Nanatsu no Maken ga Shihai suru - Volume 10 - Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Laws of Nature

A day since the migration and their brush with the tír threat. The night before the senior league finals, upon which hung the future of Kimberly.

No one had suggested it, but they all felt the need—the Sword Roses were assembled in the living room of their secret base.

“…We’re all here,” Oliver said, breaking the silence.

There was a cup of tea placed before each of them, and three pots with more placed evenly on the table. A clear sign all thought this could take a while, yet there were no cakes to accompany the tea. This was not a topic one should address with sweetened lips. No matter how bitter the words that emerged, they were necessary.

“Take your time. But share with us, Katie: What drove you toward the tamper pillar? And what did you hope to gain through contact with it?”

“…Okay.”

Katie nodded gravely and took a deep breath. She scanned the faces there in turn. Once she’d looked each in the eye, her gaze dropped to her hands.

“First—I apologize for scaring you all. I know it’s not something I can just say sorry for, but let me start there.”

Her tone conveyed the weight of this apology. They felt the sincerity of it, yet remained silent. How easy it would have been to take her at this word, give her a hug, and call an end to this intervention.

“Katie, no one here is still angry with you,” Chela prodded gently. “We wish to discuss what lies ahead. How can we keep you safe in the future? In hopes of finding an answer, we first wish to get an accurate measure of your state of mind.”

Katie nodded, then began to speak, picking over her words.

“…I’ve always been prone to these…compulsions.”

Mages, as a general rule, require far more food than ordinaries. This is a simple biological need; producing mana internally requires a great deal of fuel.

The more mana one possesses, the stronger this tendency. And then, there are phases where mages’ bodies simply require more nutrition. Adolescence, for instance. The child’s capacity as a future mage is taking form, a process that cannot be done without sufficient nourishment. Those in the lower forms at Kimberly were still within that bracket, so the cafeteria’s nigh-endless supply of provisions was designed to meet that urgent demand.

The same principles apply during early childhood. Children beginning to learn magic generally have healthy appetites, and if they don’t—well, some would go so far as to advise getting a funnel and force-feeding them. It is vital to focus on nutritional quality, not merely quantity; and the importance of meat is widely established. There are a few exceptions—elves, for instance—but by and large, you cannot raise a superlative mage on vegetables, beans, and water.

Yet at the same time, within the civil rights faction, there is strong support for vegetarianism. This is not unrelated to a love of animals, but more fundamentally it is the antithesis of the core mage belief that pursuit of sorcery must come at the expense of other lives. This movement seeks to correct attitudes not only toward humans and demis, but to the exploitation of all forms of life.

Naturally, those espousing this philosophy are both dedicated and desperate—but by the same logic, no mages attempt to force vegetarianism on their own children. As vital as it is to change minds, they cannot well afford to ruin their children’s futures. A mage who grows up weak has little potential, and their words will reach few ears.

“Ooh! Lihapulla! Yummy!”

Katie Aalto’s parents were no exception. When it came to raising a child of their own, they followed the same path.

They had spent their days and nights buried in research and activism in pursuit of the No Life Eaten ideal to a downright dangerous degree, yet it took no time at all for them to conclude they could not inflict that on their daughter. Not only for the nutritional deficiencies, but because the echoes of their own failures and broken dreams were still sounding deep within. Yet more than anything else, they respected the rights of each individual to make their own choices, as civil rights proponents should.

Setbacks in one mage’s life may ironically lead to greater freedom for those who come after. That was the case for Katie. The Aaltos’ sorcery had come to an abrupt end in her parents’ time, which meant Katie herself had far fewer pursuits to inherit from them. They certainly had thoughts on that subject, but they chose to view it as a good thing. They hoped that freeing her of their burdens would allow their daughter to find her own way, at her leisure.

They were good parents. As mages go, nigh ideal.

It was their daughter who went wrong.

“Daddy! Mommy! Fix this!”

Katie had turned five not long before. Accompanied by her best friend, the troll Patro, she came running up with her hands covered in blood. The sight certainly got her parents on their feet.

“Wh-what happened, Katie?”

“How’d you hurt yourself?!”

Katie was fighting back tears, so they hastened to heal her. Wanting an explanation, their eyes turned to Patro, but he could not speak. Instead, the girl herself launched into an inarticulate attempt.

“They were picking on Teppo. I stopped it! But Hely got mad.”

That clued her parents in. Teppo and Hely were wargs the Aaltos kept on their expansive property. Mages’ breeding processes regularly produced wargs not worth selling, and the Aaltos made a habit of acquiring and protecting these creatures.

Normally, the wargs got along great with Katie, but by their nature, they had a hierarchy within the pack. Those deemed at the bottom of the stack were often not treated well. Unable to watch, Katie had interfered—and paid the price.

Simple bites were easily healed. Katie looked over the results of her parents’ administrations, smiled, and turned to go.

“Thanks, Mommy! I gotta go!”

“Huh?”

“Wait, Katie, where—?”

“To see Hely! We gotta make nice again!”

Katie was gone before they could stop her. Her parents and Patro raced after her. The girl had already completely forgotten the biting and the bloodshed.

Similar events occurred too often to count. Sometimes these left their talons deep in her heart, where magic could not help.

“Daddy! Mommy! Look!”

Her parents were writing letters in the living room when Katie burst in, holding something in her tiny hands. Her curly hair was covered in feathers, and she had countless scratches on her face and shoulders, inflicted by tiny claws. Her parents shot to their feet, drawing their wands.

“What happened, Katie?”

“Settle down; we’ll get you—”

“Not me! This birdie!” she said over their fussing. “It fell out of a coated dove nest! It wasn’t moving, and a snake almost ate it!”

But the moment her parents saw the listless baby bird in her hands, they both furrowed their brows.

“…A con bird’s mimic chick,” her father muttered.

Katie’s mother knelt down to meet her daughter’s eye. She chose her words carefully.

“Katie, I’m afraid we can’t heal this birdie. We must watch it pass together.”

“?! Why?! It’s just a baby!”

“Listen close, Katie. You didn’t find this in our yard, but under a coated dove’s nest outside. But this wasn’t the coated dove’s fledgling. Con birds use a technique called brood parasitism to trick other animals into raising their children. This birdie’s not a dove at all.”

“…Parasit…ism?”

“They hide their eggs in another bird’s nest, and when the egg hatches, it pretends to be that bird’s baby,” her father said, taking over. “If it works, they grow up, but sometimes the mommy bird figures it out. That’s what happened here.”

That much was plain as day. The coated dove realized the mimic chick wasn’t its own and kicked it out of the nest. If it didn’t, this chick would kick the real fledglings out—so that it could get more food itself.

“We could give it some food and help it survive. But that’s not the natural order of things and shouldn’t be done lightly. It’s hard to explain why… For example, if this bird grows up, then it’ll lay eggs in some other bird’s nest. And that chick will kick the real fledglings out of the nest.”

Katie listened to her mother’s words in shock. In her short life, she’d yet to face this fact—that all living things survived at the expense of others.

She couldn’t bring herself to agree. They were saying she should just let the little life quivering in her hands die. That letting it live was a mistake. The logic wasn’t sinking in, so she shook her head. She racked her little mind for a solution and voiced it.

“I-I’ll make it listen! Tell it to stop acting like that. Help it learn to raise its own!”

“That’s not possible, Katie. The con bird isn’t making a mistake. This is how that species does things, how they learned to survive in the world,” her father explained. “That’s the same for the snake that tried to eat this bird. Because you took its prey away, the snake didn’t get to eat. Maybe it was really hungry! Because you saved the bird, maybe now the snake will starve.”

The girl’s shoulders shook. She’d tried to save a life—only to harm another. Now that she knew that was possible, she couldn’t look away. Katie loved all creatures. She liked snakes just as much as birds.

“And…it’s already…”

Having said his piece, her father let his eyes drop to the girl’s hands. Katie gasped. The bird no longer drew breath. She couldn’t feel the faint pulse of life on her palms.

“…Wait… No… Don’t…,” she spluttered, tears welling up. Her parents put their arms around her shoulders, pulling her close, unable to do anything else but be there for her.

“…You…aren’t eating again, Katie?” her father asked.

Fresh-baked bread and hot soup on the table. His daughter frozen before it, spoon in one hand. She’d been eating less and less every day since the mimic chick incident, and yesterday she only drank water.

“…I understand,” her mother said. “You’ve worked it out. This food, too, was a life.”

She knew firsthand how that felt. Katie was going through the same thing both parents had. Eating—and by extension, living—were only possible by taking lives. A brutal realization.

“But you can’t do this. You can close your eyes and push the problem away, but you have to eat. Your body is growing. If you don’t get enough nutrition, you can’t grow up right. If you keep refusing food…you might even die.”

Because she knew how big a struggle it was, she was being extra firm. Fret all you like, but you can only do that alive. Put aside the unanswerable questions and focus on what you need now. Conveying that was her parental responsibility.

She took the spoon, scooped up some soup, and held it to her daughter’s lips.

“Eat, Katie. You love lihakeitto. Doesn’t it smell good?”

A hint of fear flickered in the girl’s eyes. Her mother had made one of her favorites, a meal that always brought joy. And a day without food left her starving—she didn’t want to worry her parents. She knew she should eat. She had every reason to.

Making up her mind, she let the spoon in her mouth. The rich flavor, the sweetness, the warmth on her tongue—and visions of all the dead animals flooded her mind. Animals that died so she might live. Countless lives that would be lost for her sake. She could feel their gazes out there in the darkness.

“…Urk…!”

Her throat refused to swallow. Hand on her mouth, she doubled over, spitting it out. Her mother moved around the table, rubbing her back, and her father grabbed a napkin to wipe her lips. Katie apologized profusely, saying “I’m sorry” over and over. She was no longer even sure who—or what—she was apologizing to.

When dire circumstances leave a child unable to eat, there are several treatments. An IV, for instance. Significantly less abusive than the funnel approach, but being forced to resort to this was not much easier on her parents.

