Nanatsu no Maken ga Shihai suru - Volume 10 - Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Aristides, the Philosopher of Ignorance

Mount a broom and you could fly anywhere you liked. Ordinaries often envied mages that luxury.

But that notion had a flip side—there were plenty of places even mages could not lightly tread.

Even close at hand, there were natural hills and forests. A dense veil of leaves hid the terrain below, obscuring what threats might lie within. Burning that away was an option, but that would incinerate nature’s bounty, too. Thus, the standard village mage was expected to have at most a practical grasp on the local ecosystems, keep the local threats from harming the ordinaries—but otherwise, live and let live.

“Haah, haah, haah…!”

Badly out of breath, young Demitrio was running through these hills. Ordinarily, he would have been enthusiastic about the life teeming in these forests, but today he merely cursed the trees for limiting his vision. Something could be lurking in the shadows behind any one of those. Wild things—or the girl he sought.

“…Maya! Where are you, Maya?!”

An hour earlier:

Demitrio had arrived at the little schoolhouse, armed with supplies to teach the village children.

“Good morning, boys and girls! Mm? No Maya? Not like her to oversleep.”

She was always in the front row. The other children exchanged glances.

“…She’s not here.”

“Yeah…”

That sounded ominous, so he gave them a look.

“…What happened? Let me hear it.”

The children fidgeted and began talking.

“…I saw her this morning! She said a shooting star fell nearby.”

“She saw it from her window at sunrise. It landed in the forest over there.”

A boy pointed through the window. Then he looked at the boy seated next to him.

“But Flett said she was making it up. They had a fight, and Maya got mad and ran away.”

The other boy shifted awkwardly. That was enough for Demitrio to connect the dots.

“You think…she went into the hills?”

There was a grim silence. Demitrio dropped his things on the podium and ran out.

“Free study today! Don’t leave the room till I get back!”

He let the village grown-ups know and plunged straight into the forest. He’d been searching for his student for the better part of an hour now. He’d raced all around this section of forest but found no signs of Maya anywhere, and his panic was starting to reach a fever pitch. The late autumn leaves hid her tracks, and the spores released by mushrooms during this time of year dulled his familiars’ noses.

“…Stay calm… Deep breath…! Don’t search blind! What would she do?”

He forced himself to imagine her choices.

Maya was diligent, always listened. She knew how scary the hills could be and wouldn’t leave the path without good reason. If he still couldn’t find her, some accident must have knocked her off the path. Maybe she fled an animal attack. Or something distracted her, and she slipped off a cliff.

“……! Wait—”

With that thought in mind, Demitrio reexamined his surroundings and found a patch of brush that showed signs of something living pushing through. He peered through the gap, saw a steep slope just beyond—and plunged right in.

“…This way—!”

He followed the marks down. If she’d taken a tumble, she might not last long. Odds were high that her injuries immobilized her, and there were plenty of magical beasts here that would prey upon that.

And that conjecture proved accurate; at the bottom of the slope, he found Maya leaning against a sturdy tree root, surrounded by three wild wargs.

“T-Teach…”

“Maya!”

His wand snapped up. The wargs bared their teeth, growling, and he roared back:

“Get away from her! Tonitrus!”

The bolt hit the ground and spooked the wargs; they fled. Demitrio swiftly turned to Maya. She had a broken ankle and a tree branch impaling her chest. Likely from the momentum of the fall. Given the sheer quantity of blood, he had to act fast, or she would not be long for this world.

“Lemme see that wound, Maya. You’re safe now, I’ll heal you—”

“…I’m fine…”

He’d raised his wand to chant a spell, but Maya smiled up at him. He froze to the spot.

“…What…?”

“This thing made it all better. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Something half Maya’s size stepped out from behind the tree.

“Quuuuu…”

Tufts of blue fur, three scared purple eyes, all staring up at Demitrio. No scroll he’d read had mentioned the like, but there it stood, alive and kicking.

Urgent treatment complete, Maya pleaded with Demitrio to take the creature back to the village with them. He wrestled with the idea but ultimately agreed. The villagers were relieved to see the girl safe, but they soon became curious about the unknown life-form.

“Whoa, what is that thing?”

“It’s a giant furball!”

“You ever seen the like, Granddad?”

“…Not in all my years. It sure don’t hail from these parts.”

The elder shook his head, peering at the creature in the cage. Demitrio had been examining Maya’s condition in a room nearby, but he emerged to chastise them.

“Please, keep your distance from it. I put up a barrier, but I’m not sure it’s safe.”

“It’s not bad!” Maya yelled, running out after him. She darted over to the cage. “Teach, let it outta the cage! It kept me safe! If it hadn’t helped, the wound on my chest—!”

“I know! I hear you, Maya.”

Demitrio knelt down, patting her head. He looked her right in the eye.

“But listen to me. I’ve got to be careful. There’s a lot of danger out there, and I have to protect the village. That’s my job.”

The girl couldn’t argue with that. He nudged her back inside and then turned to the villagers.

“While Maya recovers, I’ll be observing this creature and studying it. Making sure to keep it separated. If that’s okay with the mayor.”

“Of course. We’ll trust you with this.”

The elder nodded, smiling, and glanced at the thing in the cage.

“But that is the damnedest creature. I’ve seen my share of magic beasts, but nothing remotely like this. Is this a visitor from the stars?”

“That’s one possibility I’ll be investigating. I’ll need a little time.”

Demitrio forced his tone to stay calm. But in truth, curiosity made his heart leap—worse than any other villager here.

The creature had been in a weakened condition even as he brought it back, so Demitrio began by searching for a viable food source. He tried everything close at hand, and the creature eagerly ate fresh apples and grapes.

It prefers fruits, then? Neither its diet nor its physical composition betray any immediate signs of aggression.

Watching it feed, Demitrio pondered the matter. On a whim, he spoke to it, and it broke off its meal, coming over to him. He gave it a few more grapes, digging further into that thought.

It’s fairly intelligent. But not enough to converse with us or guide our thoughts. At this stage, I’m assuming a chance migration. The lack of similar creatures in the vicinity supports that notion…

He knew a decent amount about tír. Given the current celestial positions, this thing likely hailed from Ayrioneptu, the Rotting Sea’s Shoals—one stop closer than Vanato, the Chthonic Retreat. But beyond that, he was in the dark. Few scrolls contained detailed accounts of creatures from that tír.

But the way it healed Maya—that seems a bit too pat for an ordinary migration.

He was hung up on that point. He hadn’t told the girl, but her chest wound should have been fatal. If the creature hadn’t patched her up, she’d never have held out long enough for Demitrio to get there. This creature had prevented the worst—but it hadn’t actually healed her. The wound remained—but the tree branch impaling her had fused with her flesh, staunching the bleeding. The border between the plant fibers and her human flesh barely remained.

He’d surgically removed a section of that for further study, but he couldn’t begin to predict what influence it might have on Maya in the future.

Keep a close watch on her progress. I should have time to assess the risks afterward.

Despite his concerns, Maya’s recovery progressed steadily. Just in case, he kept her resting for a solid month, but as her condition improved, that made her grumble. Demitrio was forced to allow her to go back to normal.

“Just don’t start out running all over the place. Nothing feels wrong?”

“Nope! I’m fine! Nothing wrong with me!”

She hopped up and down to demonstrate, giggling.

“Have it your way,” he said, grimacing but nodding. “Okay, you’re cleared to go back to normal life. But promise me no more children running into the hills alone.”

That made Maya go very still.

“I promise,” she said, looking serious. “But what’s going on with that creature? Can I see it?”

“It’s doing fine. And it’s not in the cage anymore; don’t worry. I’m still studying it, so I can’t let you see it right away…”

He trailed off there.

“…Did it come from another world?” Maya asked.

“…I can’t say for sure, but I think so.”

Demitrio picked his words carefully.

“It’s super nice!” Maya said, grinning as if trying to wash away his concerns. “Just like you said it would be!”

That same night, her words looped through Demitrio’s mind as he watched the creature sleep, sprawled out on the floor of his room.

Maya’s too optimistic. But…

He was trapped between caution and hope. He couldn’t quite put the desire to believe her out of his mind.

It’s a tír creature with the power to heal, friendly toward humans, docile… If all of that is true, it’s a major discovery. It’ll shake the foundations of what we know about tír.

Could he let that possibility get away? The tragedies of the past had left the magic world with extremely negative views on tír. Only solid evidence to the contrary would turn that around. Bringing him one step closer to his dream of one day visiting a tír.

I know I should just incinerate it. Or at least report this to the Gnostic Hunters. Either way, the outcome would be the same. Regardless of whether it poses a real threat, this creature would perish.

And imagining that left him mussing up his hair.

I can’t just…let that happen. I’ve got a shot at making my dream come true here!

His hand reached for the sleeping creature, stroking its warm, soft fur. He bit his lip.

“If you hadn’t saved her, Maya would have died… That’s a fact.”

After a long struggle between what was right for a mage and what he wanted to be true, he gingerly turned the rudder toward the latter.

“Oh, Fluffball’s out!”

“Is it allowed out now?!”

“I’m gonna let it get used to things slowly. As a start, I’m giving it short walks around the village. You’d best keep your distance for now.”

The sight of Demitrio and the creature delighted the children. The villagers had long since given it a name befitting its appearance, and seeing it out and about failed to raise any hackles. If he hadn’t been stopping them, they’d have run right in and started petting it. Demitrio was well aware of the implications, but he kept on walking.

“…Worried about the kids? Don’t worry; no one here will hurt you.”

Fluffball kept stopping to look back at the children—but its attention was soon drawn elsewhere: to the red orbs growing in the fields.

“Oh, the tomatoes are ripe. Curious?”

On impulse, he got permission from the farmer, plucked a tomato, and gave it to Fluffball. It gobbled up the fruit, and the children watching got even more excited.

“Whoa, it’s eating a tomato!”

“It really likes it!”

“It eats its veggies!”

“Unlike you, Flett!”

“Hey! I eat my veggies! If they’re cut up small!”

Demitrio couldn’t repress a smile. They’d likely make friends fast, he thought, relieved.

They repeated these walks awhile—and then Fluffball did something unprecedented.

“Mm? What’s up? You want to go over there?”

Demitrio followed after it. It headed to a just-sprouted field, where a villager was taking a breather, drink in hand.

“Oh, what’s this, Teach? Got Fluffball with you?”

“It wanted to come this way. Not exactly tomato season, though…”

Baffled, Demitrio cocked his head. Fluffball was tugging on a bag of compost, trying to drag it off the field.

“…You don’t approve of that fertilizer?”

Catching its drift, Demitrio removed the bag from the field, and Fluffball stopped moving, like its work there was done.

Then the farmer’s wife came rushing out of the house, yelling, “You grabbed the wrong one again! That’s for millet!”

That shocked both men. They turned and looked at Fluffball.

“…Well, I never. It knows which fertilizer to use?”

“News to me. I had no clue…”

Demitrio had seen no evidence to suggest this. Meanwhile, the villager rubbed his hands together.

“Let’s give this a shot! Show it the whole stock!”

They took Fluffball to the shed. When it saw the bags of fertilizer, it burst into action, almost sliding across the floor. Tentacles extended from inside the fur, leaving marks on every bag it could reach.

“Those are all bad, huh? Mm? What’s it doing now?”

As Demitro watched, Fluffball started sketching a simple picture in the dirt on the floor. Long, tall stalks—reminiscent of the millet the villagers often grew. Realizing why it would draw this before these bags, the villager looked impressed.

“Use this on millet, not tomatoes? If it can distinguish different crops, that impressive.”

Demitrio agreed. Shaking its fur—happy it had made its point—Fluffball moved to a different bag and drew another picture.

“Mix those two and use them on the melons? You can figure that out, too?”

“I’m curious, now. I got extra field space; let’s give it a shot.”

All excited, the villager got to work. A little hesitant, Demitrio let him go. The creature wasn’t touching the crops itself—just changing how the existing fertilizers were used. He didn’t see how that would pose a problem.

And a few months later, the dramatic outcome stood before Demitrio.

“See, Teach? Look at this bounty!”

The villager was standing behind plants laden with tomatoes. At Fluffball’s side, Demitrio just gaped—and the villager grabbed a tomato, taking a bite.

“Huge—and lots of them! Taste great, too! All fields where we followed Fluffball’s advice. The bringer of the harvest!”

Word was spreading, and villagers were gathering, huddling around Demitrio and Fluffball.

“Bring it to my fields!”

“What about cabbage? Does it do wheat?”

“Not fair! I want it first!”

“Actually, I was thinking about growing sugarcane…”

Ultimately, Fluffball paid a visit to every field. The results were dramatic—and the whole village doted on the bringer of the harvest. Some even began praying to it—but this, Demitrio strictly forbade, not wanting to arouse unwarranted suspicions in outsiders.

Naturally, Demitrio was being careful. The more it contributed to the village, the more it proved just how much influence it had on humans. After gaining trust with better harvests, would it start agitating the villagers? He was watching for that. But years passed with no evidence of anything untoward. It never objected to living with Demitrio, never tried to leave the house on its own—Fluffball seemed entirely content.

“…You tell them how to get more crops and then feast on them, huh?”

Fluffball was considerably larger than when it had first arrived. It was munching away at a bunch of grapes, and that sight made it easy to believe all his fears were in vain.

“You’re a simple creature. I guess I really did make the right choice…”

Creatures like this lived on tír, too. Demitrio didn’t think that was at all strange. Just as their world had all manner of creatures, tír ecosystems were highly varied. It made no sense that all of them would be harmful to humans. It was possible to coexist with some, and others might well bring bounty. The creature before him had basically proven that—and he was extremely grateful for it.

“…Um…Teach?”

“Can we…play with Fluffball?”

He looked up and found a group of children peering through the open door. Demitrio smiled and stood up.

“Sure. But don’t wear it out. It just ate a lot.”

“Yes!”

“C’mere! Let’s go to the creek!”

The children led Fluffball out. Demitrio walked along behind them, thinking—recording all this and telling the world? That was his duty in life.

A long time spent in close proximity had told him much about Fluffball’s life cycle. But the next step baffled him. The contents of his research were revolutionary, but he had nowhere to publish them.

“…I’ve got a pile of papers written. But who to show them to?”

Arms folded, he looked up at the shelf filled with scrolls—and a panicked cry came from the door.

“Teach! It’s Flett—he’s…!”

Right away, he knew this was bad news. He switched from researcher to village-mage mode, grabbed his wand, and ran out the door.

He arrived to find a mudslide just outside of town. He dove right in, trying to extract the student trapped within.

“Supernatet!”

Working carefully, Demitrio made rocks, which ordinaries could never lift, float away. With people buried inside, he could not use a doublecant to yank it all away at once; a further collapse could cause a secondary disaster. Fighting off his panic, he maintained precision and finally got the boy’s body out of the dirt.

“Flett! Wake up, Flett!”

“Can you heal him? You can, right, Teach?!”

His student was no longer breathing, but Demitrio did everything he could. Spells to force the heart and lungs into action, closing up visible wounds with healing. But ten minutes later—the outcome was all too clear.

“……I’m sorry……,” Demitrio whispered, his wand hanging limp.

The nearby villagers turned pale.

“…No… No!”

“He’s all healed up! His chest is rising and falling! He’ll wake up any second!”

Demitrio shook his head. That was just his spell at work. There was no life left for him to save.

“…It took too long to get him out. Even with his wounds healed, his brain……”

That was everything. If the heart and lungs ceased to function, the brain died first. Anyone who’d studied healing knew that ironclad rule. Mages were no exception, much less the far more fragile ordinaries. Once a certain length of time passed, the odds of resuscitation dropped like a stone. Demitrio had done everything he could but had not been in time.

“Even if his body lives, his mind is not here… Right?” the elder said, stepping out in front. He’d lived longer than anyone else here and had seen the like before.

Demitrio nodded, and the boy’s parents collapsed in sobs.

“Very well.” The elder closed his eyes. “Then let him go. If you do not, the soul will be trapped here.”

It took him a long moment before he accepted that request. He raised his wand to his chest, seared the dead face of the boy he’d taught since early childhood into his mind—and cast the spell.

“…Impediendum.”

The false pulse stopped, as did his breathing. Before his eyes, a student went still forever.

“…Flett…!”

The parents clung to their child’s body as it went cold. Demitrio had been helpless to stop this, and he could only stand and stare.

He treated the other wounded and carried the body back to the village, where the funeral took place. A village this small, nearly everyone was in attendance. Demitrio, too, joined the throngs in black in the town’s largest building—one used for just about everything. The boy had often played with Fluffball, so he brought it along.

“Don’t take it so hard. You did what could be done. We all know that.”

In the crowd of mourners, Demitrio was sitting hunched over, and the elder patted his shoulders. He knew no one blamed him. But that didn’t stop him from blaming himself. He could imagine countless ways the boy might have lived, ways he could have stopped this from happening.

“…I’m…gonna step outside.”

Having villagers comfort him was making it worse, so he fled the funeral. With no one to stop him, he pounded a fist into a rock wall.

“…If I’d been watching the kids instead of writing papers…at least kept a familiar on the headstrong ones…!”

His mind was so full of regret, he never realized—Fluffball was no longer at his feet.

“…Ah…”

“…Fluffball…”

The children grieving by the coffin saw Fluffball join them. Their eyes turned its way, reaching for its fur as if seeking salvation—and tentacles extended from within, carrying little scraps of flesh coiled in their tips to the children’s mouths. In their sadness, the scent proved invitingly familiar to the children.

“…What is it?”

“…You want us to eat these?”

It seemed odd, but they loved Fluffball and didn’t refuse. One after another swallowed the flesh, and only Maya sensed anything wrong. She jumped to her feet.

“Wait, don’t—”

But several had already swallowed. The soft texture and smell, like fermented beans, made their faces scrunch up.

“…Ugh, that’s nasty…”

“But also…”

They frowned, unsure how to put it into words. Their friend’s coffin lay in front of them, a symbol of their grief…but it no longer seemed like something to be sad about.

“…Huh? Flett…?”

“Are you…there…?”

Finally noticing Fluffball’s absence, Demitrio came rushing back to the funeral, alarmed. It was worse than he’d feared. At a glance, he knew it was all over.

“No…”

The adults stood stunned before a fragrant mound of dirt. The children were buried within, only their faces sticking out, melting into the soil. The coffin lid had opened, and the boy inside was among them. His face was drained of blood, yet otherwise terrifyingly lifelike. His eyes turned toward Demitrio.

“Oh—Teach—”

He smiled. As if following his lead, the other children all smiled, too. Innocently.

“Wow, Fluffball—”

“Flett—came back to us—”

“Why—didn’t we realize? If we rot—we’re all the same! There are no boundaries between us—”

A shudder ran up Demitrio’s spine. Instinctively, he knew this was not a sight that belonged in this world—and that this was Fluffball. There were hairs in that mud, three purple eyes placed about it.

“Come on—join us—”

“We’ll be together!”

“All one—inside Fluffball—”

The children were calling out, and drawn to that, the adults rose to their feet, approaching the pile of mud. Snapping out of it, Demitrio grabbed one after another, trying to stop them.

“Wait, if you go—”

“…But…”

“…The children are calling…”

Not one lent him an ear. He could tell they’d already taken leave of their senses. The corruption of their minds had progressed too far. And that had not started here. The charm on this mud heap was not nearly strong enough. Even an ordinary could fight it off. Unless they’d been exposed to a fatal dose of something else, over a long period of time.

“…I’m sorry, Teach…”

An apology from the dirt heap. His student’s face twisted with tears, there with the other children.

“…Maya…”

“…I did…a bad thing. I buried…pieces of Fluffball…in the fields. It said we could get lots of crops that way…so I did what it said. At night…over and over…”

That explained everything—and took Demitrio’s breath away. The cause of this calamity was all too clear.

How had he not noticed? That abundance was too dramatic to be the result of adjusted fertilizers. He should have suspected direct interference.

Demitrio had kept his eyes on Fluffball itself, not giving it a chance to act. But—Maya was taking care of the fields for it. She’d been the first to fall under its influence, unconsciously in its thrall. It would not have been hard for it to pass pieces of itself along. All it had to do was drop them while out for a walk or when the children came over to play. It could communicate directly with Maya, so she was free to pick them up and bury them at her leisure. And the village’s entire food supply subjected the villagers to tír influence. It had likely picked this evening’s funeral to finish things because the shared grief made it easier to assimilate everyone. All right under Demitrio’s eyes.

It was too late now. It no longer mattered, but one fact floated into his mind—this was how Ayrioneptu’s god invaded. Rot as a vessel for universal unification.

“…I wanted to believe, Teach. That Fluffball wasn’t bad…that your dream wasn’t wrong…!”

His student’s cry shot Demitrio through the heart. Like Maya, hope had clouded his vision. A tír creature, friendly to humans. That had blinded him, and he’d drowned in it, completely missing the true threat. Though this was an all-too-classic path to the birth of a gnosis, one repeated countless times throughout human history.

“…Come…”

“Join us…!”

The adults behind grabbed hold of him. Not a shred of hostility anywhere, just trying to pull him into the alien rules governing them. His hand shaking, Demitrio reached for his wand. He knew now. The error he’d made and the outcome it led to.

“AahhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

With a heartrending scream, he drew his wand. And began massacring the village he’d loved.

The next morning, the first Gnostic Hunters arrived, responding to the missive his familiar had delivered.

“Ugh, that’s a bad one.”

“What happened? You the village mage?”

Houses and fields alike reduced to ash, one man standing at the center of that scorched earth. Gazing at the results of his own actions, Demitrio spoke without a trace of emotion.

“…They’re all dead. I killed every last one of them.”

A single tear rolled down his cheek. He could see the sights of yesterday overlaid upon those ashes. The peaceful village lives. The children’s smiles. Everything he’d ruined. Everything he’d failed to protect.

“…And it’s all…my fault…”

A month after he was taken to the Gnostic Hunters’ base for questioning, Demitrio was released. Harboring a tír creature was hardly forgivable, but since he’d taken care of it himself, they’d let it slide. That was largely how Gnostic Hunter verdicts came down—he’d certainly received several stiff penalties but was sent back home.

“You’re back, Demitrio!”

“We heard all about it. How awful… But at least you’re safe.”

His parents greeted him warmly. The repercussions of his error hurt them, too, but neither one said a word about it. As grateful as he was for that, warmth was hardly what he sought now. He told his side of the story and apologized for it.

“Father, Mother…,” he said, his voice like ice. “May I see the results of your research?”

An unforeseen request, and they looked perplexed. The moment he’d left for a country village, their research no longer had any bearings on his life. Clueless as to the reason for his sudden interest, they began to pry.

“…Magic techniques based on eastern philosophies?”

“But your sister already—”

“I’ll work under her. If need be, I’ll subject myself to her experiments. No—I’ll volunteer for it.”

He bowed his head. Sensing grim resolve, his parents’ eyes went wide.

“Slow down, Demitrio. There’s no need to rush—”

“I’m going to be a Gnostic Hunter.”

That took his parents’ breath away. The one path they’d thought this son would never take. But Demitrio—was no longer the boy they’d known. The boy who’d gazed at stars and talked of dreams no longer existed. Before them stood a mage, cursed with a duty.

“I’m too old to start conventional training. I know that much. So I need a weapon. Something all my own, that no one else has.”

The labyrinth’s fourth layer, the Library of the Depths, was Kimberly’s largest reserve of writings, protected by reapers—and all upperclassmen knew the layer itself extended far beyond the library’s confines. That proximity meant many students wanted workshops there, but competition was fierce, and only a few managed to get their hands on one.

“Everyone here?”

In one of those premium spaces, Oliver and his vassals had gathered for a common cause. Gwyn surveyed the comrades present, and the seventh-year necromancer Carmen Agnelli answered.

“We are, but we’re not quite ready. The stealth squad is resupplying.”

“Understood. Make it snappy.”

With that, Gwyn fell silent. Next to him, Oliver was marshalling his emotions—but then a girl came over to them.

“Gwyn, can I get a moment?”

“Mm?”

“Just behind that column. It won’t take long.”

Gwyn considered the request, glanced once at Oliver and Shannon, and then followed her behind the column. Seeing no reason to stop him, Oliver let him go but was vaguely puzzled by his cousin’s demeanor.

“……?”

“Your bro’s a popular dude,” Janet said, leaning in from behind.

Oliver blinked, then his eyes went wide.

“…Huh? Oh—that’s what this is?”

“What, you didn’t even notice? You’re lagging behind, my liege. Not that I’m complaining.”

She dug her elbow into his shoulder. This flummoxed him a bit, but Janet’s smile faded as she gazed at the column.

“Just…let it be. No telling how many of us are coming back today, and a surreptitious smooch in the shadows might just provide the morale they need.”

“I…wasn’t planning on saying anything. Just…genuinely surprised. It’s a side of him I didn’t know.”

“Oh, really? Then I guess I win this one.”

Janet flashed a grin. That phrasing nagged at him, but Gwyn finished his momentary tryst and emerged. He said one last thing to the girl before rejoining their comrades.

“…Done.”

