Nanatsu no Maken ga Shihai suru - Volume 13 - Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Dissent

Time had passed since the great sage Rod Farquois arrived. Their fearless antics were now well-known and sending ripples through the student body. What had, at first, been viewed as the prattling of a loon was gradually garnering genuine enthusiasm.

“And I’m saying the moment shit spread under the second layer, it was already a faculty job! A place the school doesn’t even know exists, tackled by students alone? That’s absurd! There’s no telling what the hell will crawl out of those depths!”

“That applies to anywhere mages fight! How can someone too chickenshit to plunge into the unknown even call themselves a Kimberly student?! A coward like that oughtta fuck right off to Featherston.”

Furious debates raged across the Fellowship. And not just in one location. Watching this from the side, in cute ladies’ attire—the student body president, Tim Linton.

“They’re all fired up,” he said with a snort. “Are those critical of the faculty part of this rumored Farquois faction?”

“Yes, their ranks are swelling quickly in the lower forms,” Miligan replied, shrugging. “Many of the underclassmen aren’t confident in their ability to defend themselves, so Mr. Lombardi’s mess hit them hard. Debating the merits of allowing students to explore uncharted territory, insisting the great sage was right to go to the rescue—and by extension, arguing the way Kimberly’s always done things is problematic. That’s the main thrust of their views.”

To the council members, this situation posed a conundrum.

“And those views align with our attempts to impose order on the labyrinth,” Miligan added. “I’m much more ambivalent about the fact that it’s bolstering Farquois. Their behavior is far too provocative for us to outwardly support. Right as we were improving lines of communication with the faculty through Instructors Ted and Dustin.”

“…Yeah, no matter how fired up they get, if Farquois’s head rolls, it ends there. Otherwise, they’re just a sub on a temp posting; when the year’s up, they’ll ditch Kimberly for good. You’d think that’d be enough to convince anyone it ain’t gonna do no good making noise—but the great sage’s charm means they ain’t exactly being rational.”

A pointed reminder of how thorny that mage was. Tearing his eyes off the lowerclassmen, Tim turned to go.

“I ain’t about to let this run us ragged. The Watch keeps our distance from Farquois. Their bullshit plays into our goals; we’ll take advantage of that—but if we gotta make contact, it goes through Instructors Ted and Dustin. The great sage is likely a handful for them, too.”

“Agreed. I have concerns about the Gnostic Hunter headquarters’ desire to unseat the headmistress, but that mess is outside the reach of us students. Leave that to the faculty, while we focus on campus and labyrinth security.”

Miligan and Tim walked away. Their direction set, but their concerns still real.

“Here’s hoping Farquois doesn’t rock the boat any harder,” Tim growled. “But something tells me they’re only just getting started.”

Earlier that same morning, the Sword Roses were by a painting leading to the labyrinth for a very unusual reason.

“Let’s head in. Our destination is the Library Plaza at the far end of the third layer. I’m sure you all know the way, but caution is in order. The lesson upon our arrival is the real goal here.”

With that word of warning, Chela leaped into the painting. A moment of darkness, and she was scanning her surroundings before her feet even touched down. She sensed no immediate threats, so she turned to face the comrades following her.

“Oliver and I will lead the way. Pete, you and Katie stick to the middle. Nanao, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to guard the rear.”

“And guard it, I shall!” Nanao grinned.

Chela assumed that meant she’d taken the hint and shot her a grateful smile. They formed ranks accordingly and made swift progress through the familiar ground on the first layer. For a while, no one spoke. Eventually, Chela decided the moment was ripe and glanced at Oliver.

“In our fourth year, labyrinth lessons are a fact of life. Assembling at the scene is very Kimberly. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah, it is.”

A very curt answer, with no further discussion forthcoming. After last night’s events, she’d expected this, but she failed to still the ripples it caused within her. He’d never once been this cold toward her.