They tried everything else first: talking it over at length, ransacking papers on the subject, switching her food to things deemed less likely to provoke a negative reaction. They bowed their heads to every magical doctor they knew—but from the start, they had a feeling this was where they’d end up. The dilemma their child faced was far worse than their own. And until the girl herself made headway, all they could do was wait.

While the IV kept her alive, it hardly left her as energetic as she had been. Coupled with the toll of her distress, young Katie was visibly wasting away. But the girl herself refused to stay cooped up in her room.

With Patro supporting her unsteady steps, she sought even more contact with other creatures, as if looking the problem in the face might unstick her thoughts. This was her struggle, her attempt to progress.

Two months into Katie’s fast, the moment arrived—in a way her parents could not have possibly predicted.

First, Patro came calling for them, clearly upset. Exhausted, they’d been napping in the living room—but both mother and father quickly sensed something grave had happened and rushed out, wands in hand. They regretted assigning no protectors to Katie but Patro; they had yet to settle on just where the line between protection and surveillance lay. Patro was in the same boat—he was the girl’s friend, and when she asked to be left alone, he could not refuse.

“…Daddy… Mommy…”

They reached the scene and found Katie lying limp on her back.

Her arms were missing from the elbow down.

““ ~~~~~~!!!!””

They had no time to scream. Ironically, they were used to this. Their home should have been safe, yet their daughter had gotten injured countless times before. That forced her parents to adapt, to act despite the shock. This was certainly her gravest injury yet, but it was technically an extension of what had come before—and thus, they handled it.

“…What happened? Tell us, Katie,” her mother finally managed to ask, clearly beside herself.

They’d rushed Katie back and given her the necessary treatment. There’d been no sign of her arms anywhere. Only a few scraps of flesh were left, and from the state of them, they’d clearly been nibbled away by something very small.

That didn’t clarify much. The Aalto garden was much more than a hobby. It was a biotope for magical research, and the creatures living there were strictly cordoned off according to their natures. Of course, Katie was not allowed anywhere near anything dangerous, and since she’d stopped eating, her parents wouldn’t even let her in the warg pen without them along. There should not have been anything in the area that would harm people, much less eat them.

“She, um…,” Katie began, her eyes on the corner of the room.

A small magical creature was resting on another operating table. An adult female egg badger, a species known for adaptively switching between pregnancy and egg laying according to their environment. Katie’s parents had found it lying right next to her, equally injured and weakened, and they’d given it treatment, too. It was now asleep.

“…Not long ago, she laid eggs. She was taking very, very good care of them. And they finally hatched…”

Katie got choked up. It took her a long time to say the next part.

“…The newborns were all around the mother…eating her.”

Her voice trembling, she described what she’d witnessed.

And this was enough to clue in her mother and father. The first act of a newborn—to feed upon their parent. Behavior seen mainly in spiders but found in quite a few other species. An instinctive survival strategy, allowing feeble organisms to last a little longer in a harsh world.

Though egg badgers were primarily herbivores, this behavior had been observed in the species before. Two crucial factors encouraged it—first, the birth took place in inhospitable conditions. Second, how weakened the mother was at the time. The Aalto garden was well maintained and did not meet the first condition. But while rare, this could happen with the second alone. If the mother laid eggs late in life and used up the bulk of her remaining energy birthing the children, then she might choose to feed herself to them. In a natural environment, that would likely improve her children’s odds of survival.

“I tried to stop them. But they were all very hungry and wouldn’t listen.

“So I thought, if I give them something else to eat…”

Katie trailed off. If she’d run to fetch her parents, they’d have kept eating their mother. Their survival instinct demanded nutritious meat, and there was no replacement nearby. So she’d given the only thing she had to give. Not in fit of madness, but through a clear and logical decision.

The truth before them left her parents speechless, gasping for air. The girl’s eyes turned toward them.

“…Daddy…I’m hungry. Can I have something…to eat?”

“…Can you eat?”

He looked shocked. She’d refused food for so long.

Katie nodded, whispering, “I think…I’ve worked through things. Now that I’ve been eaten, too.”

Once the girl’s missing arms had regrown, and she could move her fingers normally again, her parents sat her down across from them in the living room. This was a parental duty they could not avoid.

“We need to talk, Katie,” her mother began. “This is an important conversation about how to keep you safe.”

Katie nodded, fully aware of the implications.

“Nature has its own laws. These laws don’t line up with human morality, and at times they appear unfathomably cruel. You know that much already, yes?”

“I do.”

She said that loud and clear. Katie didn’t just grasp the logic—her eyes conveyed that she’d grasped the truth of it bodily. The conviction that lay within terrified her mother more than anything.

“But still you dive on in and try to change it. You don’t care if that gets you hurt. You even gave them a part of yourself. You do these things no matter how many times we stop you. No matter how many times we cry and beg you not to go that far.” Her mother then asked a question: “Why is that?”

Her voice shook. This was the crux of the matter. Katie’s head went down. A long silence passed before she spoke.

“…The laws of nature.”

Every meal she’d eaten crossed her mind. Piping hot food laid out on the table, a happy family gathered to eat, propped up on a foundation of innumerable lives and deaths.

“…They really can’t be changed…?” she asked.

She remembered the warmth of the chick dying in her hands. Kicked from the nest, dying before it knew any other way of life, that alone encompassing its entire existence.

“…There’s no stopping the pain, the suffering? They’re just a part of it?”

She saw the egg badger being eaten by its own young, then remembered the strange peace she’d felt as their tiny teeth tore into her proffered arms.

“Then I—”

Katie’s head came up. She wore a dazzling smile that did not belong on human lips.

“—I want to shoulder it all.”

The look on her face made her parents finally realize—they’d lost this fight for good.

There was no more denying it. Their daughter was something entirely unlike themselves, and the lot her soul bore was beyond their capacity to handle.

When Katie finished speaking, a leaden silence settled over the table. These tales had given her friends a glimpse of her nature, and each needed time to reflect on it. They were processing it all, searching for the next words.

“What do you want to do?” Pete said, breaking the silence.

Katie put a hand to her chest, shaking her head.

“I’m still flailing around, trying to define the shape of it. I know there’s a wish inside me that’s incredibly vast. But I don’t know how to express it. Perhaps we don’t have a word for it in our world just yet.”

“So you tried to ask a tír god? Talk about rash,” Guy spat.

Sensing the kindness behind it, Katie winced and nodded.

“You’re right. I’m thoughtless, reckless, driven by impulses far stronger than anyone else’s… Why am I like this…?”

She let out a long sigh, looking inward.

“Do not put yourself down for it,” Nanao said. “In my eyes, that is merely a glimmer of the vessel you were born with. All those with a great purpose must possess such a fire within.”

“Don’t build this shit up, Nanao! Sorry, but I don’t see this as anything laudable.” Guy’s tone was severe. “We don’t stop her, she’s gonna run off and get her ass killed. And so much for her great purpose then.”

This argument got a nod from Nanao.

“As Guy says. Yet such is the nature of any deed before it bears fruit. I dare not deem myself wise enough to draw the line between promise and madness. Perhaps no such distinction exists.”

A strong purpose carries always a whiff of the deranged. That notion made Chela turn to the Azian girl.

“Nanao, are you arguing that Katie should stay the course?”

“Hardly. I merely lack the words to stop her. A samurai sworn to give their life in battle will not surrender to the views of another.”

She spoke dispassionately, tapping into the distinctive resignation she alone possessed, having arrived at Kimberly after years of wars back home. Oliver longed to say something here but dared not. Her words resonated far too deep within him.

“We don’t have time for this,” Pete snapped, glaring into the silence. His voice was extra flinty. “I’ll keep things simple. This has nothing to do with Katie’s feelings. It’s merely a question of: How do we stop her from being stupid? How do we keep her ass alive? If it comes to it…we chain her to the damn wall.”

A shudder went through the room. The way Pete’s eyes bored into Katie made it clear he was not joking at all. Oliver was on his feet immediately. He moved around behind Pete and put his arms around the boy’s shoulders, cradling him tight.

“Settle down, Pete,” he whispered. “We hear you. You’re angrier than anyone else here.”

Pete’s words had gotten to everyone. They knew he was hell-bent against letting this discussion die out, even if that meant he had to play the bad guy. His chilling statement spoke to the urgency within; Pete was willing to turn his own friends against him if it kept them safe.

“…Sorry,” Pete said softly, gripping Oliver’s hands. “Can you…stay there for now? Otherwise…I think I’ll run my mouth off again.”

Oliver granted that favor without hesitation, pulling the boy closer. Watching the two of them like a hawk, Chela moved to sum up the discussion so far.

“We all have thoughts on the matter, and each view has merit. With respect to that, I’d say our consensus is thus: Katie’s nature cannot easily be altered. Therefore, we must find ways to keep her safe despite that.”

Katie kept her head down, but everyone else was nodding. That much, they’d known from the get-go. If this was merely a matter of making her reflect on her choices, things would never have grown this grim. That was why Pete’s suggestion, while extreme, had merit. Ultimately, he meant that if she herself couldn’t change, they would have to change things for her.

But Oliver had one other card to play before taking any such measures. Aware he was grasping at straws, he laid it on the table.

“Just one thing—it’s been bothering me from the start. We’re leaving someone out of this discussion.”

“? Meaning?”

“We can’t stop Katie from where we stand. In which case, we should ask someone who knows her from another angle. For instance…someone in the next room.”

Oliver pointed at the door to the base’s main chamber, reminding all six friends that they were not the only ones here capable of speech.

“Mm. What’s up? Why the long faces? Did something happen?”

Marco looked up from his book, scanning their grim expressions. His low, relaxed tones made Guy blink.

“Uh, Marco…are you getting a lot more fluent?”

“Am I? Nice to hear. I’ve been practicing.”

“…Not just conversing. You’re reading a lot, too. Magical history?”

“Mm. If I don’t know a word, I ask. Books are too small, and the pages are hard to turn… But I’m starting to understand what’s inside.”