“We’ve wrapped up, too,” Carmen said, raising a hand.

The time was nigh. She moved past Oliver to the workshop door and spun around theatrically, proclaiming, “Then let’s go murder my mentor!”

As previously mentioned, the fourth layer had vast reserves of space beyond the library itself. And the bulk of that “exterior” space was dominated not by students, nor by their workshops…

But by a field. The sort of grassy expanse where you’d let sheep graze, stretching as far as the eye could see. A sharp contrast to the views afforded elsewhere in the labyrinth, no beasts dwelled here; aside from the false sun on the ceiling above, there was not a single magical artifice of any sort. Like a section of the continent had been cut away and dumped here without further ado—that was the impression it gave.

To most mages, this area held no meaning whatsoever, but one man made a habit of meditating there daily. Today again, he sat at the center of this flattened field. In the lotus position, freeing himself of thought—the astronomy instructor, Demitrio Aristides.

“……Hmm.”

Sensing their approach, his lids fluttered open. Then his eyes darted sideways, observing the students in uniforms scrubbed of anything identifying their years.

“…They’re here. It must be my turn,” Demitrio muttered. He’d seen this coming.

At the head of his comrades, Oliver spoke:

“…In 1525—”

“Chloe Halford’s people?”

Demitrio spoke over him. That alone was all the answer required. Oliver’s brow furrowed.

“You’re not surprised. I suppose the finest mind of this day and age would have a good memory.”

“If I’m next on your list after Darius and Enrico, what else would this be? Even if I were the densest mind, I’d surmise that much,” Demitrio replied. “Still…only thirty-two of you?”

The number he named sent a chill down Oliver’s spine.

He knew. That number included those who’d yet to show themselves. Demitrio had nailed their exact number—a fact that made Oliver gulp.

“If you took out the others with this few, I’m impressed. You must have had a very good plan—or an ace beyond compare—or perhaps both?”

Demitrio’s probing gaze swept the crowd. Then his eyes closed again.

“Begin whenever you please. As you’ve predicted, there are no magical alterations here. To you, this is an untouched canvas.”

He did not even rise from his seat. But Oliver and his comrades spread out, ready for anything. Surrounding their target at a distance.

“We’ll do just that. Tonitrus!”

““““““““Tonitrus!””””””””

A full-strength spell volley to start things off. Dozens of bolts converged, but Demitrio was unperturbed.

“ ” Rise.

The ground beneath him rose, lifting Demitrio up on the crest of a small hill. Their electric spells burst at the base. Their magic doing naught but scorching grass, a result that made Oliver mutter:

“…Figured.”

They’d predicted this. Seeing no surprise, Demitrio spoke again.

“So you do have some prior knowledge. Yet you came after me anyway—a fact that boggles the mind. If you had simply been ill-prepared, that would be correctable.

“You conspire against Kimberly and have slain two instructors, yet you are still students. Thus—I speak now as a teacher. Lecturing on the nature of knowledge that you have yet to comprehend.”

“…Let’s hear it.”

Their target acted as if he stood behind the podium, which raised his brows, yet Oliver chose to play along. Any extra time before the battle truly began worked in their favor. While he talked, they could form ranks to match the shift in terrain—and set up barriers.

With no regard for the disadvantage that gave him or the bloodlust in the air, Demitrio began to speak.

“There are two primary types of knowledge. That which you gain yourself and that which you are given. The first, you are familiar with. Truths gained inductively through the senses and experiences—or comprehension of individual events brought about by the application of those truths. Mages strive for greatness via the accumulation of this knowledge. For the purposes of categorization, I refer to this as active knowledge.”

The start of his speech was a bit of a letdown, Oliver thought. Whatever his larger point, he clearly intended to start at the very beginning. While maintaining a listening pose, Oliver continued to adjust his comrades’ formation via the mana frequency.

“But in its primal state, that is not how knowledge originally existed. For the majority of this world’s history, god was in control, and all knowledge was bestowed at god’s discretion. God possessed all knowledge about all things in this world and granted portions of that knowledge to the creatures under its control as it deemed necessary. The opposite of active knowledge—passive knowledge.”

Now he’d taken it back to the age of the divine. Yet this had begun to tug at Oliver’s interest. Facts he knew, shared from a very different perspective—that was the impression he gained.

“The progenitor race was accustomed to this arrangement. Knowledge was granted by god, and god was the owner of it. As the recipients of it, they did not store that knowledge within themselves. That very simplicity earned them god’s affection,” the philosopher explained. “But as racial divisions arose, things changed. Elves, dwarves, centaurs, and humans came into existence and were not satisfied with passive knowledge alone. They analyzed and solved problems from a perspective all their own, seeking ownership of the answers gained.”

Oliver nodded to himself. Demitrio spoke of nothing but the dawn of humankind’s karma.

“From that point on, we can see the rift beginning. God was displeased with man’s intelligence. It believed all knowledge belonged with it and considered attempts at self-teaching to be inherently disrespectful. As the races learned more and grew smarter, god began to loathe their nature. If you’ll forgive the informality, it thought we were gross.”

Even as Demitrio spoke, Oliver’s comrades were edging closer. Interrupting his speech with an attack was an option, but the order died on his lips. His spellblade was their ace; gaining all ground he could at this stage was preferable.

“The ensuing rebellion against god—you’re all aware of that. Let us turn back to the nature of knowledge itself: Even after god’s demise, those vast reserves of knowledge were left behind. Known as the Grand Records, they persist and operate independently of god—rather like the sun and moon. The Library of the Depths is but a portion of them. As the reapers on guard suggest, this facility was originally a reluctant concession by god to humankind’s pleas. During the rebellion, god itself burned the bulk of books dating from the age of the divine—thus it is now primarily a depository of forbidden texts.” He went on: “Yet even before the fire, it was but a fraction of god’s total knowledge. By their nature, the reserves of the Grand Records could only be given to people as passive knowledge.”

The man’s explanation matched Oliver’s knowledge of the subject. In other words—at least from the fourth layer down, this labyrinth was a relic from the age of divinity. That was why the reapers patrolled it.

“There are two primary conditions for receiving that knowledge. First, selflessness. The progenitor race had no concept of self—or an extremely weak one. They were but an extension of god, a part of the world itself—and that mindset opened the door to the Grand Records. They did not resent the gift, merely accepted it with reverence.”

This sent ripples through Oliver. Had that been the end of it, perhaps this world would still be a peaceful one. That notion crossed his mind—but he soon shook it off.

“But the races that came afterward were not the same. Some were worse than others, but all had a strong individual will—and as they advanced, that only got stronger. Distancing them from that passive knowledge. That tendency is all the more pronounced now that we have freed ourselves from god’s dominion,” Demitrio said. “Yet the appetites of mages know no bounds. Some began to seek a way to tap once more into the reserves our own races had once abandoned.”

His focus shifted back to the deeds of mages in more modern times.

“If appropriate conditions are met, perhaps there is still a way to access the Grand Records. Over the years, a number of attempts have been made to prove that hypothesis. Attempts to revive progenitor bloodlines are but one. They were born without much self, and it was believed that was a factor connecting them to the nature of the world.

“But ultimately—that approach likely failed. Attempts to resurrect the progenitors through adjustments to bloodlines and prompting atavism were not successful. Similar methods for other extinct species—succubi, for example—have achieved some partial success, but far too much time has passed, and the progenitor aspect has likely faded out completely. Not just in our blood, but at the level of our souls.”

He spoke with resignation, of something known to exist but now lost to us forever.

“But the attempts demonstrated a fundamental flaw, primarily in the educational environment and practicality departments. Even if they had succeeded in reverse engineering a progenitor or bringing something similar into the modern world—could anything brought up in our information-rich modern times be pure enough to be granted access to the Grand Records? Or was that only possible because of the sheer lack of impurities existing under god?

“Even if they somehow overcame that hurdle—how would those who contact the vastness of the Grand Records communicate that knowledge to us? They could only reach that place by knowing nothing. Naturally, we could not expect them to parse and translate anything complex. It’s like taking a child too young to read and write and setting them loose in the library.”

Here, Oliver realized the irony of knowledge only obtainable by those who knew nothing. And simultaneously—that this was exactly the sort of problem mages lived to solve.

“With those concerns in mind, we can reverse engineer an alternative approach. Specifically—if impurities prevent success, we need only extract the purest portions. Use that as a key and perhaps we can enter as ourselves.”

“Your soul’s…fractured, I think,” the etheric doctor examining him said.

The man had run through every conceivable possibility before coming to see her, yet he was still floored by the diagnosis.

Ever since taking Gnostic Hunter orders, he’d found himself prone to sleepwalking. With no regard for time or circumstance, his mind would cut out—and some time later, he’d find himself in a completely different place. As if someone else had been moving his body—and his memories of the interlude would be hazy at best.

“…A problem beyond the ether, in my soul?”

“And that means I can’t be sure. We’ve got no means to directly observe the soul. Still—a mage with your self-control, prowling like a sleepwalker? We can eliminate most other causes.”

This witch was well over a hundred but looked more like a child.

The basis for her diagnosis suggested the problem ran deeper than he’d imagined. Demitrio put a hand to his chin, mulling it over.

“I’ve poured over similar cases in the course of my research,” the witch said. “There were patients like that among mages and ordinaries alike—but what they all had in common was an oppressive environment. Not allowed to do as they pleased, forced to do something they loathed—if you catch my drift.”

She gave his face a searching look. He had to admit she’d hit the nail on the head. The peaceful joys he’d felt as a village mage were no longer with him. All he had left was inexhaustible panic and a sense of purpose that felt ready to incinerate him from within.

“Naturally, not everyone in those environments develops these symptoms. Far more people simply crumble under the pressure. Thus, I consider it less a disease than a defense mechanism. A soul placed where it does not belong divides itself in an attempt to preserve its true nature. Perhaps your soul simply possessed the capacity to do so.”

This was an unexpected take on his condition, and Demitrio raised a brow. Interesting—perhaps it could be seen as an ability. That would change how he handled it.

“…Then within my body, I’ve got a soul fractured in two?”

“Might not be two. Could be three—or far more. Where life leads you, that number could go up and down. There’s so much we don’t know about the soul.”

The etheric doctor shrugged. Demitrio did not resent that—he was grateful for all her help.

“I believe I understand,” he said, rising. “I appreciate your feedback immensely.”

“What’s the plan? As I doctor, I’m supposed to recommend rest. Somewhere quiet?”

Classic medical advice, and it certainly never hurt. But Demitrio had no intention of trying it. He could not afford such luxuries. When the call came, he needed to race to the scene, and when the situation settled down, he’d monitor the ordinaries involved while dedicating himself to his own training—that was how he lived now. He still worked temporary positions in towns and for mages, observing and teaching how to prevent gnoses from happening. But his eyes no longer turned to the sky he’d once so admired.

“From what you’ve said, the split itself is less of a problem than multiple fragments existing in a single body. I intend to give it a body of its own. If it works out, I’m considering making it a familiar.”

“Oh-ho! Fascinating. A splinter made from a split soul. Let me know how it works out.”

Her curiosity piqued, she encouraged him—but as he turned to go, she issued a final warning.

“But remember this—even if you give it a whole new body, fundamentally it is still you. Don’t imagine the new body will rid you of the problem, and the idea that you’ll be fully in control of it is optimistic. If it was that easy, your soul would never have fractured in the first place.”

Ancient memories flitted across his mind. In the distant present, Demitrio talked on, speaking of the results achieved by experimenting on himself.

“The impetus was pure accident. Or…perhaps inevitable. Drawn to the unknown and defeated by it, I grew foolish enough to desire omniscience.”

A hint of self-mockery. Given what he’d said, Oliver quietly voiced the question that he’d had all along.

“Then let me ask—where is Yuri Leik?”

He half expected the answer. Demitrio’s off hand rose to his chest.

“He’s in here. Or perhaps—nowhere. He was a sliver of my soul, temporarily parted from me. Now that he has melded back inside, that name no longer holds any meaning.”

He chose that icy phrasing to inform Oliver of his friend’s death. The boy desperately stifled the waves rocking him within. Not mindful of his response, Demitrio resumed his lecture.

“As the progenitor species was, humankind, too, is fundamentally linked to the world itself. Possess no strong will; accumulate no excessive knowledge. Remain in that unspoiled state, and the world will tell you all you wish to know. That is part of the Grand Records’ function.

“Thus, ignorance. Like selflessness before it, ignorance is the secondary condition for accessing passive knowledge. Maintaining a baseline degree of each is what allowed the supernatural instincts Yuri demonstrated. If there was a cliff before him, he was told to turn back. If he was hungry, he was told there were apples growing yonder. This is not knowing. It is information gleaned directly from the world without an intermediary.”

Oliver had managed to get his emotions in line enough to glean the point of all this. By their very nature, ignorance and selflessness degraded as the host absorbed information. Thus, Demitrio had regularly absorbed memories, making adjustments to keep his soul splinter operating. That was why Yuri regularly forgot things.

“The progenitors were much like him in the age of the divine. But situations far more complex than injuries or starvation demand a high degree of intelligence. In those cases, they held rituals. The purest of the progenitors was selected as an oracle and sent into the Grand Records. Using every means possible to remain in god’s good graces, they carried out these missions repeatedly.”

Oliver knew this history well and thus understood despite himself. Demitrio was capable of carrying out these rituals all by himself.

Examining time spent with his friend, Oliver thought—Yuri’s selflessness had never been all that complete. That was why his passive knowledge was never more than basic instinctual responses, and as his ego strengthened, he’d escaped his role as a familiar. But that did not apply to the real Demitrio. This man had raised it to the level of an operation of the heart, a mental technique.

“Curiously, in Azia they have written much about the lack of self. Abandoning what is you, eliminating your boundaries, becoming one with the world. A way of thought the antithesis of a mage’s, but thus, an ideal means by which to pick up what we lost so long ago.”

These words underwrote Oliver’s ideas, and he grew even more certain of them. By obtaining both ignorance and selflessness, Demitrio had earned the right to access the Grand Records. No—he had achieved that in the distant past, and was already inside.

“Spells are sounds of power, originally a part of god’s authority. Those we use have been downgraded by the process of communicating them, their strength grown limited—but the primal power is far greater. Words that could alter the world, once taught only to the chosen few among the progenitors, their usage allowed only when strictly necessary. Only usable by those connected to the world itself, impossible for modern man to pronounce or even hear—yet those mystic prototypes really do exist.”

This was the greatest result he’d achieved there. Sensing the end to this lengthy lecture, their own adjustments complete, Oliver eyed his comrades, feeling a terrible unease rising within. He knew now just why their foe had spoken at such length.

“You are about to catch a glimpse of them. Let me warn you—this battle will not be win or lose. Given what I’ve explained, all that will be asked of you is the speed at which you comprehend.”

The lecture’s design—to demonstrate the futility of this endeavor. They dwelled in different planes, and he had spoken only to impress that point upon them. To urge the students before him to make the wiser choice.

“We are in an ordinary field. One I carried here myself from a remote region of Azia, untouched in any other way. A place predating the dirt from the boots of mages—one far closer to the age of the divine.” He then asked, “Are you with me yet? Where you are now is, from the start, tantamount to my own Aria.”

Demitrio held his wand before his eyes. His students braced themselves.

“Let me offer you the conclusion. You have no chance at anything resembling victory.”

He spoke with utter conviction. And that proved the starting signal—all comrades sprang into action.

““““““““Tonitrus!””””””””

Spells converged on Demitrio. Last time, their shots had been level, but now they’d adjusted the angles into a three-dimensional crossfire. Spells from the front, behind, left, right, and above—altering the terrain alone could not protect him. And seated as he was, he could hardly dodge in time.

“ ” Swirl.

Sitting still, he countered with a primal incantation. The air around him began to spin, sweeping all spells up and diverting them. Even as they shifted to their next attack, he spoke again.

“ ” Wave.

The ground undulated. Waves ran down the hill he sat on, becoming a twenty-foot-tall land tsunami that forced them back. All comrades responded quickly. Half of them used doublecants to guard, while the other half took to their brooms. But this, too, was only the start.

“ .  ” Spike. Burst.

Before the waves even died, conical shapes thrust up from beneath them. As the students took evasive actions, these detonated right before their very eyes. Several failed to defend in time and were peppered with fragments, but those who’d blocked moved swiftly to counterattack. They raced toward their foe atop the hill—or cast spells as their brooms swooped in.

“   ” Push back.

A force spread out in all directions, shoving them mercilessly away. Like a massive hand slapping his comrades back. Righting themselves, regaining their balance in the air, and landing—only to find Demitrio much farther away. Not only losing all distance they’d gained but pushed back beyond their start line. A brutal truth.

“…Ha—ha-ha…”

“…What a nightmare…”

Hollow laughs echoed. In much the same state of mind, Oliver tightened his grip on his athame.

They were badly outclassed. The length of the target’s incantations was equivalent to a singlecant, but the effect was easily what your average mage would need a triplecant to achieve. Even more absurd—he didn’t seem to need a charge between incantations. He was casting terrain-altering spells with all the ease with which his students might manipulate wind and fire.

This was primal power. The sheer scale of it might be a match for Godfrey, but where he relied upon his innate reserves of mana and impressive output, the mechanism here was entirely different. Demitrio’s spells encouraged the world to change itself. The mana employed was not his but an innate part of the world’s resources; they could not even hope for him to run out. Fundamentally—as long as he still lived and spoke, Oliver’s side would be assailed by these unreasonable spells. But even as Oliver shuddered, a necromancer’s voice rang out.

“Damn impressive, Instructor Demitrio!” Carmen called. “But it ain’t like there’s no cracks in your armor.”

He followed her gaze—and spotted a black mist surrounding Demitrio’s perch. Left behind by the familiars she’d placed around him and allowed to perish in the path of the primal spellcraft. The strength of that curse growing over time.

“The age of divinity had no curses. So how do you handle them?”

Carmen grinned malevolently, watching the cursed mist attach itself to the philosopher. She was every bit as skilled with curses as she was with necromancy. When she learned Demitrio’s power was based on the old world order, this idea came naturally to her. After all—every expert knew curses came into being with the end of the divine age. Thus, no matter how powerful those primal spells might be, they contained no means of handling this.

“I don’t need to, Ms. Agnelli.”

As he spoke, all the mist around him dissipated, vanishing entirely. Like a drop of ink falling into the ocean, immediately consumed by the blue. Carmen looked shocked, and the man offered an explanation.

“You intended to curse me as an individual. But linked to the world as I am now, I am one with the space around me. Before you question my handling, your curse itself lacks sufficient energy. If you insist on trying, bring a maelstrom.”

“Ha-ha… Not likely,” Carmen said, grimacing.

By no means a practical suggestion. Even if she pumped in every cursed object she’d brought for the occasion, and everything she harbored within her own body—she would never reach that level.

“Still, you try?” Demitrio sneered. “Though as yet you cannot even make me stand?”

The comrades gnashed their teeth, and Oliver’s voice rang out.

“Don’t let him get to you. Half this attitude is a bluff! It’s not that we can’t make him move—the man himself does not want to move.”

That made sense to everyone. Maintaining enough selflessness to connect to the world required incredible focus. The lotus position likely aided with that; mental resources ordinarily used to move around were poured into maintaining his trance. Which meant getting him up would hasten an end to it.

“Damn straight. Don’t let him freak you out,” a girl said, stepping forward.

Janet Dowling, editor of Kimberly’s third-largest newspaper and no stranger to picking fights with authority.

“Don’t take his words at face value. Always overstate the facts—that’s the first law of tabloid writing. It ain’t the exclusive domain of our esteemed philosopher here.”

Her sarcasm went a long way to putting the fight back in her comrades. Grateful for the push, Oliver turned his wand back to his target.

“ ” Blow.

A blizzard roared. The chill of the rapid temperature drop pricked their skins, but that itself was not a threat. The focus here was their line of sight and their footing—thus Oliver’s comrades darted rapidly forward. An application of Lake Walking ensured their feet were not caught by the snow, and with Shannon’s zone following their foe’s position, they need not fear losing track of him.

““““““““Frigus!””””””””

“ ” Burn.

They tried mingling ice spells with the storm, but Demitrio ignited everything around him. The snow melted from the heat, turning into a deluge that rushed down the slopes. Soil already loosened from the ground tsunami liquified—

“ ” Swirl.

And the next spell turned that flow into a whirl. Mud and rock mingled, the scale of it like an avalanche—only circular. Lake Walking alone would not suffice; the comrades took to their brooms before it swallowed them, or were forced to retreat beyond the whirlpool’s reach.

“…Ngh…!”

Desperately fending off these disaster-level attacks, Oliver told himself: Don’t panic. This is fine. Your target’s skills aren’t as removed from your own as they seem to be. His performance makes them appear that way, but he is hardly omnipotent.

This wasn’t just wishful thinking—he had a solid basis for it. First and foremost: the Grand Records behind this foe’s mystic arts. Demitrio had accessed those and made contact with the vast reserves of knowledge within—that much was likely true. But had he gleaned everything stored there? Absolutely not. If he had, every textbook they used would have been rewritten to bear this man’s name.

“ ” Shoot.

The sides of the hill Demitrio sat upon swelled rapidly, ejecting rocks with all the force of a volcano. Working together, the comrades cast spells, pinpoint dropping only what projectiles were strictly necessary. Doing his part, Oliver reminded himself of his brother’s summation of the Grand Records’ nature—following a lengthy debate among their ranks:

“Picture the data stored there as a single book. One too thick to hold, even in both hands. And even worse—it contains no index. You have no clue which page to open to search for what it is you wish to know. And the quantity of information contained within surpasses the limit of human perception.

“As it should. This book was never meant for humans. It is a store of knowledge belonging to a god, a being whose mental makeup matches not our own. No matter how great a mind Demitrio Aristides truly has, he cannot make up that difference.”

“…Hmmm,” Demitrio growled from atop the hill.

He was demonstrating an overwhelming power differential, yet the students did not flag. This was not merely courage—he was forced to admit it was based on accurate comprehension of the phenomenon before them.

“You’re on to me, then. Your analysis is correct. I struggled for quite some time to locate any of the primal spellcraft, and relaying that to anyone else would be borderline impossible. Doing so at all would require they be connected to the world, their perceptions and ideas aligned with it.”

“Ha-ha, even my brain can figure out that much. Typical mage shit,” Janet said, laughing at his admission.

Demitrio glanced once at her, then turned to Oliver.

“In that sense, you are right. I am no god; I remain but a mage. Yet—that changes nothing. Neither the gulf between me and god nor the gulf between me and you.”

Oliver merely shook his head. The distance it would take to cross the gulf didn’t matter. From the get-go, they’d never had a shot in a battle of comparative knowledge. But this—was a fight to the death.

However disadvantaged they were, they were not merely enduring it. They might be no match for the Grand Records, but fighting and observing added to their reserves of intel. Primal spells that seemed insurmountable at first were beginning to demonstrate patterns.

For instance—he could not chain cast them without limit. Presumably, he could use at most three powerful incantations in succession, and the subsequent spells appeared diminished in strength compared to the first. He assumed this was not a matter of Demitrio’s mana but a limitation to the world’s motions. He could only force so many cataclysmic shifts at once before the world he commanded ran out of breath.

“…The conditions are right. Brother, Sister—begin.”

Thus, Oliver’s side saw their chance to take back this fight. The Sherwoods went straight for it, none of the hesitation they’d shown versus Enrico. This had been part of their approach from the planning stages.

“…Duaedetroni… Misce… Misce…!”

Shannon’s spell poured gold into Oliver. His entire skeleton transformed, his manaflow expanded, capillaries burst, tears of blood streamed down his face. A soul merge with his mother, and the boy threw himself astride a broom, taking to the sky—and it took Demitrio but a glance to glean the outlandishness of that.

“Hmm.  ” Roar.

Oliver plunged into a gale laced with thunder. Maneuvering through lightning bolts that could fell a wyvern, he shot toward the enemy perched upon that hill. Watching this, Demitrio narrowed his eyes.

“You move like Chloe? I had not imagined that imitable—”

“Gladio!”

An iron-cleaving severing spell cast from on high. That glimpse of Chloe’s shadow meant the man could not block with an ordinary shield. Primal spells raised a wall thick enough to block it—but the added protection there unavoidably diminished his defenses in other directions, a fact not lost upon the comrades.

““““““““Tonitrus!””””””””

“ !” Flow!

Primal spells swept aside the volley of incoming spells. Deflecting them, but moments after blocking that severing spell, the output was weakened, and his assailants’ spells got closer than ever before. Given the limitations to how the world would move, they were improving their attacks’ efficiency—yet Demitrio’s eyes never once left Oliver.

“No…that is no imitation. You’re linked to her?  !” Gust!

Violent wind racked the skies above him. Before attempting to shoot his assailant out of the sky, he’d tried to curtail those outlandish maneuvers. Yet this foe rode upon even tornado-strength winds.

“Even then,” Demitrio muttered. “It’s counterfeit. Not even worth comparing.”

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

““““““““Flamma!””””””””