“Um, Oliver…I know it may be a bit late, but—do allow me to apologize for last night. Clearly, I did not spare enough consideration for your feelings on the matter. But if I may offer an excuse, I have my reasons—”

“Apologize for what? I agreed to it, and you don’t need to feel guilty. You owe me no apologies, and if my attitude afterward is bothering you, put it out of mind. I am mostly just lashing out.”

Oliver cut off her defense—a response even harsher than she’d feared. Chela gulped, then tried once more.

“‘Mostly,’ meaning not entirely? So therein lies a failure on my part. If we could talk—”

“We can’t and won’t. Drop it, Chela.”

“……!”

He ended the conversation without allowing her to fix a single thing. She knew better than to pursue it further.

Observing all this from behind, Pete sighed. “…Hurts to watch. She should have given him more time. It was only yesterday; obviously, he’s not ready yet.”

Running next to him, Katie bit her lip. Oliver’s treatment last night had helped her make a full recovery, but inside, she’d processed none of this—and what she’d just seen only gouged the wound. It was her fault there was friction between them.

“I’ve never seen Chela this upset…”

“Don’t you go joining her, Katie. We’re in the labyrinth now. And just to be clear, this is one-hundred-percent Chela’s fuckup. None of it is on you.”

Pete was quite firm on that. Katie very much appreciated his words, but she was still hurt. Since last night, she had not spent a moment outside her friends’ care. She knew she should be less of a burden, but every effort to escape this came back to haunt her. Katie was out of options—and though well aware she was at a standstill, suffering from it, Pete turned his attention elsewhere.

“Yo, Nanao.”

“Hrm?”

Behind him, Nanao raised a brow. Pete was not addressing her with his voice, but via a mana frequency only she could hear. He continued talking, not letting Katie know.

“Just asking out of curiosity—absolutely not trying to criticize—but I’m wondering why you didn’t stop things last night. I’m sure you could guess how Oliver would take it, and I doubt this was just prioritizing Katie’s recovery.”

This had been on his mind all night. Chela’s proposal had effectively ensnared Oliver, but Nanao had held a card that could easily have freed him. If she had simply argued in favor of Oliver’s emotional state, Chela could not have pressed the point. Yet, Nanao had taken no such action and allowed the scenario to unfold. That seemed rather out of character.

It took her a while to respond. Long silences were also not like her.

“…Groundwork must be laid. That thought has been on my mind for some time.”

“Groundwork…for what?”

“For the event of my demise. Should that happen, I wish to smoothly hand Oliver off to Katie.”

That answer nearly made Pete’s eyes pop out of his head. Yet, he got it. This was no impulsive thought, but a course she’d arrived at after lengthy consideration.

“I know not when or where this may happen. You know that yourself, Pete. Naturally, I am not inclined to throw my life away. I swore a vow to you all accordingly,” said Nanao. “But I am a warrior, and I know this to be true—when the time comes, my turn will not linger behind. I will die before a single one of you.”

“……”

Pete ran on in silence for some time. Would that he could argue, but this decision was so very her. While he was fumbling for words, Nanao continued:

“And by extension, with my death, I would leave Oliver bereaved. Should that happen, I would want him free to turn to Katie. Last night was a step in that direction. That is how I saw it, at the least.”

“…Okay, yeah, that adds up.”

Pete sighed. The source may be different, but the final conclusion was rather like Chela’s own. Nanao wanted Oliver and Katie closer to ease the pain of her death—and she was convinced that moment would arrive, be it sooner or later. For that reason, she’d accepted last night’s events. She knew it would cause frictions but was certain it would be to everyone’s benefit in time.

“…I said I wasn’t criticizing, but I take it back. I’ll give you a nice long lecture about this one later. And…”

“Mm?” Nanao crooked her head.

She had imagined he’d rebuke her for this revelation, but apparently, he had other thoughts in mind. Of course he did—about himself, not Nanao. She didn’t know yet that Pete arguably bore a larger burden of guilt than Chela.

