach the surface, yes? Safety in numbers.”

“…Can’t argue with that. Very well, Mr. Leik… Honestly, your delving this deep not long after your transfer here is pretty risky, too.”

“Don’t worry! From now on, I’ll only delve with you, Oliver! Sound good, Nanao?”

“Verily! I believe we shall be firm friends.”

Nanao and Yuri exchanged high fives. Oliver rubbed his temples. He’d sensed they had some common ground, personality-wise—and clearly, he’d been right.

Now he had to look after two unruly children. Sighing, he turned to head back up…but stopped a step later.

“…Wait.” There was an urgency to his tone that cut their cheery introductions short. Eyes on the dense vegetation before them, feeling the hostility within, Oliver muttered, “Too late.”

Then he turned on his heel, breaking into a run. He grabbed both companions’ wrists, pulling them along, and they soon followed suit, each keeping an eye on their backs. Chants echoed behind.

“…Oliver!”

“Oliver!”

“Up the tree!”

The ground at their feet and the brush to one side were struck by bolt after bolt. Narrowly avoiding the storm through serpentine footwork, they made it back to the base of the irminsul and started up a branch.

Not far along it was a large burl, and they dove behind it, taking cover. An instant later, an especially large lightning bolt struck the other side. Oliver let out a breath.

“…Okay, we’ve got the positional advantage. They can’t flank us or hit us from behind without a lengthy detour around the branches, and if they’re sticking to the shrubbery, they can’t get too close. If they take to their brooms and fly up, we can shoot them down before they get close.”

Even as he spoke, his mind was on something else. If he didn’t catch her mana frequency here, then Teresa was out of range. She’d warned him as much; she’d be out today, helping with a scheme to turn the faculty on one another. His comrades weren’t coming to help—the three of them would have to escape this together.

“Keep one eye out for flanking maneuvers and hit them hard if you catch a glimpse. Don’t miss your chance.”

Both nodded. Yuri was peering over the rim at the brush below.

“…Five of ’em,” he said. “Two upperclassmen.”

“You can see them?”

“No, but I asked. Oh, here comes one. Flamma.”

He waved his athame. A moment later, an enemy stepped out of the brush, right into Yuri’s spell.

“Gah…!”

“See?” Yuri grinned.

Oliver attempted a follow-up, but this was neutralized by a different foe’s support barrage, and he was forced back behind the burl. The damaged foe dove into the shrubbery. To Oliver’s eye, they were moving a little slower. He turned to Yuri.

“Mm? What’s up, Oliver? Something on my face?”

A smile as clear as the sun. But how did he—?

Before he could finish that thought, the enemy’s explosion spell struck the burl. He was forced to shoot back. The enemy was trading suppressing fire, curving spells across cover, trying to get a bead on them. Oliver threw up barrier spells on their flanks, returning fire.

“Fragor! No, keep doing what you’re doing. Can’t let them get close.”

“Hrm, there is precious little I can contribute in a fight of this nature.”

“That’s not true. Even if you’re just firing at random, it helps. What matters isn’t hitting them but making it clear a careless move will get them hit.”

“That, I can manage, but will we not start a fire?”

“Damage to the forest itself will be repaired by the labyrinth homeostasis. Unless you’re Godfrey, there’s no risk of turning this place into scorched earth. Go for broke.”

That freed Nanao from all concern, and she took a swing with her katana.

“Very well. Flamma!”

Polished by her mind’s eye, a fireball flew from the tip of her blade. It landed in a corner of a copse and burst, lighting up the terrain for yards in every direction. An enemy happened to be lurking near and was forced to dive out of the line of fire—not missing a beat, Oliver downed them with a follow-up spell.

“Wow, Nanao!” Yuri yelled. “You burned all that with a singlecant?”

“I’ve begun to find the knack for it, yes.”

“With your mana output, that’s the kind of force you should be casting,” Oliver murmured. “They know we’re second-years, so they’ll have assumed we can’t hit that hard—it was a real stroke of luck we managed to down one.”

He glanced toward the unmoving foe by the burning copse. He’d hit them with decent force—they weren’t getting back up soon, even if a friend healed them. And if Yuri was right, there were four more.

“It’s going well!” Yuri said. “Seems like they can’t get up here—have we got this in the bag?”

“Absolutely not. At least, if you’re right about the two upperclassmen.”

Oliver was disinclined to be optimistic. Fighting Vera Miligan his first year had knocked that out of him. At Kimberly, “upperclassmen” meant fourth-year and above—so two of their remaining foes were Miligan-level or worse.

“…It’s only gonna get tougher. Here they come!”

He spotted two figures breaking out of the brush. Their footwork was too nimble, their speed too fast—they had to be the upperclassmen.

“Aim for the leader!”

At Oliver’s word, all three focused their spells. If they split their fire, both might get through; it was best to make sure they took down one at a time. They were on a long, thin irminsul branch—only one way up to them. Taking full advantage of that terrain, they might have a shot at downing them this way—but Oliver knew only too well that was a faint hope.

“……!”

His worst fears were realized. As they reached the branch, the approaching figures shifted to the side—and the underside. Racing up the branch using Wall Walk—but of course they did. Any sword arts technique Oliver and Nanao had mastered was old hat to an upperclassman.

“Do it, Nanao!”

He had anticipated this, and it was why he’d chosen this spot to camp. Even as he shouted the order, he grabbed Yuri’s hand, pulling him back, gesturing at the bark below with his athame. Nanao saw that—and knew exactly what he wanted.

“At once! Gladio!”

She swung her blade down. A full-strength severing spell directed at the branch below them—and cut it through.

“ ?!”

“……!”

No longer connected, the branch creaked, then began to fall. Both assailants let out silent yelps. A branch of the irminsul was the size of a fully grown tree, and second-years could use only single incantations—no one would expect them to manage this feat. They had yet to fully grasp how exceptional Nanao really was.

But this in no way ended the fight. One foe went down with the branch, fleeing to the surface. But the figure at the fore kept right on running, never slowing down. As she approached the schism, she worked their way back to the top and jumped. The gap was a good twelve yards wide—too far to vault. She put her hand on her broom, trying to propel herself across, but—

“““Impetus!”””

Three gale spells were waiting for that. Their foe threw out the oppositional element, but channeling mana into her broom while countering three spells at once was a bit much even for an upperclassman. Enough wind got past to slow her down—and she released the broom. In the air, she was a sitting duck—dropping to the ground was the only escape. Oliver was certain they had her, but—

“Haaa-ha!”

A breathy laugh sent shudders down their spines. Their foe did not fall—instead, she stepped onto the air, jumping. Twice.

“ ?!”

None of them had expected this. The second jump took her beneath them, putting the branch between her and their spells. She snagged a protrusion, flipping herself upside down and planting her feet on the underside of the branch. Then she came walking around it toward the top.

“……!”

All three of them backed down the branch, keeping their distance, but this time, Oliver genuinely couldn’t believe it. Sky Walk—and two steps. Even one required incredible talent and massive amounts of training. If she could take two steps, she was a master of the form. It was a feat far beyond even Miligan’s caliber.

They clearly weren’t dealing with an ordinary upperclassman here. This had to be one of the top fighters in the upper years. Her uniform disguised the specific year, but Oliver looked her over again, searching for clues. She had a hood deep over an ancient wood-carved mask, hiding her face from view.

“…Don’t suppose you’d care to share your name?” he asked, allowing a touch of spite.

His mind was churning. She hadn’t used a doublecant, probably concerned the scale of the ensuing spell would attract attention. Even at this hour, there were plenty of students on the second layer, including Campus Watch members. He could bet on that and cast a siren spell or toss out a rescue orb, but…

“Not yet the time for that, Oliver,” Nanao said, catching his thought. She flashed a grin, and it hit him like a bolt from the blue. He caught a whiff of his own timidity buried beneath the workings of his rational mind.

“…Right you are, Nanao.”

He nodded, raising his athame to midstance. That bet would have been presumptuous. No guarantee a call for help would improve the situation; it might well drag in an even bigger threat. It was a last resort when nothing else could be done—but things were not yet that dire.

“…Come on, then. It’s high time I stopped quaking in my boots whenever I face an upperclassman.”

His words were half a whip across his flagging spirits. Their strategy had paid off—they’d managed to turn this into a three-on-one fight for the moment. That was a solid advantage and one they’d earned. Now they simply had to follow through on it.

“Turbo Flamma!”

As if extolling Oliver’s courage, a flaming tornado kicked up behind their foe.

“You’re really going at it. Mind if I join in?”

A low growl—not a voice you’d ever mistake. As the flames died down, all eyes turned toward the man on the ground—the three of them, the foe before them, and the enemy attempting the long way around.

“Morgan!” Nanao cried.

Clifton Morgan raised a hand in acknowledgment, taking in the scene.

“Hmmmm? …Am I imagining things, or do you have two upperclassmen?” he said. “Gah-ha-ha! I must be! That’d be an absolute disgrace! At your age, ganging up on three second-year kids.”

His assessment had certainly brought out the sarcasm. And with literal sparks flying from every inch of him, his words packed a real punch.

“That would be intolerable. If it were true, I’d have to clean up. With a charcoal filter.”

With that, he raised his athame high. The girl before them clicked her tongue, then flung herself off the branch, landing in the brush below. The others beat a hasty retreat in kind, vanishing into the forest. When there was no trace of them left, Morgan finally lowered his blade.