Marco proudly showed them how he managed to turn the pages with his hefty fingers. Everyone was impressed, and Katie watched that, grinning.

“Isn’t he great? But this is actually not surprising. Marco’s brain—troll brains have always had this potential. Their raw intelligence is no different from a human’s. They simply didn’t choose to evolve the same way.”

This was a fact she and Marco had worked hard to prove. And this told Oliver his idea had been right on the money. He took a step forward, addressing their oversize friend.

“In that case, we definitely need your input. What are your thoughts on Katie?”

“Hmm… How do you mean?”

“I imagine you know. When she starts running toward a goal, she forgets all about the harm it does to her. That scares us, and we were discussing what we can do about it. How do we make her look after herself?”

He was consciously choosing easier language but held nothing else back, laying the question out there. They’d all spent enough time with Marco to know he’d catch the implication. And that faith proved true—Marco closed the book and turned to face them.

“…When our villages are attacked, the first to fight are those without children.”

A loaded statement. His lived experiences and values had led him to that answer. And he knew that this was what Oliver was seeking.

“Those with children take them and flee. That just makes sense. You can’t raise a dead child. That goes for men and women.”

Listening to Marco’s straightforward explanation, Guy cocked his head.

“Um…so you don’t just send the mothers?”

“We learned this in class, actually,” Katie chimed in. “Male trolls produce milk, too. It varies which one takes the lead in child-rearing, with different settlements following different systems. There’s variations even in the same regions—fascinating stuff!”

Katie was in her element here, excited. Then she frowned and turned to Marco.

“…But what’s your point? That doesn’t relate to me!”

“It does. If you had a child, Katie, I know you’d change. A child with someone you care about.”

That answer froze her up completely. Guy looked equally astonished and elbowed her in the ribs.

“…Yo, that’s a hell of an idea.”

“…Um. I—uh…”

Her lips flapped, but no real words emerged. One eye on her, Pete thought this through, then snorted.

“Hmm, not sure I believe having kids changes anyone. Might be worth a try with Katie, though. Having something to look after—something other than a demi-human or an animal—could help save her from herself.”

“Er, uh…?”

Pete’s calm analysis just served to make Katie’s head spin faster. Oliver and Chela each opened their mouths to try calming her down, but Pete was faster.

“…So who’s it gonna be?” he asked.

“Buh?!”

“I’ll help. I’m down to get knocked up or knock someone else up once or twice while I’m still in school. You may all have lineages, but mine starts with me. And there’s upsides to sharing reversi blood with those I trust.”

“Yo, yo, yo, yo, Pete…”

“Slow down, Pete. That’s not something you just dip your toes into! You are way too eager today.”

Oliver put his hands on his friend’s shoulders, trying to cool the fire, but this time Pete brushed it off, spinning around to face them all.

“You just don’t get it, do you? This is a matter of life and death! I’ve got no problems putting my body on the line for that. And not just for Katie! I’d do the same for Oliver, Nanao, Chela, or Guy.”

He rattled this off with such ferocity that everyone fell silent again. His glare made it clear that he had no interest in being picky about the means. And that Katie’s problems ran so deep no sensible measures could ever hope to solve them.

While Oliver dithered, Chela stepped forward and cupped Pete’s cheeks. She wasn’t reproaching his outburst; this was simply an expression of love.

“I adore you for saying so, Pete. But cooler heads must prevail. Being rash to stop Katie from being rash is hardly the answer. And—perhaps you can’t imagine it just yet, but the toll is considerable whether you bear a child yourself or have someone bear it for you.”

Her gentle soothing slowly drained the tension from Pete’s shoulders and provided him with the leeway to reflect on his own words.

“…Yeah, fair. Even if I did have a kid, I couldn’t exactly go back home for help. Which makes my proposal a careless one. Sorry.”

He pushed Chela gently away, delivering this apology to everyone. But before anyone could respond, he spoke again.

“Still, the approach itself is worth considering. If not me, then maybe ask Oliver or Guy to do it. We’ll all be fourth-years soon, so it’s hardly too early to think about these things. At least chalk it up as one available option.”

With that, he zipped his lips. The two names he’d mentioned only added to the blush on Katie’s cheeks, and Guy and Nanao flanked her, settling her down. Oliver decided it was time to wrap things up.

“…Regardless of the specific approach, I sympathize with Pete’s concerns, and I appreciate that his statements stem from them. But I still can’t help thinking it’s too big a leap. Katie’s head is spinning, and I doubt we’ll calm down enough to make much progress here. Let’s put a pin in this for the day.”

Everyone nodded. No one had expected this to get resolved tonight. That they’d managed to all get on the same page was progress enough. Before anything else happened, they’d need Katie to work through her own feelings.

“Let’s go to bed early and prepare for tomorrow,” Oliver offered. “Might be hard to sleep after this conversation, but do your best to rest up. It’d be rude to watch the upperclassmen’s matches only half awake.”

The next day, just past noon. Once again the arena was packed to the brim. Five matches had played out, and now the final battle of the combat league’s fourth- and fifth-year division was in progress.

“…Haah, haah…”

“…Dammit…”

Ten minutes since the start, and everyone knew which way the wind was blowing. The aggressors in the match so far had slowed to a standstill. They’d lost no one, nor did they show signs of running out of mana. Yet every plan of attack they’d prepared had come up empty.

“…They won’t go down…!”

The Watch members gritted their teeth, thwarted by their opponents’ tenacity. And seeing that, the opposition leader—and candidate for student body president, Percival Whalley—raised his athame, intoning, “Is that all you’ve got, Watch? It’s time we crush you.”

“…He’s good,” Oliver groaned, arms folded, watching from the stands.

By his side, Chela nodded. “An all-rounder, no exposure from any angle. Maintains a tactical advantage in spell exchanges, while simultaneously supporting his companions and drawing out their strengths. His style is rather like your own, Oliver.”

“Yes, but Whalley is much more thorough. He takes every action to maximize the potential of his entire team and never puts himself first. That’s likely one reason he’s so careful to avoid getting in sword range. He’s clearly a much more pragmatic commander than I am.”

Oliver felt there was a lot he could stand to learn here.

“…But is that a good thing?” Pete wondered. “As a student, sure, that’s an advantage, but he’s gunning for the presidency. Relinquishing the spotlight doesn’t really sell him. His teammates are making more of an impression.”

“True, but that’s actually quite rare at Kimberly,” Oliver replied. “He’s offering a clear departure from what President Godfrey or Echevalria brought. I think this teamwork is a mission statement, a demonstration of what type of leader he intends to be—”

“Gah…!”

A direct hit from a spell, and a fifth-year toppled over, unconscious. That put them down one teammate—and the match on a path to an end.

“President Godfrey was a singular leader,” said Whalley. “Regardless of the discrepancies in our ideals, I respect his abilities and his magnetism.”

Working in unison with his teammates, driving their foes into the corner, Whalley used an amplification spell to project his voice. This wasn’t merely an expression of confidence, but a performance designed to highlight his victory and tie it to the election.

“But his was a one-term glimmer of light. Who can possibly follow in his footsteps? Can anyone else do what he did? Of course not. This match proves as much.”

“ !”

“…Ngh…”

His words were like a knife to his opponents’ hearts. Inches from defeat, they couldn’t even argue. Whalley had timed his words to the moment when they would be most devastating. Off hand to his chest, he voiced the purpose burning within.

“I am not like him. During my term, I shall mold a successor better than myself. Just as Leoncio molded me from a mere jack-of-all-trades.”

“…Save the speeches till you’ve won, bigmouth!”

The surviving opponents steeled themselves and came out swinging. The girl took the lead, and Team Whalley fired two bolts her way, but her companion cast a blockade spell at her feet. She kicked off the walls, evading the bolts and sailing over both foes, charging at the commander from behind. She committed to a thrust that might well lead to them both going down. Even if only to diminish the impact of his speech—they wanted to at least take Whalley out here.

“Heh.”

Whalley kept his cool. Athame in mid-stance, he waited for her, deflecting every swing with orthodox consistency. No competition, no attempts at counters. He had no need to take those risks.

“Kah…!”

Bolts from behind hit the Watch girl’s back, and she went down. While she’d been charging at Whalley, his companions had finished off her teammate. His role had been to weather the rush until his team could come to him.

A textbook victory—their foes never had a chance. Sheathing his athame with the satisfaction of a job well done, Whalley said one more line.

“I knew I’d won, thus I spoke. That is how I fight.”

“It’s all over!” Glenda, the announcer, cried. “Team Whalley with three straight victories, making them your fourth- and fifth-year division champions! We may have projected some upsets, but in hindsight, they steamrolled their way to victory! And Whalley’s demonstrated he’s got what it takes to be the next president!”

“Most impressive.” Beside her, Garland launched into his evaluation. “I’ve had my eye on him since his first year here, but I couldn’t have predicted he’d grow into such an accomplished commander. At no point were their opposing teams or opponents’ skills in any way inferior. Their strength lay in how the team’s talent was put to use—and in the depth of their pre-match planning.”

Team Whalley’s rock-solid teamwork had not been lost on him—an advantage no other team here shared.

“…He’s likely done his homework, not just on teammates and opponents, but on the entire student body. From start to end, Team Whalley acted without hesitation. Arguably their victory was decided by the intel they’d gathered and their concealment of their own. The Watch fight daily in public view, and that may have cost them here.”

“The outcome was settled before the league even began! The intense work Mr. Whalley put into planning his performance is as plain as day. This election outcome is still up in the air!”

“…Sorry, Prez!”

“We blew it…”

The bitter defeat had left the losing team on the verge of tears. They’d retired to the waiting room to report to Godfrey, who smiled and patted their backs.

“Good effort. Your loss is on us. Forcing you to maintain your Watch duties prevented you from focusing on league strategies. Sorry.”

“That’s not true…! We just weren’t strong enough!”

Big tears spattered the floor. They’d felt pressured to win this one. They’d be the leaders at Kimberly with Godfrey gone, and yet here they were, making him clean up their mess again. To their shame.