Oliver dropped through the gales to the air below. As Demitrio intercepted with a primal spell, all comrades fired a volley from his far side. A second primal blocked that, the shock wave preventing their follow-up.

Yet Demitrio furrowed his brow, conscious of an irritation within. Caused by Oliver but not something he could have predicted—the very similarities made the sight of him hard to bear.

“…Which means I, too, was once captivated by her blade.”

A barb directed inward—then Demitrio put it out of mind. Given his opponents’ strength, anything that might disturb the upkeep of his selflessness was undesirable. Best to eliminate that first and foremost—he turned his sights on the boy in the air.

“   !” Ro r!

The primal’s timing was impeccable—but as he spoke words undetectable by human ears, something blocked their utterance.

“ ?!”

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Oliver’s descent transitioned to attack. Too close, no room to use a spell—a snap decision got Demitrio on his feet, standing right into a leap out of his foe’s range. His first step since the fight began—at last they’d forced him to budge.

“…Was that…”

Certain Oliver had gone back into an ascent, Demitrio’s eyes glanced the other way, toward a student on the ground. And the viola in his hands. The cause of the interference in his primal spell.

“…spelljamming? Indeed, it is possible. As these are spells.”

Demitrio nodded to himself. Conscious that the performer must be Gwyn Sherwood, he focused on the entirety of the space his mind was linked to—and the other zone overlayed upon it.

“And there is another—not quite selfless, but with a personal space shaped much like my own. The cause of his preternatural evasion? Impressive. Primal effects tend to make everything one-sided, but you’ve turned that around.”

These words raised Gwyn’s hackles.

Their foe had noticed Shannon, whose support was critical in keeping them all in play in a battle of this scale. It was only a matter of time before Demitrio tracked down Shannon herself.

“So far, you’ve got three aces beyond compare. All of which carry a strong whiff of the progenitors. At last, I see how you bested Darius and Enrico.”

Swiftly updating his evaluation of their forces, Demitrio turned his wand their way. Everyone braced themselves. The battle had shifted—and the main act had begun.

“You’ve gotten me up and taken a major step—diminishing my focus. Show me what you’ve got next.”

““““““““Tonitrus.””””””””

Their incantations rang out over his last phrase, and he responded swiftly.

“ .  ” Swirl. Swell.

The first primal deflected the bolts, and the second caused a cylindrical rock to shoot up underfoot, lifting him into the air above. All eyes followed him.

“Way up there…!”

“After him!”

Half mounted brooms to pursue, while the others took aim at the pillar’s base, working to demolish it. Looking down from on high at those in flight, Demitrio calmly swung his wand.

“A quick pursuit. A lineup of skilled riders.”

““““Fragor!””””

““““Impetus!””””

Two types of spell cast from broomback. Arced explosion spells aimed at the pillar top, and swirling wind blades placed a bit higher up. An attack no ordinary movements could have dodged, but Demitrio bounded away, stepping repeatedly on air to do just that. He easily took five steps on nothing, each adjusting his trajectory—a sight that made every comrade goggle.

“Wha—?”

“How many was that?!”

“I am linked to this space. Sky Walking is like breathing.  ” Gust.

The primal spell created a downdraft, pushing the students lower. But they’d expected that—and more students appeared from the far side of the pillar.

“Skirting it?    ” Fre ze.

Demitrio spun to cast a primal at these new arrivals, but interference killed the spell on his lips. The cause was clear—Gwyn, riding a broom and playing the viola.

“““““Tonitrus!”””””

“ !” Gust!

Forced back by these winds, all comrades fired spells. Arched shots covered the pillar’s top in lightning. Again, Demitrio Sky Walked to safety…

“Hmph!”

…but as the winds died, and he touched down, someone else landed with him.

Oliver was here. He’d leaped from his broom as his comrades’ spells went off, landing in range too close for a spell to stop him.

“Finish it, Noll!” Gwyn yelled.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Oliver lunged forward, an absolute blade that could not be fought screaming his enemy’s end.

“ ”

Demitrio merely turned to face him, wand lightly gripped. A mage of his caliber could dispatch most foes even without an athame—but that supposed his opponent lacked a spellblade. Their positions said it all, and Oliver was certain beyond all doubt that he had already won.

And yet—as he took that last step to victory, a shudder ran down his spine like fire.

“…Kh…?!”

He’d felt this before. But he had no time to identify it. The threads lay before him. He plucked a future from one. Limbs forced by the pressures of fate, driven to a single outcome.

And events transpired as per that intent.

As he himself had chosen, Oliver’s chest was struck by the tip of Demitrio’s wand.

“Kah—”

The impact of the thrust killed his breath, but his feet dug into the ground. The tip of the wand and his body separated just enough that the bolt did not course through him, but it burst, scorching the air.

“Oh-ho…”

Demitrio looked impressed. Attacks with a bladeless white wand generally involved injecting magic directly into an opponent’s body from the point of contact. But Demitrio’s finisher had arrived an instant too late, to his surprise.

“…So that’s the fourth? A blunder on my end. My first time seeing fate itself.”

He spoke almost to himself. Oliver backed off, his mind catching up, that shudder running down his spin again. Barely maintaining his stance, his lips parted.

“…You’ve…got one, too…?”

The results before him led inevitably to that conclusion. Oliver had used a spellblade. An ultimate technique, the use of which spelled certain death—and he’d been in range.

And yet, the battle had not ended. In which case—there could only be one cause.

“…The fifth spellblade. Papiliosomnia, the butterfly’s dream of death…!”

The butterfly’s dream of death. With the exception of the yet-unnamed seventh, this was the sole spellblade thought up by an Azian mage.

The titular concept derives from a Chenese fable. A wise man has a dream in which he is a butterfly, fluttering about. When he wakes, he finds himself questioning whether he dreams of being the butterfly or whether he was actually a butterfly—and if what he now perceives is merely part of the butterfly’s dream.

Not just a simple prompt to urge skepticism, this fable demonstrates the inherently primitive nature of perception itself. Namely—while actively dreaming, the distinction between one’s self and the butterfly is not nearly as distinct as those words imply. The knife of reason divides them upon awakening, but arguably these are categories applied afterward based on human biases. In actual practice, neither the self nor the butterfly exist, and the two are intermingled within the sea of consciousness.

To change the metaphor, imagine the perspective of a newborn babe. They’ve yet to develop a self, so possess no knife with which to divide the world from themselves. Thus, their experience affords no distinction between themselves and others. They are in a natural state of selflessness, and all subsequent actions stem from that. When they hungrily search for nipples, when they cry to alert us to a wet diaper, they do not direct this toward a father or mother—or even distinguish their parents from themselves. Their actions are projected to the world as a whole, themselves included in it.

And this is not exclusive to babies. Even full-grown adults may find their perceptions in a similar state. Like the earlier fable, when dreaming—but perhaps closer at hand, the state of hyperfocus both mages and ordinaries enter when engaged with their primary subject of interest.

For instance, let us examine an accomplished dancer. They do not consciously think about moving their limbs at specific points in the music. Where amateurs may move in response to what they hear, the more they train, the more that distinction fades; they move without consciously listening to the accompaniment. This is the result of removing the line between themselves and the sounds—and in Azian philosophy, they say the objective and the subjective become unified, and we reach a realm that precedes divisions. A limited form of selflessness.

Similar phenomena are observed in the world of sword arts, too. Where one false move will lead to death, both parties swing blades in a state of extreme focus. Neither the motions of their bodies nor their thoughts are able to function as they do in daily life. Everything unnecessary is trimmed away. For a fleeting moment, perception is compressed and their worldview optimized.

Sword arts duels mean battling within each other’s personal space. In the extreme, neither sight nor hearing are necessary. As blades clash, they perceive each other directly, without the intermediary of sensory organs, burying themselves in gambits and predictions. Actions taken within those overlapping personal spaces are a mutual operation in the form of a fight—almost like a single thought performed with two heads.

Demitrio’s spellblade hacked into that extreme state of mind. It invited an occupant of his personal space into the depths of the zone preceding the divisions between the objective and the subjective, forcibly removing their ability to perceive the distinction between themselves and their opponent, between stabbing and being stabbed. Then he took advantage of his own acclimatization to the state of selflessness to guide the exchange to an outcome where only his foe was stabbed. No resistance occurred in the process. Why? Because his opponent agreed to the outcome.

That was the fifth spellblade, Papiliosomnia, the butterfly’s dream of death. In a state like and yet distinct from delusion and delirium, an undefeatable trick to turn the very nature of perception against them. Even the greatest master could not fight against it. The extraordinary concentration developed over a lifetime of training only worked against them, ensuring their doom.

Thus, this was their final dream. A dream from which they would not wake, a dream of a butterfly’s death.

“Why so surprised? As we stepped in range, you instinctively knew we both had one.”

Demitrio spoke flatly, his stance never wavering. But then his eyes dropped to the white wand in hand. No blade, not even a scrap of metal anywhere.

“Oh, this? I’m no Gilchrist—and I do not preach anti-athameism. Yet there is a reason why I do not carry one,” he began. “First, metal is simply a poor fit for selflessness. There was no metal in the early age of the divine. The dwarves were the first to create it, and god had a low opinion of that act. Metal is a symbol of our division from the world. It’s not just the athame; having any metal anywhere on my person causes some small interference in my state of selflessness.”

That certainly explained it and came as a bitter blow. How foolish it had been for them to assume he did not have a spellblade based on such flimsy evidence.

“The other reason might make more immediate sense. Camouflage—this way, few suspect I have a spellblade. But that does not mean much against a foe who has one of their own,” said Demitrio. “I’m sure you’ve heard the term: Grand Arts Synchronicity.”

Naturally, Oliver knew of it. It was a popular rumor among mages, a prophetic instinct that took hold when two spellblade masters faced each other in earnest. Namely—without the benefit of actually using their spellblades, each would know the other had one.

In hindsight, Oliver recognized the sensation. The shudder he’d felt when he’d faced Nanao shortly after enrolling—part of that had been this. That had not been a trick of his mind—he now had confirmation. Even in this instant, that same sensation was making his skin crawl.

“Let’s examine this exchange: I lured you into a state preceding divisions, making ambiguous the distinction between you and me and between stabbing yourself and stabbing me. I attempted to lead you to the former. Meanwhile, you employed an augury’s future observation and the uncertainty principle, attempting to select from innumerable potentials the extremely rare outcome in which I would be slain.”

Oliver bit his lip. The uncanny sensation of that moment, the blow to his chest that immediately followed—both memories were horrifyingly vivid.

“The upshot is both attempts failed, but the scale of the failure differs. My spellblade’s failure is merely an error on my part. With no previous experience perceiving the fourth in action, once my subjectivity unified with yours, I was forced to act swiftly and was not able to pick the correct outcome on the fly. A minor miscalculation caused by inexperience—nothing more than that.”

With that conclusion established, Demitrio’s eyes pierced Oliver.

“But what about you? Once the fifth caught you, you were helpless. You did not resist the lure, did not even realize your perception no longer distinguished the subjective and the objective.”

“………!”

“And in that state, suspecting nothing, you used your spellblade. The art itself succeeded, and you chose a future—but one I picked, that ended with a blow to your heart.”

Oliver could not argue that. He was left flat-footed, his heart sinking. Adding insult to injury, Demitrio summed up the exchange.

“You understand me, boy. My spellblade consumed yours. My failure can be corrected next time. Yours—is a fundamental, fatal flaw.”

As they reached that conclusion, the platform beneath their feet swayed. The comrades below saw the duel undecided and resumed the destruction of the pillar—they’d left it at a precarious balance on purpose. Gwyn’s squad swooped in again, surrounding them, but Demitrio’s tone betrayed no concern.

“That was the last ace up your sleeves. In which case, you have no path to victory.” He then cast a spell: “ ” Sink.

The ground beneath their feet dropped, and Demitrio and Oliver were swallowed up inside the pillar. Gwyn’s squad jumped off their brooms, chasing after them into the depression. With the base shattered, the pillar slowly started to topple. As Oliver desperately searched for an option, Demitrio lightly jumped down.

“Foolish.  ” Stop.

His back to his assailants, he chanted. Gwyn’s jamming required him to see Demitrio’s mouth move—so the full force of it hit them. Gwyn included, five comrades ceased to move. Frozen statue-like, in mid-motion—which took the rest of their breaths away.

“Gwyn…!”

“Petrification?!”

“No! They’ve stopped in midair—”

Demitrio swung around, forcing them to back off, leaving their stopped comrades behind. As the man moved past Gwyn, he raked him with his wand, and everything below the right elbow fell to the ground. An absent-minded nail in the coffin on a foe already out of commission. His spelljamming was a threat even Demitrio could not ignore.

“So far, I have only used primal spellcraft on the environment, indirect attacks. But at this range, the spells will affect you directly.  ,  ,  ” Stop, stop, stop.

A series of spells locking down more and more students. They tried to evade, but in this depression they had few options—especially since the pillar itself was busy toppling over. If they had simply fled, perhaps escape would have been possible—but that was not an option. They were duty bound to save their lord over themselves.

“ ,  ,  ” Stop, stop, stop. “Cancellations and evasions are not possible. No more than I can stop your spells creating fire or electricity. You generated those elements as a means to attack, but I am using no intermediary—this spell’s sole affect is to rob you of motion.”

Even as he spoke, his assault continued. The toppling pillar had turned walls into floors, but he handled that effortlessly. He was linked to this space, and no matter how it changed, it posed no threat to him.

“Spelljamming was your sole means of resistance. But you cannot replace the source of that.  ” Stop.

Oliver excepted, the last of his comrades were caught. At the exact same moment—the toppling pillar hit the ground below, lying prone.

“Noll—!”

The impact sent up a huge dust cloud. Racing in with their comrades, Shannon searched for her cousin—and a gust of wind cleared the debris, revealing all: Demitrio in a spotless robe, standing there alone.

“…Ngh…!”

“That’s you, Shannon Sherwood. I can sense the progenitor vibe about you. A successful throwback? If so, an unexpected windfall.”

He was walking right toward her—and something lunged out of the rubble behind him. Oliver, who’d blunted the blow of the impact with a last-second spell.

“Get away from my sister!” he yelled—as covered in wounds and dirt as his opponent was spotless.

Sensing the bloodlust at his back, Demitrio sighed softly.

“A futile effort.    ” Get heavy.

He pointed his wand up, chanting a heartless primal spell. The comrades attempting to back Oliver’s attack all fell to their knees. The pressure from above affecting everyone in the area alike.

“…Gah…!”

“M-my arm…!”

“I can’t lift it…!”

“ ” Stop.

And as they slowed, the next attack came without mercy. The first round of the fight, he’d been keeping them at bay—and now that they’d closed in, he merely used that against them. The nature of the primal threat adjusted to the battle’s range. And this close-up—they could not afford to let him chant at all.

“ .  .  .  …  ” Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop… Stop.

Light footwork dodging what spells were cast against them, Demitrio locked up one remaining student after another. Twenty of them rendered helpless in rapid succession. Shannon attempted to help her cousin escape but was caught herself toward the end. Right before Oliver’s eyes. A tragedy unfolding in less than a minute flat.

“…Tonitru—”

“ ” Stop.

Oliver’s spell had been a shriek—but Demitrio’s incantation did not even allow him to finish. Silenced and helpless, Oliver was rendered immobile, like his comrades before him.

No more resistance remained. The silence this man brought was more thorough than death. Fatal blows might well leave curse energy behind. But stopping them—that afforded no such concerns.

The man surveyed his surroundings, certain nothing left still moved.

“That’s all of you? You held out longer than I anticipated.”

With that appraisal, he moved toward Oliver, reached up—and peeled his mask away. Revealing the face of a third-year boy.

“So it was you, Oliver Horn. I had suspicions, but for a mere third-year to be at the center of all this? No wonder our response lagged behind.”

Demitrio shook his head, then aimed his wand at the boy’s head.

“But it ends here. I’ll uncover your motives, your purpose, your scale, and who backs you… Somni ludere.”

His invasion began. Deep into Oliver Horn he went, to dig up all that lay within.

The next thing Oliver knew—he was in the first-layer hidden workshop, seated across the table from his cousins.

“Mm?”

He blinked. There was a plate of piping hot pancakes in front of him. Something felt wrong here, but he could find no basis for that impression.

“What’s…wrong, Noll? Your pancakes…are getting cold.”

On his right, Shannon sounded baffled. When Oliver found no words, Gwyn looked concerned.

“Not hungry? Should we go with something easier to get down? A sorbet?”

“You’re pale, my lord,” Teresa said, leaning in from his left.

Feeling guilty for worrying them all, Oliver shook his head, still reeling.

“N-no, it’s not that. It’s…”

He tried to speak, but not one satisfactory phrase came to mind. Across the table, Gwyn sighed.

“The fatigue’s catching up with you. That’s it! Today, you rest.”

“Come. To bed, Noll,” Shannon said, getting up and tapping his shoulders.

Teresa stood up, too, tugging his sleeve. “I’ll accompany you.”

“Heh-heh. That’s nice… Gwyn?” Shannon asked as Oliver rose.

Gwyn hesitated, then smiled. “Sure… It’ll be a nice change of pace.”

The four of them headed for the bedroom. Leading him, they pulled off his robe and laid him down on the bed. The others went to lie down on either side of Oliver.

“It’s been…so long.” Shannon giggled. “It’s just like…we used to do.”

“The bed is a bit small. Teresa, scoot closer to Noll.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Teresa buried her face in Oliver’s chest. Even as her warmth flustered him, Shannon whispered, “Should I tell you a story…until you drift off? The three clever ball mice…and their adventure…or the long journey…of the bent broom…searching for a friend?”

Two fairy tales she’d often relayed to him. That took him back, her kindness wrapping around him, easing the confusion within—and drowsiness rose up inside.

“…The bent broom,” Oliver whispered.

“Mm, okay. A long…long time ago. There was a broom with a very curvy shaft…”

His sister softly began to regale. Letting her voice wash over him, Oliver drifted off to sleep.

Again, he snapped out of it. Seated at a table in the Fellowship, his friends chattering away.

“The nest’s temperature is just right, and I’ve added soundproofing. Like this article said, I’ve taken leaves out of its diet…”

Katie was muttering away, scribbling in her notes. Oliver watched closely, and she clutched her head, yelling.

“Arghhh! It’s not working! Nothing I do will make the digwing warm their eggs!”

“Don’t let it get to you,” Guy said, refilling her cup. “Have some tea and sit on it for a while.”

This was an everyday sight, and Oliver watched in silence. Then Nanao leaned in from his right, examining his face.

“You seem not quite here, Oliver. Does something ail you?”

“…Nanao…”

“You have a habit of taking on too many worries,” Chela said, smiling across the table at him. “Katie will be fine! Leave her be for a few days, and she’ll come up with something brilliant. She always does.”

A board game was thrust onto the table from Oliver’s left.

“Exactly! That’s why you should play Magic Chess with me!”

Yuri Leik, with an innocent smile. When Oliver saw that, he felt a surge of emotions he could not put a name to. Fighting off tears he knew not the cause of, he managed an answer.

“…Yeah, Yuri. That might hit the spot.”

Yuri gleefully began laying out the pieces. Oliver joined in, keeping himself in the moment.

Watching the same dream from on high, Demitrio was carefully observing Oliver.

“His guard’s gone down. Time to pry into his memories.”

He began taking stock. As Oliver adjusted to the dream, more memories grew available, and Demitrio carefully checked these over. One image after another of times Oliver Horn had lived through. A deadly battle not far in the past among them.

“So this is who took down Enrico. The Sherwoods, Karlie Buckle, and Robert Dufourcq… Aha, she was a force, and he knew his curses. Good choices to tackle a Deus Ex Machina.”

The fight against the machine god was a furious one. Demitrio ran through it thoroughly and then dug deeper into the past—finding his first victim.

“And here’s Darius. A pure one-on-one? Using his arrogance against him, but still…luck was not with you, Darius. The shock of a first-year with a spellblade—but if you had spent just a little more time on your sword arts or been just a bit less talented as an alchemist—you could have obtained a spellblade of your own.”

A whisper of regret. This man knew full well why Darius had not followed that path.

“I’ve seen their primary members on-site. Let’s go back to before he arrived here, explore his background…”

But when he tried to go further, he ran into a wall. Like a miner stymied by hard rock, he could not dig further into the past.

“…A powerful barrier. Less caution than unvarnished trauma. These years must have been very unpleasant.”

Considering the cause, Demitrio swiftly changed tactics. There were several ways to get past a memory block—one of which was changing the angle of approach. Sealed memories were like blood vessels with a valve that partially blocked the flow. He might not be able to go directly there from the present, but looping before them and moving chronologically often made it possible.

“A slight detour, but I’ll take the long way around. Let’s head back to when you were happy. No need to rush. Just dream away as we follow the time line.”

He adjusted the dream, and the sights Oliver saw followed.

“Nice, nice! Just a bit more! You’re almost there!”

Encouraged by her voice, he pushed his little hands on the floor, getting up. His gait was too unsteady to really call a walk, but still he moved forward. The moment of his first step.

The boy reached his limit and toppled into his mother’s arms.

“Gooooooood boy! So, so, so, so good! You did it, Noll! Not just standing up! You took two and a half steps! Did you see, Ed? He’ll be tap dancing by this time next year!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But good work, Noll. Impressive effort.”

His father reached past the blond witch, rubbing the boy’s head. A wiry body clad in a plain, solid-color sweater and slacks, eyes framed by square glasses. His movements tidy in a way that suggested “teacher.” An awfully drab-looking man to be the legendary Two-Blade’s husband.

Watching this scene play out, Demitrio recognized his face and nodded.

“…Her boy with Edgar? Gave birth while holed up in that forest, did she? Hard to believe she kept it hidden. She was called up by the Gnostic Hunters several times while raising him.”

A few years later, the baby was now a toddler. Sitting on his mother’s knees, Oliver was examining the alchemy materials before him.

“This one’s winding weed. And that’s a chuckleshroom. And…stained lantern.”

“Good job! So what’s this one?”

“An onion. Is that for dinner?” The boy laughed at the vegetable in his mother’s hands.

Next to them, Edgar folded his arms, thinking.

“He remembered all these just watching us brew? He learns like I did. Makes a father proud…”

“What other reaction could there be? You’re brilliant! So smart! My son is the best in the world!”

Tickled pink, Chloe picked up Oliver, swinging him around. Edgar quickly put a stop to that, helping the dizzy boy into a chair. It was his job to stop her from overdoing things. Just as it had been before they married.

Observing this same scene, Demitrio muttered, “He isn’t doting like Chloe… Must have realized the boy took after him.”

More time passed. Oliver was on Chloe’s knees in a darkened living room, his eyes on a man in a projection crystal.

“I’m home. Sorry, I ran a bit late—”

““Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!””

Edgar came in, greeted by peals of laughter. He came over, then put his bag down, shaking his head.

“Watching Mr. Bridge’s magic comedy again? I’m glad you’re enjoying yourselves, but it’s not really meant for a five-year-old.”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…! It’s a bit late for that. He was hooked from the first one! The hand of destiny at work!” Chloe insisted.

Young Oliver pointed at the image, insisting, “I wanna use spells, too!”

“Oh, do you? Well, we’ll just have to practice!”

“Ch-Chloe! Not so fast! We’ve agreed to gauge the moment carefully!”

“Yeah, the moment he got interested! C’mon, Ed, bring it over!”

Swept up in her enthusiasm, Edgar moved to a shelf in back and took down a wooden box. He held it out to Oliver, who looked surprised.

“…What’s that?”

“Open it. There’s something nice inside!”

Oliver did as he was told, lifting the lid. Inside was a wand, the smooth surface gleaming.

“Isn’t that a pretty wand? Ed and I picked the materials and carved it ourselves. This is your wand, Noll.”

“……”

His hand was drawn to it. Oliver picked it up, held it aloft—and stopped moving. Forgetting to blink at all.

“Déjà vu!” Chloe said, hands on her hips. “Everyone acts the same when they get their first wand. It makes you feel so powerful, your body just starts shaking. What is that about?”

“I’ve heard it described as…filling in the missing piece. To a mage, a wand is like a part of their own body.”

Many a mage would agree with Edgar’s sentiment. He knelt down before his son, eyes at the boy’s level. The boy noticed, turning his gaze to his father.

“Listen, Noll. You’ve just gained a lot of power. And because that power is so big…it can also be scary.”

“…Okay.”

“There’s a lot of things you can do with it. You can make fire and lightning—and hurt someone you’re mad at. Or even burn down this house.”

“?! I don’t wanna do that!”

“Exactly. That’s why you always have to think before you act. You’re going to learn a lot of magic. And I want you to always think about what’ll happen if you use a spell.

“Magic can make things…and it can break things. But it’s much harder to make than to break. And most of the time—if you break something, you can’t fix it. Do you see why that’s scary? Think it through and imagine why.”

Oliver frowned, thinking hard.

“It’s important that you do,” his father said. “All mages have to handle their own spells. That’s our responsibility.”