“They’re gone. Gah-ha! You kids never learn,” Morgan said, glancing up the irminsul at them. “Delving at a time like this? I guess that is pretty dang Kimberly of you.”

The three of them jumped down, Nanao at the fore.

“The assistance was most appreciated, Morgan,” she said. “And timely, as I have need to speak with you. Can you spare a moment?”

Morgan cocked an eyebrow. And Oliver realized Nanao was not just here to see him—she had bigger fish to fry.

Attack Nanao Hibiya in the labyrinth with lasting damage, be it wounds or a curse. No need to fell her, just prevent her from flying at peak performance. That was how she’d interpreted Leoncio’s intent.

After all, the girl was a second-year, and the task itself was far too easy for her. And it was inherently in bad taste. Even Kimberly students had an unwritten understanding that fights were best left to those of similar ages. For that reason, she had not planned on being directly involved—the plan had been to kick back and watch her juniors take care of business.

“…Haaa-ha-ha!”

The memory brought a smirk to her lips. She hadn’t expected to have such fun.

Leaning against the wall, the masked woman’s gasping sigh of a laugh pealed on and on. The male student across from her intensified his glare.

“…What’s so funny? You failed miserably.”

He didn’t even try to hide his frustration. They were in one of the old council’s bases on the first layer, and their candidate, Percival Whalley, was biting his nails again. The cause of his irritation was none other than the report from the failed ambush team.

“The targets showed such promise, you let them see you Sky Walk? Both steps?! Far too rash. Why even bother hiding your ears and face?!”

At Whalley’s howl, Barman shrugged. He’d been behind the counter, silently working a shaker.

“I agree, but it’s hardly unprecedented. How long have you known this covetous elf?”

“Yes, her lusts are much too unfettered! Why were you even at the scene? It was hardly a plan we could not afford to fail. Do you have no concept of risk and reward?”

Whalley glared at her again. His strategies were always constructed of the purest logic, and he frequently found the whims of his allies a far greater threat than anything an enemy could do.

But despite the scathing rebuke, the ambush leader removed her hood and mask with a smile. The sixth-year elf—Khiirgi.

“…I only meant to sneak a peek. Kill some time. Then I saw how they fought, and the itch took hold. Like being out for a walk and seeing a young doe shaking her tail at you. How could I not play?”

Avarice showed no remorse. As Whalley fumed further, she took a quiet step toward him, cupping his ruddy cheeks in her hands.

“Don’t you scowl at me, Percy. If there are consequences, I’ll handle them. This will not stop you from winning the election. Besides, we reeled in some better news. Right, Leoncio?”

Khiirgi’s head swiveled. At the back of the room, a man sat deep in a chair.

“Indeed,” he said, nodding. “Morgan—you’re alive.”

His hand clutched a crystal. Inside, images and voices played—a hearty laugh, delivered by a confident man. A sixth-year student all had assumed long since consumed by the spell.

Kimberly generally held two leagues for broomsports a year. They’d hold leagues for all three disciplines, and once those were done, the second league would loop back through the disciplines in the same order. The order of those disciplines varied by year, but this year it was broom fights, then broom wars, and finally broom races.

“The white-hot fury of the broom fight’s first league wrapped up yesterday! Missing them already? Don’t you worry—the next party’s already starting! Broom wars league one starts todaaaaaaaaay!”

To many mages, broomsports were synonymous with broom wars. The stands were filled to the brim, and the crowd was already roaring. Roger had to raise his voice to be heard above everyone.

“One-on-one is fun, but this here is the main event! Not just raw player talent—wars require strategies and teamwork, too! An extra heaping of everything good—like your plate at the end of the buffet line. Where do you even begin, Instructor Dustin?”

“I promise you, he isn’t kidding. There’s too much going on! I don’t even know where to look! That’s what everyone says the first time they watch the broom wars. It’s more than enough to just keep your eyes on a favorite player, so don’t think too hard about it—but it is true that learning how to watch a game will enhance your enjoyment. I thought I’d explain a few tricks for you all today.”

“Please do! Our first round is the Rabid Hawks versus the Blue Swallows! Come on out, O beloved brutal broomriderrrrrs!”

The horns blared, and from east and west, two teams shot onto the field. The Blue Swallows were on the east, doing their final pre-match rundowns.

“…Uh, Ashbury, I should at least ask.”

“I’ll do my thing. You keep up as best you can.”

She didn’t even bother glancing his way. A chorus of sighs went up from the team.

“Our ace never minces words.”

“Can’t argue with results, though.”

“With the streak you’ve been on, any strategy would just tie your hands anyway.”

There were definitely some sour grapes here, but Ashbury just took them all as statements of fact, grinning like a shark.

“You know it. I’ll down ’em all in the first half. It’s time I had a perfect match.”

“Madness!”

“But those eyes—she means it!”

“I’m too scared to look her in the eye!”

When their ace spoke, all shuddered. And the horns sounded again, forcing them onto the field.

Both teams sprang into action. As the breathless crowd cheered, Roger slapped the table.

“And they’re off! Ohhh boy! My eyes already can’t keep up! Where should I look, Instructor?”

“Don’t try to focus on a single point. Take in the whole field. Observe how the players are arranged around their captains—that’ll give you a solid sense of what each team’s plan of action is. The Rabid Hawks are making it easy for you—they’re in a standard formation, balancing offense and defense.”

Dustin’s tone was almost talking the announcer down. Naturally, Roger hadn’t gotten this job without being a longtime broomsports fan—he knew exactly how to watch a match without any tutorials. But it was his style to act like a newbie fan when the need arose. Just as he had in the broom fights, he carefully played along with the broom teacher’s lessons.

“A broomrider without speed is helpless. This isn’t like chess—you can’t leave your king sitting pretty. You see what they do instead?”

“I do! That’s why both captains are doing loops on the far ends of the field!”

Roger pointed a finger in each direction. Like he said, both captains were maintaining speed, but not leaving the narrow confines of their team’s territory.

“Right you are,” Dustin said with a nod. “With two guards on each. Naturally, if the enemy flies their way, the attack squads’ll knock ’em down. I’m sure everyone’s gut tells ’em this much, but in broom wars, it’s never easier to down a player than when they’re busy chasing someone else. The captain is the biggest target and the player they can least afford to lose—yet at the same time, they serve to draw the offense’s attention. It’s a role that requires nerves of steel.”

Dustin flashed a shit-eating grin. Broom wars was a sport demanding constant action, and a captain who just hung out at the back was doing nobody any good. When the other team was on the run, the captain would be chasing, too; when their side was on the run, the captain would be fighting back. That’s how the game was played.

“The other roles are also aptitude-based. Aggressive, fearless types get sent first into the fray; cautious, defensive types are tasked with fending off the enemy’s assaults. But those role divisions are always in flux. If the situation demands it, the whole team can go on the offense—it’s what we call the Full Attack formation. You’ll most likely see it in the back half of the match, once one side has a big numbers advantage.”

“And until that happens, both sides are trying to thin each other out.”

“Yep. At the start, the attackers are going at each other, while the back line watches for their chance to swoop in and help. Basically, those frontline fights are the main thing to watch in the early going. Unlike broom fights, they get hit from the side all the time, so nothing is ever predictable. A single downed player can shake up the whole game.”

Even as he spoke, the two teams’ attackers were clashing—and then a player shot through the center of the fight, rocketing toward the opposition’s rear line. The crowd gasped.

“Whoa, Ashbury’s going in solo? Instructor, is that allowed?”

“…Oh, she’s starting already? I mean, it’s normally not a good idea. That’s the problem with her matches. ‘Normal’ really doesn’t apply,” said Dustin. “I mentioned how the captain’s job is to bait the opposition? Same goes for small squads flying deep into the enemy zone. Nobody’s about to just let ’em be. They can monopolize their foe’s attention and create gaps in the enemy lines that their teammates can take advantage of.”

He sounded annoyed—or was pretending to be—but there was definitely a hint of a stifled laugh behind it. He knew full well the risks but couldn’t help himself. Every broom wars fan loved to see a single player tear up the rules.

Fighting the temptation to abandon his commentator role and act like a regular old fan, clinging to the illusion of being a proper instructor, Dustin managed, “It’s a batshit crazy position only the dumbest and best can pull off. We call it…the berserker.”

He wasn’t wrong. The moment Ashbury flew in, it became impossible for the Rabid Hawks to think straight.

“Guh!”

“Gaughhh—!”

She hit a player’s back in passing, and they plummeted. A teammate swooping in to retaliate crashed into another player in pursuit. As they tried to regain their balance, Ashbury flitted back and finished them off. Panic spread among the rest of the Hawks. This was no time to stick to their positions—everyone made their own best judgments, going after Ashbury. All cohesion lost, chaos reared its head.

“Wait up, damn it!”

“How long are you gonna keep this up?!”

But the harder they tried to put her down fast, the more they danced in the palm of Ashbury’s hand. She stirred up their formation, leaving the Rabid Hawks in disarray, and the Blue Swallows’ offense was mercilessly taking advantage of that. Once the collapse began, there was no stopping it. Hawk after Hawk went down; Ashbury slipped past club after club swung her way, grinning like a maniac.

“Isn’t it obvious? Till every last one of you is down!”

The audience gulped as one. This wasn’t a match. It was a hunt.

Normally, berserkers didn’t stay flying for long. Flying solo into the heart of enemy territory made it all the more likely you’d be downed quick. Create a minute of chaos and let your team handle the rest—that was more than enough. But Ashbury wasn’t going down. In fact, she was dropping her foes left and right.