When they were done reporting and apologizing, the Watch members left the room, heads bowed. Stone-faced seventh-year Lesedi Ingwe watched them go, arms folded, jaw grimly set.

“They’ve taken the middle league. That leaves the ball in our court.”

“Bring it. All we gotta do is win!” Tim Linton—in drag—said, cracking his knuckles. He was clearly motivated.

The last person there groaned: Vera Miligan, a candidate coordinating the final push.

“It’s a bit tougher on me, though,” she said. “I suppose I’ll just do what I can.”

As the stage was set for the afternoon’s matches, the Sword Roses were in the Fellowship, eating lunch.

Once everyone had food and tea before them, Oliver quietly asked, “Nobody’s seen Yuri?”

All movement stopped. Five heads shook. Oliver sighed and set down his cup.

“Ah. I was hoping he’d be here for these matches…”

Their friend had been missing for a while, and concern was rising. Then an unexpected voice called Oliver’s name.

“There you are, Mr. Horn.”

Oliver turned around. Of all people, there stood Leoncio’s candidate, the fifth-year, Percival Whalley. They’d just been watching him fight, and his presence here was a surprise. Oliver rose to his feet, greeting him.

“Mr. Whalley? Oh… Congratulations on your league victory.”

“Spare me the platitudes. I’m aware you back the current leadership.”

Whalley cut right through the formalities, getting down to brass tacks.

“I’m here to recruit you regardless. In the event I win the election, I’d like to name you a core member of the next council. That’s with an eye on you potentially succeeding me—if that notion tickles your fancy.”

“ !”

“Er, you mean…?”

“Oliver would be president after you?”

Guy’s and Katie’s jaws dropped. Students at nearby tables who’d overheard were buzzing. Well aware of the eyes upon him, Oliver carefully took measure of the offer.

“…It’s an honor, to be sure. But you’ve caught me unprepared. Even assuming this is based on what I demonstrated in the combat league, your own camp should have more than enough candidates. Why bring me in?”

“Is that a mystery? After seeing how I fought? Really?”

Whalley looked his junior right in the eye, placing a hand upon his chest.

“As mages, we are similar types. We likely began in almost the same way. No obvious talents, derided as an all-rounder, forced to overturn that reputation by working far harder than anyone else. In my case, I swiftly abandoned the idea of fighting on their turf. Instead, I chose to treat notoriously individualistic mages as a group, maximizing their abilities—that is the strength I pursued. And the type of leadership I will bring to the presidency.”

“…You are far too modest. You’re strong enough as is, and you did well for yourself in the broom leagues.”

“I certainly hoped to, but I’ve hit my limit there. As a broomrider and a swordfighter, I have no room to grow. I knew that when your Ms. Hibiya downed me. The time when experience and tactics could make a difference has come and gone.”

His eyes met Nanao’s briefly, and a sigh escaped him. It must have been a major setback, but he showed no signs of regret. His tone soon righted itself.

“But I’m disinclined to bemoan my fate. I’ve demonstrated the strength Kimberly needs. Now I need to merely focus on the task at hand. Will you hear my slogan?”

“…By all means.”

This recruitment was clearly not a whim. He could sense what drove the man and thus waited with the gravity demanded.

“‘Lead mages as mages,’” Whalley intoned. “Accompanied by the conviction that all-rounders will be the key to doing so.”

With that, he drew his white wand, casting a dampening spell around them so that his voice would reach Oliver alone.

“You remember how Team Valois fought? That’s how wrong it can go. One individual of excessive strength, overriding those around them—even without employing mind control, low-level leadership is all too prone to falling into that trap. Perhaps the natural result of clashing egos, but the outcome is nothing more than mass reproduction of the originator, allowing no further progress.”

With that, he dismissed the spell. Oliver had not quite followed the significance of that spell, but he realized this was a courtesy afforded to Team Valois. A presidential candidate publicly criticizing their approach would have significant repercussions. This surprised Oliver; his prior impressions of Whalley had not suggested he cared for such niceties.

“And yet, the lukewarm teamwork favored by the ordinaries suits us even less,” Whalley continued. “Repressing the ego for the greater good merely makes mages weak. Thus, we leave the individual as themselves, finding ways to harmonize. I’m sure I need not explain that this requires skillful management. The outcome is proven, seen regularly at the highest levels—but the method of developing it eludes us. Practically speaking, it remains the domain of the exceptional.”

Oliver nodded at this analysis. Mages had long wrestled with the notion of teamwork; without order, problems arose, but impose too much, and the strengths were lost. They had long vacillated between those twin horns.

“The upshot is that collectives of superior mages are inevitably loosely knit. Given a broad strokes directive, fighting as they see fit, any coordination decided in the moment. Even the most demanding divisions of the Gnostic Hunters are no exception. As it stands, only those with a natural aptitude for those conditions master them and survive. But I’m disinclined to overlook the sacrifices made along the way.”

This was a concern that resonated with Oliver. Nanao and Yuri had the skills, and their mutual trust was a given—but they’d tackled the lead with directives left distinctly loose. That approach would hardly work with anyone. Sometimes people don’t like each other or are teamed with someone they’ve barely spoken to.

“This is where the all-rounders shine. By their nature, they are invested in others; confined not by a single enthusiasm, their interest takes them in all directions. A mage like that in charge, and Kimberly—as a mage collective—can advance to a new stage. Are you with me so far? I believe you are capable of that.”

Neither overconfident nor unnecessarily modest, he was simply describing the strength he’d found within himself. And that struck a chord with Oliver. Each word spoke to the time Whalley had spent peering inward—and many of these discoveries they had in common.

“I know you grasp the importance of this. Under your leadership, Ms. Hibiya and Mr. Leik realized their full potential. Neither constricted nor subjugated; the ideal approach to command. My desire is to see that approach become widespread. That will require adjustments to student relations, an attempt at creating a new order on campus. Imagine what Kimberly could become. That is hardly a future any of you would be unhappy with.”

His words were no longer just for Oliver; they’d spread to the other five Sword Roses, to the Fellowship at large. Whalley was describing nothing less than the ideal he strove to bring to Kimberly under his leadership.

As Oliver searched for a response, Whalley shook him off.

“No haste required. Feel free to make your choice once the election itself is decided. No one at Kimberly would reproach anyone for playing hard to get. And this works in President Godfrey’s favor—should his side lose, he can work his backers into the next council camp.”

Providing an excuse for that nominal betrayal, Whalley turned to go. He had said his piece and was well aware belaboring the point would merely diminish it. One last parting shot.

“I like the way you fight, Mr. Horn. Whatever becomes of Kimberly, I hope we can fight alongside each other. From the bottom of my heart.”

Unvarnished praise, and thus his recruitment ended. Oliver found himself choking up. He was aware this entire speech had been a calculated approach—but at the core of it lay something sincere. This exchange had made it painfully clear that his skills had been assessed and deemed desirable.

His business concluded, Whalley sailed out of the Fellowship. His shoulders looked far broader than they had a day before.

“…He’s singing your praises,” Guy said, his grin rising. “Makes me proud by proxy.”

“An entirely accurate appraisal. And food for thought, Oliver.”

Chela smiled, clearly tickled pink to hear her friend lauded. Putting his own feelings in order, Oliver managed a half smile of his own.

“Yeah… Honestly, parts of that got to me. Running packs of mages under the command of an all-rounder—never thought I’d hear the day when someone saw that as the future of Kimberly.”

That concept alone was worth celebrating. Kimberly had long pursued raw talent above all; it was nice to have elders capable of evaluating people by a different yardstick. Part of him wanted to back that. Part of him was grateful for the praise and kind words. Still—

“I shouldn’t think about it. I’m confident the Watch will prevail. We’ve done our part to back them—save perhaps the speech in their favor at the award ceremony. Now we just need to await the results.”

He spoke with conviction. Long before this recruitment—Godfrey’s side had had their backs, time and time again.

With the fourth- and fifth-year division settled, the afternoon matches began. Everyone sensed the end of the party approaching, yet they knew what lay ahead was the real feast. Glenda was but one of them. She’d been screaming all morning and downed a potion to heal her throat before throwing herself back into her role.

“And the combat league is in the final lap! We did the lower forms! We did the fourth- and fifth-year teams! Now it’s time for the sixth- and seventh-year finale! The cream of the crop from the oldest and best-trained students here! We know for a fact they’ll be demonstrating everything a Kimberly student ought to aspire to—but there’s just one thing on everyone’s mind: How’s President Godfrey doing?!”

“Dr. Zonneveld gave her seal of approval. Don’t worry; he’s in peak condition.”

Garland’s declaration provoked a roar from the stands. As that fever raged, the first-match teams heeded Glenda’s call, making their entrance. The sword arts instructor turned his attention to them.

“But first, eyes on this match, please. Team Miligan versus Team Deschamps—itself a vital contest. Team Godfrey and Team Echevalria are both in the running for victory and will be tough to beat—so both these teams have to win here.”

“Exactly! Team Miligan’s backing the Watch, and Team Deschamps supports the old council camp. Those positions both make victory a necessity! The outcome of this match may well be an oracle as to the future of both camps—and decide if Ms. Miligan herself is elected president!”

Glenda reminded everyone of the external pressures riding on this match. Garland nodded at this but turned his attention to the teams themselves.

“We discussed this during the main round, but Team Miligan is certainly a curious composition. Ms. Miligan is the leader, backed by Ms. Lynette and Ms. Zoe. All three students who’ve excelled in their fields, yet not students anyone would have expected to appear in a combat league. These three were known primarily for their research.”

“While the members of Team Deschamps are all mages you know can handle themselves in a fight! Curious about that myself, I asked Ms. Miligan what went into her team selection, but she said, ‘Everyone knows you can make a strong team if you gather strong students. I wish to show what lies beyond that.’ I took that to mean she had some deeper purpose.”

Meanwhile, on Team Miligan’s side of the arena, only their leader was showing any signs of enthusiasm.

“…Ugh, I hate this vibe. So loud! So hyper!”