“…Responsi…bility……”

“That’s right. Since you’re still little, Mom and Dad will help. But as you grow older, you’ll have to take care of things yourself. When you can do that, you’ll finally be a proper mage. Don’t forget what I said here.”

He rubbed the boy’s head. Chloe knelt down next to them, smiling. Her eyes filled with trust—as long as his father was here, she need not worry.

A warm family moment. Watching it, Demitrio muttered, “…Standard-issue upbringing. Like it’s not Chloe’s boy at all. It’s like watching some village mages raise a kid.”

He almost smiled. What he was watching now told him exactly why they’d told no one about their child.

“…That’s exactly what they wanted.”

“Flamma! Impetus! Tonitrus!”

Older again, Oliver was now a young boy. Practicing spells in the garden under Chloe’s and Edgar’s watchful eyes.

“Good, good, your element switches are getting smooth. You’re improving, Noll!”

“Haah, haah…!”

Out of breath, Oliver stopped chanting. A beagle came up, rubbing against him.

“Doug…you’re encouraging me, too? Okay! I’ll hang in there!”

Motivated, he went back to practicing.

“…No real variation by spell type,” Edgar murmured. “He uses all elements equally well. And before improving his strengths, he tries to correct his weaknesses—that studious personality is like me, too.”

“Mm-hmm. So what?” Chloe asked, eyes on Oliver.

Edgar folded his arms, pulling a face. Neither of them realized that Oliver was watching this. And listening to what they said.

“He’s very much my son. But…he’s also yours. And yet…so tame. No spikes in his talent. I can’t put that thought out of my mind.”

“Does that disappoint you?”

She kept her tone light, but Edgar wheeled around to face her, angry.

“Non! How could it? Quite the opposite—I love him all the more!” he insisted. “Just—I know he’ll struggle with it later. Everyone will see him as Chloe Halford’s son, and at some point he’ll start to be conscious of that himself. I worry about whether…he’ll find a way to be proud of himself.”

Edgar trailed off. Chloe kissed him on the cheek.

“Good. If you’d nodded, I’d have punched ya.”

Their son came running up to them. A pall had hung over their conversation, and even at his age, he knew he was the reason why. That’s why he chose to smile.

“Mommy, Daddy, watch this!”

“Mm?”

“What is it, Noll?”

“I’m not Noll. I’m an angry dahlia! Always mad about something.”

He scowled. Was this some sort of game? Edgar looked baffled.

“But on a day like today, the sun feels too good… Lanarusal!”

Raising his wand, Oliver cast a spell. Somewhat misshapen petals appeared all around his face, like a sunflower in bloom.

“Shit, I accidentally bloomed,” Oliver swore, still scowling.

This was famous gag by a popular magic comedian. Edgar clapped a hand over his face, and Chloe broke up laughing.

“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! What is that?! When did you practice this?!”

“Eh-heh-heh! When you weren’t looking!”

“I never saw it coming! C’mere!”

Overflowing with love, Chloe hugged her son tight, kissing him on the lips. His arms and legs started flailing, and Edgar had to call out, “Ch-Chloe! Noll can’t breathe!”

“…Bwah! You’re next!”

“ ?!”

No sooner had her lips left Oliver than she tackled Edgar. With both males down, she stood triumphant.

“Husband! Son! You’ve made me far too happy, and a mere kiss will not suffice! How can you be so lovable?! It’s not even fair! No matter how hard I love you, it’s never enough!”

She flung her arms open wide, wrapping them around Oliver. Rubbing his cheek against her chest, he whispered, “I love you, too.”

“Ugh, you’re going for the kill! Ed! Whaddaya mean, no spikes?! Your son’s a born gigolo! And a future comedian!”

“…Apparently. I retract that statement.” Edgar nodded, bemused, gazing happily at Oliver, as if savoring the joys of a son this wonderful.

“There!”

With a clang, an athame flew from his hand and landed on the turf. Older again, Oliver toppled over backward on the grass.

“…You’re so strong, Mommy…!”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha! Of course! I’m the strongest in the world! Catch your breath and let’s go another round!”

Chloe brandished her athame enthusiastically, but Edgar cut in.

“Non, that’s enough,” he said sternly. “Noll, come review the fundamentals with Dad. Mom’s…definitely strong but pretty out-there. Not really worth copying.”

“Why not?! You’re leaving me out again?! Fine, be that way! I’ll just go play with Doug!”

Sulking, Chloe led the dog out. Making a face at her, Edgar started teaching his son basic forms. Oliver studiously practiced them.

“…Sorry, Noll,” Edgar said. “My lessons are boring, aren’t they?”

“? No they’re not!”

“That’s good to hear. It’s a different path than your mother took, but this is how I got strong. Lots of practice, lots of study, lots of thinking…and bit by bit, I got there.”

This was basically an admission that he’d had no talent. His son took after him in this, and Edgar felt a twinge of guilt about that.

“Working hard like this is tough, even for grown-ups. But—the harder you work, the more your strength feels like it belongs to you. Like a building erected on solid foundations, no matter how hard the wind blows, you won’t fall,” Edgar explained. “That’s how Lanoff-style works. You’re tenacious, so it’s a good fit for you.”

As a father, he was sure of that much. Practicing alongside Edgar, Oliver said, “I like Lanoff, too.”

“You do?”

“Mm. It’s, um, very precise. There’s lots to remember, but there’s always a reason for everything, and the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. Whoever invented it must’ve taken a very long time, thinking about how to teach it. And how to make it so people learning it didn’t get confused or mess up…”

That was his best explanation. He already had the imagination to pick up on that. As his father had hoped he would.

“And that’s a lot like you, Daddy. That’s why I like this style.”

“ !”

Edgar dropped his wooden sword and pulled his son into a hug. The sudden embrace surprised the boy.

“…Daddy?” he asked. “We can’t practice if we’re hugging…”

“Ahhhh! No fair, Ed! You can’t cuddle Noll without me!”

Chloe came racing in, Doug on her heels, and joined in. A big family hug—and Oliver looked thoroughly fulfilled.

Naturally, not every day was a happy one. Everyone has painful experiences as they grow, no matter how great their parents’ love is.

“…All animals grow cold in death. Isn’t that sad, Noll?”

Chloe’s voice weighed heavily. Oliver was crying, clutching Doug’s body as the warmth faded from it, his efforts to save the dog in vain. He’d made a mistake, and the price had been this life. A loss he could never make right.

He’d been given a wand, learned spells, begun to study alchemy. So many more things he could do—and that’s exactly where it starts to go to a mage’s head. When the dog got sick, his parents had examined Doug’s symptoms and decided to wait for it to get better on its own. Nonemergency treatment for nonmagical creatures, ordinaries or animals, was best done without the aid of magic.

But Oliver hadn’t waited. Wanting to relieve his friend’s suffering right away, and knowing that mages could do that, he’d made a potion himself—with his limited knowledge. There’d only been a trace of poison in the ingredients. He’d taken a dose himself, trying to verify the safety of it. But—this dog had not even been a magical beast. It was far more fragile than Oliver had realized.

“…I’ll study…harder…! Never use the wrong herb or mushroom…again!”

“Good idea. Let’s study all that together.” Edgar nodded, sitting next to the sobbing boy. Both he and Chloe behind him had made no contact with Oliver. As much as they wanted to hug the boy, they knew this was an experience their warmth would only sully.

“Remember how cold he feels. Carve it into your heart and never let it go. That is the last gift Doug will give you. The most important lesson your first friend left behind.”

A great loss impressed a mage’s responsibilities upon the growing boy.

“Whew, I worked up a sweat! We’ve gotta wash up, Noll!”

“M-mm…”

They’d been practicing sword arts in the summer sun, but Chloe dragged him right into the shower. He was old enough now to be embarrassed about these things, and so he kept his back turned, refusing to look upon his mother’s naked form.

“What, are you all ashamed now? Too old for this? Don’t wanna shower with Mommy?”

“…No, I just…,” Oliver squeaked.

Water gushed from the showerhead above, hosing Chloe down.

“Whoa, that’s cold! The elementals are working overtime! Keep at it! Ten degrees lower!”

The deluge was quickly cooling down her overheated body. The whole time, Oliver was stuck in the corner, eyes down. Less shame or embarrassment than awe. The more of a mage he became, the more his instincts told him he should not lightly gaze upon a body as flawless and filled with mysteries as Chloe Halford’s.

She chuckled. Perhaps she got that on some level—she turned to her son, spreading her arms to show herself off. “Go ahead. Admire it, Noll. Now is the time.”

That made him hesitantly look up, his gaze drawn to her form. Already the Platonic ideal of a mage, yet this petite witch’s power was growing even now. Every inch of her skin, every muscle in her was aesthetically unrivaled. It took his breath away.

“…You’re beautiful, Mommy,” he said, the words slipping out.

“Whoa! Straight shooting!”

Chloe blushed and took his hands, pulling him into the shower. Playing in the water with him until Edgar came in with a towel for each.

One night, Oliver was nodding off on the couch, having trained all day and studied all evening.

“How’d the meeting go?”

“Uh…honestly, not great.”

His eyes barely open, he heard his parents talking. Chloe had just arrived home.

“I never expected it to be easy to persuade them. But I feel like their attitudes toward me have shifted. Like no matter what I say, they’ll take it like I’m speaking for the civil rights movement. I ain’t never made any claims to be that…”

“Your ability to inspire people is working against you, then.” Edgar sighed. “But…that’s hardly a surprise, isn’t it? Between your influence with the rights movement and your proven prowess as a Gnostic Hunter, you could easily upend the magical world if you wanted. The conservatives are gonna fret over how to deal with you.”

Oliver often saw them looking this downbeat. Even half asleep, it made him anxious.

“And we’ve put an awful lot on Emmy’s back, making her lead negotiations. That alone makes this impasse painful. Think it’s about time we told her about Oliver?”

“I wish we could… But given how she feels, I think we should wait. She’s neck-deep in tricky negotiations as is. Don’t wanna yank the rug out from under her. Or…see her struggle to give her blessings.”

Chloe wasn’t often this reluctant. It was a side of her Oliver hadn’t seen. He didn’t know who they were talking about, but they were clearly worried—and that scared him.

“…I know it’s a lot to ask, but I don’t want Emmy turning on Noll. I want her to love him. And I want Noll to look up to her, like she’s his big sister.”

“…If only.”

“Yeah, not that easy. But—you know I’m greedy, Ed. I want it all.”

With a sad smile, she put her arms around Edgar.

“You being a man wasn’t why I chose you. I’m sure of it,” she said. “But—now that we’ve had Noll, she won’t see it that way. I could talk myself blue in the face, and she’d stay dead certain her gender was why I didn’t go with her. And I just know—Emmy will take that as an unequivocal rejection.”

Oliver was too young to fully grasp just how thorny this problem was.

When Edgar said nothing, Chloe added, “So when we do tell her, I want it to be full of positivity. Before they meet, I wanna fill Oliver’s head with everything great about her. So he comes in, eyes gleaming.” She then said, “‘This amazing boy we made has nothing but respect for you, without even meeting you. He loves you like he would his real sister.’ I think that’s the bare minimum for a happy ending. That’s how Noll and Emmy should meet.”

Chloe was almost pleading, and Edgar smiled softly.

“I get that… But we’re putting a lot on Oliver. I mean, first we’ve gotta make sure he turns out amazing.”

“Oh? Was that in doubt? Is he not already amazing? Have you grown too blind to see his sleepy face? Do I have to slap your vision back into whack?”

“Non, non! I misspoke. Don’t bring back the Fisticuffs Champion!”

“Ha, I never hung up my belt. Just you watch: One day I’m gonna land a punch right on Instructor Gilchrist’s sour kisser. How do you like that anti-athameism, ya old kook?!”

Chloe did a little shadowboxing as Edgar backed away. Ah, Oliver thought. They’re themselves again—and with that, sleep won out.

“Ed! Grab Oliver and run! Now!”

Chloe nearly kicked in the door upon her entrance, already yelling. Edgar had been teaching their son how to look after his wand; he bolted to his feet.

“What’s wrong, Chloe? Did the negotiations fall apart?”

“Those are still going nowhere! But my neck’s tingling! I dunno who or when, but they’re coming right after me. We can’t be here! I told Emmy to hide herself, too.”

The clear urgency in her tone made Edgar nod and turn around. He picked up their confused boy and held him tight.

“Got it. I’ll take Noll to your folks. What’s your plan?”

“Greet our guests. If I run, they’ll just catch up.”

Chloe was already prepping for the fight. Her athame never left her side. Oliver glanced at that, instinctively realizing how bad this was. His mother was about to fight. That much was unmistakable.

“…Mommy…!”

Seeing the look on his face, Chloe stepped toward him and gave him a hug.

“Don’t worry, Noll. Like I said, your mother’s the strongest in the world. The Gnostic Hunters could send a whole-ass squad after me, and I’d brush them off like so much dirt,” she assured him. “You might find my family a little stifling, but it won’t be for too long. Once I’m back, we’ll make pancakes. Lots of syrup and butter. So much that Ed’ll scold us for it.”

She looked him right in the eye, trying to assuage his concerns. Oliver hugged her back.

“…I’ll be waiting, Mommy.”

“Thank you. I love you, Noll.”

She kissed him on the cheek—and watching this play out, Demitrio realized the truth.

“…Oh. This night.”

Leaving his mother behind, Edgar fled through the night with his son in his arms. Their journey was long, and Oliver could tell he was picking his route with great care. Sometimes they even employed disguises or transformation spells. It was almost noon the next day before they reached Chloe’s family home—the Sherwood estate. A manor so big Oliver’s little eyes could not see end to end.

“Well met, both of you! It must have been awful. Come on in!”

They let the gate guard know of their arrival, and the door soon opened, a cheery-looking elderly couple emerging to greet them. The moment they stepped onto the grounds, Oliver sensed an ominous oppression in the very air, and that only made him even more frightened. His father looked equally grim. They were led into the largest building, likely the main residence.

“Oliver will probably want someone his own age around. Gwyn, Shannon, your cousin’s come to visit. Play with him, would you?”

A row of servants met them inside, along with an earnest-looking boy and a gentle-looking girl. Oliver knew at a glance that they were his relatives.

“…I’m Gwyn. Nice to meet you, Oliver.”

“I’m…Shannon. Let’s…have fun.”

“Yes. The p-pleasure is all mine.”

Not quite hiding how nervous he was, he bowed his head.

The old lady tittered. “My, my, what a well-mannered boy! Can’t believe he’s hers.”

“You must have taught him well, Edgar. Go get some rest in back. You smoke a pipe?”

“No, not anymore—I appreciate the thought.”

Edgar politely declined the offer. Each move his father made told Oliver loud and clear: This was not a place where you let down your guard.

Given the gravity of the situation and their lengthy escape, the reception was kept short and simple. They were soon deposited in a guest room. His father told Oliver to get some rest, but even if the mood here had been less oppressive, Oliver wouldn’t have been inclined to lie down.

“…She’s still not back?”

He was plastered against the window, eyes on the night view. Unable to sleep, he’d been like this since the sun was still high in the sky.

Edgar couldn’t bear to watch. “Don’t worry about Mommy,” he said. “Come here, Noll.”

Oliver left the window, and his father wrapped his arms tight around him. Oliver hugged him back. He was scared—but his father had to keep him safe and must have been even more frightened. Even at this age, his thoughts were on how others felt.

“Ah—”

He sensed it, then.

“…? What is it, Noll?” Edgar frowned.

Oliver pulled out of his father’s arms, running to the window.

“Mom’s here.”

His eyes were fixed on something outside—and then Edgar found it, gasping.

Chloe. Half a woman’s figure, pale and transparent, liable to disperse when next the wind blew.

“No…”

Edgar’s voice shook. Before them, the etheric body let out a voiceless cry.

“Ah—ah—”

As Oliver stood stock-still, Chloe’s ether drifted his way. Her wispy arms wrapped around her son, and she smiled. Relieved to have made it home.

“—Ed—Noll……”

With that, she faded away completely. Like the last remnant of a dream.

Neither Oliver nor Edgar dared speak a word. After a long silence, footsteps came down the hall.

“Are you up, Edgar? Shannon felt an etheric body enter your room! Is someone with you?!”

The old man’s voice, accompanied by a thundering knock at the door. Both sounds passed in one ear and out the other.

“…She’s gone…”

His mother’s arms had been around him a moment before. The memory of that lingered. Oliver turned around, looking up at his father. Still not comprehending what that all meant.

“…Daddy…what happened to Mommy…?”

Once Edgar recovered enough to relay what had happened, the mood in the Sherwood manor changed completely. They’d been on high alert, feeling out the situation—but now they were preparing for battle.

“We don’t hear from her for years, and then she comes back as a ghost. How like her! To the bitter end.”

The grown-ups assembled in the living room. Oliver watching from the corner, with Gwyn and Shannon on either side. They were using a lot of words he didn’t understand, but he was doing his level best to follow along.

“How much do you know about what led to this, Edgar? Wayward she may have been, but my granddaughter was a once-in-a-millennia virtuoso. No matter who came after her, she would not have been beaten easily.”

“…I know bits and pieces, but…not who carried it out. Only that it must have been someone opposed to her.”

“She didn’t say a word? Not even her spirit?”

“…From the glimpse I got, her ether was in tatters. It held a form for mere seconds. The fact that it reached us at all…was nigh miraculous.”

Edgar’s voice shook. Wanting to break up the volley of questions, Gwyn spoke up.

“Grandfather, that’s enough for one day. Edgar’s grieving.”

“I know! But we can’t do anything until we know our enemy. There’s a limit to what we can achieve with this information, though. What else can we do?”

The old man paused, chin in hand. Then his eyes turned to his great-granddaughter.

“…Her soul’s still with the boy, Shannon?”

“…Yes. Holding him tight…not letting go…like an embrace.”

Mindful of Oliver’s response, Shannon answered. The old man was far less hesitant.

“You can ask the soul yourself. Set the scene.”

“ ! But that means—”

“Wait, Grandfather!” Gwyn cried. Arguing like this was not a luxury he was afforded often, but he had to. “Yes, Shannon can make that happen. But let’s consider the implications. Chloe’s soul is tied inexorably to Oliver’s. If she connects to the ether to glean information from it—all of that will be relayed to the boy.”

That made Edgar gasp. But the old man just gave Gwyn a puzzled look.

“I fail to see the problem. Or are you saying this child should go through life not even knowing who slew his mother?”

Snapping out of it, Edgar got up and took a knee, pleading.

“Please, sir, not that. Noll’s too young! He’s not ready to handle what happened to her.”

There was a silence. The old man folded his arms.

“A father’s love. Yes…I can sympathize with that.”

He put his hand on Edgar’s shoulder, his smile filled with mercy.

“But, Edgar, you’re forgetting something: My granddaughter’s death is a crisis. One that affects the very survival of the Sherwood clan.”

With that, his expression changed—to that of a mage ready to trample the hearts of man to achieve his purpose. Edgar let out a squeak.

“In light of that, I ask you this,” the old man growled. “Do you insist? Though you are but an in-law?”

“ !”

The words slammed down from on high, silencing any and all protests. The cruelty in that was evident, but Edgar had no position from which to argue. He was the one mage here who did not carry Sherwood blood, and with Chloe’s death, his status has fallen to the depths of this man’s estimations. In fact—given that his granddaughter had brought in outside blood without permission, he had likely never once rated any consideration at all.

“…I’ll…be fine.”

Oliver’s voice made everyone turn, surprised. Part of this was certainly because he couldn’t stand to see the old man browbeat his father. But—far more than that, Oliver simply had to know. If there was a way to get answers to all these questions, he was ready to jump at the chance.

“I don’t understand…the hard parts of this. But Shannon has a way to talk to Mommy, right?”

He’d gotten that much from the conversation. He turned to the cousin he’d just met.

“Then—I want to hear that, too. What happened to her? What went on while I wasn’t there? I…want to know the truth.”

Shannon gulped, and the old man grinned. He gave Edgar a frosty glare.

“You’ve got a good son, Edgar. He knows what’s going on better than you.”

“ ! Don’t, Noll! You can’t let—”

“Altum somnum.”

As Edgar tried to argue, the old mage planted a spell on his chest—and he fell over, unconscious. Oliver gasped and ran over to him.

“Daddy!”

“Don’t worry; he’s just asleep. I’ll wake him up once this is over.”

“Then let’s get things ready!”

Without another glance at Edgar’s prone form, everyone started moving. Cowed by the intensity, Oliver found the old man’s hand on his shoulder, eyes locked on his.

“You’re a fine young man, Oliver. This may be rough on a child. But—can you hold fast?”

Oliver knew this was a question that could only be answered in the affirmative.

He was first required to thoroughly cleanse himself in the bath. Once that was complete, he was ordered to drain a glass of green fluid, so astringent the first sip nearly made him splutter. A rather potent herbal liqueur.

“The boy’s body is cleansed, so let’s get started. Come, Shannon.”

“…Ugh…”

Oliver was led to another room and sat upon a chair at the center. The old woman waved Shannon to a chair nearby—but she froze up.

“Hesitant? You have a kind heart. Those with a strong progenitor aspect always do. My brother was like that till the very end.”

The woman looked touched—but then her hand clamped down on Shannon’s shoulder.

“But you can’t refuse. Nor could my brother. This is your duty.”

The intensity made Shannon shiver. Unable to watch, Oliver spoke up.

“Shannon…I’ll be fine.”

What were they doing to him? What was going on here? Those questions were scary, but nothing compared to his need to know what happened to his mother. And Shannon no longer had a reason to stand her ground. She hesitated a long moment and then drew her wand, tapped it to Oliver’s chest, and said the spell.

“Animae nexum.”

His vision cut out, replaced with an avalanche of new memories rushing in from his mother’s soul.

“I’m impressed you survived. But we both know struggling is useless.”

Oliver now witnessed the desperate peril Chloe faced in her last moments of life. In a dark forest, the ground around her boiling, molten. And the warlocks swooping in to attack.

“Ahhh, how cruel you are to cut me off! I’m lonely, so lonely! Let me be one with you!”

Giant claws shot out of the darkness. A cursed mist, a voice like a sheep with a crushed windpipe.

“So you’re the lightbearer, huh? Must be a real honor, you old hag.”

“……”

A full, false moon in the sky above. The silhouette of a towering golem bathed in that pale light. A maniacal laugh.

“Feel free to try me! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“ ” Stop.

An incantation she could not hear hit her hard. The straits were dire, but his mother’s spirits uncowed.

“This way!”

A sole light in this darkness—and Chloe darted toward it. Relief and joy welling up. Never once doubting that this girl would be here to save her.

“Emmy…?”

She never saw the betrayal coming. A blow from behind, piercing her chest. A voice in her ear.

“I’m sorry… This was my only option…”

Why? Chloe thought, doubts swirling. Yet her true nightmare was only just beginning.

“Stabbed her in the back? Nice trick if you can make it.”

Looking up from below, she could see them standing over her, deep in a cave. The wound to her heart had been fatal, so they’d done the bare minimum to extend her life, leaving her prostrate for them. Unable to talk back, unable to move at all.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! Even Chloe didn’t see that one coming!”

“Yes, she’s always, always treasured you.”

Baldia’s sarcasm slithered under the old man’s laughter.

“The rest…as per the agreement?” a flat voice said.

Chloe’s betrayer nodded quietly and vanished into the depths.

The philosopher nodded and drew his wand.

“Then let’s begin. I’ve no taste for this task, but who shall go first?”

“Allow me.”

One man stepped forward, an arrogant heft to his chest, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. He glared down at Chloe.

“A pathetic sight, Chloe. In all your confidence, you never once entertained the thought that one day you’d wind up sprawled at my feet.”

With a twisted smile, he waved a wand.

“Dolor!”

Violent pain racked Chloe’s body from within.

Had Shannon not been adjusting the sensory feedback, Oliver would have screamed aloud, and the rest of this would have been lost. But his cousin’s kindness helped him hold out. Allowed him to endure.

“You were a blight!” Darius roared. “I’ve always, always, always loathed you! Dolor!”

Another pain spell tormented her. All the while, Darius’s rant echoed.

“That bitchy sneer! Those snide remarks! That unparalleled blade! Constantly, constantly, constantly burning themselves into my eyes! I loathed you, yet I couldn’t look away! Dolor!”

“Get it now? Do you understand anything? Existing in the same universe as you is nothing but agony! Whether you glare or smile, whether you swear or issue compliments! Every time that lifted my spirits, it made me hate myself all the more! I’ve dreamed about killing you! Dreamed about torturing the hell out of you! Dolor!”

“Don’t compare me to Luther! Especially not in his favor! I-I’m—I’m not like that sword-brained fool! I was born to lead the imbeciles to their betterment beneath my wand! I knew my duty and could not afford to spend more time on savage dustups! Ah, why would you not listen?! He has no talent and could remain a fool! Don’t ask me to do the same! Don’t make me want to! Don’t stand around shining like a beacon before me! Dolor!”

An endless stream of curses—the warlock lost himself in his torture. The others watched and laughed.

“Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! So young! Such pure, unvarnished love!”