“…As a broomrider, Ashbury’s physique and skills are both beyond perfection.”

This wasn’t even commentary anymore. Dustin had actually cut the voice amp spell and was just talking to himself, unable to peel his eyes off Ashbury. Next to him, Roger could only listen.

“Even to my eyes. She’s always been far more a pure rider than I ever was. My job was to cut down the monsters on the front lines of the Gnostic hunts, but she’s only ever had one enemy—time. I honed my speed so I could kill faster. In the back of my mind, speed itself was never more than a means to an end. But not with her. Speed is the goal, and her entire life is devoted to that pursuit. She’s never once wavered from that.”

Dustin spoke with a mixture of awe and envy. Then he said a number aloud.

“2:25:21. You know what that number is?”

“…Every broomsports fan knows that number, Instructor.”

“That they do. The infamous world record for the broom race regulation course.”

The broomriding instructor spoke as if beholding a marvel.

“That’s what Ashbury’s really up against. Can she surpass that number? That’s the sole meaning of her life. But the rider who set that record died even as they shattered it. It’s one of those numbers. The time itself is a spell.”

“…The time…is a spell…”

“There’s one other reason I said time is her enemy. Broomriders pushing the limits of speed hit the peak of their abilities shockingly early. Late teens, early twenties. Past that point, your times at the highest speeds stop improving. There are a lot of theories why—but I say you just accumulate too much other stuff.” Dustin went on. “Ashbury is twenty years old. The hard limit on setting that record is coming up fast. She knows that better than anyone.”

From the way she was running the field wild, Dustin could feel her urgency. Yet, another part of him sensed he could never truly know what it felt like. Like that former top player once said, riders aiming to be the world’s fastest were always alone. And no coach could do anything to help.

“I’ll say it again—Ashbury’s techniques are flawless. It’s only her mind holding her back. And she’s using the broom fights and broom wars to amp up her competitiveness, trying to get herself where she needs to be. It may look like madness. But there are some barriers you can’t bust down unless you’re crazy.”

Every student watching Ashbury fly knew. Her way of living was how a mage ought to be. And it made them ask themselves—could they even be that insanely committed to their own goals?

“I dunno if the attempt’ll bear fruit. But I can say one thing for sure: I’m a fan. Always have been, am right now—and always will be.”

Dustin said no more. He just watched his student fly like any rider dreamed of. So far, so bright—as if she were burning her light into his eyes before it went out for good.

Just as promised, she’d wiped out the entire team—and like always, Ashbury skipped the post-match meeting, not even changing out of her uniform. She was stalking across the campus, still trailing her mid-match intensity with her. Students she passed flinched and kept their distance, as if spotting a wounded beast.

“…Huff… Huff…!”

She made it to the fountain and plunged her whole head in. Too drastic to really call a cooldown—this was more like a blacksmith cooling heated metal. Her body and mind were too revved up, and nothing else would do the trick.

As she pulled her head out of the water, she heard a man’s voice.

“…Your ferocity scalds the very eye,” he said.

Golden locks reflected in the rippling water. She’d known he was there and didn’t bother turning around.

“I don’t give a warg shit about the election. Do whatever the hell you want.”

“We fully intend to. But there is one thing I thought you should know.”

Leoncio took a step up beside her, placing a crystal on the rim of the fountain. The image contained within began to play, along with a certain voice. A timbre she would never mistake.

“Proof—that Clifton Morgan is still alive.”

Time froze around her. Taking that as the response he’d hoped for, Leoncio turned to leave.

“Keep it,” he said. “You can easily prove the authenticity. That’s all I ask for. I’ll be cheering for you, Ashbury.”

With that transparent falsehood, he sailed away. Ashbury never once looked at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the crystal’s contents.

That evening, the Wild Geese were holding an emergency meeting to discuss the outcome of the league’s first game.

“The Blue Swallows are trouble,” Melissa said, grimly scanning the faces of her teammates. She was essentially speaking for everyone here; there was no need to drive home the urgency of the situation. “Or at least—Ashbury is. She shot right into the heart of the enemy and downed six all on her own. That’s just messed up ! No one can do that!”

“I could scarcely believe my own eyes. Her triumphs are absolutely outstanding!”

Nanao was all smiles, not a trace of concern. She had the most unabashed respect for Ashbury here, and that wasn’t wavering—a fact that earned her a lot of winces from her teammates. Melissa moved over, patted her on the head, and then went back to the fore.

“We try normal tactics, we’ll be pulverized, too. We’ll need to dig deep on formations, tactics, and roles. Ideas, anyone?”

Everyone looked lost in thought.

“…Well, really, if we can take out Ashbury—we win.”

“Is ‘go for the ace’ an actual strategy, per se?”

“Nobody else has pulled it off.”

“And Ashbury wants us all fixated on her.”

“But letting her fly free is worse.”

They weren’t getting anywhere. Everyone had thoughts and plenty of enthusiasm, but the discussion lacked concrete details—so Oliver thought hard and raised a hand. The team captain, Hans Leisegang, spotted that at once.

“Speak, Horn.”

“…What if we start at Full Attack?”

A buzz went through the room. It was like a rock heaved into a pond, and before the ripples could die down, Oliver spoke again.

“It’s a drastic measure, but it eliminates the point of having a berserker. If there’s no formation to disrupt, they’re just another attacker. It boils things down to which side can drop the other captain first.”

“…Abandon defense for an all-out brawl. It makes a certain kind of sense.”

“But…that’s still where Ashbury shines.”

“Dismissing suggestions based on that would leave us with a big ol’ pile of nothing.”

“Is there anything she isn’t great at?”

“Teamwork.”

“Communication.”

“Speaking for five seconds without winding someone up.”

These last three were all at once, which got a big laugh, and Melissa smacked each speaker in turn. Hans had been lurking quietly at the back watching things over, but deeming it time, he chimed in.

“It’s a good idea…but I’m against it.”

Everyone went quiet, waiting for what came next. His tone level, the Wild Geese captain began to elaborate.

“Starting broom wars at Full Attack means abandoning the sport of it. It leaves us all just fending for ourselves. There’s no ‘team’ left in it. If you ask me anyway.”

Oliver straightened up. This was exactly the response he’d been hoping his suggestion would provoke.

“I’m not making some grand statement that a cohesive group can overcoming individual prowess. Mages all gotta rely on their own skills, after all. The Blue Swallows are getting results by letting their ace off the leash as we speak. Letting everyone else fly in the wake of their greatest talent—maybe that’s even the ideal formation. But we Wild Geese do things differently. Right?”

Hans paused, looking each player in the eye in turn.

“We aren’t as nuts as Ashbury, but we got plenty of trouble right here. Nobody listens to a word I say, and plans we make before the match frequently get thrown right out the second we start playing. Most of you will draw your wands the moment your opinions are in conflict. But even so, there’s one thing we’ve all got in common. We’re all here to enjoy flying.”

He raised a clenched fist. His words rang true; that was the heart of everyone here.

“Players who focus only on the fun of the game are called hedonists. And the Wild Geese are chosen for their hedonism. You all know that. And you know that flying in sync with your team is more fun than doing whatever you please. You know the thrill of having all your roles working together like clockwork.” He then added, “Once again, I don’t think teamwork is better than individual skill. It’s simply—we are all of us, together, a single giant goose. Big enough to swallow up some pissant little swallows, right?”

He flashed a grin, and Nanao’s hand shot up.

“Fight not the enemy’s strategy but utilize our own greatest strengths. Is that the essence of your speech, Commander?”

“Good phrasing, Hibiya. Our greatest strength is our passion for the joys of broom wars. And in light of that—does starting at Full Attack sound like fun? I bet we can think of something we’d all like better.”

Oliver knew this had shifted the focus of the discussion. He need add nothing more himself—Hans had put it in plain language, and it had always been the team’s alignment.

“Lemme add a rule to this debate. Don’t plan how to win. Plan how to have fun.” And then he finished with, “You all know why! That’s the plan that’ll bring out our best.”

The meeting lasted a good four hours. When Oliver left the clubhouse and headed toward the arena, the skies were already dark. There, he found an upperclassman seated on the grass.

“…Captain.”

“Mm? Oh, Horn,” the man said, looking up. The Wild Geese captain had been in that same meeting with him. Their reunion was no coincidence—Oliver had come here specifically looking for him. Hans fired his famous broad grin over his shoulder. “Sorry about earlier. I kinda used your suggestion as a springboard.”

“Not at all. I never expected that idea to go through.”

He knew Hans knew that had always been the point of his proposal. Perhaps a bit too obliging of his teammate, Hans chuckled and turned his eyes back to the night sky.

“Honestly, if this was just one match in a normal league, I might have gone for it,” he said. “It never hurts to try new things, and it could be a good chance to reevaluate everyone’s offensive potential. That goes double when we stand little chance of winning otherwise. But the way Ashbury’s playing? This is our one shot at going up against a rider like her. She’s at her peak. She won’t be like this next year.”

Oliver nodded, saying not a word. This was something any mage could feel in their bones. Ashbury was burning her life away. It wouldn’t last long, and there was no turning back. Oliver’s own version of that might be different in nature, but he knew only too well how rough it was.

“I don’t wanna waste our time flying with her on a strategy that ain’t like us. Win or lose—I’m a hedonist all the way.”

The captain smiled like a naughty child. Oliver laughed and sat down next to him.

“…I think that’s what drew Nanao and me to this team.”

“Aw, you’re gonna make me cry!”