“Can I go back to my workshop yet…?”

Lynette Cornwallis and another female student were grumbling up a storm. Not exactly the attitude you’d expect before their big match.

“Now, now,” Miligan said, wincing. “It’s just a few more matches. And I’m hardly asking you to puke blood through a flurry of blades.”

“I couldn’t even if you asked. Let me be clear, I could not last one minute in a sword fight with any of them. If they force their way close—”

“We’ll get wiped out in no time,” Zoe Colonna said, her pudgy frame swaying, her eyes bleary.

“I’m well aware.” Miligan grinned. “But winning with this team matters.”

Moments later, Garland began issuing instructions. Each team sent their first entrant into the ring. Miligan herself represented her team, while Team Deschamps put in a burly seventh-year: Gwenaël Deschamps, head shaved so close it may have taken off the top layer of skin. One of his year’s champion fighters, he’d crossed wands with Godfrey’s compatriots countless times.

“What a feeble lineup, Snake-Eye. Ceding victory already?”

“I care about how I win. Goes with the whole campaign thing.”

“Did your enchanted eye bug out? It’s showing you futures that will never come to pass.”

Deschamps tapped his brow, trying to wind Miligan up; she simply deflected this with a knowing smile.

Garland’s voice rang out: “Begin!”

Both wands shot to the team leaders’ hands, their lips chanting spells.

“Tonitrus!”

“Tenebris!”

Two spells collided at the center, canceling each other. Miligan stepped toward them. Deschamps had been expecting to pursue a retreating foe and was caught off guard, but he was too experienced to let that expose him. His athame came up in time, matching her blow for blow.

“Coming for the infight?” he asked.

“You assumed I’d buy time with a spell exchange? I’m actually not bad at sword arts.”

Sparks flew from their clashing blades. Deschamps weathered her onslaught without a single backward step, snorting.

“You certainly aren’t bad,” he said. “But your Lanoff isn’t exactly a threat.”

His blade locked with hers, batting it aside. She leaped back, righting herself, but Deschamps was lunging in, a thrust bearing down. Unable to block that momentum, Miligan moved sideways, and while her axis was still uncentered, Deschamps pressed his advantage.

“…Ngh…”

The Sword Roses were watching these two veteran fighters with bated breath.

“…He’s dominating.”

“Why isn’t she using the snake eye?”

“She can’t,” Oliver said, answering the question on Pete’s and Guy’s minds.

“She has to focus her mana on the enchanted eye to activate it,” Chela explained. “That diverts mana from other areas, making it tricky to use against an equal or superior foe. She’d get cut down before it took effect. If he didn’t know it existed, she might catch him unawares—but even Ms. Miligan couldn’t go six years here with one eye hidden.”

Oliver nodded in agreement.

Especially since Deschamps was a Rizett master. Of the three core schools, Rizett boasted the swiftest forward and back motions, and it would never do to bank on a sluggish response at even moderate range. And he was a full-grown mage; his resistance to petrification would be far higher than Oliver’s and Nanao’s had been in their first year. All told, he was not someone her eye would likely finish off.

“Her other eye might’ve helped, but she gave that to Milihand,” Guy noted. “Speaking of, where is Milihand?”

“Oh, um…,” Katie said, squirming. “You’ll find out.”

Oliver frowned—but the answer soon revealed itself.

“Gah!”

Miligan threw up her left hand, going for a desperate parry. Deschamps saw it coming, and his blade flashed, raking her wrist. The severed hand fell to the floor below—and he frowned.

“? Why—?”

With a dulling spell at half strength, limbs did not simply sever. That oddity delayed his follow-up just long enough for the eye on the floor to open.

“!!”

Deschamps leaped back, and the hand’s fingers scrabbled on the floor, climbing up Miligan. He threw a spell at them, but Miligan canceled it with fire and then pressed the heated athame against her wrist wound, staunching the bleeding. A mad grin played on the witch’s lips.

“Impressive reflexes. I was hoping to pin you down there.”

“…Dammit…!”

This twist slowed Deschamps’s offense—but his teammates weren’t about to take this lying down. Objecting to the very concept, they started yelling from the sidelines.

“Yo, admins! That’s against the rules!”

“No familiars allowed!”

Naturally, Garland had spotted this before their voices even reached his ears.

“Interesting play. Contestants, stay your hands. Let us confer.”

Pausing the match, he had Theodore drop down from his perch on the ceiling and discuss this turn of events. They soon reached a consensus. Theodore nodded, offered additional feedback, and Garland relayed it to the crowd.

“We have our judgment. Ms. Miligan is within the rules. The rules define familiars as ‘servant beings separate from the mage themselves.’ We can’t very well forbid her bringing her own left hand into the match.”

This call flabbergasted not only the rival team, but the entire audience. The logic was arguably prime malicious rules lawyering, and Team Deschamps wasn’t ready to drop the fight yet.

“That makes no sense! If it starts moving once it’s cut off, it becomes a familiar!”

“There’s a precedent,” Garland replied. “One student controlled locks of hair that were cut away; it was not deemed against the rules at the time. Ms. Miligan’s strategy meets the same conditions, and it would be unfair to deem her alone in violation.”

Garland was quite clear; this was not merely the semantics of the league rules, but a decision made in light of that prior judgment. This still wasn’t enough for Team Deschamps.

“But that’s a case where actual hair was converted to a familiar in the ring, right? Miligan has clearly smuggled in an existing familiar! We’ve all seen her using it around campus!”

“That’s not true!” Miligan cried. “Prior use notwithstanding—today alone Milihand has exclusively been my left hand. It only obtained independent motion once it was cut off. I have met the ‘converted in the ring’ condition.”

Team Deschamps scowled. They were well aware she had the advantage in this type of debate but couldn’t just let it drop.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it! Even if we concede that specific point, a hand can’t move without prior prep!”

“Of course not. But meddling with your own body is what mages do. Even the hair manipulator must have treated it in advance. That’s exactly why the combat league conventions do not view body parts organically attached as external tools. If they did, this enchanted eye would already be a violation.”

“Gah…!”

“And let me add that there is not one non-biological part included in Milihand. I merely fiddled with the nerves, granting it brain-like functions. Enchanted eye aside, the component materials are one hundred percent taken from my own body. If you doubt my word, I’m happy to have the administrators examine it.”

Miligan was acting like she had nothing to hide.

Shaking his head at her brash smile, Garland added, “If she’d hidden a magic tool inside her body or tried to attach an additional third arm, I’d have objected. But this was her real hand, attached to her until a moment ago. Given the precedent with the student-controlled locks of hair, we believe using a severed part of her own body is within the rules. That’s the basis for our judgment. Teams, resume the match.”

Scowling, Deschamps raised his athame. The judges had made their decision and clearly were not about to be shaken from it. As they began exchanging spells again, Glenda started to speak—it was hard to tell if she was amused or appalled.

“W-we’ve certainly exploited a loophole, at the least. But if that’s not a familiar, what is it?! Does any other definition apply?!”

“I’m aware it sounds strained, but we’re calling it ‘a hand that moves independently when separated from her body.’ Anyone who has complaints about that call, feel free to talk to me.”

But even as he spoke, he knew the majority of students would go along with it. This was how Kimberly worked—the teachers made rules with loopholes in them, and the students figured out how to exploit them.

“Hard to attack? So sorry. My hand is just that much more agile.”

As the battle resumed, Miligan piled on the sass.

“Big talk for a failed trick,” Deschamps growled back. “Even you can’t make your hand autonomous. How well does that eye function once it’s detached? Even with an isolated mana reserve, it’s good for two attempts at best.”

“Correct! But that’s more than enough.”

The witch’s lips curled. Trying to bust her bluff, Deschamps recited an incantation and stepped in as the spells clashed. However—as they neared blade range, Milihand peeked out from the collar of its master’s robe.

“…Tch…!”

Deschamps was forced to jump back. On its own, this familiar was no threat to him. But combined with Miligan’s own maneuvers, it was a highly effective dissuader. Loath as he was to admit that, he would need a better plan.

“The plan was always to let him cut it off…!” Oliver muttered, rubbing his temples. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt.

For one thing, in order to reattach Milihand, she’d had to cut off her hand again. Pre-match surgery got her to that stage, but then, mid-match, she had to get her opponent to cut it off for her. All this to slip through a crack in the rules and bring in a familiar, insisting it was just her own hand.

“Mr. Deschamps has slowed down considerably,” Chela said. “Milihand is proving an effective deterrent.”

“An enchanted eye that can activate independently of her own mana manipulation. That would be hard to fight…,” Pete added.

Guy folded his arms, grunting. “I dunno if it’s clever or just crafty, but…it’s very her.”

“…Oh, she’s only just getting started,” Katie murmured.

Oliver nodded wordlessly. It might be a cunning ploy, but Milihand alone wouldn’t win this. That meant it was just a foundation—and the Snake-Eyed Witch knew how to build upon it all the way to victory.

“Phooey, she made it through.”

At the three-minute mark, both teams added another fighter. Team Miligan put in Lynette, and Team Deschamps a seventh-year girl, Hildegard Krusch. Since both leaders had been trading spells at range, the switch to two on two went smoothly. Each side broke off to make adjustments.

“Please, Lynette. This next stage is all you.”

“Sure, sure. I’m here; I’ll do my job. Tonitrus!”

Back-to-back with Miligan, Lynette fired off a spell, as if trying to get a chore out of the way. Team Deschamps assumed the spell duel was back on and responded in kind, but Lynette’s incantation didn’t target them at all. A bunch of glowing letters assembled at the tip of her athame, forming a ball of light, which rose diagonally upward, hanging in the air behind her. Then it began revolving around the arena, maintaining a steady height.

“ ?”

“What…?”

The spells they’d fired to counter it met only empty air, and they were left watching Lynette’s magic at work. Unable to figure out what she was up to, the distant orb also didn’t seem to pose an immediate threat. Agreeing to let it be for now, they resumed their attack.

“Frigus!”

“Impetus!”