“Heh-heh-heh, I’m sure she was just doting on both Lu and Darry. She never noticed what it did to them. It was a blessing for Lu but a curse upon Darry.”

When his invective started going in circles, the man’s torture came to an end. Not due to lack of motivation—more the sheer anger had left him out of breath.

“…Haah, haah…! Haah…!”

“Okay, enough. This shit ain’t just your party.”

A mean-looking woman pushed the man aside, stepping in herself.

“’Sup. I ain’t as fixated as that guy, don’t worry. We went at it a few times as students, but you helped me some, too. It all evens out. Ain’t got no pent-up grudges. Still…”

The last trace of warmth left her face, and she waved a wand.

“Knowing there’s someone stronger than me around just rubs me the wrong way. Dolor.”

Thirty pain spells at regular intervals. When her torture ended, she stepped back, and the girl-shaped mass of curses took her place.

“My turn, now! Heh-heh-heh… Is your mind still in there? Do you remember me? It’s Baldia! Baldia Muwezicamili!” the figure said with a cackle. “You came to talk to me several times at Kimberly. A cursed little rag of a girl, but you just acted like I was any other underclassman. When Vana and I picked a fight with you, you didn’t hesitate to punch me bare-handed. I’ve never been so surprised!”

Baldia sat down next to Chloe, leaning close.

“You didn’t discriminate! Just looked down on everyone. And I’ve aaaaaaaalways hated that. People like us belong in the darkness and the murk, and I loathed how you just marched on in, shining your light around. So right now? I’m absolutely delighted! I mean, now? At long last? I can finally drag you down into the gloom. Heh-heh… I just have to welcome you! Dolor!”

A very nagging sort of torture. Unlike the first man, she never rushed, delightedly savoring the piled-on agony. After thirty-two spells, her torture ended, and a tiny old man stepped in.

“I’m next! How are you faring, Chloe? I’m ever so sad it came to this! You were a total nightmare to have in class, and every time you crushed a golem, I found new ways to improve it! I lived for that! Do you know how that feels? I’m crushing the very thing I lived for under my feet!”

At that, all emotions drained from his face. Like he was carved from white rock.

“Frustrating though it is, this is the way of sorcery. Dolor.”

Enrico’s torture ended after twenty impassive spells.

“You go next, Gilchrist,” Vanessa growled. “I don’t recommend going last. Lest we start doubting your stance.”

“……”

Under her baleful glare, the elderly witch straightened up and stepped forward. Her eyes snapped down to Chloe.

“Can you still see, Ms. Halford? I make no apologies. Curse me all you please.”

With that, she placed the tip of her wand on her target’s chest.

“I will say this. You were vulgar, crude, and impudent. You could not have been further from the ideal mage I teach. Even your spells were so slapdash it made me cover my eyes—”

With that, her lips pursed. And she failed to stop herself from saying more.

“—but your blade alone I could not bring myself to despise. Dolor.”

Three spells, as if duty bound. Her turn complete, the philosopher stepped in.

“You’re the last act, Aristides. Bring the curtains down.”

“…Quite.”

The unpleasant-looking woman urged him forward, and he drew his wand.

“Not much to say at this juncture. Just—none of us were capable of joining your cause. And I genuinely do feel that’s a pity,” he said. “Dolor.”

Twenty spells delivered mechanically, and then all six were done. Demitrio watched this all, two layers deep in memory.

“…That was the devil’s work, if by my own hand.”

He rebuked his past self. As the cave fell silent, all eyes turned to the darkness in back.

“We’re done! Come on out, Esmeralda. You’re this party’s hostess.”

The witch drifted back out of the gloom. The one who’d betrayed Chloe, stabbed her in the back.

“You betrayed her. We tormented her. All as was planned. Now—”

“I know.”

She knelt down, cradling Chloe’s body. Her gaze turned to the ceiling, her lips parted—revealing fangs. Four teeth, too long for any human—sank into Chloe’s throat.

“Oh—”

“Whew.”

Her throat quivered, swallowing. Obviously drinking Chloe’s blood. Yet instinctively, all knew she was draining something else along with it. The last light in Chloe’s eyes faded, and her heart stopped. The woman’s arms clasped around her so tight the corpse’s bones creaked.

“That was a display!” Vanessa sneered. “How’d it taste? The soul of the woman you loved?!”

The woman turned. This was now his own memory. The face Demitrio knew all too well, the witch who would become the pinnacle of the magical world.

“None of you will ever know.”

“Ah—”

The lengthy recollection was followed by a deep slumber—and Oliver woke up in bed. Edgar was by the side of it, holding his son’s hand.

“Noll!” he cried, throwing his arms around the sobbing boy. “You’re back with us? Oh, Noll… Noll!”

Shannon was with him, eyes red with tears. “Sorry,” she said. “That was…so awful. I’m sorry…for showing you that…”

Oliver was not allowed to listen to this long. Word reached old man Sherwood, and he paid a visit.

“You’re up, Oliver? You’ve been asleep for three days. Even I got worried!”

He pushed Edgar aside, taking a seat by the bed.

“So,” he began. “Did you see the faces of your mother’s killers?”

A chilly gaze locked on his great-grandson’s eyes. Oliver didn’t need to search for words.

“I did. And I won’t forget them.”

His tone alone made his feelings clear. The old man grinned.

“…They took half her soul away. Right, Shannon?”

“…Mm. Like…what I do but…very, very different…”

Shannon sounded very sure. The old man looked grim.

“…Esmeralda Catena Draclugh. Assumed she was my granddaughter’s remora, left her alone—clearly an error. Her middle name means fetters, a sign she inherits a tainted bloodline, but I had not imagined she’d resurrected the vampires’ powers within.”

The old man rose, moving from the bed to the window.

“A small salvation, but they know little about us. That is no way to treat a soul; her soul absorb will not serve as interrogation. Personalities and memories are fragile, delicate things; an absorption like that will have shredded them.”

He spoke with his back turned. Oliver didn’t follow all of this, but he listened intently.

“Regrettably—she may have stolen things far more fundamental. The fixed qualities a soul possesses. What we call soul skills—the very things that lent her the Two-Blade name.”

Edgar hung his head. This was forcing him to directly confront what he had lost—what had been taken from him.

“Unlike Shannon, the progenitor blood was not strong with her. Thus, she will not have gained our biggest secret—the soul merge. Even if she had—I do not imagine it reproducible by any race as corrupt as the vampires,” the old man intoned. “Either way, our course is clear. She must die. All who betrayed and tormented my granddaughter—and fundamentally, we cannot allow the vampire race to survive. The very existence of that mutation is an insult to the progenitors. The jewel at the heart of a man, treated like that? It is intolerable.”

He turned away from the window. His lips contorted with festering fury, the lines around his eyes and nose empowering that diabolical grin.

“Above all—they believe this outrage has put a stop to the mission my wayward descendant dedicated herself to. And that shall not stand.”

He may have paid lip service to the family connection, but it was clear to Oliver that this was what really mattered to the old man—and thus, to all Sherwoods.

“Yet our enemies are towering. Putting aside the vampire, the other six faces are no less a threat. While the Sherwoods’ sorcery is hardly combat-oriented. Our first priority must be the acquisition of might.”

With this shift in subject, the old man’s eyes turned to Oliver again.

“That’s where you come in, Oliver.”

“W-wait! How does Noll—?” Edgar stepped in between them.

“Does it really elude you?” The old man shrugged, exasperated. “Her soul was rent asunder, but commendably, half of it returned to her son’s side. As you yourself said—this is nothing short of miraculous. How can we let that feat go to waste?”

Not a moment of consideration for the father’s feelings. His own rationale was all that mattered.

“The principle is simplicity itself. They’ve gained power through vile means—so we shall take every measure to gain it legitimately. As head of this family, Oliver, I order you to attempt a soul merge.”

A solemn preamble to a dire command. Edgar reeled.

“You mean…,” Oliver said.

“Figured it out, have you? Exactly. Make the power in Chloe’s soul your own. Don’t tell me you don’t want to. Your beloved mother’s soul, blending with your own—what more could a boy want? My granddaughter came back to you as a ghost—and only this will let her rest.”

Edgar could only be mindful of his place for so long. His anger erupted.

“Non! D-do you even grasp what you’re saying here?! You yourself called the soul a jewel at the heart of man! How can you directly meddle with a child’s and hope to alter it to your convenience? The very idea is intolerable! Even if it is his mother’s soul, I cannot—”

“Prohibere.”

The spell halted Edgar’s movements. As he went stiff, the old man glared down at him.

“Hold your tongue, stud horse. I am speaking directly to my great-grandson who, unlike you, bears my blood.”

The old man’s eyes snapped back to Oliver. Not daring to look away, the boy did his best to answer.

“…If I do that, it’ll make me…stronger?”

“That it will. You’ll inherit your mother’s soul and be strong like she was.”

“And if I’m strong like her…I can beat those people?”

“Undoubtedly. Do you know why they had to form a team to kill Chloe? Because they feared her strength more than anything.”

A flawless answer. And having seen it all himself—Oliver never had a choice.

“I’ll do it. Please…let me do this.”

His words echoed, reaching Edgar’s ears even as the spell wore off.

He gasped for air. “N-Noll…don’t! If you chose that path…!”

“How cruel, Edgar. Look at your boy’s hands.”

The old man yanked the covers away, revealing the arms hidden beneath.

“ !”

Edgar’s jaw dropped. His son’s hands, clenched on his knees, so tight the bones had snapped, and the skin turned purple and swollen.

“Ha-ha, yet still his grip tightens! That’s what I call fury.”

The old man’s laugh was a merry one.

“…Sorry, Daddy,” Oliver whispered, his head down. “But if…”

He looked up, meeting his father’s eyes. Voice shaking with tremendous emotion not yet taking shape as either grief or rage, just pouring out of him.

“If I do nothing, I’ll explode.”

This boy could not be stopped. That realization made Edgar’s face crumple. The old man moved behind him, patting his shoulders with a tenderness that bordered on spite.

“The boy himself consents,” he told his grandson-in-law. “Don’t even think about taking him and running. You know full well I’ll not stand for that.”

This last threat silenced Edgar completely. He was aware. He was already in the lion’s den. With Chloe herself out of the picture, he and his son had no escape left.

“If we’re raising him for strength, that must go side by side with training. I could find a tutor somewhere in this family… But on that point alone, I’m inclined to extend some generosity to your familial affection.”

An order wearing mercy’s name. This was not a choice. As a father, Edgar could do nothing else. His voice clenched, he spoke the words prescribed unto him.

“…Please…let me handle that.”

“So be it.”

The old man nodded, as if this was generous. And offered one final threat.

“But do not coddle him. The instant I see the slightest hint of that, you will never see your son again.”

Demitrio watched the training that followed, eyes narrowed.

“…Brutal. I’ve put myself through my fair share of reckless punishment, but even then…”

Training that left his body racked with pain, followed by risking his life on a soul merge. And worse, more training to make his body adapt to the soul. This was pure madness. No teacher in any school would agree with the principle here.

“Words like training and practice hardly apply. This is mere torture, a long-suffering suicide. That he still lives is mere happenstance. Though considering the original nature of his soul, perhaps he is still dying, even now.”

Every day was the same. Their daily basement work left Oliver covered in countless wounds, and Edgar’s lifeless voice signaled an end.

“That’s enough for today. Ask Shannon for treatment. Rest early and prepare for tomorrow.”

“…Dad…”

“Call me Master. Only that is allowed here.”

His father turned to go, but Oliver managed a whisper.

“…Sorry I’m so weak. I’ll…do better…tomorrow…”

“Ngh—!”

Digging his fingers into his quivering shoulders, Edgar dragged himself bodily out of the training room. Shannon and Gwyn took his place, running to their cousin where his father could not.

“Good work, Noll… Another…hard one, yes?”

“…Sister…”

Oliver barely had the energy to meet her eye. Gwyn put his arms around the boy’s tiny body.

“No need to move. I’ll carry you to your room.”

“…Thank you, Brother.”

“Don’t thank me. Please.”

As they spoke, they carried Oliver to bed.

Demitrio frowned. “Their positions don’t seem to line up with the Sherwoods’. I’d like to know more, there. Let’s change perspectives.”

He stepped out of Oliver’s dream. After a moment’s consideration, he turned his wand toward Gwyn, invading his memories. Not long after, he’d found his perspective on that period of time.

“…You’ll be okay. Rest up, and the wounds and fatigue will be better by tomorrow.”

“…Mm. Sleep…tight.”

Oliver’s treatment complete, they laid him in bed. Gwyn and Shannon left the room. They moved down the hall, out of their cousin’s earshot.

Only then did Gwyn speak, his voice quivering. “How is this okay?”

His fist hit the wall. A rare display of emotion from her taciturn brother, and Shannon flinched visibly.

“Every single day spent utterly demolishing him, body and mind. He finally pulls through that, and then a soul merge almost kills him. And then more, more, and more training to make his body adjust to the results! This is no way to treat a human being. Especially a grieving child who’s just lost his mother!”

Everything he’d been storing up came pouring out. Shannon put a hand on his shoulder, soothing him.

“I…feel the same way. But don’t…lose your head, Gwyn. If Grandfather hears you…”

“He’s the one who needs to hear it! Why? Why is he doing this to Noll?! Does he seriously think calling torture training will actually make Noll stronger?! It won’t! It’s just tearing him to pieces! Breaking him down, shattering what’s left, ruining him for good! Until he stops getting back up permanently!”

His voice was almost a shriek.

Shannon hesitated a long time, then said, “Grandfather…doesn’t think it’ll work.”

“What?”

Gwyn swung around to face her.

Head down, Shannon elaborated. “He doesn’t…think that…will make Noll stronger. He just…wants to try. To see how much…a soul merge…can change someone. To see…how far they can…be pushed. Before they collapse. He’s using Noll to find out.”

Gwyn’s heart skipped a beat. The last shred of faith he had in the old man ripped apart.

“Did he say that?”

“No, but I can tell. I…feel these things.”

His sister’s word was beyond refute. Gwyn staggered, feeling dizzy, and put his back against the wall.

“Why…? What has he got against Noll? He’s his own flesh and blood! His great-grandson! Even allowing for the bad blood between him and Chloe, even if there was no family bond—he still carries Sherwood blood. Does he not even warrant that deference?”

This doubt, too, Shannon eventually answered.

“Grandfather…is convinced Noll…does not have much. Neither Sherwood blood nor Chloe’s. No…prominent talents…anywhere. A thoroughly mediocre boy.”

Her voice shook. Gwyn knew why. He knew repeating their great-grandfather’s cruelty aloud, conveying these thoughts to her brother—both were as painful for her as the twist of a knife.

“If he’s not…going to be anything significant. Then…there’s no harm…in using him up…here. That’s…how Grandfather sees it.”

The last words were delivered through a sob. Gwyn’s eyes became grim, and he turned to rush off. Shannon grabbed his shoulders, stopping him.

“Don’t, Gwyn!”

“Let me go! I’m telling him off!”

“No use! Our voices won’t reach him. You know…they never have. You remember what he made us do!”

“…Rrgh—”

A reminder of their shared history made his feet freeze to the floor. That alone told him how futile a protest would be, and his anger turned once more to his own helplessness.

“…Why couldn’t I handle the soul merge? Why?!”

“This is how it works. Souls…are compatible…or they aren’t. Noll and Chloe work…because they loved each other…very, very much. They barely resist…the fusion.”

“Barely? That’s barely?!”

“It’d be far worse with you, Gwyn! Or with me! Chloe never…even met us while she lived. Her soul…is too removed from us. We could never…fuse with it.”

Shannon wept. Gwyn’s wave of anger left, leaving only emptiness behind.

“…Nothing we can do but watch?” he whispered, staring at the ceiling. “Watch as it crushes him?”

Shannon shook her head, clutching her brother’s hand.

“Gwyn…let’s go back to his room.”

“How can we…?”

“Just act…normally. No need to…overthink it. Just…be with him,” she urged. “Noll’s…very, very alone. While he’s training, the anger and pain fill him up, help him…forget. But—at night, it hurts so much it almost makes him…like a candle in the wind. He bites his pillow…trying to bear it…”

And that made Gwyn realize how often Shannon had seen Oliver do this after training. How obvious the signs of her cousin’s suffering had been to her.

“What we can do now…is ease that loneliness. That’s all. But without that…I don’t think…he’ll last long. He might…break down tomorrow…or even tonight…!”

The sorrow in her voice shook him. Gwyn let out a long breath and straightened up.

“Gwyn.”

“Sorry for losing it. Do I look more like a brother now?”

Shannon wiped her tears, smiling. He might’ve been forcing it a bit, but this was the brother she knew and loved.

“…Mm, you’re being…cool again.”

“Then let’s go. I don’t want to leave Noll alone.”

They nodded and went back to their cousin’s room. After knocking on the door, they stepped in when Oliver answered.

“We’re back, Noll. Sorry…to keep you waiting.”

Shannon ran over to the bed. Seeing the tall boy behind her, Oliver smiled like a bud unfurling.

“…Oh, you’re here too, Brother?”

“Not bearing gifts, I’m afraid. But I figured I’d join you.”

He waved a wand, pulling two chairs over to the bedside. They sat down, and Oliver’s lips flapped a few times before speaking.

“…Um, you can say no, but…”

“What?”

Hesitant, Oliver looked up at him.

“…could you play for me?”

Gwyn stood up and left the room. Less than a minute later, he was back, laden with instruments.

“Which one? Viola, contrabass, violin? Anything else, you name it. I can play anything with strings.”

“Wow…that’s amazing! Um… Wh-which should I pick? I wanna hear them all!”

“Then I’ll play them all. Violin’s easy to like. How about…?”

“I know… The dance. The ocean of stars,” Shannon suggested.

“Absolutely. Then here goes.”

He began to play. Oliver and Shannon listened with rapt attention—and watching this unfold, Demitrio nodded to himself.

“The love of his cousins did the trick…? I see—this is the last thread keeping him together.”

He slipped out of Gwyn’s memories, invading Oliver’s dream once more.

“But if the old man’s plans panned out, he wouldn’t have wound up like this. What else happened?”

Time flowed on. Oliver grew yet was still facing his father in the basement.

“Gah…!”

“Again, Noll.”

Cutting down his son, his father barked an order. Oliver scrambled to his feet, but a few swings later, he was cut down again.

“……!”

“Again!”

Over and over. The gap in their skills was far too obvious. Oliver could go at him a hundred times and never win—and that’s why they kept trying. Until he obtained the one means of overturning this cycle of defeat.

“I know I’m asking the impossible, but please. You need it.

“I cannot teach you how. But it already lies within you.”

In answer to this plea, Oliver picked himself up, an undaunted will in his eyes.

“…I will make it mine. You can be sure of that, Master.”

“…You’re hurt…worse than usual.”

After training, in his room, in bed, Shannon was healing his wounds.

“I need it. Sword arts and spells alike, we’ve done all we can to shore up my techniques. From this point on, it’s a slow extension of what I know now. If there’s any other way to make a huge leap forward—it’s the spellblade my mother used.”

Oliver’s fists clenched, frustrated by his own limitations.

“Dad’s desperately searching for a way to make it mine, to keep me alive. I know that, but I can’t pull it off—and that’s agonizing. The more my skills improve, the more I know just how much better Mom was.”

“…You’re trying so hard, Noll. You can’t work any harder.”

Shannon’s eyes filled with tears, and Oliver hastily turned to face her.

“Don’t cry, Sister. I’m getting more time to rest now than before. You talked Grandfather into that, right? With my father and brother?”

“We did a bit. But the only reason he listened…is because you’ve done so much more…than Grandfather ever expected.”

Finishing the healing, Shannon took his hand. Oliver smiled gently.

“Then good. I will get stronger. Strong enough that your great-grandfather will have to acknowledge it. And then—it’ll be my turn to protect the two of you.”

A hint of steel in his tone. Love swelled up within Shannon, and she threw her arms around him.

“…Noll… Noll…!”

“S-Sis…”

He loved her, but having her arms around him was still embarrassing. Then—he froze up completely, the color draining from his face.

“…Sorry. Can you let go?”

“Huh…?”

“Let go! Please…!”

Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her away, turning his back. But not before she caught a glimpse—of the tent in the thin cloth of his underwear.

“…Oh…”

That was why. She didn’t know what to say. Oliver curled up, muttering.

“Sorry… It didn’t used…to get like this…”

His voice was a squeak.

This wasn’t just sexual maturation. His harsh training had made his body aware of its mortality; the reproductive urge was in overdrive, an aspect of the survival instinct at work. He’d adapted to his new way of life, but the constant threat was in no way diminished.

“I-it’ll go away soon!” Oliver insisted, tears in his eyes. “It’s not real, just a mistake! I swear it isn’t me! I’ve never looked at you like that!”

He didn’t dare face her, but he turned his head as far as he could.

“I’ll fix this! Just…Sister, don’t hate me for it.”

The moment she saw those tears, all doubt left Shannon’s mind. She’d been kneeling on the side of the bed, but now she went to lie down, embracing him from behind.

“Noll. It’s fine, Noll.”

“…Ah—w-wait! It’s not yet…!”

Oliver tried to curl into a ball, but she stopped him, turning him to face her. The cause of the tent in his underwear was still at attention and pressed against her belly, but she no longer minded. None of that mattered.

“Who cares…if it’s hard? There’s…nothing wrong with that.”

And she put her emotions into words. Knowing he could not feel them like she did.

“No matter what…happens to you, I will always love you, Noll.”

Her voice filled his heart with warmth. Clear drops fell from his eyes, landing on her shoulders. Wanting to stop them, he tried to hug her tighter—but ironically, that increased the stimulation down below.

“…Hee-hee. It does make it difficult to cuddle.”

“…I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t say that. It’ll just make me hug you tighter.”

Her embrace was every bit as tight as his, and they lay together, waiting for him to settle down. Eventually, Shannon realized—he got how she felt, but that was demanding a lot from him.

“…Um, Noll…,” she said. Not really thinking, mostly on impulse. “It’s tough for you…isn’t it? Wouldn’t it…be better to…take care of it…?”

His shoulders bucked. Head down, unable to look up, he rasped, “Don’t…say that. I don’t want…to make you do that.”

Behind his words, she could tell. His love for her was so deep—he didn’t want to sully it with anything carnal. Accepting those feelings, she hugged him again.

“That’s fair. Sorry,” she said. “You’re so kind, Noll. That’s what I love about you.”

“Ho-ho! How you’ve grown, Oliver. I barely recognized you!”

Oliver was in the parlor, summoned by his great-grandfather. Old man Sherwood was accompanied by several relatives, his father with them—saying not a word. Meeting most for the first time, he greeted each in turn and then faced his great-grandfather.

“…Can I ask what this is about, sir?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We old-timers do love our small talk!”

He waved Oliver to the chair across from him. Oliver took a seat, but his eyes never left the old man.

“Too old to relax that easy?” The old man chuckled. “How fast the young do grow. Very well. We’ll do it your way—to the point.”

Oliver braced himself for anything, and his great-grandfather got down to business.

“You certainly are stiff as a board, but don’t be. I’m not asking for anything difficult. Simply your help with something that anyone with Sherwood blood will know the importance of.”

“…Help…?” Oliver frowned.

“Our mission is as I’ve said before,” the old man explained. “But accompanying that—is a duty to preserve the progenitor bloodline. Accidents are unacceptable. Even if, in the distant future, our sorcery bears no fruit—we must still bear heirs to their blood here. Ensure that it is not lost to the world.”

He spoke with solemn gravity. Oliver nodded carefully. He might not share this goal, but he could comprehend it.

“But to this task—we have several limitations. First, we cannot allow the blood to get out. The progenitor blood is sacred—and sanctified. We must not allow it to flow into the secular world. Second,” he added, “to preserve the purity of that blood, we must minimize the introduction of outside blood. This is hardly an unusual practice in mage households, despite Chloe’s flagrant violation of the principle.”

The old man’s words were contemptuous, yet his tone was amused. Oliver knew his mother had been at odds with the old man—but perhaps they had not entirely hated each other. While he speculated, the speech continued.

“In light of that, Sherwood heirs are frequently the product of two close relatives. This applies to my wife and me, Gwyn and Shannon, and Chloe, too.”

“……!”

Oliver’s cheeks tightened. He knew enough about the workings of this house to predict that, but having it spelled out still came as a shock. Seeing that, the old man sighed.

“I gather you weren’t informed? Honestly, to not even tell her son? That girl never did grasp what being a Sherwood meant.” He then said, “Be that as it may—this is where we want your help, Oliver.”

“…You want me to father a child?”

“You’re way ahead of me! Don’t tell me you’ll refuse. I’m providing you and your father safe haven. A little seed is hardly too much to ask in return. A simple favor.”

He made it sound trivial. Oliver did his best to disguise his revulsion.

“Oh, don’t overthink the matter,” the old man said breezily. “It’s nothing life-changing. We simply have reason to go for quantity: This focus on bloodline preservation has left us struggling to conceive. Mages have all manner of means to compensate for infertility… But in our case, the issue remains dire. And the more pronounced the progenitor aspect is, the graver that issue presents itself.”