The captain’s large hand mussed the boy’s hair. Oliver winced but indulged Hans—his thoughts began turning to Nanao’s role in the upcoming Blue Swallows match.

After the team spent three days running through every possible scenario, the big day arrived—it was one PM.

“Here it is! Day four of the broom wars league! The Wild Geese versus the Blue Swallows! The teams are streaming in from east and west!”

The announcer, Roger, was already going full bore. Watching the players take to the skies, he turned to Dustin once again seated by his side.

“Instructor, how do you see this going?”

“The Blue Swallows have already won two games playing a winning strategy. Ashbury rockets into the opponents’ formation, causing chaos; then her team’s attacks press that advantage, and once they’ve dropped a few and have momentum, they switch to Full Attack. Both matches were perfect victories, so there’s no reason to think they’ll change up that plan. It all hinges on how the Wild Geese plan to fight back.”

The match itself would show what the two teams had in mind. The Blue Swallows were hot right now, but could the Wild Geese nip that in the bud? That thought was on the mind of every audience member. And Blue Swallows fans were no exception. They loved to see their team win but still craved a good game. Two conflicting impulses that existed inside them all.

The horns sounded, heralding the start of the match. Both teams’ attackers shot forward, and one Swallow peeled away from the pack. The start everyone had expected.

“And they’re off! Ashbury already charging in, as she is wont to do! What now, Wild Geese? Got anything that can handle her ludicrous violence?”

“They’re not using any unusual formations. I figured there was a chance they’d go for broke and start at Full Attack, but apparently not. Hopefully they’ve got something else in mind, but…”

Dustin had his arms folded, scowling at the Wild Geese. Ashbury had already slipped through their front line and was in full berserker mode: hitting anyone she got near, forcing all their attention onto her. Maneuvers so good, no sense or standards need apply.

“Ashbury’s in their camp all alone, wrecking face! Same as the matches before! And her team’s attackers are closing in! The Wild Geese are in trouble!”

“…They’re not doing bad, actually,” Dustin muttered. It might look like the same outcome, but he’d spotted a critical difference. “They’re all keeping their wits about them. Ashbury’s deep in their pocket—but not causing chaos.”

Dustin’s take was right on the money. The Wild Geese’s strategy was already in full swing.

“Oh shit! Oh shiiiit!”

Ashbury was hot on the heels of a player known for using his tiny frame to make tight maneuvers, an asset when running from a faster foe—comparatively. But here, that just meant it took slightly longer for him to go down.

“You! Wait right there!” Melissa roared. She’d come in swinging, trying to prevent that fate. Every bit as experienced as the captain himself, her flying was notoriously stable—she excelled less at felling foes than avoiding getting felled herself. Enough that she could go a few rounds with Ashbury and live.

“…I’m up next, eh? Gotta get her after me, then. C’mon!”

The third player was also a veteran sixth-year. He was possibly an even better fit for this role than the other two. Ashbury had downed him more than another player at Kimberly—for one simple reason: “I don’t like the way he flies.”

“So that’s three defenders on Ashbury.”

The end of the earlier meeting. The Wild Geese captain had gone through all the opinions offered and settled on this plan.

“But let’s be clear, their job is not to drop her—they’re bait. They’re trying to keep her attention on them. Specifically, the three of them will take turns making her chase them. The four of you will be playing a different game—and nobody else will pay Ashbury any attention unless she’s directly coming after them. This should help limit the extent of her disruptive tactics.”

This drew a series of hmms. Everyone got the logic behind it, but…

“Make her chase us? That’s tricky.”

“By having three on Ashbury, we can minimize other casualties, right?”

“That’s easier than dropping her, I guess.”

“But how sustainable is it? She’s gonna figure it out sooner or later.”

“We’re not saying keep it up indefinitely. This strategy is for the start of the match only. If you can keep her at it for four or five minutes, great. In light of that—do we have any volunteers?”

The captain looked around, and Nanao’s hand shot up first.

“Let me at her!”

“Good answer, but…Hibiya, we’ve got another role for you.”

That was all she needed to hear, and she sat back down. By the board, Melissa quietly raised a hand.

“…Then I’ll go. I’m a good fit. I’ve gone up against her plenty.”

There was a longer silence, and then other hands started going up.

“I’m probably right for it. She’s chased me often enough that I’ve gotta pretty good idea of what’ll piss her off.”

“But we’ll need variety in that department. I guess I could bring out her vicious streak…”

The captain grinned at his volunteers. Once again certain that the Wild Geese’s greatest strength was their differences.

“Good work, all three of you,” Hans muttered. They were getting the job done. They had a handful of minutes before Ashbury figured it out, and it was on him to put that to good use.

“Forward!”

He threw up a hand sign, and the players who saw it—attacker and defender alike—shot forward.

“…Whoa! That’s a shocker. The Wild Geese have Ashbury deep in their zone, yet half the team’s on the offensive!”

“Aha! So that’s the gambit,” Dustin crowed, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes glittering at the unexpected turn up above. “That’s a problem for Ashbury. The rest of her team have been forced into defensive positions—her disrupting the back lines is accomplishing nothing.”

The berserker’s effectiveness depended on the opportunities they created for the rest of their team. But with everyone too busy defending to follow up on her moves, that meant she was stranded in enemy territory. A lost soldier with no effect on the war at hand.

It didn’t take her long to work that out. Dustin saw her glance toward the far side of the field and muttered, “Yep, you’ve gotta turn back. But when you do…”

“…Tch—”

Realizing her actions were getting her team nowhere, Ashbury turned to head back to her side—but the instant her attention shifted away from the fight at hand, a club came swinging toward her from diagonally above.

“ ?!”

She barely blocked it with her own weapon, but from a less-than-ideal posture—she failed to fully redirect the force of the hit. Knocked off balance, she lost speed and altitude while she righted herself. With far less momentum, she wheeled through the sky below, voices raining down on her.

“Going somewhere, Ashbury?”

“I’m insulted! You’re dancing with us, remember?”

“That’s right! You’ve yet to drop anyone.”

The three players she’d been chasing. They’d cast off all pretense of being mere prey and were baring their talons—after stealing the height advantage.

Ashbury’s lips twitched.

“Buzz off, gnats!”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh?! The Wild Geese trio going hard! The moment Ashbury tried to back up her side, they landed a good one! Like they were waiting for that to happen!”

“They were. They knew full well Ashbury was gonna be forced home there. Anyone worth their salt would hit her back. The three of them have been keeping her busy with tight teamwork and waiting for their chance to do just this.”

Dustin sounded deeply impressed. They had to avoid getting downed, keep her from cottoning on to their plan, and work together to keep her focus going this way and that—it took real finesse. And the timing for their counter had been flawless. You likely couldn’t have pulled off the same thing with any other top players in the senior leagues. The Wild Geese were a motley crew of flaky players, and that had paid off for them big-time here.

“Once you’ve been knocked to the lower sky, it’s no easy task regaining speed or altitude. She’s lost the greatest strengths a broomrider has, and it’s three against one. Even for Ashbury, that’s rough. Course, she might still pull through—”

Ashbury was throwing herself into a clash with her foes, heedless of the positional disadvantage. Dustin tore his eyes off her a moment, scanning the other battles on the front line.

“—but it won’t be anytime soon. This moment here is all Wild Geese.”

Broom wars clashes had a hard advantage to whoever landed the first blow. For a very simple reason—moving first meant moving faster.

“Aughhh…?!”

“Shit! Why are they attacking?!”

“They’re cutting me off! I can’t get up to speed!”

The rule every rider knew was working against the Blue Swallows—they’d been waiting for Ashbury’s rampage to give them openings. But before that could happen, they’d been forced into combat.

“What the heck is Ashbury doing…?!”

“Get back here!”

Even as they fought, her teammates were cursing under their breaths. Getting forced onto the defensive—that was one thing. They’d accounted for the possibility of their opposition starting at Full Attack, so they had their response drilled into their heads. The problem was that Ashbury wasn’t with them. If she could free herself up, then this was a golden chance to hit their foes from both sides.

Yet, clinging to that idea was dragging them deeper into the bog. An ace-reliant mindset could not handle this Wild Geese onslaught. Their momentum pushed them back, two players went down in rapid succession, and a third player took a heavy hit to their back, lost their balance, and spotted another foe coming in fast. Their doom seemed inescapable—

“Don’t flinch, people!” a teammate roared, swooping in to the rescue. The Blue Swallows looked startled. They’d all been fighting to protect him—the team captain, who should have been waiting on the back lines.

“Honestly, what’s wrong with you?! Since when are you useless without Ashbury? Remember our team logo and what it symbolizes!”

A steely glint lit every Swallow’s eye. He knew the downside of having an ace who was too good—and he’d been aware that it could corner them like this. It was a captain’s duty to snap his team out of it, and that was why he’d exposed himself on the front lines, setting an example.

“We ain’t licked yet, Geese. We ain’t a friendly flock like you.”

And there was a clear symbol of that attitude—the team logo. Where the Wild Geese and other teams had multiple birds in their logos, the Swallows had only one. That solitary swallow symbolized the ultimate ace—and that every member of the team should be striving for that level of excellence. A collection of players who valued only their own abilities—that had been the Blue Swallows’ ideal since the team’s conception.

“Don’t wait for anyone else! Carve your own path forward! Each of us is a solitary swallow, hell-bent on being the next ace!”

His voice echoed in their ears, reminding them who they were—and banishing their indecision. Vicious smiles appeared on every face, and the unflocked swallows charged into the flock of geese.