Figuring she’d be the easier target—not Milihand—they both aimed at Lynette. Team Miligan responded with spells of their own, and for a while they went back and forth, adjusting their positions.

“Tonitrus!”

In the midst of that, Miligan chanted a spell. Deschamps assumed it was an oppositional designed to counter his own—but instead, he watched as her spell flew upward. He was wondering if she’d blown her aim when Miligan’s magic flew behind him—and was absorbed into Lynette’s glowing orb. It expanded, growing brighter; Deschamps swore under his breath.

“Ms. Lynette steps into the ring and puts a ball of light in orbit! And Ms. Miligan’s spell made it bigger!”

“A spell satellite. One type of three-dimensional sigil, the vocalizations transformed into written symbols. And this one allows for further growth from spells applied afterward. A pretty nifty trick.”

Garland looked suitably impressed as he analyzed the technique. Glenda, who had certainly caught the scent of something highly technical going on, tried to predict the caster’s goal.

“Usually people leave those floating around them! What’s the benefit of placing it so high up?”

“Likely several, but to name one—it’s harder to shoot down. Sigils made of suspended light letters are extremely fragile and easily crumble from the shock waves of other spells. And when that happens, the spell itself can go out of control and harm the caster; you’ve gotta be really careful using this in any spell duel. Mindful of that, one approach is to start by positioning it remotely.”

Garland was offering what little speculation they were afforded at this juncture. The majority of spells were fleeting effects, difficult to maintain for any length without employing some sort of conduit. Converting the spell to letters was a classic means of resolving this, but given the time it took to do so, the technique was not often employed in active combat. Certainly, she’d caught them off guard at the start, but Lynette had also minimized that delay through impressive manascript speed. On top of that, successfully charging the orb with her own magic after launch was a testament to Miligan’s skillful spell control. It was like dropping a cast-iron ball into a vessel made of delicate glass. Without precision control, the satellite would shatter before it could absorb anything.

“At that distance, support spells from the satellite will be delayed. But by the same logic, it’ll be tough for their opponents to shoot it down. It won’t be an immediate threat, but it’s definitely a distraction.”

“Still, a suspended 3D sigil at that range is cut off from the caster’s mana supply! Isolated, it won’t last long! Just hovering alone takes energy, so at this rate it’ll die on its own in a few minutes! Is Team Miligan planning to maintain it by throwing spells its way?”

“That’ll be tough to do while fighting Team Deschamps. Still—”

With the extra power Miligan had supplied, the spell satellite kept floating. Keeping one eye on it, Deschamps muttered, “Okay, gotta be primarily a distraction.”

“Sounds like an egghead strat, yeah. They’re basically admitting they can’t take us in a fair fight,” Hildegard said with a snort. She had the flared-out tips of her hair dyed orange—quite eye-catching.

Miligan was up close with Milihand hidden in her clothes. The satellite was circling above, at range. Both meant that Team Deschamps had to focus on stuff other than their opponents’ movements. That was certainly grating, but to Deschamps’s eye, it was little more than compensating for their weaknesses.

“Impetus!”

They weren’t about to stand around waiting for the next surprise. Hildegard specifically chose to cast when the satellite was out of her line of sight; she predicted its path and aimed to shoot it down. Lynette saw this and took a step sideways—and the satellite shifted with her. The spell caught only air, and Hildegard clicked her tongue.

“Tch, they planned for that. It’s revolving around Lynette. Gonna be pretty tough to shoot it down.”

“But it’s only at two spells. If we don’t let them charge it further—”

Even as Deschamps spoke, lightning shot out of the spell satellite straight at Hildegard. She gulped and dodged, swearing.

“What the—?! It just shot at me!”

“How?! They can’t maintain it after that output!”

That flipped his whole premise. He glared up. The initial singlecant should have run out by now. If it followed that with an attack, the satellite itself should have vanished. But it was still floating away. Clearly odd. The math didn’t add up.

Seeking an explanation, Deschamps turned to the caster. Lynette snorted.

“I wouldn’t use something that flimsy in a fight. How long do you think I’ve been studying spatial magic?”

“Wow,” Pete said. “That sigil’s inhaling the mana around it.”

The Sword Roses had been pondering the same questions, and the bespectacled boy was the first to figure it out.

Oliver and Chela both blinked.

“…Oh,” said Oliver. “It’s taking advantage of the conditions? There are hundreds of mages gathered here. Naturally, the magic-particle density is off the charts. The arena itself has been adjusted to balance that—”

“—but the sigil itself is floating above the arena,” Chela added. “The air will be much like it is in the stands. Full of magic particles to absorb.”

This was the trick up Lynette’s sleeve. Guy folded his arms, head tilted.

“Is that allowed? It’s basically like having a familiar hang around outside the arena.”

“True, but…mages don’t typically perceive sigils alone as familiars,” Oliver replied. “Matches before this one allowed use of the air above the ring’s surroundings, and they’ll have accounted for that, making sure to stay within the letter of the rules. Maintaining a 3D sigil like that without tools is too difficult—few others could imitate her.”

Even as he spoke, he felt like he was seeing the basis of Team Miligan’s approach. They weren’t just exploiting gaps in the rules. That alone, their opponents would adapt to. These strategies were effective because they also revolved around high-level techniques the opposition had not seen before. This was likely also a factor in why Garland allowed it. Some might look at this and call it cheating, but it sure didn’t mean it was easy.

Chela had clearly reached the same conclusion. Miligan had intentionally gathered noncombatants to tackle the combat league—and based on that, she predicted where the fight would go next.

“Since their foes are experienced upperclassmen, they can’t beef up the sigil while exchanging spells. But the satellite keeps itself fueled and grows—the more time they buy, the better Team Miligan’s position.”

“Flamma! Augh, suck a dick!”

Hildegard narrowly dodged a bolt from above. The satellite’s irregular attacks were steadily eating away at them. Keeping half their attention on it left them a beat behind on the spell exchange—every bit as frustrating as they’d feared.

Still, they weren’t inclined to dance in the palm of their foe’s hand. It was clear Lynette was the core of Team Miligan’s strategy, which meant she was also their bottleneck; if Team Deschamps pushed hard and took her down, they could turn this around.

“Impetus!”

A powerful wind spell, well-timed. Avoiding it meant Miligan and Lynette were separated, and Lynette was closer to Hildegard. The latter darted into sword range, moving as fast as her spell, extremely confident she could take out Lynette in a sword fight.

But they’d called this attack. Milihand popped out from the pocket of Lynette’s cloak.

“ ?!”

“Flamma!”

As Hildegard leaped back, Lynette chased a spell after her. She managed to counter and recover but was left gnashing her teeth.

“…When did it…?!”

She’d almost gotten herself petrified. They’d just assumed that familiar was hidden in Miligan’s clothes, but somewhere along the line it had switched hosts. A trap laid in full knowledge of who’d be targeted first in this stage.

“When they had their backs together?” Deschamps guessed. “Like a pair of conjurers.”

“She’s a creature of whimsy! Never stays in one place for long,” Miligan replied, laughing.

Deschamps had been sticking close to her, matching his teammate’s moves. And that pressure had allowed them to briefly split the pair. Their first stab may have come up empty, but their turn was not yet over.

“A cheap trick. Push through.”

“Agreed.”

The team leader’s directive put a nasty smirk on Hildegard’s lips. An enchanted eye in the pocket? Who cared? She’d only backed off because she’d been unprepared. Now that she knew it was there, it would not prevent her from cutting down Lynette.

Certain she could win, Hildegard darted forward. Lynette was already responding.

“Impetus!”

“Prohibere!”

Hildegard hit her wind blades with the oppositional, darting at full speed—the speed she’d held in reserve. Lynette wasn’t done yet; Hildegard sensed a bolt from the spell satellite behind her, right on target—but she never even looked back.

“Tenebris!”

Instead, she chanted a spell at the moment of impact. Deploying a veil of darkness within her personal space to intercept the bolt from behind, she lunged at Lynette with her full strength. Electricity from the last second cancellation scorched her back, but that hardly counted as pain now.

“…Tch! You’re a savage!” Lynette spat.

“That’s a compliment. Time for a sword fight, milady!”

Hildegard cheerily came in swinging—this was her range. Milihand’s presence wouldn’t matter now—the discrepancy in their sword arts skills was so great Lynette would not last two ripostes.

“Sh-she weathered that?”

“Caught it on her back. How did she…?”

Seeing Guy and Pete baffled, Oliver explained, “Point-blank cancellation. Oppositional in your personal space at the moment of impact; not exactly advisable.”

His brow was furrowed, his friends’ shock only fair. This wasn’t a technique you saw often even in the upper forms. With highly skilled fighters on both sides, it was actually harder to pull off.

Chela, similarly taken aback, supplemented Oliver’s explanation.

“The timing is extremely strict, and even if successful, it usually results in injury. But it frees you of time spent aiming your wand at the incoming spell—which hastens your next attack.”

“The lady Lynette likely anticipated this usage,” Nanao ventured. “Thus, she attempted to coordinate attacks from the rear and the fore—and her foe’s swift footwork was designed to throw off the timing of the pincher, allowing her to handle each attack in turn. An impressive display.”

The admiration was evident in her tone. Oliver nodded, watching the tides turn against Team Miligan.

“At that range, the satellite can’t help much. Lynette wanted to avoid a sword duel, so this is dire. Milihand might help delay the inevitable, but for how long?”

Oliver’s read was on the money—once the fight was at close range, Lynette’s distaste for swordplay left things entirely one-sided.

“Yep, yep, you got nothing! Where you hidin’ that familiar? Up your sleeve? In your pocket? Or is it stuck to your back?”

“…Ngh…!”

The blade pounding against hers pressed Lynette steadily backward, desperately hanging on by a thread. She was past the capacity for speech. Had this been Miligan, she could have hinted at the enchanted eye, made her opponent flinch, found ways to stay in the fight—but Lynette had no such options. She’d made the call early on to jettison sword arts practice in favor of advancing her research. Hildegard was a battler through and through, always on the front lines; a borrowed enchanted eye could hardly make up that difference.