He spoke with deep sadness. Even for mages, preserving specific aspects of a bloodline over the ages was a challenge.

“Simply put, mating with one or two will likely not produce any children. Even if they get lucky, they miscarry, or the baby doesn’t grow up right. We struggle to produce any viable heirs. We must drop as much seed as possible into these delicate wombs, attempting to bear as many babies as we can.”

The old man went quiet, and Oliver’s head spun. His heart rejected the idea, but his mind knew he could not easily refuse. He chose the next best option—verifying how much leeway he had before this task was demanded of him.

“…When are we talking about?”

“When? Bwa-ha-ha-ha! When! You ask that?!”

The old man slapped his knee. Oliver was baffled, unsure what this meant.

“As if there is time to spare! Now. I’m demanding your seed today. What part of this sounded like the distant future to you?” his great-grandfather asked. “Do not tell me you cannot produce. You cannot hide this from me. You’ve spilled your first seed already.”

“Ngh—!”

A chill ran down Oliver’s spine. He had underestimated this opponent again. He tried to stand up, but his great-grandmother’s hands reached in from behind, holding him still.

“Wha—?”

“Don’t, boy. Other matters we might let slide, but when it comes to heirs, the head of the household’s word is law.”

Her arms were thin, but the strength within held him fast. Oliver fought to free himself, yelling, “N-no! Let go! Let go of me!”

“Ho-ho, what a lively boy. He’s grown up well! Let’s hope this mettle proves fertile. Gwyn’s attempt was dispiriting.”

That name made Oliver go still, his eyes like daggers.

“…You made him do this?”

“Of course! Like I said, it’s the duty of anyone with Sherwood blood,” the old man replied. “You, I cannot fathom. Why the resistance? I could see not wanting to bear a stranger’s child, but the demand on the male is simplicity itself. You need merely buck your hips and let fly. And you can’t tell me you dislike the girl.”

He spoke as if he was dealing with a temperamental toddler.

“You knew when you heard Gwyn’s name, right? Think! Who have you met here who has the strongest progenitor aspect? Fill in the gaps. You know who I want you pairing with. And let me add, she’s already agreed to it. Now you need merely do your part.”

This was not worth a response. Oliver clammed up like steel, putting his rejection into action—but the old man spotted it.

“Mm— Impediendum!”

His drawn wand hit Oliver with a paralysis spell. Going limp, his mouth fell open, revealing the bloody tongue within.

“That was close! The boy tried to bite off his tongue. He knew perfectly well that wouldn’t kill him; he was just trying to diminish his condition so that he could not perform. Ha-ha—you can’t give this one an inch!”

The old man seemed richly amused. His eyes turned to Edgar—who had not said a word.

“Big balls for his age, yes? The result of your education, Edgar?”

“…!!!”

This spite was met only with silence, like oozing blood. Unable to bear the sight, two relatives Oliver had just met spoke up.

“…If I may, sir, perhaps the time is not yet ripe.”

“I agree. Oliver’s emotional response aside, the girl is still too young a receptacle. Whether she can conceive or not, the physical burden on her would be—”

Their hesitant protests were silenced by a single glance.

“With Chloe dead and our enemies clear? Mind your words, youths of the branch clan. If you are too foolish to understand where our priorities lie, we may have to rethink what seats you take.”

As he spoke, Oliver recovered from the paralysis and began to struggle again. His great-grandmother had a gag in his mouth so he could no longer bite off his tongue. Still he fought. His eyes glaring at his great-grandfather with complete rejection.

“ !  !”

“Blimey, if we send him in like this, he’s liable to rip off his own pecker. Fine! Bring the drugs.”

A servant came back with a potion and some needles on a tray. The old lady took them and made ready, injecting the potion into Oliver’s neck with practiced ease. Feeling foreign material entering his system made him fight even harder.

“ !  !!!”

“One dose won’t cut it. Go to five—no, ten. Nigh-fatal dosage will inflame his lusts and overwhelm his reason. Leave no capacity for thought left in his brain. Reduce him to a wild thing, incapable of all else until the deed is done.”

“ !  !!!”

“How long must you maintain this futile resistance? It’s nothing to be frightened of! Once it’s over, you’ll see how little it meant. Gwyn balked at first but ceased arguing after the third time. Though, now he seems far more devoted to you than he is me. If I had not sent him packing before this began, he might well have attempted to intervene.”

“ !!!!  !!!!!!”

The boy’s struggles lasted awhile. One dose of this drug would rob most of their faculties, but ten were injected into his neck, and still he fought. By then, he could only move the tips of his fingers, but those clawed at the floor, tearing off his nails, attempting to use that pain to keep his wits about him. The sheer violence of his resistance made the old man realized he’d come ill-prepared, but injecting more medicine would kill him before he went mad. His only choice was to cast mind-control spells on top of the drug’s effects. Even then, Oliver fought.

The gathered relatives gulped, and the fight raged on for another twenty minutes—and at last, the boy’s resistance ceased. Or rather—he was now half unconscious. The drug he’d been dosed with stimulated half his mind and numbed the other—with too much injected, this was the natural outcome.

“Quiet at last! My, my, what a display. Can’t believe he held out this long with all that in his system.”

The old man was as impressed as he was appalled. With all portions of the mind capable of human thought and reason thoroughly numbed, the boy was like an animal, moving purely on instincts—and those placed in a state of excitement. It was no longer possible to converse or communicate. His personality had been thoroughly exorcised.

“…Okay, throw him in the room,” the old man ordered. “It’ll be a rather rough coupling, but Shannon can handle it. I’ve left her a wand for such eventualities… And if she loses an arm or two, we can always stick it back on.”

The great-grandmother nodded and carried the mindless boy to the nearest bedroom. As he was shoved in the door, his witless eyes saw her. His sister, seated awkwardly on the side of the bed in the gloom.

“…Noll…?”

Oliver’s body moved. Regardless of his will, it staggered toward her.

“What’s wrong, Noll? Please…look up. I’m right here— Mm?!”

He stole her lips like he was devouring them, forcing her down onto the bed. Realizing his condition, Shannon’s shoulders trembled with fear. Her wand was by the bed, but her hand did not reach for it. It did not even occur to her to turn that on her brother.

“Ah—w-wait, Noll, don’t……!”

Nailless fingers dug into her arms, and she screamed from the pain of it.

“O-oww…! That hurts, Noll! Don’t…grab my arm…that tight…!”

But her pleas went unheard. The Oliver she knew was nowhere to be found. The drugs had locked his personality away in the jail of his mind, his body driven on animal instinct alone.

“P-please…listen…! Do what your sister says!”

Screams echoed through the darkened bedchamber. Still Shannon called out to him. To the brother she’d sworn to love no matter what happened. Trusting she would get through to him.

“…Noll…!”

“ ………?”

The next thing he knew, Oliver was flat out on an unmade bed in an unfamiliar room.

“………Ow…… What the…?”

The pain turned his attention to his hands. All his fingernails had been peeled off. With a sinking feeling, he looked around.

And beheld the truth. In bed with him, with not a stitch on—his sister’s limp body.

“………Noll…,” she gasped, her voice emerging from torn lips. Her frame covered in innumerable bruises, dried blood, bite marks everywhere—

Oliver’s throat wheezed. “Sis…ter—”

Shannon met his eyes and smiled. She was beyond recognition, yet the gentle look in her eyes remained unchanged.

“………Good. Nice Noll…is finally…back.”

As she spoke, Oliver realized—blood wasn’t the only bodily fluid spattered across her. It was still dripping between her legs, mingled with blood.

“……Ah…… AH……”

That reeled his memories back in. The drugs may have taken control away, but his eyes had seen everything—and remembered. It all came flooding back, what he’d done, what violence he’d committed on his beloved sister, with his own two hands.

“……aughhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH………!”

His howl echoed through the darkened room. His throat tearing, blood in his voice. But none of that altered the facts that lay before him.

“Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! My word! You really did it!”

A few weeks later. The old man received word from his wife and summoned their great-grandson to the living room.

“You’re a fine boy, Oliver! A winner! Your seed knocked Shannon up! I had a hunch you might be compatible, but I didn’t think you’d plant one in her on your first go! Hat’s off to you!”

Dark eyes gazed listlessly up at him. Standing by his side, Gwyn was shaking. So busy suppressing his anger, his jaw clenched so hard his molars broke.

From that day forth, Oliver’s frayed nerves and self-harm had left him noticeably thinner. He could not get water down, much less food; he was reliant on IVs and prone to cutting himself furiously at the drop of a hat. Gwyn and Edgar were on watch day and night, never letting him out of sight. This had forced the old man to grant him some respite.

But now only delight was on the man’s mind. Fueled by that emotion, he beamed at the broken boy before him.

“Don’t take it so hard, great-grandson! You should be proud of this result! How can you not be? Gwyn could not manage it! Bringing the great progenitor blood to the next generation—you’ve provided us with a ray of hope!”

Only now did Oliver’s dulled mind begin to think. The words flowed in one ear and out the other, and he wondered just why this man was so pleased. He’d been told of his sister’s conception earlier. He’d tried to shove his fingers in his eyes, but Gwyn had caught his hands in time.

“Ahem. Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. Certainly, we can’t deny these pregnancies often don’t end well. In fact, that outcome is far more likely. It’s too early to assume we’ve got another candidate for succession on our hands,” the old man said. “But regardless of the outcome, one fact is clear. Your seed did make Shannon pregnant. If you weren’t compatible, that would never have happened. Flip that, and it tells us that as long as we try with you, we have solid odds of success. Even if the first try fails, do not lose spirit. Twice, three times, five, six! We need merely do the same thing again!”

The patriarch’s voice soared. The boy’s heart had been cold as ice to begin with, but now the very core of him froze.

What did he just say? Do that again?! Multiple times? Use my seed on—?

While Oliver struggled to absorb the meaning, the man’s hands clamped down on his shoulders.

“Oliver, my great-grandson. Allow me to apologize for how we’ve treated you,” he offered. “I’ll admit I underestimated you. You look so much like the man my fool of a granddaughter picked without consultation that I assumed your value would be little more than his. I now regret that assumption. I was wrong! Deep down, you are of my blood.”

Oliver could not even figure out what he was apologizing for. What this man had thought of him, what the reason was—none of that mattered now. Who was he even apologizing to? It was his sister who’d been hurt. The only thing here was the beast that had hurt her.

“And this change of heart is not brought on just because you impregnated Shannon. What turned my head more than anything is the fact that you’ve remained alive. One in ten survive a soul merge, yet you pulled through countless times, growing into the rock-solid spirit we see before us. Even I cannot deny that moxie! I have no choice but to recognize your accomplishments.”

None of this meant anything to Oliver. The one thing he understood was that this man’s praise was genuine. This confused and perplexed him so much—it struck him as funny. What was this? How long had he been here, in this madhouse?

“Hear me, Oliver. You represent two values, both irreplaceable. First, you are a rare instance of a mage surviving long-term soul merges. Second, you’re a good stud for Shannon. Neither of those things are likely to waver as long as you yet live. Thus—in accordance with those accomplishments, know that your position in this household is set in stone. You are no longer a guest granted shelter, no longer an expendable test subject. You are now unmistakably a Sherwood.”

Far too heady a word storm, and it left Oliver clinging to fragments of comprehension. He was now one of them. As a reward for defiling and hurting and impregnating his sister, he was now honored to be part of the family. Oh, that made sense. The way every vein in his body felt so choked with bile he could barely keep the vomit down explained it all. He hadn’t realized this old man was just the same.

“And not just that. I like the way you tick. You know I outrank you, but you’ve got the nerve to stand your ground against me. Your love for your mother made you volatile and gave you the endurance to forebear in the face of endless agony—all of those are qualities our family currently lacks. Gwyn and Shannon are skilled but so well-behaved! It’s honestly a bit dull. But then you arrived and confounded my expectations—ha-ha! That hits hard. I feel like I did when Chloe was still here.”

As the old man babbled with delight, Oliver managed a faint smile imbued with every dark emotion. This was taken as good will, and the elderly man’s tone grew even brighter.

“So! Your treatment will be drastically improved. As will Edgar’s. You’ll be moved to a first-rate room, given all manner of freedoms. Naturally, you may go see Shannon whenever you like. The child in her is yours. If the father never visits, that would just be sad.”

What an amusing jape. In lieu of clutching his guts and doubling over laughing, Oliver broadened his smile. The man grabbed his shoulders, his pitch rising.

“I say all this, but by now you’ve begun to see, yes? Let us work hand in hand! Until Chloe’s death is avenged and the Sherwood mission is a success. My beloved great-grandson, surely you will not refuse!”

“Eh-heh-heh-heh.” At the table behind him, his great-grandmother chuckled. “At last the two of you see eye to eye. You and your darling great-grandson.”

Her smile proved she thought this was a fine thing. She was slicing a celebratory cake with the same hands that had locked him down and pumped him full of drugs. His stomach had forgotten how to hunger, but perhaps he could actually eat this, Oliver thought. It was exactly the sort of pig slop he deserved.

“Noll—do you mind if I call you that?”

Oliver nodded. Why not? You’re free to call a beast by whatever name you please.

“By all means,” he answered. “I’m looking forward to it, Great-Grandfather, Great-Grandmother.”

A perfect answer, with a flawless smile. On his brother’s sunken cheeks, fashioned by the abyss within—it sent a quiver through Gwyn’s shoulders.

Three days passed. Food turned to sand in his mouth, but he’d remembered how to shovel it down. He had a mage’s body; it was soon back to normal. His complexion and behavior were just as they’d been before. He could walk from his room without assistance, and he told Gwyn and Edgar they no longer needed to watch over him. He didn’t want to tie their hands like that.

Then he started fretting over what mattered most. He did not dare to go see her, but he could not put her out of his mind. What was she up to, how was she doing, was it taking its toll on her? The more his head spun, the more the panic mounted, and in time it moved his limbs for him.

“……”

Holding his breath, he paced back and forth outside her door. He knew she was inside, but he couldn’t find the courage to knock. He’d rather she sent him packing. Imagining her eyes if she let him in turned his spine to ice. The moment he knew that kindness would never return to them—he knew he’d turn to ash on the spot, never to live again.

“Noll? Are you out there?”

Her voice, though the door. His heart leaped; his feet turned to flee.

“Don’t go. Come in… Let me see your face.”

If that was what she wanted, Oliver had no right to refuse. He took a deep breath and opened the door like he was stepping off a cliff. Slowly opening eyes he’d had twisted tightly shut.

His sister’s smile hadn’t changed at all. Her eyes gazing at him, as gentle as before. Gwyn was on the chair next to her. A wave of boundless relief welled up, but then his rational side kicked in, and he looked away. Even if she hadn’t changed—he was no longer allowed to bask in the saving grace of that warmth.

“Don’t…look away. Please. Come here. Come closer.”

But she kept asking. Feeling trapped in an emotional grater, he took one trembling step at a time closer to her. Three steps out, his feet refused to budge. As if the floor ended there for him. Shannon’s face crumpled.

“…Noll…”

“…I don’t…have the right to touch you,” Oliver said, staring at his feet.

At that, Gwyn clasped his hands around his own throat.

“Oh? Then I have no right to breathe.”

His grip tightened. As he shut off the flow of both air and blood, his face swiftly turned purple from the hemorrhage.

“…Kh…”

“Wait, Gwyn—”

“Brother?!”

A moment later, Oliver and Shannon went pale. She moved first, leaning across the bed, reaching for Oliver.

“T-touch me, Noll! Or Gwyn really will die…!”

“Ah—ah… Ah…!”

Panic overwhelmed his hesitation. Fingers shaking, he clasped hers. The moment Oliver felt her warmth on his hands, Gwyn released his neck and resumed breathing. The flow of blood resumed, and his color soon went back to normal—though he was slightly out of breath.

“…Close one. Thanks for saving me, Noll.”

“Wh-why would you…why would you do that?!”

Oliver’s voice shook, lost. His brother leaned back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling.

“Simple, really. If you must be punished for this—well, I should be punished for it first. I’ll never forget the fact that I forced this onto you. I was left helpless and ashamed, and a violent death can hardly begin to pay for my sin.”

This speech left Oliver stunned, Shannon’s hands on his. Gwyn stood up and faced his brother.

“I’d like to touch you. Do I have the right, Noll?”

“…Yes, of course…”

“Then let me.”

With permission granted, he stepped forward and put his arms around the boy.

“If you want anything from me, say the word. If you want my death, ask for it. But if possible, I’d rather you say not yet. I do not wish to die while you’re still here.”

A tear ran down Gwyn’s cheek. The warmth of this made him choke up, and Oliver hugged him back.

“…Live, Brother.”

“Okay. As long as you wish me to, I shall,” Gwyn promised, nodding.

Shannon got up off the bed and hugged them both.

“I don’t know…about rights. Even if you won’t touch me, Noll…I will hug you myself.”

A sob escaped his throat. Not a howl or a shriek. But for the first time since he’d been forced into an act he abhorred, he allowed himself to cry like a child should.

Knowing someone shared his sin proved Oliver’s salvation. His eyes gradually began to turn forward. In which case—there was but one thing he had to do, above all else. He kept at his brutal training unabated—but the rest of his time was devoted to this.

“Ah, that feels good. Thank you, Noll.”

Shannon let out a blissful sigh. She was undressed, her back bare, and Oliver was gingerly fixing the disruptions in her magic flow.

“R-really? It doesn’t hurt? I-it doesn’t feel…gross?”

“Why…would you think that? It all feels…wonderful. Everywhere…you touch me.”

Shannon was quite firm on that point. Oliver was relieved, but his heart was still unsteady. He focused on the task at hand.

“I’m…pretty good at healing,” he said. “It always made Mom…happy. I wanted to get better, so I always had Dad help me practice. B-but when I got overconfident…it was bad. His whole back turned red.”

“Mm-hmm…”

Shannon nodded.

Mage pregnancies were far shorter than those of ordinaries, and their bellies swelled up much faster. Visible evidence of the life growing within had hastened Oliver’s acceptance of his role. Boyhood came to an end, and he had to leap right from teenager to father. Whether he had the right or not, this was his only option.

“…You’re sure it’s fine? I’m scared the baby doesn’t like it…”

“I think the baby…knows. That someone very nice…is taking care of us.”

Shannon’s voice was soothing, and Oliver wiped a tear from his eye, letting himself believe.

“I hope…that’s true,” he said. “Not much longer now.”

“Mm. If you’re tired, sleep here with us. Blame me for it—and sleep in tomorrow.”

Everything she said was filled with warmth. Oliver fought off the urge to cling to that, focusing on the baby instead. How could he make this child’s life a happy one? With helpless, corrupted hands? What could he do to earn the right to hold this child?

“…Sister.”

“Mm?”

Thinking wasn’t getting him anywhere, so he asked. Knowing that doing so was clingy—but unable to stop himself.

“…Do you think…I can do it? Be this baby’s father…?”

Shannon turned to the boy, putting her face next to his.

“Lend me your ear, Noll.”

“Mm?”

“Let me…tell you a secret.”

Puzzled, Oliver turned his ear toward her. Shannon cupped both hands around it.

“I actually know…two things,” she whispered. “First…the baby’s a girl. Second—she loves you, Noll.”

Oliver’s eyes went wide. It never occurred to him to doubt his sister’s word. But even then—he found it hard to believe.

“…She’s not even born yet, though…”

“But I can tell. Even without giving birth. This much…is guaranteed.”

Shannon seemed very firm on this. There might be no other basis…but maybe she was right, Oliver thought.

Shannon sat back, looking down at her own belly.

“So once she’s born…let’s cuddle her together. Give her so many hugs…rub her head, cover her in kisses.”

She rubbed her belly, the cradle in which their daughter slept. Oliver watched intently, and so she smiled at him.

“Then we’ll tell her…together,” she said. “Thank her…for being born.”

Oliver nodded. And for the first time—he put his hands on the belly harboring that life, of his own accord. Swearing a silent vow—I may not be much of a father, but I promise I’ll keep you safe.

Logically, both knew: That hope was all too fleeting. Those with the progenitor aspect did not go through childbirth without incident—the history of the Sherwood family showed those odds were dismally low.

But hope was their only choice. The sole path this cruel world provided to redemption, to extract something of value from everything that had happened between them. The first and last chance at a future in which Oliver would ever forgive himself.

Perhaps their prayer would have been granted—if there was a god.

Thus—the futility of it may well have been set in stone long, long ago.

“Sister!”

Informed of the crisis before dawn, Oliver and Gwyn came running to the treatment room. They’d been told the night before the birth would not be easy; until an hour ago, he’d been holding his sister’s hand, staying with her through it—but when push came to shove, even that had been disallowed, and he’d been driven out of the room.

“…Ah…”

And once he was allowed back, only the outcome awaited. A haggard Shannon, clutching a tiny body. Eyes devoid of emotion, staring down at the unbreathing baby.

“Shame. We did everything we could. It was alive inside her not long ago, but…”

Their great-grandmother sighed, placing her wand on the instrument tray. Her words never even reached Oliver’s ears. Shannon, the baby in her arms—and how powerless he was. Those three things were all he was able to perceive. Nothing else held any meaning.

“…Noll…”

Shannon’s eyes turned toward him. The verdict on this sin was passed down. Her fingers brushed the cheek of their stillborn daughter.

“…I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t…manage the birth…”

An apology. That cast an eternal curse upon one boy’s life.

Time passed in silence. No tears were shed. He no longer even fretted.

By this point—in his mind, it was already settled. Everything was.

“…You’re sure about this, Noll? It’s only been two days,” Edgar asked in the basement training room.

Oliver merely nodded. “I said I’m ready, Master.”

This silenced Edgar. He could tell nothing he said would make a difference.

“Fine. If this is what you need…I’ve nothing more to say.”

He raised his athame. Oliver lunged at him. Blades clashed, and sparks flew.

Exchange after exchange, with no hope of victory. And all the while, the boy asked his heart:

Tell me, Oliver. Do you remember? What you’ve done here?

You sought strength. To slay those who tortured your mother to death.

You sought strength. To protect your brother and sister.

You sought strength. To be a father to your unborn child.

“……Ha……ha……”

And what did you achieve? What was the outcome of your efforts?

You raped and impregnated your sister. You let your daughter die before her birth.

What else? Nothing. That is all. You’ve accomplished nothing else.

“……Ha-ha……ha……”

What a farce. How was it even possible to fuck things up this bad?

Was it a waste to even think about? Struggle all you might, you cannot fix it. It’s already too late. You’re a beast shaped like a man, unfit to call yourself one.

So what now? Search for a means of atonement where none exist? Take time? Eat, sleep, wake, think, and worry like any average man, like you have the right to an average life?

No. That’s not right. That’s all wrong. No part of that is permitted.

You must suffer. Before you eat, before you sleep or wake, before you even breathe, suffer.

And in that suffering, search. At the end of that suffering, make it yours. Carve that principle into your mind.

Oh—do you still not get it? How ill-suited you are for what you’re doing now?

“…Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…!”

A loud, hollow laugh. Directed at himself, derisive, escaping his throat uncontrollably.

That’s right. Exactly. All too true.

A move that guarantees victory in one step, one spell range? A spellblade that finds that one chance of victory in a million?

Don’t make me laugh. Your hands are not worthy.

That is your mother’s light. You cannot hope to imitate it. Your filthy, tainted hands can grasp no part of that.

You have naught but darkness. A murk well suited to your nature. That’s what you must reach for. Not that one-in-a-million shot at victory, but a one-in-a-million carefully selected suffering.

You must live, that you may suffer.

You must defeat your foes, that you may live.

The result is the same. That is the nature of your spellblade. The same as the nature of your life to come.

Go on: Choose. Of the infinite possible futures, pick the one that will make you suffer most.

Make it yours—so that no one else will ever suffer like that again!

“AaaaaahhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHH!”

He saw the threads and made his choice. The form decided, his blade rushing toward the outcome.

A wrist, sliced. An athame, fallen from loosened grasp. His own, still held.

He knew the deed was done.

“……Wha—?”

Edgar gaped down at his empty sword hand, at the deep gash in his wrist, still oozing blood. A long, stunned silence, then he lifted his eyes—

“Noll, was that…?” he asked.

There stood his son. Exposed to the strain of fate, every inch of the boy’s body bled. Far more gravely injured than the opponent he’d beaten. He’d seen corpses in better condition.

“…I did it, Dad,” the boy declared.

One thing snatched from the jaws of all that had been lost forever.

No trace of the original form left. Twisted and snarled into a knot that could never again be undone—but no less a spellblade.

Only his father witnessed this firsthand—they told no one else of the success. Edgar said that Oliver’s standing was strong enough that he need not reveal it. He had the favor of the head of the house without needing to use his spellblade as a bargaining chip.

Oliver merely nodded. This decision jelled with his plans.

“Ohhh, Noll! You show yourself again. How I worried!”

That same evening, Oliver went to see the old man. Not in the usual living room—for once, he was in his private quarters. The man looked tickled pink to see his great-grandson for the first time in two days.