“The Blue Swallows are holding up against the Wild Geese’s assault! They’ve been pushed back, but not conquered! Way to stand your ground!”

“That captain’s rallying cry did the trick. If morale is back, they won’t crumble this easily. There’s not a single weak link on their side.”

Dustin looked rather pleased, but his smile soon faded. He canceled the amp spell on his wand. He always did when the matches were in a delicate phase to prevent his words altering the flow of the game.

“…But this is the opposite of what they thought would happen. They’ve been forced to focus on the situation at hand—but that can give you tunnel vision. Even a veteran flier will find it tricky to grasp the whole of the playing field.”

He glanced upward. From the announcer’s booth, they could see everything. Including things not visible from the thick of battle.

“And that leaves you blind. Blind enough that no one has noticed a tiny second-year is nowhere to be seen.”

On the ground below the battle, as the other catchers braced for plummeters, Oliver alone saw the same thing.

“Yes. Now, Nanao.”

Yes, right now—Nanao was in the sky far above the fray, about to swoop down into the enemy lines.

“Your head is mine!”

Her aim set, she plunged straight down. Turning her height into speed, faster and faster. At this velocity, the ground was a wall coming up hard, but her eyes saw only the captain’s head.

He sensed her coming just before the hit, and his head snapped up—

“Crap—!”

Too late. There was no way he could dodge it now. Nanao’s club was swinging with overwhelming speed, aimed right at the Blue Swallows’ captain. Her one and only shot at him—so she aimed to down him no matter how he reacted. That thought alone burning in her heart, her mighty swing took her inches from triumph—

“ ?!”

—and a flash from the stands blotted her vision.

Nanao had come rocketing out of the sky toward the opponent’s captain, but her club missed by a hairbreadth. She barely pulled out of the dive in time, skimming the surface. The crowd gasped aloud.

“Aughhhhhhhh! Hibiya with a stunning surprise attack from on high! A deadly chop right at the captain’s head! But she came up empty! Did the nerves get to her?”

“…No.”

As Roger roared, Dustin rose to his feet. He upped the amplification on his voice, bellowing at the field.

“Stop the match! Interference! You there! The piece of shit shining light in Hibiya’s eyes from the stands! Don’t you dare move! You can’t fool my eyes!”

He pointed right at the stands and saw a speck turn and run.

The horns sounded, stopping the match. The players in flight slowed down.

“Huh? A stoppage?”

“What for? Interference…?”

The three Wild Geese players on Ashbury did the same, gaping at the announcer booth. The Blue Swallows’ ace began swooping away, flying off somewhere.

“…Ah?! No, wait!” Melissa yelled. “It’s a stoppage!”

“…Tch, overplayed my hand…”

Blending into the tumult of the crowd, he worked his way quickly toward the exit—the “speck” who’d caused the stoppage.

The old student council camp had ordered him to interfere but had no interest in the actual outcome of the match. Whether Ashbury’s team or Nanao’s won, their grudge was with the two girls whose stunning moves would be all anyone talked about. Their strategy was to ensure that—whatever the outcome—they would embarrass themselves in the process.

Since Ashbury had been locked up through the opening stages, there was little point in bothering her; his attentions had turned to Nanao. Her rapid ascent had made it clear what she planned to do. He had done his best to time things so his interference would go undetected, but that wasn’t happening under Dustin’s watchful eye. His only remaining option was to get out of dodge before they identified him as the culprit. But as he neared the exit…

“You’re not getting away, asshole!”

Several second-years blocked the door—and he knew his plans were foiled.

“We saw the whole thing. It was your wand that flashed.”

“And you broke into a run when Instructor Dustin called you out.”

“How dare you do that to Nanao! What if she’d failed to pull out of the dive in time?!”

Guy, Chela, Pete, and Katie all had their wands drawn, looking furious. The culprit spun around, seeking other exits…but got nowhere. An upperclassman stood before him, wand raised—hair over one eye.

“Your side never surprises. This classless behavior did not impress in the previous election, either.”

“……!”

Four underclassmen in front of him, Miligan behind—the culprit was trapped with nowhere to go. He drew his athame, hoping to force his way through the second-years—and a club swung down out of nowhere, knocking him to the ground.

“Guh?!”

Then a hand shot out, grabbed him by the throat, and squeezed. His windpipe crushed, he couldn’t breathe, much less scream—and he was hoisted up off his feet.

“You’re the one who interfered?!”

Hovering in midair on her broom, radiating fury from every inch of her body—Diana Ashbury. Her bloodlust was so high that even Miligan took a step back. And the perpetrator learned too late the fate awaiting anyone who spoiled a broom match while Ashbury was around.

“…Kah…khhh……!”

“Die.”

The bones in his neck creaked. Riders carried no wands or blades, and their clubs weren’t designed to do any lasting damage. The only way she could kill was with her bare hands. Ashbury was clearly hell-bent on doing just that. Allowed no resistance or protests, the culprit’s eyes rolled up in his head, his limbs dangling limply—

“Ashbury, that’s quite enough.”

A girl’s voice. Ashbury found a hand on her arm, gently soothing her fury.

“I am unharmed. My eyes were briefly dazzled, but that is hardly a concern,” Nanao said. “Come, let us resume the match. Our battle has only just begun.”

Shouldering her club, she flashed a grin—and eased Ashbury’s frown.

“…True. Can’t waste time on maggots when I’m busy fighting you.”

The limp body crashed to the ground. Ashbury spared it no further heed, wheeling back to the field. Arcing across the upper sky, she barked, “Get this match back underway, refs! In light of the interference, ensure the starting positions favor the Wild Geese!”

The refs quickly conferred and announced the restart positions less than a minute later. Since Nanao’s surprise attack would likely have been effective, the positions allowed them to maintain an advantage, and the Wild Geese were starting at a higher altitude. Neither team argued with that, and the players swiftly flew to their start positions—and the horn sounded.

“Here we go again… But let’s switch up the dance.”

Ashbury was in the same fix she’d been in pre-stoppage with the three Wild Geese members moving to keep her stuck there. One cut in from the side, another joined in based on her reaction, and the third was on standby above, putting pressure on her. A strategy designed to keep her from gaining speed or altitude. Even for Ashbury, no ordinary techniques would get her out of this.

Good thing her techniques were extraordinary.

She deflected the first blow with her club. That left her slightly off-balance, and a beat later, the second opponent came swinging in from diagonally behind. Only way to dodge would be to drop down, speeding up—but that would only make her position worse. Bearing down on her, Melissa was certain this placed them one step closer to victory—

“Huff—”

—but as Melissa’s club swung through, the back before her dropped out of sight—and something grabbed her leg.

“Huh?”

She looked down in shock. Her left foot was in the stirrup, and the tip of a club was hooked onto it. Ashbury dangled from the grip. Deft control of speed and angle made her a weight on whoever her club had snared.

“Wha—?”

“Hah?!”

“You’re kidding!”

This was a stunt known as the backhook. Logically, during a dogfight, when both players’ speeds were aligned, the rider in front could pull this on their pursuer. As their opponent attacked from behind, they used the same stall principle as the feather fall to swap places—and as their pursuer passed them, they used the club to snare them. But the move itself was far too tricky for even the best broomriders to pull off—it was a move only written about.

“Uh…l-let go! Damn it—”

Melissa sped up, rocking herself right and left, trying to fling her off. But that club was not just hooked onto her—it was attached using a sword arts technique—Lanoff-style Sticky Edge. She could try and swing her own club, but Ashbury was behind her. There was little the others could do—in such close proximity, any swings they took would let Ashbury use Melissa as a shield.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Ashbury wasn’t merely dangling from her feet. She was slowly but steadily stealing her momentum.

“Good enough.”

When she’d gained enough speed, she swung the hooked club, passing her. The sideways swipe hit Melissa square in the chest—and her frantic attempts to escape had left her vulnerable. That hit alone sent her falling headfirst toward the ground.

“You asshole—!”

Curses followed from below, but Ashbury was too busy to listen. The speed she’d gained from the backhook was more than enough to let her take on the other two—but there was already a new foe heading her way from on high.

“Have at thee, Ashbury!”

“Ready for ya.”

There was a grin on her face. She’d known this was coming. That was why she’d used the opening moments of the restart to get herself back to full speed. Feeling the exhilaration bubbling on her skin, Ashbury threw her entire spirit against the Azian girl.

“Hibiya turned as the match resumed, heading right for Ashbury! They’re really going at it!”

“A wise decision. Her surprise attack failed, and their captain won’t make that same mistake again. The best thing she can do is switch targets and try to take Ashbury down. After all, the moment she freed herself from that three-on-one, the Wild Geese no longer had any advantage.”

The two of them were fighting far from the main cluster. Until the two battles joined together, this match was still up in the air.

“She downed one of her initial trio; then Hibiya joined in. Still three on one. This is the watershed moment. Can they drop Ashbury before she flips those odds? That’ll determine the outcome here.”

“Seiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Hahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Their cries echoed across the sky. Their speeds so great, every clash of clubs made sparks fly. And with each clash, Nanao thought anew—how mighty a warrior she fought.

They were not an even match. Though it fell to her to land a decisive blow, her teammates were still focused on slowing Ashbury down. Clash into a turn, turn into an ascent—at each phase, they stuck their oars in, and her performance was never at peak. Yet, even under those conditions, the arcs Ashbury traced were never any worse than Nanao’s own. It took the three of them to match her at all.

“I couldn’t possibly ask for more…!”