“What’s wrong? Put it out there! I’ll handle it! Or would you rather go down with it?”

Lynette would love to rise to that challenge but knew full well the opposite was true—if she used the eye, she would be done. The only reason Hildegard was struggling to finish her here was because she knew Milihand was hiding on her somewhere. The moment she located it, she was free—and the fight would be over in one second flat.

“Ah—!”

But holding it back wasn’t about to change the final outcome. Hildegard’s leg sweep struck Lynette’s ankles, permanently destabilizing a stance she’d barely maintained. Now she was reeling backward, unable to feint in either direction. And the message in Hildegard’s eyes was clear: Gotcha.

“Impetus!”

A relentless spell, sealing her opponent’s doom. Struck in the chest, Lynette was thrown helplessly from the ring. Unconscious the moment her body lifted off. Hildegard need not watch the rest. Bye-bye, Lynette, she thought, already focusing her mind on the battle behind her. She need focus not on a fallen foe, but on the spell satellite she’d left behind. Hard to imagine it would last long with the caster unconscious, but odds were high it could manage at least one more attack—

“Huh?”

—but then she stopped. Her mind had turned to the rear, and her body started to follow it until she found herself locked up halfway. Like her limbs had turned to stone.

“Nice work, Lynette,” Miligan muttered, smiling as she traded spells with Deschamps.

At the edge of her vision, a bolt fell from the sky. Designed to unleash its full reserve of power at the moment its caster blacked out, it aimed that parting gift at the spot Lynette had specified the instant before her elimination.

This was no surprise. Hildegard had expected it. That was why her focus had shifted to it the moment she took Lynette out. It was trivial to dodge an attack you knew was coming. A last desperate attack would hardly succeed at this stage of the proceedings.

Except—Milihand was buried in the soil behind her and caught her in the grasp of its enchanted eye.

“ !”

Not even able to swear, the parting gift struck Hildegard with the full might the satellite had stored up, a hit so strong she lost all sensation.

“…Gah…”

“Hilda!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Deschamps saw his teammate eliminated—and a beat later, he found Milihand half buried in the dirt. Before he could take further action, Miligan turned her athame, getting ahead of him.

“Ducere!”

“Impetus!”

The witch’s pull spell yanked Milihand off the ground a moment before Deschamps’s winds raked the area. Her familiar flipped itself in the air, nimbly lighting upon her shoulder—and Miligan shot her opponent a very smug smirk.

“Such a basic trap! Even in the upper years, few students rival Lynette for stealth spatial magic. You can’t let your guard down just because you’ve eliminated her.”

“…She was always going for mutually assured destruction? Damned con artists.”

Deschamps got what had happened, and that just left him swearing. As Hildegard pushed her backward, Lynette had used spatial magic to melt a patch of floor underfoot. Milihand had run down her leg, obscured by her skirts, and hidden in the ground. Rather than try to land a gambit on her opponent’s turf, Lynette laid a trap to snare Hildegard after her defeat. She cared less about her own victory than taking a tough opponent with her.

“Ugh, I’ve gotta go in now.”

With two fighters eliminated, they reached the six-minute mark. The last member of Team Miligan—Zoe Colonna—stepped unenthusiastically into the ring.

“Both teams lost one but gained another!”

“Hat’s off. Hildegard was watching for that hand the whole duel but never saw the trick coming. In hindsight, the satellite itself was just a setup to finish her opponent after her own elimination. Very clever.”

Garland was being positively effusive. How could he not praise the creative thinking required to include your own elimination in a strategy?

“Given that Ms. Lynette had little shot of winning a direct fight, going for mutual elimination is likely to Team Miligan’s advantage. Oh, incidentally—I’m sure Hildegard was gunning for this, too, but if that hand gets flung out of the ring, Miligan herself is disqualified. Good thing she recovered it in time—that was a close call.”

“So Ms. Hildegard also planned to turn their scheme against them! Her point-blank cancellation was to die for, so it does feel like she didn’t really get to strut her stuff here!”

“Arguably, but one can also chalk that up to the success of Team Miligan’s approach. They’re maximizing the potential of a team of noncombatants, while also shutting down their opponents’ strengths. As a candidate for student body president, that’s likely the sort of leadership Miligan wants to demonstrate.”

For a long beat after the third members joined, both teams stood there staring each other down.

“Oh, not attacking? Finally worked out you can’t just overpower us?” Miligan taunted, sensing her rivals’ caution.

Team Deschamps had hoped for a swift resolution, but the fight so far had been jam-packed with twists that made them think twice. And with this third member’s skills an unknown quantity, they didn’t dare rush in.

“I’d rather you don’t play it safe. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Miligan shot Zoe a glance, and Zoe dropped to her knees, hands on the ground. She sighed heavily—then put a spell on her tongue.

“…Lutuom limus…”

“Tonitrus!”

“Impetus!”

Team Deschamps might have been in watch-and-wait mode, but they weren’t about to let an opening go unpunished. Lightning and wind mingled, rushing at their foe. Making no attempt to counter this, Miligan merely stood there, right up against her teammate.

And just before the spells hit—the floor heaved upward, completely blocking their spells.

“ ?!”

“What in the…?!”

Team Deschamps could not believe their eyes. The floor of the ring around Zoe had gone claylike and was roiling. The area affected was broad enough to contain both Miligan and her—and it almost seemed alive.

“No big whoop. Just playing in the dirt,” Zoe intoned before her body was swallowed up by the floor, head and all. An unnerving sight even to mage eyes, and her foes looked suitably tense.

“She…melted into the floor of the ring? What’s going on?!” Glenda cried.

“An application of classic golem techniques…turning herself into the core, fine-tuning the elements at a very high level. Less like she’s controlling the floor and more like she’s synchronized with it…”

Garland had one hand on his chin, looking less fascinated or impressed than…alarmed. It was typical for students who reached the finals to have some secrets up their sleeve, but he was an instructor—and had to draw the line somewhere.

“It’s one thing with your average ground, but the arena floor is treated with a self-repairing spell. Not a feat anyone else could pull off. She’s likely entered and rewritten that spell—a sight that makes me fear for Kimberly’s security. No—before we even get there—”

A few seconds after Zoe melted into the floor, this became a very different match. Ripples ran across the surface of the ring, surfaces left flat now the minority. Where they’d been was now a hill that abruptly dropped into a trough. Miligan was lightly dancing across the top of this, but Team Deschamps was barely staying on their feet.

“…Would you stop scampering around? I’m so sleepy right now…”

Zoe might no longer be visible, but her voice shook the surface of the floor. She sounded like she was talking in her sleep.

“She’s in a trance?” Deschamps muttered, calmly taking stock. “Don’t get hung up on how freakish this looks—she can’t sustain it for long.”

“I can see that! Melting the floor and manipulating it is one thing, but melting herself into the floor?! That’s one step shy of getting consumed by the spell!”

The third member of Team Deschamps was Kenneth Hayward, a sixth-year student with black hair in a very uptight-looking center part. What they were seeing now was no crafty scheme or trick—it was downright unnatural, absolutely not a sight they should have encountered in a combat league. This was more the kind of nightmare Godfrey regularly faced while working for the Watch.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, Zoe. I don’t want to lose you yet.”

“…I’ll do what I can… But if I stop responding…I’d appreciate a wake-up call.”

Miligan kept talking to the rippling ground, and while not exactly reassuring, the ground was answering. That alone provided proof Zoe had not yet been consumed by the spell. Team Deschamps had not a shred of evidence as to how long she might toe that line.

They were trading spells with Miligan, trying to stay upright on the heaving ground—and those waves were only getting higher. Where they stood was now always at an elevation higher than where the match had begun. And that fact begged speculation. Kenneth gulped.

“…Uh, if she alters all of it—”

“She can force us to ring out. Can you stop that with spell interference?”

Deschamps put forward a specific strategy; Kenneth thought for a few seconds, then nodded. Whatever the goal here was, letting her go to town was bad for them.

“If I can focus on only that, probably…?”

“Then go for it. I’ll keep Snake-Eye busy.”

Their roles divided, Team Deschamps set their jaws and went to work. Deschamps fired a spell at a mound Miligan was using for cover, flushing her out.

“Aw, you spotted me?”

“I thought better of you, Miligan! Never imagined you were quite mad enough to employ something this dangerous!”

His anger was genuine, and the spells he followed it with a rebuke. Expertly avoiding them with the aid of the shifting grounds, the Witch spoke up.

“I’ve earned your ire—mind if I speak seriously for a moment?”

“ ?”

Deschamps wasn’t quite sure how to respond. While they talked, the fight would grind to a halt, arguably buying time—but in these circumstances, which side would benefit from that the most?

“Prohibere—Prohibere—Fortis Prohibere!”

Kenneth’s resistance prevented the alteration from consuming the entire ring. That balance would only last as long as his mana pool, but would it last longer than the girl buried in the floor? Unlikely. Given the scale of her spell, Zoe was clearly burning mana fast. If she shattered that ceiling, that would prove she’d been consumed by the spell, and Garland would declare Team Miligan’s defeat before that happened. At the very least, Deschamps could trust the sword arts master to know when a mage was too far gone.

“…Lay it on me.”

Time was on his side. Thinking it through had made him sure of that, so Deschamps let her speak. Miligan nodded.

“I found Zoe at the end of last year. In a workshop on the third layer, melted into her own creation.”

“……”

“If I’d failed to notice, she’d long since have been consumed by the spell. Happens all the time. Kimberly tacitly approves of it, and once upon a time, I’d have cheerily let it happen.”

“…I don’t get it. Why bother bringing that to the combat league? Trying to put her to good use before the spell inevitably consumes her?”

Part of this question was stalling for time, but it was also an honest query. He could see no legitimate reason to make use of someone like this. Given how cunning Miligan’s previous schemes had been, choosing a more viable strategy would have increased her odds of victory. He couldn’t figure out why she’d ignored that and gone for this long shot.