“This one was a shame, but not to worry. Similar cases have shown the first delivery rarely succeeds. Our house always needs multiple attempts to produce an heir. You can’t let a single setback get you down.”

“Exactly!” his great-grandmother said, preparing tea nearby. “As long as she gets to the birth, we’ll take as many out of her as we have to.”

Oliver acknowledged this with a glance and faced forward. Across the table, the old man pulled a chess set off the shelf, placing it between them.

“Since you’re here, let’s not waste time dwelling on the dismal. How’s chess for a change of tune? I’ve heard you and Edgar used to play rather often.”

“I’d be glad to. I appreciate the honor,” Oliver said.

Lining pieces on the board, the old man cheerily prattled on.

“Most things, we purchase the magical-world version, but for chess alone I prefer boards made by ordinaries. That Magic Chess thing simply will not do. Garishness over class or beauty. The innumerable gambits and stratagems on a limited field—is that not the epitome of a board game’s pleasures?”

“I entirely agree.”

Oliver meant that wholeheartedly, no lip service involved. For the first time in any interaction with his great-grandfather. A strange feeling—but as he savored it, the board was set. Playing white, Oliver took the first turn. As the game reached the midpoint, the old man crossed his arms.

“You certainly do play an unruly game. You’ll have to give me a moment—this bears some thinking.”

He put a hand to his chin, pondering. His wife placed some tea by the board, and Oliver absently took a sip. And the full fragrance hit his nostrils, surprising him. He was certain the leaves were perfectly ordinary—the batch had simply been well brewed. From the temperature of the water, to the warmth of the cup, to the preservation of the tea leaves, all mindful of the recipient.

“Okay, that should do it… Heh-heh, a brilliant move, if I do say so myself. You’ll not easily catch my intent.”

“Indeed not. I’ll have to think about that one. Give me a little time.”

A moment of silence passed. The only sound the ticking of a clock on the wall. At long last, he made a move.

“My mother…,” the old man began.

“ ?”

“Your great-great-grandmother, that is. She was a die-hard chess fan. So much so she taught the game to everyone who passed through this house. Young or old, even the servants. Fundamentals to advanced strategies. When I was young, I often played against her.”

His move complete, Oliver looked up from the board. This was almost the first time he’d heard the old man speak of his childhood.

“She’d demand you play day or night, no consideration for your time. My siblings were all deeply frustrated by it. But—I always rather liked those moments. When my mother was seated across the board from me, for that brief time—she only focused on me. And that was nice—back then, I wasn’t exactly the most promising child and didn’t get much of her attention otherwise.”

He managed a forlorn smile, quietly moving a piece.

“Perhaps one reason I took a liking to you was…you remind me of how I acted right after my mother passed. In hindsight, I had a very long spell where I just had to grin and bear it. I worked my way to the top of the family—naturally, because I spent considerable time and effort finding where my talents lay and polishing them accordingly. But—also because I made it through those hard times. These days, I believe perseverance is virtue that trumps all other talents.”

Moving his own piece, Oliver listened intently. Last time, he’d been unable to understand a word the man said. But this time, the man’s words felt like genuine praise.

Really—he had done one thing here beyond hurting his sister and letting his daughter die. He’d endured. Kept his knees from buckling under the agony and suffering each day piled on his shoulders. That may have meant little in the long run, but he had persevered. Doing so was the only way to stay alive in a house like this.

And for that reason, it made sense—when this man had been his age, he might well have gone through much the same.

“I hope you follow in my footsteps. This is more an ambition than a prediction—perhaps little more than wishful thinking. Ha-ha, the sleepy musings of an old man. A slip of the tongue, best forgotten.”

Oliver shook his head, smiling. “…No, I’m sure I’ll remember it for quite some time.”

And made a bold move that demanded a response. The old man groaned, frowning.

“Here I think you’d been endearing, for once—and your move is downright vicious. What a great-grandson! I’ll need time, here.”

“Go ahead. I’ll think things through myself.”

As the wheels in the old man’s head spun, Oliver watched his face, thinking— Right now, he’s just a great-grandfather. Doting on his great-grandson, pleased to find a common enthusiasm, his lips loosened into sharing old memories. As if that heartless mage was all an act.

Oliver wondered which was real and concluded they both were. If he had two faces, that just meant he’d needed them both. There were times when he had to be a cruel, arrogant mage—and times when he was just a simple man. That was normal enough. Just as Oliver himself was acting like a good boy here and saying what he really felt when he was with his cousins.

Then—had his great-grandfather once acted the part of a good son with his own mother? When a house that put preservation of the progenitor blood above all else demanded he also be a good mage? If they had not demanded that of him—he might have escaped this fate. Never developed a cruel, arrogant streak, never learned to trample on the hearts of others. He’d have just been another nice old man.

“…If things had just been a little different…”

“Hmmmm… Mm? Did you say something?”

The man looked up at Oliver’s whisper, so he shook his head. The old man looked back at the board, grinning.

“…I’ve got it! Eighteen to check! Here. Well? Ready to resign?”

He made his move and looked at his great-grandson, eyes gleaming. Oliver examined the board, realized he had no path to victory, and nodded.

“My loss,” he said. “You are far better at this. I held on as best I could, but your experience won out.”

The old man puffed out his chest proudly, then began moving the pieces back a few moves. Clearly moving on to the postmortem. Oliver pursed his lips and quietly rose from his chair.

“That was fun. Probably the most I’ve enjoyed myself since arriving here.”

He meant that. His hand went to the hilt of his athame. The old man was busy getting the pieces set up, not on guard at all. He only looked up when all the pieces were in place again.

“Good-bye, Great-Grandfather.”

Thanks for asking me to play with you. Genuine gratitude, even as his blade slashed sideways.

The old man didn’t so much as budge. The athame cut through bone without resistance. His head rolled away, falling to the floor. And with that dull thud, his body went limp, making the chair creak.

Oliver almost laughed. All the work he’d put in, and he hadn’t even needed a spellblade.

“Huh?”

Hearing the sound, his great-grandmother looked up from the plate of treats she’d been readying. Tiny little financier cakes, ones she knew her great-grandson loved. Oliver smiled at her. And walked her way. In his hand—an athame stained with his great-grandfather’s blood.

“Wait, Noll, why?”

Only then did her hand reach for her wand. Far too late. Oliver stepped in, stopped that hand with his left, and buried the tip of his athame in her heart. The magic he poured in destroying her source of life.

She passed before his very eyes. To the end, no emotions overtook the confusion on her face.

“…I wish you could have understood why,” he whispered, knowing she could no longer hear. He withdrew the blade and laid her body down on the floor at his feet, only then realizing how small her stature truly was.

“……”

Looking over their deaths, Oliver thought: They were mages. They lived far longer than me, were far craftier, and their true strength dwarfed my own.

But they were also human. And they were his great-grandparents.

Oliver’s familiar called them to the old man’s chambers. Gwyn, Shannon, and Edgar came in—to find it was all over.

“Oh…my.”

Speechless, they gaped at the boy—and the pair of corpses. Leaving the evidence of his actions on full display, Oliver spoke from the corner.

“It was the only choice I had, so I went ahead with it. I didn’t want to wait another day—so I took care of it tonight.”

He knew that was all the explanation anyone here required. He turned to face them.

“This is good-bye, Brother, Sister. Sorry to end things by tramping on all the blessings you’ve given me,” he intoned. “But I can say this: You no longer need to protect me.”

He managed a lonely smile that took their breath away. Edgar stepped forward, facing his son.

“…You’ve made up your mind, Noll?”

“Yes. Sorry, Dad. Will you come with me?”

“What’s your plan?”

“Avenge Mom. Achieve her goals.” Oliver shrugged, admitting, “Anything else—I don’t really know.”

An honest answer. Edgar nodded and drew his athame.

“Very well—then be bolder.”

He knelt down by the old man’s corpse, lining up the severed head with the body. Healing the wound, though that would not restore his life. With the body intact once more, he cut off the head again himself.

“ ?! Dad, why—?!”

“Shush. Just watch.”

Edgar stood up and moved to the old woman’s body. Once again, he healed the wound and thrust his own athame into the exact same spot. When he withdrew it, he left it in his hand, his back to the children.

“That should do it. I killed them both. Anyone who sees this will know that to be true.”

All three gaped at him. Edgar was a cautious, thoughtful man—not given to anything this rash.

“They were in charge of the Sherwood clan, the heads of this household. If they go down together, there’ll be a power struggle. And I know who’ll step in to try to seize control—people who’ve long deplored the state of this house, who feel very much as we do.”

That made Gwyn gasp—and Oliver remember. On the day he’d been forced to do the unspeakable, only two relatives had voiced objections.

“Travis and Rose?”

“Exactly. I’ve spent the last few years speaking to them in secret. Conspiring, biding our moment to revolt. Didn’t imagine my son would beat me to it.”

“I—”

“Surprised? I was hardly going to stand by doing nothing. Not that that excuses anything.”

Edgar turned back, smiling ruefully. Oliver caught that gleam of self-reproach in his eyes. Like father, like son—he knew just how much these years had hurt him.

“But this script is not yet complete. The perpetrator still stands. Only if you dispatch me with your own hand—Noll, only then will your place in the new Sherwood house be secured.”

“ ! No, Da—”

“Prohibere!”

Realizing where this was going, Oliver took a step—and Edgar’s spell prevented it.

“Don’t worry; I won’t make you do it. You need merely handle the cleanup. Like I just did, doctor the wounds and weapon. If your cousins help, it should be simple.”

“ !”

Gwyn and Shannon both reached for their wands, but Edgar held out his hand, stopping them.

“Don’t stop me, Gwyn. Shannon. You know full well this is the best way to keep Noll safe. Anything else will lead to consequences. Especially if you’re on the run without a plan. Given the enormity of who he has to face, I can’t leave any of you in such a precarious position.”

“Guh—”

“……!”

He was right—and it left them flat-footed. They’d each sworn long ago to never leave their cousin on his own. But there was a wrong way to do that. Like Edgar said, abandoning their home would be the worst option. They might manage to find a place to hide and survive, but to assassinate seven of the world’s best mages would require a lot of help. And those on the run could not negotiate for it.

Once he’d impressed that fact on them, Edgar turned to his son.

“Noll, when they forced you into that act against your will, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I heard every one of your screams. I could feel your eyes begging me to step in. But—but I couldn’t lift a finger,” he said. “I’m not like Chloe. Drawing my wand and throwing myself into that fray—that would not have accomplished anything. At best, I’d have suffered a pathetic death. But with me gone, your position here would have been even worse. That thought—gave me pause.”

His voice shook. He gritted his teeth, eyes downcast, the regret overwhelming.

“But perhaps I should have acted then. Even if I achieved nothing but my own death, at least you’d have remembered me as a father who was there for you when it mattered. Perhaps you’d have lived the rest of your life proud of me for it. A far better image of me than what I’m reduced to here.”

Oliver wanted to refute this, but his lips would not move. Edgar looked up, wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and forced a smile.

“But, Noll… I long ago lost the right to say this, but let me end with it anyway: More than anything in the world, more than anything else at all, more than I ever imagined possible—”

He put his athame to his throat. Speaking words that would never waver.

“—I’ve always, always loved you and your mother.”

With these heartfelt last words, Edgar cut off his own head. One slice through flesh and bone so that death could not elude him. The two pieces of his father’s body fell to the floor, spraying blood—and the spell binding Oliver wore off.

“Daaaad—”

He made to run over, but Gwyn and Shannon each grabbed a shoulder.

“Don’t touch him, Noll. Any disturbances will make doctoring the body harder. Someone might notice something out of place.”

“Th-the body? No, that’s—that’s my dad! I’ve always loved him; he always put me first—”

Oliver was hardly thinking straight. As he stared at his father’s body—he saw the chessboard. The game he’d been playing with his great-grandfather. Memories of their old lives rolled off his tongue.

“We used to play chess together all the time.”

A tear fell from his eye. Gwyn’s grip tightened.

“And you’re going to keep his final wish. Please, Noll. Please.”

He was pleading, shaking. Bracketed by his cousins, Oliver looked long and hard, eyes blurred by tears—but in time, they focused.

“…I just figured it out…,” he whispered.

His cousins peered in.

“…What my father asked. What I’ll do after I avenge my mother—and achieve her ambitions. What do I want to do next?”

As he spoke, he felt his very core shaking. Now he got it, he knew. The sight before him was hardly unusual. It overlapped with his mother’s memories of her brutal death, and that told him everything.

The world outside was full of this. Lives stolen, dignity torn away, hearts trampled—the world mages made had far too many reasons to do so. And so they did. The morally correct pursuit of sorcery allowed it. And it ground their hearts away. The view before him was but one of countless such tragedies.

So he would not stop once Chloe was avenged. Nor would achieving his mother’s goals be enough. Not if he wanted to prevent anyone from ending up like this again.

“…I’ll make the world nicer. Maybe it won’t be a big change. Just…a little bit better than it is now. So that things this sad no longer happen anywhere…”

He knew what he should do. In his heart, a spell he’d once believed in. A destination to dedicate his life to, a distant hazy ideal—that he spoke aloud for the first time.

“So the nice things…can stay nice…!”

When he reached this moment, Demitrio cut short the progression of the memory dream.

“…I’ve grasped the history. I know enough,” he muttered, sounding extra sour. A flower of vengeance, a twisted growth sown by his own hand, nurtured out of sight. This man’s heart was ostensibly inured to the tragic, except for the first time in years, he found himself perturbed. “Chloe’s brutal death came at our hands. Yet—this was not the goal. None of us intended to plunge anyone into this crucible of grief.”

He knew such defenses were meaningless, but he made them anyway. With what he’d seen, Demitrio was convinced—there was no salvation in Oliver Horn’s life. An indirect consequence of Demitrio’s own actions, the boy was now pursuing an unattainable ideal, punishing himself with the infinite suffering that pursuit entailed—this was a life tantamount to a hell on earth. It could lead to nothing but lamentations and despair.

The boy himself bore no sin. At the very least, Demitrio had found not one thing in the boy’s memories that a child his age could possibly be held responsible for. Yet he had shouldered that blame. The adults around him had helped, but the boy had made the choice to do so. Thus—however malformed the shape of it, Demitrio was in no position to argue the point.

In which case, he thought, he needed to merely act as an enemy should.

“Let me put an end to this. Whether you defeat me or not, your life will soon burn out,” the philosopher said. “At the very least, I can provide you a tranquil death. Your time here has been naught but suffering; let it end with the warmth and peace you’ve long since lost.”

With that, he changed the dream. All too aware this was but an empty gesture.

The boy found himself sitting in their old house in the woods.

“Huh—?”

“What’s wrong, Noll? You look like someone threw a stone at a basilisk.”

That voice took him back. His mother had her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, and was looking right at him.

“…Mom…”

“Yep, it’s your mom. I’m always here with you. Why wouldn’t I be?” she said. “Ah-ha! You were nodding off, right? Did you dream I was gone?”

Chloe laughed like he had nothing to worry about. A chessboard slid into view from his other side. Oliver turned to find his father smiling at him.

“Bad dreams, Noll? Then join me. Play some elegant chess with Dad and forget all your woes.”

“This again! Better humor him, Noll. He just lost Magic Chess eight times running and is in a funk.”

“I am not! Your tactics merely destroyed my will to live.”

Oliver watched his parents bicker, stunned—and then realized Gwyn and Shannon were seated across from them. Eyes full of warmth, gazing at their cousin.

“I’d like…to watch you play…chess, Noll.”

“Don’t hover, though. That’ll rattle his concentration.”

“…Brother, Sister…”

Urged on by all, Oliver began playing chess. But a few moves in, his hands stopped. An irrefutable wave of panic roiled in his heart, preventing him from focusing on the game.

“What’s wrong, Noll? It’s your turn.”

“Oh? Not in the mood? Then let’s try something else.”

Chloe snapped her fingers, and cheery voices echoed through the window.

“Look, out in the garden. Your friends are here to play.”

A lineup of familiar faces came into view. Chloe pushed him toward the entrance, and he drifted out the door.

“…Hey…”

“Oh! Oliver! We have arrived!” Nanao cried.

“We’re borrowing your yard for a tea party,” Chela explained. “Would you care to join us?”

They waved him over. On the far side of the table, Katie and Guy were deep in an argument.

“Argh, Guy! That’s your third financier! There’s only two for each of us!”

“Aw, quit it. There’s more where this came from! That stone oven’s already making some.”

Guy pointed, and Oliver turned to look. The oven was pumping out more cakes into a basket in front of it. He gaped at that a moment, and Pete looked up from his book.

“…Despite the racket, this is a nice place to read. Just the right amount of light makes it through the leaves.”

“Great for tag, hide-and-seek, or naps!” Yuri said between mouthfuls of cake. “You’ve got a lovely place here, Oliver!”

Oliver’s eyes snapped to him.

“…Yuri…”

“Mm? You’re coming to me? That’s nice! You’ve got so many people to choose from.”

Beckoned by his smile, Oliver took a seat next to him, glancing around. His family members were inside, but all his friends were here outside.

“The best life you could ever ask for,” Yuri said, taking the words out of his mouth. “That’s the impression I get anyway.”

“…Sounds about right. Nothing here but happiness. Everywhere I look, I see only nice things.”

Oliver nodded, unable to argue. Yuri swallowed another bite of cake.

“Then why not accept it? If you’re happy here, why go out in search of suffering? Just stay warm, at ease, and fulfilled. Or do you have something against those things, Oliver?”

Yuri’s eyes bored into him. Oliver smiled in lieu of an answer—and shook his head.

“They’re all fine. Just—not for me.”

“Who says? Not your parents or friends. Who else is there? Pretty sure this world’s got no god.”

“No one said anything. I made up my own mind. I don’t have the right to be happy. No matter what, no matter when, no matter who around me is happy—my path should always lead to suffering.”

This was the life he’d settled on. Yuri folded his arms, thinking this over.

“That doesn’t make much sense. I get wanting to make someone else happy. But what good does your suffering do? It’s not creating anything; it’s not leading you anywhere. It’s utterly meaningless. All it does is make you one miserable dude, Oliver.”

Demitrio was controlling Yuri, attempting persuasion—and kicking himself for it. He knew he had no grounds to argue this from, but he could not let this warped state stand. A side of him he’d acquired working as a village mage; he couldn’t watch a child mess things up without attempting to make them see the light.

“There is meaning. At least, for me,” Oliver said.

Gazing upon the joy around him as one would a distant star.

“A whole lot of awful things have happened to me. Too many to count. And quite a few of them I instigated. No, I’m not crazy enough to think they’re all my fault. For most of them, I was simply helpless to stop it.” He paused. “But now—that’s no longer the case.”

Oliver looked down at his hands. Stained with the blood of the battles he’d been through, yet still possessed of the ambition to grasp for more.

“…I want to gather what I can. As many fragments of what was shattered as I can find. This act will bring nothing back. But if I don’t act—they’ll all just be left there. Sad things happened, so many people wept and suffered, and it’ll fade into the past with no one left to remember. And I just can’t bring myself to accept that… So I’m gonna shoulder that burden. Until the day I think I’ve made up for everything that happened. And then all the pain and suffering, all the guilt and regrets…”

At last, Demitrio understood these were not things that could be separated from the boy. Memories without emotions were merely a record. They would not leave behind what he most held dear. The hearts of the people who had lived—and were now gone. And their feelings that he still carried with him.

Oliver looked right at him. Demitrio gulped, feeling seen.

“You should know that now, Yuri. It doesn’t matter how hard it is. It doesn’t even really matter if there’s joy in my future. What matters is the pride of walking the path you chose,” said Oliver. “In that final battle, you found a path of your own.”

At this, Yuri went very still. His eyes wavered a long moment, and then he raised a trembling hand to his chest.

“…Yeah, I did. Why…? How did I forget that?” he wondered aloud. “I’m just like you. Or I was.”

He was whispering, as if woken from a dream. Seeing realization dawn, Oliver nodded and got to his feet.

“I’m glad you see the light,” he said. “It’s time I got going.”

“…Yeah. Same.”

Yuri followed him. Headed out, away from the clamor of the garden. Their friends noticed and leaped to their feet.

“Wha—?! Come back, Oliver! Mr. Leik!”

“Where are you guys going?!”

“Why are you leaving us?! Was Guy’s joke that bad?!”

“Hey, speak for yourself! You’ve stuck your foot in your mouth way more than I have!”

“No need to be hasty, gentlemen. We have cakes aplenty!”

Oliver was tempted, and he winced at that. Impressed by the precision. Hardening his heart, he maintained his pace—and his family burst out the door.

“Noll…!”

“Wait, Noll!”

“Don’t go, Noll! You know better! Only suffering awaits!”

Shannon, Gwyn, and Edgar all tried to stop him. Then Chloe pushed past them, calling out to her son.

“Noll, stay here. Stay with Mom and Dad, your brother and sister, and all your friends. Here you can be happy—and at peace,” she implored him. “That’s all we need. That’s all people ever truly crave.”

This was the first tear in the fabric. Oliver turned around, facing the thing shaped like his mother.

“What you’re saying is true enough. However—my mom would never say that. Chloe Halford was always chasing paths yet undiscovered. Even if she clashed with others on the way—she never denied the pursuit.”

Chloe fell silent, mouth closing. Oliver glanced at each face in turn, smiling.

“Thank you, one and all. You might be fakes, but I felt your warmth. It was a very happy dream,” he told them. “But—it’s time to wake up. This place is far too nice for me.”

With that, his vision began going dark. His house vanished into the gloom, then so did the yard, then his family and friends. Feeling no need to move farther out, Oliver put a hand to his chest.

“Sorry for the delay,” he said. “I won’t abandon you. I shall carry each one of these fragments inside me. Even if the weight of my sins makes my knees buckle and cave, and I have to drag myself forward on broken arms—”

His direction alone, he’d never lose sight of. Even if his destination retreated faster than he could advance, he would not stop moving forward. As long as he still lived, he would head toward that distant, hazy light. Likely till his last breath. Since that fateful day, this had been Oliver Horn’s path as a mage.

He drew his athame. Aimed at his own chest. He took a breath and stabbed himself in the heart, an incantation on his lips. A vow to force himself out of the peaceful dream and back to the suffering of the real.

“Dolor!”

A vivid pain racked his chest. His mind had already left the dream, and now it surfaced fast.

“ !” Move!

No sooner had the word left Demitrio’s lips than the boy swung his hand.

“AaaaaaAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

His blade shot in, and Demitrio leaped backward on pure reflex, unable to comprehend what had happened. How long had it been since he’d been too confused to think?

“ ?  ?  ?!”

Panic spurred his mind into motion. His brain was catching up with the facts. He himself had released the primal binds on the boy—no one else here was capable of doing so. He had not desired that act—and yet he had.

“…You’re not yet melded? You’re still there, inside me…?!”

He spoke to the soul splinter, long since absorbed. A part of himself, deprived of flesh, yet acting to save a friend.

That old pain and strife in every inch of his half-broken body, a sign he’d awoken. Oliver Horn knew no clearer sign of what was real, and that brought him back home to suffering itself.

And so he fought. Throwing himself back into the suspended duel without further ado. Not a bit off his stride. This was his life. His purpose was ever distant, ever clouded, his goals always a queue stretching out in front of him. The history replayed in that passing dream brought the outline of it all into sharp relief.

A row of corpses stretching across the horizon of his memory. And in their midst, the smallest of them—the body of an infant. On that distant day, cradled in his sister’s arms, silenced forever. The greatest of the sins that drove him to his purpose. Branded onto his back, driving him ever onward.

The agony he’d wished upon himself. A veritable hell, befitting his position. His mad lamentations to the inferno raging within his heart.

Oh, daughter of mine. Stillborn babe, conceived in the vortex of vile misfortune, taken before you could even raise your birthing cry.

If you’ll forgive my one request, do not be born again to a father like this. If there is a next time, choose not a devil.

For a time, I had the gall to try to be a father—and I thought up many a name for you. Dreamed of all the things I’d like to do for you. Imagined myself walking hand in hand with you as you grew up strong and healthy. Wondered how you’d smile. How your eyes would see me. How I’d feel as I looked back at you.

None of that was to be. You slipped through my fingers before a single one came to pass. Thus—it is all stuck here. All those bountiful emotions your sad excuse for a father would have lavished upon you. All as they were when I waited for your birth, afire with nerves and apprehension. They’ve become a bonfire, burning on within me.

I promise you this. Until my dying breath, they’ll be with me. My heart will always be with you; I shall ever seek to atone, your curse shall ever be upon me. I don’t imagine that will make amends. And yet—if my desperate struggles prove some small solace to you, that will be my salvation.

…And sometime, someday…in the distant future, that may or may not ever be.

Perhaps our souls will come back around, as soulology suggests they might.

I’ll fight for that day. So that when you’re granted life again, it may be under a better father. So that you may smile for him, the smile I never got to see.

And in the hopes that the world you find yourself in is just a little nicer than this one!

Much like with ordinary magic, the range of primal spells varied with the incantation used. Since releasing people required less work than applying stasis, the range affected covered quite a broad area around Demitrio himself.