Nanao was simply grateful. To her fearsome foe, to her worthy allies—to everyone who allowed this moment to be. Without them, she could not fight like this. Could not experience the passion and fulfillment of this instant.

“Seiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Recovering, she turned, rising—and at peak height, she threw herself into a descent. Each stage of that process required the utmost concentration, and yet she thought, Thus, I must return the favor in kind. To the teammates she shared a sky with. To the audience watching with bated breaths. To her catcher, watching from the ground. And to Clifton Morgan, who had asked that she take on Ashbury in her sky.

To all who had brought her here.

“ !”

And Ashbury could tell—this girl was driven by feelings for her own self as well.

So perhaps…what forced her off her broom on their sixth clash was partly her own doing.

“…Ah—”

It had been a while since she felt this weightlessness. Not quite fear—a sense of loss, like sand flowing between her fingertips. The one who caught her when this happened was no longer down below.

And that sensation drew forth a memory.

“Carve this into your heart, Diana. This is your goal.”

She was five years old when she’d first held a broom. Her first flight left her feeling exalted, omnipotent. And then her parents showed her the footage.

Inside that crystal was a broomrider in flight. Even at her age, she could tell this rider was going incredibly fast. This was nothing like the fun little jaunt she’d just taken. A mage who had devoted her life to flying faster, the fruits of those efforts made manifest. It was beautiful yet terrifying—a spell given form.

“Be like her. Be better. Seek what lies beyond this accomplishment.”

She agreed before any thoughts crossed her mind. The blood flowing in her veins demanded it. She had never once had a choice. This girl’s life had been designed for this, long before her birth. Her body was shorn of all unnecessary weight. Even fully grown, she would lack the ability to bear a child. The Ashbury clan had removed everything not needed from their blood, and she was the result. A single-generation work of art.

Her siblings would carry on that legacy. Her task was to fly. To leave everything in her wake, flying where no one else had ever been.

“ !”

And this crystal showed her where that life would lead.

The rider’s body disintegrated. After that incredible, record-setting flight, the rider’s entire body and her broom crumbled away like ash in an inferno, scattering across the sky. The ashes carried up into the blue, never to touch the ground again.

The girl sat staring at the sky in the crystal, wondering, Where did she go?

She’d done it all and, seconds later, melted into the firmament. There was nothing else to strive for, for the first and last time.

So where had her heart gone?

After Ashbury fell, there were no major turns, and the day closed with the Wild Geese victorious.

At the post-match meeting, Nanao was tossed in the air by her teammates, and when she escaped that, she was mobbed by the Sword Roses. When she finally got away from them, she headed toward the Blue Swallows’ training ground, where she found the one she sought flat on her back in the grass.

“Good evening, Ashbury.”

“……”

“May I join you?”

Nanao didn’t wait for an answer. She sat down by Ashbury, and for a few minutes, neither spoke.

At last, Ashbury broke her sullen silence. “…You’ve grown even stronger. I never imagined you’d drop me.”

“It was hardly my power alone. We honed our strategy, seized the opportunity, and my comrades and I flew as one—and only then could we come close.”

“But you’re still the one who finished it. If either of the others had come for me there, I know I could’ve endured.”

“And had you not chosen to engage me, you might still have.”

Nanao was not being modest. If Ashbury had stayed focused purely on her team’s victory, she would never have been in a bullfight with the Azian girl. She could have kept dodging until her teammates came to help, taking the fight back only once her disadvantage was gone. That itself was hardly a simple task—but easier than winning a three-on-one fight.

But Ashbury just shook her head.

“You came in to challenge me. How could I run? That’d just be pathetic.”

She snorted; Nanao nodded. Having fought with all her might, she knew better than anyone the shape of this woman’s pride.

“…I have things to discuss with you,” she said, shifting to her knees.

“Formal,” Ashbury said, glancing her way.

“Morgan yet lives. Will you join me tonight and seek him out?”

This hit so hard, she forgot to blink.

And then her mind began churning again. The crystal Leoncio had given her—there’d been a voice in the background she’d heard before, calling that name.

“…Huh. So that was your voice.”

“?”

“Never mind. So? What about it? He quit being my catcher a long time ago. Whether he’s alive or dead—honestly, it makes no difference to me.”

The back half might have been less than honest, but the question was real. Leoncio had told her this to rattle her and undermine her match performance. Given his character and the politics of the hour, that was obvious—but the girl before her would never think like that. Ashbury had no clue what could motivate this reveal.

But when her eyes met Nanao’s and she found that gaze held true—she knew. This was naught but an act of kindness, done in service of someone she admired.

“To defeat one’s self, one must first know one’s self. For you, Ashbury—that means Morgan.”

“…I am me. No one knows me better.”

“Nay, Ashbury. You have long averted your eyes from the truth.”

“……!”

Ashbury’s chest tightened. Nanao was the only person who dared talk like that to her. No words minced, no holds barred. Eyes unclouded, speaking strictly from the heart.

She couldn’t dodge it. She felt like a sitting duck. But even so—she shook her head.

“…Maybe you’ve got a point. But I’m still not going. No matter who says otherwise,” she told Nanao. “Seeing him would make me weak. I’d want to rely on him. And that would end me. With a heart at peace, I could never reach the fastest realms. I could never get where I need to be.”

“Ashbury…”

When Nanao tried to speak again, Ashbury held up a hand, stopping her.

“But I do have a favor to ask, Ms. Hibiya. Two weeks from now—come watch me fly.”

“Naturally, I would love to,” Nanao said, blinking.

Without realizing it, she had kept her promise to Morgan. Their match today had put the finishing touches on Ashbury’s drive.

Ashbury could find nothing lacking. She was sure any more time spent preparing would be a waste, a delay of the inevitable.

“That’s the day I fight. The day I ask why Diana Ashbury was born.”

Her mind was made up. She would stake every fiber of her being on the spell she sought.

The broomsport world record provided preferential treatment based on times set. This was not a Kimberly preference but a Union one—the better your past achievements, the more accommodations were made for further attempts at the record.

Specifically, and most typically, you could summon top riders at your level for a meet. In other words, you could force other riders to fly along with your record attempt. Naturally, as long as there were people around to ensure the course was regulation and witness the record itself, you could make the attempt alone, but that was purely theoretical; few players aiming for the throne would even consider it. They all knew from experience, and from the history of the sport, that having rivals fly the course with you offered clear improvements to your times.

“…Not long now.”

Beneath cruelly cerulean skies, Dustin Hedges gazed up at the course rings he himself had ordered polished to perfection. Like the throngs of students here, he was waiting for the star to arrive.

She did not keep them waiting long. Clad in a Blue Swallows uniform, she came strolling out into the arena. A broom on her back, but no club in hand. The sport today needed no weapons. Perhaps as a result, today she seemed disinclined to murder anyone.

Arms folded, Dustin gave her a long look, and she raised a hand in response.

“Here to watch, Instructor?”

“Of course.” He snorted. “Who do you think handled negotiations?”

He wasn’t exaggerating; it was his hard work that had made this attempt possible. Even with preferential treatment, gathering this many top players on two weeks’ notice took some doing. He’d been negotiating not just with the riders themselves but with their schools and coaches, and that had been a real tug-of-war.

Exactly the sort of thing Dustin usually despised, but the moment Ashbury asked him to get the venue ready, he’d thrown himself into it without a word of complaint. No thought in his mind but giving his student the stage she deserved.

“Thanks,” Ashbury said with a brief flicker of a smile.

She knew the truth. Her teacher and coach had bent over backward for her. All along, behind the scenes or out in the light of day, he’d been toiling away for her sake.

Awkwardly avoiding his student’s gaze, Dustin muttered, “The headmistress ain’t coming. Said it would just stress everyone out. But—you know her. She’ll be watching from somewhere.”

Ashbury glanced toward the school building. She’d better be watching. The headmistress had relit this fire under her; she had to see it through. That “You’ve gotten slow” was still ringing in her ears. Ashbury was here to prove that wrong forever, burning the truth into the headmistress’s eyes.

But Ashbury never doubted she was watching. The headmistress was out there somewhere—and secure in that belief, she put it out of her mind. Her eyes turned to the faces on the field. Refs from the broomsports committee, timekeepers, catchers, a huge crowd hoping to see history made—and more vital than anyone, the lineup of top players from across the Union.

“The gang’s all here.”

A row of the world’s best riders, all dressed in the liveries of their schools. She’d called them here. Ashbury had the best time among them, but the riders here were the broom races’ top twelve. Three were Kimberly students and the remaining nine from other schools. The top reaches of broom racing was a narrow little world. She’d faced every one of them at prior meets; there were no strangers here.

“Faster than I thought. I had money on you pushing it off till next year.”

“You’ve got your sights set? You brought us all here. It better not have been in vain.”

They were all glaring at Ashbury. She savored the prickling of her flesh, then issued an ultimatum.

“Thanks for coming out. I want one thing from you: Come after my life, or I’ll be taking yours.”

And with that, she turned her back and headed for the course itself. The players behind her looked furious…and then started laughing.

“…Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha, and we’re doing her a favor.”

“I came all the way from Lantshire, y’know. And I hate Kimberly.”

“Sorry. Our girl there ain’t got nothing in her head but flying fast.”

“Clearly. But still—you can tell she’s ready.”

The last speaker was the oldest player there. His lips curled arrogantly.

“Don’t gripe about her attitude. You’re all thinking the same thing. Everyone else here is to make you better.”