Miligan smiled, well aware of why he was so baffled.

“I knew another mage like her, who was consumed. We weren’t exactly friends, but…the last words we exchanged stuck with me.”

“That’s it? Pointless sentiment? You think you could have said something to stop her?”

“Ha-ha, hardly. The fate of a mage is not so easily overcome. But…perhaps I could have staved it off for a few days. And perhaps in those extra days, we could have exchanged more words—better than the ones we did. Maybe then it would weigh less upon me. I feel like it would.”

Fingers clenching her athame, she raised it to her chest. Her mind’s eye was on the face of a witch who’d been perpetually alone. She was not inclined to apologize. They’d been enemies until the bitter end—and their final words had been designed to hurt. The motives for that were as sound now as they’d been at the time.

And yet—if there was a next time, she’d like to see a better ending.

“That’s one reason I brought Zoe here. Most mages are all alone when they’re consumed. And it occurred to me—if they aren’t, then perhaps they can hang on awhile longer. The league is quite a party. Enough to make you forget how isolated you were.”

“……And what good does that do? A momentary delay at best?”

Deschamps’s brow creased. Miligan would have said the same, once, so she merely shrugged.

“Hard to say, really. I just think time spent alive has meaning. Isn’t that the fundamental principle underlying the civil rights movement?”

She herself was taken aback by how easily the answer came. She didn’t even have to pick her words—they just came out.

Like a label she’d applied to herself finally fit her. That thought made her blush, and she glanced at the ground.

“She’s at her limit. Wake up, Zoe!”

As she spoke—there was a crack. Half the ring slid away.

“…Huh?” Kenneth gasped, looking up from his interference. Where he stood—the entire west side of the ring—had cracked diagonally and was sliding away. His feet were still in the ring, but his body had already reached the area designated “out of bounds.”

“A beautiful cut,” Miligan said softly. “Nice work, Zoe. You may sleep now.”

Hunched up in the cross section like the stage had been her pupa, Zoe slowly closed her eyes.

“…I’ll do that, then,” she replied.

From there, it was only the gentle sounds of her breathing. The audience was so quiet everyone could hear them.

After a long silence, Glenda recovered enough to glance at Garland.

“Was that…a ring out…?”

“…I believe so. Portions of the ring that fall out of bounds are no longer considered part of the stage. Unrelated to the size of the fragment.”

That was how the rules had it. The fight may have been chaotic to the extreme, but he’d witnessed a clear strategy behind it.

Zoe’s entrance might have seemed like they’d unleashed a wild thing, but her work had been constantly under Miligan’s careful control. Specifically, they’d known their enemy would fight them—and used that to break the ring itself. Merely fighting off the interference wouldn’t get them to an elimination. That’s why they’d pushed—and then pulled back. Zoe had put all her effort into maintaining the fluidity of the opposing surface, letting Kenneth’s interference harden the rest.

And this was the outcome. The stage had cracked, part of it had slid away—and since it was the byproduct of two different spells, it was far more dramatic than what Zoe managed on her own. That sheer scale was why Kenneth had failed to register it as an attack at all. In all the years the combat league had run, this was one of few instances where someone had been forced out of bounds while standing on the ring.

“Now it’s just the two of us. Perhaps it’s time we settled things, Mr. Deschamps.”

The western half of the stage was gone, and the eastern half was now extremely uneven. Not a trace of the original left behind. Miligan quietly braced for battle, while Deschamps just glared at her.

“…You roped me into that conversation…”

“To do this, of course. Always did excel at appealing to emotions. Did I bring a tear to your eye?”

Miligan looked quite proud of herself. Not a speck of guilt. Deschamps gave up thinking about it. No point speculating on how much she’d actually meant. Even less use getting mad at her. This snake would not be silenced as long as she still breathed.

“…I’ll admit I underestimated you,” said Deschamps. “But the outcome remains unchanged.”

“Oh dear. Won’t be very impressive if I lose now!”

No more talk. The two survivors faced each other down. Everyone knew this was the end—whatever the outcome, it would not take long to settle.

“Impetus!”

“Prohibere!”

Spells clashed, and both fighters ran toward the end of one of the oddest matches in league history.

“…My jaw may never close again,” Chela whispered, dumbfounded like many students in the stands around her. She couldn’t even muster praise or analysis of the cunning strategies employed. If she had to put her feelings into words, the closest phrase—she didn’t even know where to begin.

Sharing that feeling, Oliver forced his mind to move on. Whatever had come before, this was still anyone’s fight to win. He needed to focus on that alone; by trimming all else away, he got his mind moving again.

“…Regardless of what’s transpired,” he began, “now we’re in a simple one-on-one. And with half the stage gone, both parties have limited maneuverability.”

“…Which makes it easy to get in sword range,” Pete said. “Down a hand, Miligan’s at a disadvantage…”

“I dunno about that,” Guy objected. “Milihand’s still in the mix somewhere.”

Taking both points into account, Oliver watched the fight a moment—and the smaller stage was clearly working against Miligan. In other words, she was unlikely to win unless she had something that could compensate for that.

“Katie, what’s your take?” Pete asked.

The curly haired girl was watching the battle unfold, looking increasingly tense.

“She’s got a plan. Will it work? That…might come down to my skills.”

“Huh?” Behind his glasses, Pete blinked, unsure what that meant.

The phrasing bugged Oliver, too, but he chose to focus on the battle instead.

“…Gah…!”

Heat seared her skin, and Miligan stifled a shriek. She’d backed away from a disadvantageous sword duel and been chased by this spell. Unable to cancel it completely, the fires caught her robe, and she was forced to cast it off even as she backed away.

“…Hmph.”

Zoe may have transformed the field completely, but Deschamps had already adapted to that. He was keeping her from using that terrain but making good use of it himself, steadily pushing her toward the far edge.

“You’re tapped out. Sorry, but this is my fight now.”

His conviction was unwavering, but as his opponent cast off her robe, he scanned every inch of her. Now that she was cornered, that familiar’s enchanted eye was bound to make an appearance.

“Looks like it’s not in your clothes. Buried somewhere on the stage? My spatial sense covers more ground than that eye’s range. Try any angle. I’ll spot it.”

He was steadily closing the gap, eyes like daggers scanning for the disembodied hand, turning up the pressure on Miligan—then he stopped.

“…Found it. Flamma!”

Deschamps threw a spell to pin her down and leaped sideways. He stomped a specific section of the floor, hardening the ground with spatial magic and sealing Milihand within—and using that step to close in on his opponent.

“I’ve got you now, Miligan!”

“Tch…!”

With her trap foiled, Miligan spun around, revealing her back. Normally unthinkable, but Deschamp took it as a vain bluff—an attempt to make him think Milihand was on her back. He wasn’t falling for it. His senses had clearly captured Milihand in the ground behind—his foe had no more tricks up her sleeve.

“ ?!”

He was so certain of this that he couldn’t work out why his body stiffened up.

“Thanks for setting my robe on fire. That let me make its removal look natural.”

The witch still had her back to him. With the robe gone, he could see the back of her blouse—and between the shoulder blades, a bizarre gash. With an eye peering out. Red and green, inhuman—a gleaming eye where no eye ought to be.

“…You…put it…on your…back?”

“My left eye is a fake! Not that I’m inclined to let you see.”

Miligan pulled her bangs aside. Deschamps couldn’t see from behind, but like she said, in her left socket was an elaborately constructed glass eye. No hidden abilities there, not a magic tool—so not a violation of the rules. But if her foes believed that was where her enchanted eye lay, then they’d assume they need only track her face and her familiar.

“Your team was a good one. But mine wins at deceit. Tonitrus.”

Aiming over her shoulder, the witch fired a spell. In the instant of consciousness he had left, the only thought on Deschamps’s mind was an invective he’d never before let cross his lips. Namely: What a cunt.

The last spell hit, and Deschamps toppled over. The audience was over their confusion—and on their feet with a roar.

“It’s all over! Team Miligan pulled the rug out from under them at every turn, and they emerge with the victory! A real tightrope walk across the letter of the rules, and they clearly have nerves of steel. Master Garland, what’s your final verdict?”

“Well, not a battle I’d want any younger students taking inspiration from. But it’s also a fact that you’ve gotta go this far if you want to snatch a victory away from the upper form’s top fighters. And I have to give credit for showcasing students whose skill sets aren’t really combat focused. Play your cards right, and you can fight like this—that knowledge will broaden the range of tactics employed. Also…”

League staff had pulled Zoe from the cross section and carried her away. She was still sound asleep. Garland smiled at her, murmuring, “Ms. Miligan might insist it was all part of her scheme, but I’m grateful she pulled Ms. Zoe up here before the spell consumed her. Not as a judge, but as a teacher.”

“…Katie, the eye was you?”

As the stands buzzed with the one-of-kind fight, Oliver turned to the curly haired girl. All eyes gathered wordlessly on her.

Oliver was sure of it. Miligan had secured her victory with an enchanted eye on her back—allowing her to eliminate her blind spot and surprise her foes. But given the eye’s location, she couldn’t have done it herself. Given what Katie had said earlier, something must have gone down before the match.

Katie nodded listlessly. That was her work, and she offered no excuses.

“I’m glad it actually functioned,” she said. “Ms. Miligan asked me yesterday. She’d worked out all the steps, and I just had to follow them.”

Guy and Pete were gaping at her. She’d performed a major surgery yesterday, before their big talk?

Katie avoided their gaze, babbling. “Moving the eyeball itself from the face to the back…was gross but not that hard. If you know how to handle enchanted eyes, it’s not too difficult. But extending and connecting nerves? I almost burst into tears so many times! Why would you ask a third-year to do anything like that?!”

She buried her face in her hands, wailing. No one knew what to say. But the girl who’d forced this mad surgery on her called out from the stage, athame raised high, looking extremely smug.

“I won, Katie! Are you basking in the glory?!”

“I am not! I haaaate you!”

Katie had rarely ever screamed louder. Oliver and Chela looked at each other and sighed in sync.