“Shannon, go!” Gwyn yelled the instant he was free again.

He went to resume his spelljamming, but the last fight had left his viola buried in rubble. He pulled his spare violin out of his pocket and raised his arm—except there was nothing left below the elbow.

“…Tch…!”

That was no reason to give up. He called over a comrade, had them use healing to generate just enough flesh for the arm to function, and then jammed his spare bow in—directly fusing his wand to his arm.

“…Gah…!”

“Gwyn—!”

Her brother’s gnarly treatment made Shannon cringe, but he just cast a spell to tighten the flesh around it, barking orders.

“Don’t look at me! Keep Noll safe! Back him up!”

That one thought on every mind. Shannon tore her eyes off him, using her sensory zone to grasp the situation, then focused on her spells. Oliver’s healing was always her top priority. He was still in the midst of a soul merge. The progenitor blood gave her expansive personal space, and the healing she did within that zone was all that kept his flesh from falling apart.

“…Sanavulnera…!”

Her spell echoed.

Seeing the siblings back in the fight, Janet grinned. “That’s more like it. That’s how you should be, Gwyn.”

With that, she dashed past them toward their target. To play her part in all of this.

“Impetus! Flamma! Tonitrus!”

Demitrio had completely shut them down once, but the new status quo was drastically different. First—he wasn’t using primal spells. Everything he cast was the standard magic they all knew—and though he was a Kimberly teacher, this was still a drastic reduction in output. A number of tactics that had previously been useless came back into play.

“…Gah—!”

Naturally, Demitrio wasn’t choosing not to use his primal spells. He couldn’t. Ever since Oliver escaped the dream, something else was preventing him from achieving selflessness. Needless to say, this was the splinter he’d not fully absorbed. When not selfless, he couldn’t connect to the Grand Record, and in that state neither his perceptions nor his worldview enabled the use of any primal magic. As Oliver had said early in the fight—now he was but an ordinary mage.

“Frigus! Ngh—?!”

Demitrio was fending off their assault with ordinary spells when a sudden pain ran up his leg. Teresa Carste—the covert operative’s sneak attack, from his blind spot down low. A shallow gash to the flesh, and she quickly shifted to prepping her next attack.

“Go, little one!”

“We’re your wall!”

Comrades skilled in sword arts stepped up, giving her tiny frame coverage. She slipped behind them, always moving. No one hesitated. All were ready to give their lives for this fight. Dying to shield a comrade was part of the bargain, and at worst, merely a matter of order.

“ !!!!”

With an unvoiced roar, Teresa ran. All the white noise that had filled her head was gone completely. There was nothing here to think about. Forget the distinction between concern and desire; here she need only worry about keeping him safe and killing their target. All thoughts and acts devoted to those two things; nothing else required.

Thus, she felt it. In that moment, she knew she loved him. Forget the ugliness within her heart—the feelings beating there were true.

“A stealth fighter?! At this stage— Tonitrus!”

While Teresa had him distracted, a spell barrage bore down on him. Demitrio dodged and countered his way through. His eyes honed on the Gnostic fronts, swiftly taking the measure of his opposition. Who to take out first, where to aim, his mind solving the fight—and finding a male student whose position was a tad removed.

“Flamma!”

He cast a spell too close to dodge. Given the output discrepancy, he couldn’t hope to counter it with an oppositional. Demitrio was sure he’d downed one—but was forced to revise that opinion. His target threw out both arms, soaking the spell head-on.

“ ?!”

The flames burned the male student to a crisp. Mere seconds before he expired—her grin emerged from the flames.

“Finally tricked ya, Instructor.”

Carmen Agnelli—she’d been disguised as a male student. And her murder created a channel between them. A horrible pathway that allowed her to send all the curse energy she had stored into Demitrio’s body.

“…Ha-ha…”

Just before her mind cut out, she found herself thanking Rivermoore. She owed him this one. Because he’d completed his research and advanced necromancy to the next stage, she’d been free to throw her life on the pyre here. The future of her craft in his hands, she need only curse the shit out of their quarry.

There was a hint of envy mingled in. But she didn’t mind. A mage’s final thoughts were all too human. Thus—Carmen Agnelli was consumed by the fire, looking utterly satisfied.

“…Ngh…!”

Demitrio’s body grew substantially heavier. The curse energy Carmen left behind clung to him. While still selfless, he could have dispersed this through the vicinity, but now he had no means of dealing with the threat. His only option was to fight on through it.

“ ! Frigus! Flamma! Tonit s! Impetus!”

Each second was sapping away at his aplomb. But that did not dull his thoughts—he was not called a philosopher for his health. The first two spells kept students at bay. While their minds were on defense, he chain cast two more spells, knowing the first would be jammed.

“ !”

And his aim—the man most certain a third spell would not arrive. An arched wind spell bound for the spelljammer himself, Gwyn. The aim of Demitrio’s wand was far off his target, delaying his response—Shannon too preoccupied with Oliver’s healing to intercept. The wind blade bore down, too late to dodge—

“Prohibere!”

And Janet threw herself into the path. Her oppositional diminished it, but not completely—as she’d expected. The rest she soaked bodily. No attempt to evade. The blade cut into her—and through, slicing her chest in half.

“Janet!”

Behind her, she heard Gwyn yell. The top half of her fell to the ground, head up, and she glared at the man behind her.

“Not me, you fool! Your little brother’s over there!”

Squeezing what little life she had left, she spat one more rebuke. Mercilessly forcing Gwyn back to his senses.

“I’m…sorry,” he said.

If he stopped to heal her, she could be saved. He knew that—but he left her there, advancing on their foe. He’d been too focused on jamming, too removed from their comrades—and that had caused his predicament. He had to close in. Leaving the girl who’d saved his life to die.

Watching him go, Janet sighed.

“…Tch. Annoying as ever…”

She went limp. Much as she wanted to cast a spell with less than half a body and shock her foe, she’d used up that reserve of energy. Naturally, she regretted nothing. She’d been pleased he called her name. And glad he left her here.

“…I nursed that crush a looong time… Ha-ha, so sad.”

Wouldn’t even make a decent tabloid piece. A final thought that was very her—and Janet Dowling, editor of Kimberly’s third-largest newspaper, breathed her last.

“What say we talk about our futures. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Demitrio was at the podium, all his students present. Their hands started shooting up.

“I wanna open a restaurant in town!”

“I want to work at the library! Full of books, like your study!”

“Farmer! With lots of fields!”

Each voiced their hopes. Flett listened at the center of the room—then snorted.

“Such puny dreams. I ain’t like you. I’m gonna be a broomrider, slay a dragon!”

“Ew, no way.”

“You gotta be a mage to ride a broom.”

“I might become one! I’m waving a wand every day!”

He looked indignant. Seeing the argument about to heat up, Demitrio raised both hands.

“Okay, okay, no squabbles. Class is in session. Maya, what about you?”

He turned to the girl in the front row. She smiled.

“I said already. I wanna study lots—and help you!”

Her answer never changed, and it made Demitrio choke up a bit. With some difficulty, he overcame that and turned to his charges.

“…Thank you. It’s lovely that you’ve all got such different dreams. I can’t promise they’ll all come true, but if you’re serious about them, I’m happy to help how I can. That’s what a village mage does.”

He thumped his chest. Educate the local children, broadening their options. A basic village mage duty—and one he was very conscious of. It was his job to help make many of these dreams possible.

“You shared a lot of goals here. Some will take a lot of work, and some may take a lot of luck. But none of them are as unlikely as my dream of visiting another world. Some of you will likely find your paths blocked and get discouraged. But remember this—the experience does mean something. Success and failure will both benefit you, as long as you still live.”

That was Demitrio’s lesson. Reality could be harsh, and these children would discover that for themselves. And so he tried to give them the tools they’d need to handle that. Teach them how to pick themselves up as they fell, wipe their tears, and keep moving forward. Life was all about that cycle. And that was true for mages and ordinaries alike.

“Don’t lose your nerve! Always try. I promise, I’ll be there for you as best I can.”

A promise he had not kept.

He’d lived a long time since, yet that fact still drove him.

“Shhh—”

A foe came swinging in, and their wands clashed; he grabbed their athame tip with his off hand. Shifting the grapple from the wrist to the elbow to the shoulder, then putting his weight on it, dropping them. His foe tried to dislocate their shoulder and escape, but he got the tip of his wand at the base of their neck, forced his magic in, and ended their life.

“ !”

All that in the blink of an eye; it took Oliver’s breath away. That was not sword arts. This was wand arts. Ancient self-defense techniques dating from before the spread of athame culture. Records of it still existed, but no one chose to study them. A dated, outmoded way of fighting only known by mages in ancient history.

“…You carry a burden you can never set down,” Demitrio growled, stepping on the student’s body. Everyone here was ready to throw their life away, yet his ferocity was so intense it still slowed their assault. “Do not tell me…you believed you were the only one.”

His eyes bored into Oliver. His voice quivered.

“That would be arrogance, boy. I bear my own!” he screamed. “For five hundred and sixty-seven years, I have carried this!!!!!”

A roar that left a mark. Scores of memories erupted across the back of Demitrio’s mind.

He knew full well—no one else even remembered. Not that little mountain village, not the simple lives of the people there. The world moved on, and no one looked back.

But he remembered. Maya, Flett, Mishka, Famle, Luca…the faces and names of all the students who’d looked up to him, each and every dream they’d confided in him. He alone would remember that forever. Along with his vain promise to be there for them—and the betrayal that left him snatching away their futures with his own hands.

He still wondered. Had he not cut their lives short, how would they have grown up? Some would have achieved their dreams; some would not have. Some from each group would’ve had children of their own. And those children would have had dreams of their own. As would their kids, and those kids’ kids, on and on—but his grievous error had erased all such possibilities.

Their potential had been infinite—and thus, so was the sin of taking that away from them. There was no way to atone. How could there be? Thus, his atonement would never end. His only choice was to devote every fiber of his being to protecting the world, as some small measure of amends. A penance that would continue until his life gave out.

“…Yeah, Instructor. I know,” Oliver whispered.

The nature of this enemy was all too familiar. He understood it as he did his own. He’d seen it himself—while the philosopher was peering at Oliver’s memories, Yuri had shared some of Demitrio’s with Oliver.

Each bore the burden of sin. Demitrio had tried to protect the world. Oliver was trying to change it.

That was the sole difference. Nothing more, nothing less.

“So I will shoulder yours as well.”

With that promise, Oliver lunged at him. Demitrio braced for the clash. No longer selfless, no longer tapping into the Grand Record, yet neither prevented him reaching that state that precedes the division between the subjective and objective. What came next was written in stone. Spellblade versus spellblade, the ultimate collision.

Oliver had no clear path to victory. Merely a premonition. He’d been reminded of the true shape of his spellblade, and what it whispered to him would be vital to reaching this foe. Trusting that sensation, he stepped in. As they reached one-step, one-spell range—each activated their spellblade.

Over here, Oliver.

The sign he’d believed in. Oliver set his eyes on it and pounced. Not looking back, forging dead ahead. Down the one future that would make him suffer most.

The fifth spellblade. Papiliosomnia, the butterfly’s dream of death.

Divisions melded. Unavoidable, imperceptible, an enlightened act that brought defeat within a primal dream to all with a conscious mind. This man had spent his life polishing his ability to dive into the depths of the mind, and now that craft bared its fangs.

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

A thread plucked. Unbeatable, inescapable, a fatal act that reeled in the one true path buried in a sea of infinite defeats. The boy had sacrificed his own life to make the absurdity of fate his, and now that craft roared.

Wand and athame crossed, each bearing the crown of supremacy.

“ ”

“………”

Their backs to each other, neither spoke. Like nothing had happened. As if they’d never dueled, never tried to kill each other.

Then the silence was broken by the faintest of sounds—something dripping.

“………”

The ground at Demitrio’s feet was slowly turning red. Blood, oozing from the gash on his chest. Dripping from a gouge running from his side all the way to his heart—the crimson shade of life itself.

“…The part of me I could not cast off…proved my undoing.”

A whisper, like a sigh. The man’s body crumpled to the ground.

The dust had settled. Certain all comrades who still breathed were getting the treatment they needed, Oliver turned to his fallen foe.

“……”

His feet stopped near where Demitrio lay, looking wordlessly down at him. Eventually, the man’s lips parted.

“…Very clever. In the heat of the moment…aiming for him, inside of me.”

“…Yuri called out to me. Had he not…I’d have been the one lying here.”

This was how he’d won. At that fatal moment, he’d aimed not for Demitrio—but for Yuri. The one off-note in that selfless song.

The fifth spellblade had robbed him of all distinctions—but Yuri alone, he’d kept in sight. That was directly linked to the true character of his own spellblade. A future in which he slew a friend by his own hand—that was the choice that made Oliver suffer most, and the future that had stood out from all else.

He stood by his fallen foe, unmoving. Unable to move.

“…What now?” Demitrio asked. “No plans to torture me as you did Darius?”

“You know better!” Oliver barked. His eyes were swimming with emotions in conflict. “It’s not fair…! You’re not fair! This is such bullshit!” he spat. “Yuri… He’s still there, inside you! My friend’s in there! How many times did he come to my rescue? How…how…how can I hurt him more? How can I turn to torture, after…?!”

A sob cut him off.

“Ah…,” Demitrio said, eyes on the air above. “That’s on me. I did not intend to use him as a shield.”

Not a defense that meant anything, really. Oliver wiped his tears, looking down at him.

“I can’t torture you. But I’ll not let you flee the interrogation,” Oliver said resolutely. “Answer me this, Demitrio Aristides. Explain what you did to her. What lay in your mind? What drove you to such acts?”

The fundamental question. Demitrio’s eyes turned to Oliver’s face.

“……How’d the others answer?”

“…Darius never managed a coherent word. Enrico insisted it was symbolic. The shared experience of trampling upon her soul proved you were each complicit. To him, that was the purpose.”

Demitrio sighed, closing his eyes.

“…That was an aspect of it. However—my views on it were a little different.”

“……”

“I acted to shore up my resolve. To force myself to never again cling to my memories of Chloe. To never let myself hope for the future she spoke of. By ending our relationship in the worst imaginable light—with that dark suggestion, I sealed away Chloe Halford’s light. I knew I’d need it, if I was to continue down this path afterward. To avoid my footsteps faltering.”

Choking back the bile, Oliver clenched his fists.

“…Was it never an option? To just…follow her?”

“I can’t say I never considered it. But—I didn’t make that choice. It just seemed like a reckless gamble. Her idea of the future placed too much hope in people. I weighed the damages in the event of a betrayal against the price of maintaining the status quo. Protecting the darkness of the present over chasing a blinding dream…”

His voice faded out. After a long silence, Demitrio spoke again.

“If you call me a coward, I’ll not argue. I’m sure you’re right. But when you live as long as I have, you start to realize just how dangerous it is to alter your course toward a new bright light without due consideration. You learn to fear giving yourself—and the world—over to the hopes and fervors those lights offer.

“Not to repeat myself, but the Gnostic hunts were always like that. Similar tragedies everywhere you looked. The Gnostics’ hearts may be stolen by a tír god, but they are not flinging themselves into darkness by choice. They’re all tumbling into that pit, reaching for the light they think they see there. The greater their hopes, the worse the outcomes. I felt certain Chloe’s attempt could become one of the worst instances ever. For that reason, I simply could not join her in her endeavors.”

Oliver said nothing. This answer did not seem like it was glossing over anything. Yuri had helped their hearts connect—and for that reason, he knew this was all genuine.

“That’s about all I can say on a personal level. But I doubt that’s what you really wish to know.”

“……”

Oliver’s silence signaled his agreement.

“Why did Esmeralda betray Chloe?” Demitrio said. “I don’t have a complete answer for you, there. She never once spoke her thoughts, and we did not attempt to pry them from her. Her actions were proof enough she was one of us.” He continued. “From that night on, she’s protected the world, more like a mage than anyone else around. Strong, harsh, and firm to myself and others. Like that duty is a curse she’s placed upon herself. Her heart may be hidden, but when you cross death’s line together, you come to know these things. And thus, I placed my faith in her.”

“……”

“I know not what goes on in her head. But there are a few assumptions I can make from the events that transpired: First—that torture was, more than anything, something Esmeralda herself required. I’m not talking about motives, here. Regardless of what she wanted, she needed that. Perhaps a need so urgent it forced a hand that wanted nothing to do with it. The most likely cause…”

“…Prepping for the soul absorb.”

Oliver had reached the same conclusion.

“That is my assumption, yes.” Demitrio nodded. “The destruction of the self is likely a prerequisite for absorbing anyone’s soul. The soul merge you practice is predicated on an innate compatibility between the souls in question, yes? Esmeralda’s is not. She can absorb anyone. No matter the soul, she makes it hers. Which implies there must be a process, one forcing compatibility upon them.”

A reasonable assumption, Oliver thought. Much about the soul remained a mystery, but there were rules. A vampire’s powers meddled with the soul via a very different process than the progenitor aspect, but those rules applied in equal measure.

“I believe that was the reason for the torture. And the fact that she kept out of it, yielding it to us—that fits. For the same reasons you cannot bring yourself to torture me now. She could not have managed it if she had not ceded that part to us. Could not have thoroughly demolished all that Chloe was, trampling on it, rendering her soul vulnerable and exposed. Could not make the soul ready for absorption by her own hand.”

Oliver gritted his teeth. This made the rest make even less sense. If she had to foist the task off, why do it at all? Or why be with his mother all that time in the first place? If she’d chosen to protect the status quo for reasons like Demitrio’s, that was inconsistent with all the time she’d spent shoulder to shoulder with Chloe Halford. And nothing like this could be caused by a fickle change of heart.

“After that—it’s covered in darkness. Why did she want Chloe’s soul so badly? Why choose the agony of protecting the world with that power? I have no answers to any of that. Thus, this is all I can provide.”

Demitrio looked right at Oliver.

“What I will say next is a warning. Not as your enemy but as your teacher. If you don’t wanna hear it, fine. Finish me off now.”

Oliver considered this, then let him speak. Not that he had a choice. Stabbing the friend inside this man a second time? In a situation that did not demand it, that option was off the table.

“The soul absorb that night let Esmeralda take power from Chloe’s soul. You’re already aware of that. But—that was not the end. In the years that followed, she’s done the same thing over and over. Do you know how many mage’s souls she’s taken in?”

Oliver shook his head. And Demitrio laid out the cold, hard truth.

“Over a hundred. And that’s just the ones I know about. Enemies encountered on a Gnostic hunt, colleagues who stood up to her approach, political enemies who dared come after her. The outcome was always the same. Esmeralda put them all down—and those whose souls she deemed worthy became a part of her. Can you imagine it? All those souls are inside her, serving as the source of her power.”

“……!”

“This is the cause of her chronic headaches. They’re writhing inside her. The grudges of so many souls absorbed against their will, crying out this very instant for their freedom. No ordinary mentality could bear it. Madness would be a natural outcome. But she remains the same. Stockpiling the strength of countless stolen souls inside her, swallowing the accompanying curses, but her character has not changed at all since that fateful night. That terrifies me. More than the power she’s absorbed—the fact that it has not changed her leaves me with a gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach.”

Demitrio’s voice shook. That same emotion threatened Oliver, but he forced it aside.

“That’s the enemy you’ve made,” the philosopher continued. “I know you yourself have gone through unimaginable pain to acquire the strength you have. I’ve seen your memories—I know. But even then—what you have gained is Chloe’s strength alone. And only a small portion of it.” He then asked Oliver: “How can you fight her? What can you do with that little power? Against that vampire—how can you begin to compete?”

Faced with that question, Oliver let a silence hang before he spoke. He knew the question urged pessimism. Thus—he did not overcomplicate it.

“…We have no chance of victory? You said the exact same thing before we fought. Darius and Enrico likely thought the same.”

He would not say they’d overcome those odds. The losses on his side had been too great to take pride in them. Instead…

“We will prevail. Again and again. I can say nothing else.”

His words rang out. Less a proclamation than a promise. A vow sworn on the bodies of all the comrades they’d lost.

Demitrio looked at the athame in Oliver’s hand.

“…You’re banking on that spellblade. As well you might.”

As he spoke, a memory flitted across his mind. One from a past he’d long put out of mind, a voice he’d sealed away deep within.

“I don’t hold with assholes who talk in absolutes. That’s why I go around stomping ’em. You get me, old-timer? That shit’s the whole damn point of this spellblade!”

He could see her all too clearly. His old student, grinning up at him. A real thorn in his side, always acting out in class—but always with that open grin.

“…The seal’s…loosened up,” he muttered.

He didn’t see the point in putting it back. He’d already lost and no longer had a reason to insist.

“That’s all I have to say. Genuinely—nothing else remains. By way of amends for depriving you of torture… Well, there’s not much time left, but for the rest of it, you may speak to him.”

With that, Demitrio closed his eyes. A few seconds later, they opened again—but with a cheery light Oliver’s philosopher nemesis had never once betrayed.

“Oh, Oliver!”

Spotting a friend, he called out.

“…Yuri?” Oliver gasped.

“Huh? Oh, sorry, mind moving closer? Seems like my hearing’s going faster than my eyesight. I can’t make out a word!”

Oliver dropped to his knees, inching nearer. An apology escaped him before anything else.

“Sorry, Yuri. I just—”

“You cut me down, yeah? Good. It worked! I was outta ideas, otherwise.”

Yuri’s voice was infinitely upbeat. Not a hint of a shadow anywhere on his smile, and that hit Oliver harder than a thousand insults.

“…Why…why are you like this, Yuri…? Rebuke me! At least spare me a little spite; I’m begging you! You saved me till the bitter end! And—all I did was cut you down…!”

He couldn’t stop the tears rolling. Yuri’s brow furrowed, at a loss.

“Uh-oh, he’s crying again. Aw man. I’d rather see your smile…”

“…At a time like this?!”

Oliver couldn’t repress the sobs. Yuri watched for a moment, thinking, then he had an idea and turned his eyes elsewhere.

“Okay! Take a look, Oliver. Up! Above us!”

“Huh…?”

He did as he was told, turning to the sky above. The false sky had been a pale blue with streaks of clouds, but it was now rapidly shifting to night.

“…Ah…”

And then the stars came out. Oliver gaped up at them, and Yuri grinned.

“Rad, right? He said there were no magical alterations, but that’s not true for the sky. Otherwise, it’d always be dark in here! There’s no natural day/night cycle in the labyrinth. So I just gave it a push and brought night on early.”

Yuri stuck out his tongue. His eyes never left the stars.

“Looking at me makes you sad, right? Then don’t. Look at the stars instead. Like we did the other day, lying side by side.”

Oliver wiped away his tears, nodding. He laid down next to Yuri, gazing at the stars above.

“…They sure are pretty.”

“Mm. I think so, too,” Yuri whispered, the yearning within unadulterated. “That’s why he always looked up at them. Always wanted to go there. He gave up and looked away, but deep down, that never changed. And that’s why…I stayed inside him.”

He voiced the philosopher’s innermost desires. Oliver said nothing. Yuri’s eyes turned to a specific star, his tone brightening considerably.

“That’s Vanato! You’ve heard of it, right? It’s full of really lonely creatures. Imagine their faces if the two of us went there!”

“…They’d be pretty startled. Maybe not by me, but you tend to be boisterous.”

“Ah-ha-ha! They’d run away from me. We’d have to give chase!”

“That would make it worse.” Oliver winced. “It’d be better not to rush things—just sit down, let them come to us. They’d probably get curious and approach, little by little, getting closer…”

Yuri had gone quiet, looking at his friend.

“…You didn’t run from me,” Yuri said.

Oliver looked away. A bit late to hide his blushing face.

“…You were so shady I forgot to. Honestly—you scared me at first.”

“What about now? Do I still scare you?”

“No. And I’ve given up on settling you down… It’s like I’m not even sitting in the dark. With you around, it’s always a party.”

He trailed off. Scared his voice would break if he said more.

“My bad. I’m a boisterous one, ” Yuri said. “Are you crying again?”

“…No…”

Oliver shook his head, forcing back the tears, turning his eyes back to the stars.

Yuri squinted. “I can’t see ’em anymore. Oliver…can I borrow your eyes for a sec?”

Oliver nodded and took Yuri’s hand. Visual sharing was ordinarily done with wands, but their hearts were already linked and did not need them. The stars Oliver saw—and how he felt about them—flowed into Yuri’s mind.

“Wow… They’re just as pretty with your eyes.”

He sounded happy. His breathing grew shallow, faint.

“…Tell me…Oliver… Are you…smiling…?”

“I am,” Oliver insisted. “I can’t cry here! The view’s too amazing.”

He was sure this was true. Maybe a few tears escaped, but he was sure he was smiling. As was the boy beside him.

“…Good… Just……like me……”

He sounded relieved. And with that—Yuri spoke no more.

Thirty-two entered combat on the fourth layer.

Combat goal achieved. Demitrio Aristides slain.

Twelve comrades lost in battle.

Note: There was an unexpected casualty.

One friend.

END