The exact same smile appeared on every face. Of course. They weren’t the audience. This was a meet. Every one of them had a shot at the record. That’s why they’d come. Historically, players invited like this had actually set new records—and more than a few times.

Ashbury’s attempt had them all feeling competitive and motivated. And Dustin knew it.

“No one’s missing. Nothing comes up, we’ll start on time. First three, on the course.”

He drew his white wand, waving at three players. Two of them boarded their brooms and flew off, but Ashbury first did a flyby of the stands.

“Ms. Hibiya, hold these.”

She took her wand and athame off her waist and handed them to Nanao where she sat with the Sword Roses. This pair was the hallmark of a mage and the final anchor on a broomrider. Given only to one you trusted—Nanao clutched them tight.

“…Mm. They are safe with me.”

“Good.”

Ashbury headed up to the start line. Three riders were waiting above.

“All players in position!” Dustin roared, his voice amplification active. “Thirty seconds! Countdown will start at ten.”

He took a small sphere from his pocket and had it hover at the tip of his wand. Horns and whistles were never piercing enough, and signaling with a spell was at the mercy of the chanter’s voice. Broomsport events had long made use of these specialized burst orbs. The count itself was done by a nearby ref, and Dustin pumped magic into the orb in time with it.

“…Three, two, one—zero!”

A crack echoed across the heavens. And three shooting stars took off.

Broom races were a very simple sport. The course was a series of rings in the air, and the players flew through them in order. As long as no one skipped a ring or obstructed another player, the winner was determined just like any ordinary race—by whoever reached the final goal first.

Since this was a world record event, it used a standardized course, an extremely orthodox layout involving three straightaways, four corners, and two windings, and they’d compete for time on three laps. Unlike ground-based courses, this one turned in three dimensions, so the riders were forced to make tight turns up, down, right, and left.

“Hoo…!”

“Phew—!”

Their launch speeds had already been tremendous. Their acceleration down the first straightaway made the crowd doubt their eyes. They hit the corner on a line that suggested they’d run a con on inertia, and they blazed through the winding that followed with dizzying maneuvers. The first lap was over inside a minute, and they headed into the next with no loss of speed.

Everyone here could ride a broom, but most had never seen the top riders fly before. And all thought the same thing—this was insane.

“First down! Time?”

“2:26:47!” the timekeeper called.

“Starting in the twenty-six-second block?” Dustin muttered. “Not bad. Second try! Everyone but Ashbury swap out! Next two, take your places!”

The riders flying with Ashbury swapped out on the regular, and the first ten minutes went by with tension rising.

“…Ten-minute break! Come on back, Ashbury,” Dustin called.

It was part of his job to make sure they got the rest they needed. She collapsed on a bench he had waiting for her.

“…Huff, huff…”

“Drink up. Sip at a time. Like it’s nectar from a flower.”

He handed her a potion with a straw stuck in, and she gulped away. He’d made it just for her, from the ingredients to its viscosity. She caught her breath and focused on recovering her strength.

“…You’re on the right track,” Dustin said. “Here’s where the fight really begins. Don’t let your focus waver.”

“The hell do you think you’re talking to…?”

Her canine punctured the straw. Dustin knew he’d picked the right words. This was where the fight started.

“Three, two, one—zero!”

After that brief break, they headed into the fourth attempt, the crowd watching with bated breath. There were benches behind them, but no one took a seat.

“…I can’t…breathe…”

“Don’t force yourself to watch, Katie.”

The curly-haired girl had a hand to her face, taking short, shallow breaths. Oliver looked rather alarmed. She was far too empathetic; this spectacle was a bit too much for her.

“…This is a broom races world record attempt,” he explained. “These riders have trained for this day, trimmed everything else away—they’re all flying past their own limits. The intensity is so high, it’s not at all unusual for racers to die in the attempt. Not even from a fall, just dying in midflight.”

“It is not an event you enjoy watching. Yet, that is what makes it so compelling,” Chela added. “What is the nature of a mage’s life? What does it mean to risk your life for something? The way they fly forces us to ponder those great riddles.”

She never once took her eyes off the fliers. Oliver had his own thoughts on her comments and glanced toward the Azian girl at his side.

“…Think she can do it, Nanao? Break the record?”

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like only she could give an accurate read. And it took her a long moment to respond.

“………The time is not yet ripe.”

Six more attempts. Thirty minutes of excruciating flight and a third short rest. Ashbury reeled to the bench, barely conscious, and Dustin grabbed her roughly.

“What’s wrong with you, Ashbury? Is that all you got? Is that your limit?!”

“……Hah…… Hah……”

Dustin was desperately trying to keep the last light in her eyes from going out. She couldn’t afford to pass out here—that would spell the end to her concentration and the end of her attempt. They would never again assemble a lineup like this. Even if they did, it would be after Ashbury’s abilities had peaked. This was her shot. The one chance she had at achieving her goal.

“I know it isn’t! You’re not done yet! You can’t be…!”

Before he knew it, there were tears rolling down his cheeks. There was nothing he could do to help her here; he was up against the hard limit of what a coach could offer. His voice reached her ears but seemed so far away; despite his best efforts, her mind was slipping into darkness.

“Gah-ha-ha, you finally made a teacher cry!”

Ashbury’s eyes snapped open. That distinctive laugh was like a kick in the pants to her flagging spirits.

“Mor…gan…?”

Her blurred vision and bleary mind both snapped into focus. She was lying on a bench, and a man was looming over it, looking down at her.

“…Looks like we got here in time. Barely.”

This came from the smaller man next to him: Kevin Walker, the Survivor. He was helping the larger man stand: her catcher, Clifton Morgan. In the flesh.

“Will you not pay Ashbury a visit?”

It was the night they had been attacked on the second layer. Morgan had come to save them, and Nanao had sat face-to-face with him, pleading with him to change his mind.

“I am aware of the difficulties. Yet—this cannot stand. Ashbury is wagering all that she is and has been and yet finds herself unable to commit the last reserves of her strength.”

She sounded very certain. And that got his attention.

“…Why do you think that?”

“She has lost the place her heart lies. That is separate from one’s goal—but is a thing we all need when we are racing toward a far-off destination. A journey with no home to return to is little more than drifting.”

Nanao had lost her home to war. Though brought to Kimberly, she had spent a long time adrift before finding a new place with the Sword Roses. That’s why she knew. Though Ashbury herself might be loath to admit it—this was what she needed.

“Ashbury has deemed the desire for a home a weakness and is attempting to dismiss it. But as long as she is human, that can never be. Yet, as a result, I fear I may not be able to bring her here. Much to my chagrin.”

Nanao’s fists were clenched tight. She got down on her knees, bowing her head low and placing her palms on the ground. A gesture from a different culture, yet the polished movements and the intent behind them were painfully clear. This stance was the highest expression of sincerity that she possessed.

“Clifton Morgan, I beseech you. Step once more into the halls of our campus—for the sake of the broomrider you love.”

He’d thought about it for days and finally acquiesced to her plea.

“I can’t do much. Can barely hold a wand. I’m just part of the scenery.”

It’d been so long since they’d seen each other, and he was just putting his condition in plain words. There was a reason he hadn’t left the labyrinth. He was preparing for the worst, of course, but also because as long as he remained in the labyrinth with its high magic-particle density, the tír fire’s ravaging was somewhat suppressed.

On the second layer, he’d still been able to fight. But on the first layer, that had swiftly deteriorated, and by the time he’d reached the school, he couldn’t even walk without assistance. He’d known this would happen; that was why he’d asked for Kevin Walker’s help. The Survivor had agreed immediately. They’d had plenty of problems along the way but had somehow made it in time.

“…But will that change anything?” Morgan asked, looking right at her.

Ashbury slowly peeled herself off the bench.

“Dunno. Maybe not.”

Yet, despite those words, there was a smile on her lips. She got back on her broom and flew away. The next pair of competitors joined her at the start line. Feeling a change in the wind, Dustin glanced at the ref and timekeeper, then readied a burst orb.

“Three, two, one—zero!”

The countdown to the tenth attempt. Three stars shot across the sky. And the start alone sent a stir through the crowd.

“Yo, is she…?”

“She’s flying differently.”

“Yeah, gaining more speed out the gate.”

The racers left on the ground could all tell. And their read was soon obvious to everyone—Ashbury had pulled away from the competition. As she tore out of the corner into the bend, the riders gasped again.

“Is that shit real?!”

“It can’t be—at that speed?”

“This ain’t funny. It’s like water coursing down a canal!”

Their faces were a fright: impressed but also jealous as all hell. Her strong, aggressive maneuvers had always been there—but the tension behind them was gone. She was no longer desperately trying to push something out of mind, and the power that gave her was compelling her onward. She could fly straight.

“…Nanao, is she—?” Oliver began.

Nanao nodded. “Now the time is ripe.”

He’d suspected as much. Nanao had always seen what he saw now.

At last, Ashbury realized the truth. She had never been afraid of falling or dying.

The pressure of the incoming age cutoff, the fear that she might not set a new record before then—neither of those was what had ravaged her heart so. In fact, she’d always been certain she could do it. She knew she could put the work of a lifetime to the test and reach the realm beyond.

2:20:87.

The thing that scared her—to her chagrin—was what lay after that. Running a course at the cost of her life, surpassing the limits of her flesh, and after that—the idea planted in her head by the footage her parents had shown her. That scant few seconds before her body disintegrated—that was what she feared.

2:22:16.

She was certain those seconds would be devastating. Once she’d fulfilled the duty Ashbury blood demanded of her, reached the realm she strove for—what would be left to her? Where would her heart go? She feared she would vanish without knowing, without direction, her heart adrift in an empty sky. Even as a child, she’d been certain that moment would arrive—and she had been terrified of it.

2:23:58.

What she’d needed was somewhere to go when that time arrived.

There had always been just one option. She hadn’t wanted to admit it. Relying on someone she’d lost—that was a weakness, and she was so mad at herself for it, she’d unconsciously shifted the goalposts. Told herself having someone like that would stop her from achieving results. Told herself he was long since dead. She let those thoughts loop through her mind, attaching convincing logic to them—until she had herself fooled.

But he’d been clinging to life, holed up in the labyrinth for two whole years.

And she’d been unable to deceive that nosy samurai. That girl was the kind of dumb that saw right through you.

And the moment the two of them met—that was the time for it all to catch up with her.

2:24:37.

She was through the winding, into the final straightaway. At speeds this great, her peripherals were gone. All she could see was the final ring. And she was fine. She wasn’t scared. Once she passed it, her heart would not be lost.

She knew exactly where to go.

He was waiting for her down below.

“…Heh.”

She was bound for what lay beyond that ring.

There was nothing left to fear. No more reason to hesitate. To the fastest speed she’d seen and one step beyond—

2:24:98.

The timekeeper’s count stopped on that figure. A silence settled over the arena.

“…You did it…,” Dustin gasped. A moment later, tears fell down his cheeks. “………You’re the fastest ever, Ashbury.”

When those words echoed through the arena, the crowd leaped to their feet with a titanic roar. The judge, the catchers, the timekeeper—everyone raised their hands to the sky. Only the riders who’d flown with her did anything else: Their eyes went to the skies above, wrestling with the tumult within. This was a key moment in all their lives.

“…She did it, Morgan. She actually did it,” Walker whispered. Morgan was still leaning on his shoulder. They’d feared Ashbury would die setting the record like the previous holder had, but she’d clearly escaped that fate—she was still looping through the air above, gradually slowing herself down.

Eyes on her and her alone, Morgan croaked, “…Gah-ha… Always did…have a simple mind. One change to the scenery, and she—”

But even as he grumbled, deep down—he was glad he’d come. Grateful to the Survivor for bringing him here and the kids who’d talked him into it. Glad his final task had helped one great broomrider.

“ !”

And even as the thought crossed his mind, the thing keeping him together snapped.

“…Whoops… N-not good…”

His body shook with an unnatural heat. Uncanny flames spurted out, escaping from within. Walker saw that and gasped.

“Morgan!”

“…Get away from me, Walker!”

He gave the Survivor a mighty shove. With the last of his strength, Morgan stumbled away from the crowds. He’d had his eye on that space from the start: toward the center of the course, where no one now flew. He’d fulfilled his purpose.

“……Morgan, you’re…,” Dustin said; one look and he knew what this meant.

A safe distance away, Morgan turned back, his last smile on his lips.

“……Sorry, everyone. Looks like my time’s up,” he said. “Gah-ha… Instructor……handle the cleanup, plea—”

His voice died in a croak. The flames around him billowed higher.

“Morgaaaaaaaaan!”

What followed was a massive, raging sphere of fire. Flames lashing so high they swallowed the ring above, like a sun upon the ground.

“Waugh…?!”

“Yiiikes…!”

“Get back! Don’t touch that fire!” Oliver yelled, pushing his friends away. The man’s time had come. Oliver had known that was possible, but that knowledge didn’t make it any easier. “…Morgan has been consumed by the spell. That’s the tír fire he summoned and failed to control.”

He gritted his teeth. Those flames moved as if they had a will of their own, and just feeling that heat made his skin crawl. Every instinct screaming this fire was wrong. It was literally not of this world. It had lurked within Clifton Morgan’s body since he’d summoned it from Luftmarz and was now rampaging out of him, seeking release into their world and turning its host’s mana into kindling.

“Sadly, there’s nothing we can do here. Leave this to the faculty and evacuate—”

He pushed his friends farther away, forcing himself to make the rational choice. But the Azian girl was already on her broom, rising high into the sky.

“Nanao?!”

“Escort them to safety, Oliver. She’s calling for me.”

She had a wand and an athame clutched to her chest. Before Oliver could stop her, she was headed to their owner, as fast as her broom could carry her.

She’d just waved a hand, knowing that would do the trick. And she wasn’t wrong—not twenty seconds later, Nanao was in the sky by her side.

“…Are these what you seek, Ashbury?”

“Yeah. Glad you’re quick on the uptake.”

Nanao held out both, but Ashbury took only the athame, leaving the empty scabbard in the girl’s hands. She no longer needed it.

“Do you require anything further from me?”

“Nope. Getting this to me is plenty. You go back to your friends.”

She waved her off. Nanao’s lips tightened. Ashbury noticed that—and smiled.

“Don’t give me that look. I’ve gotta be his Final Visitor. He’s my catcher.”

Nanao’s head was down. She forced back all else she wished to say and nodded.

“…Very well.”

By the time she spoke, the matter was settled within her. She looked right at Ashbury, her expression now unclouded and cheery—as if seeing a friend off on their journey.

“Enjoy your journey, Lady Ashbury. ’Twas a pleasure knowing you.”

“Likewise, Ms. Hibiya.”

Ashbury put a lot in those few words. And on that note, they parted. Nanao turned in the air and flew back to the ground. Ashbury alone remained above. A whim washed over her, and she laid a palm on the handle of the broom.

“Sorry, you’re gonna have to come with me. But you don’t mind, do you? You’ll be flying with me.”

It had been a long time since she’d spoken to it. She’d been with this broom ever since her first flight. As she strove to be better, faster—the division between them had faded. It became a part of her. Her broom felt the same and would hardly argue that point now. It flew where she wanted to fly. That was all. To Diana Ashbury’s broom, that was always the best flight around.

All preparations complete, she ascended upon high, gazing down at the blazing fireball below. Even from this towering height, she could feel the heat of it. As more time passed, the walls of fire expanded farther. And beyond them, she could still see her man.

“…Sheesh, so demanding. You finally show yourself around here, and this happens.”

She snorted. He never had been remotely considerate. She had a laundry list of gripes saved up. Especially the part where he’d gone two whole years without letting her air them.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be right with you.”

She was high enough now. She made her turn and aimed for the ground. Her sights set on the center of the fireball—she dropped like a stone.

“Ashbury—!”

Dustin saw her coming and let out a scream. He knew exactly what she was doing and knew he had no way of stopping her. This was all he could do.

He might be one of the best riders in the world, but brooms were his sole area of expertise. His skill set gave him no way of quickly subsuming a tír incursion of this scale. His one chance would have been to cut Morgan’s head off before the spell consumed him, but the depth of his emotions had stayed his hand. He’d been Morgan’s instructor, too. And Morgan had been Ashbury’s catcher. Even as his student was consumed by the spell, he’d hoped there was a way to save him. All while knowing perfectly well there was none.

And the real problem lay beyond. If Morgan’s salvation was impossible, then Dustin needed to deal with the fallout—given time, there were any number of approaches. Even now, other teachers would be racing toward them, aware of the issue at hand. The headmistress herself would almost certainly be here within ten seconds. The rest of the faculty would contain the incursion before Dustin himself took any action.

But that was too late.

He could not wait. Ten seconds was an eternity with the world’s fastest broomrider—!

Less than two seconds into her descent, Ashbury’s body would be enveloped in those flames. At the three-second mark, she’d hit the center of the fireball, and mere moments later, there would be nothing left of her. She was perfectly aware of that fate.

Ashbury was a broomrider. She knew no means of taming tír fire. She’d never even considered attempting it. To her eyes, the matter was a simple one: the distance to her destination and the time it would take to reach it.

She knew her catcher stood at the heart of that fireball. The tír fire was fueled by his mana, so that was a given. If the host died, the flames could no longer absorb his strength. In other words, even consumed by the spell, Morgan himself was the core of this phenomenon.

So stopping it was easy. If she could reach him, she could end this.

She need merely pierce his heart. And before her own body burned away, at that.

“Ngh—”

She plunged into the flames. The heat grew astronomically worse. In the first instant, her eyes burned away, and she was blind. A moment later, all sounds disappeared, and then all sensation from her skin was lost. She heard nothing, saw nothing, each of her five senses vanishing in turn as she plunged through the inferno and into darkness—yet none of that rattled her at all.

Her left hand stayed locked upon the handle of her broom. Her body leaned forward. The tip of the athame in her right hand aimed dead ahead.

The damage was no detriment. Seen or unseen, she would reach her goal.

To the one she loved the most. Her heart now freed from the duty of her blood, she was headed to her final abode.

To those burly arms that had held her so painfully tight.

“ !”

Her blade hit something. The impact traveled up her carbonized arm, shattering it, and kept going through her entire body. It was over in an instant. She knew she’d reached her limit.

In the moment before her mind gave way to darkness, she felt those big arms catch her.

The swirling flames abated. They died down so swiftly, it was as if that madness had never existed to begin with.

With the fire gone, only a large, scorched circle remained. What had been there had burned itself out, leaving nothing behind but pure white ash. And the mages who’d witnessed it watched, stunned.

“ ”

“……”

Nanao’s tears fell in silence. Oliver’s eyes were closed in reverence.

He found himself asking—where had their hearts gone?

None could know the answer. But wherever it might be, he knew one thing for sure.

They were there together.