“…give me a briefing on how seppuku works. I may turn out to need it.”

“You will?!”

That shocked her enough to use her real voice, not the mana frequency. Katie looked back, puzzled, and Pete spoke up to distract her.

“Guy’ll be waiting up ahead. Don’t you go acting all gloomy where he can see. You can come to me for whatever you need.”

This was aimed to hide that Pete and Nanao had been conversing in secret, but he meant every word of it. Tears formed in Katie’s eyes, and she quickly wiped them away.

She was well aware she was in no state to talk to Guy, but she at least wanted to be in better condition than she was now.

Beyond the marsh they’d once crossed to rescue Pete, they found a crowd of fourth-years waiting. By the looks of things, nearly two thirds of the students were already there, gnawing on rations, quenching their thirst, waiting for the start of class as each saw fit. Farquois was standing at the back, but to everyone’s surprise, Theodore had joined them. There seemed to be slightly less tension between the two, so Oliver assumed Theodore was there to ensure the great sage did nothing untoward.

The five Sword Roses waited a good ten minutes before Guy showed up. He was in a party of five headed by Valois, who was flanked by the Barthés and Mackley—a frequent grouping as of late.

Guy waved at his old friends; Oliver kept a close eye on Pete’s response, but he just snorted and let it pass. Oliver was relieved to see him disinclined to pick a fight.

Another twenty minutes passed, and nearly everyone was present. Seeing that, the great sage smiled and stepped forward.

“Everyone made it on time. You are fourth-years—diving this deep is hardly a challenge,” they said. “Now then, today’s class shall make use of this Library Plaza. We’ll be re-creating records from the Library of the Depths’ forbidden tomes for educational purposes. Simply watching would be a drag, so there’ll be some hands-on lessons mixed in. I am here, so you will return home safely, but do try and take it seriously.”

With that, Farquois held up a hand, clutching a thick volume. On Oliver’s previous visit, the reaper guarding the gate had overseen this reenactment, but it sounded like this time, Farquois was choosing the scene. Kimberly faculty were allotted a set of additional privileges over active labyrinth functions, and use of this location must be one of them. Aware of what might follow, Oliver glanced at his friends, and all braced themselves.

“Let’s begin. Volsek Streets.”

At his call, a few dozen pages flew from the book, swirling in the air above. As they did, the surroundings abruptly shifted, and the group found themselves standing in a rustic town. Storefronts with barkers outside, ox-drawn wagons, women drawing water from a communal well—ordinaries going about their lives. A pastoral sight, and Gui and Mackley both sounded baffled by it.

“…A small town?”

“Deep boonies.”

“Guards up. A gate could open in the sky any second,” Lélia said, raising her athame.

Nearly every student was poised for combat, which made Farquois giggle.

“A fine attitude. But for this chapter, you need not worry yet. This is my class—I would not throw you into battle unwarned. I will explain things one step at a time,” the great sage began. “First, this takes place eight hundred years before the Great Calendar began. In other words, before the series of events that led to the Union as we know it. Links between mages rarely crossed national borders, and most lived with the ordinaries, like villages mages do today. A simple life. Most were less of the ruling class than they were advisers, offering guidance.”

Walking through that past, the great sage spoke. The view around them shifted to another part of town, where an elderly mage of yore was healing a wounded ordinary. Still a sight one saw from time to time, but compared with the emphasis placed on the privilege of the ruling class, Oliver felt this mage seemed far closer to the villagers around. Perhaps some would call this the good old days.

“And it goes without saying that Gnostics existed even then. Those cast out of society, without a place to call their own, have always sought salvation from the outside. And no matter the day and age, it fell to mages to deal with that threat. Though, their numbers were far fewer, and ordinary soldiers played a far greater role.”

Again, the view shifted dramatically. The peaceful streets were filled with soldiers wielding swords and spears, roaring as they charged into the fray. They were fighting humans—presumably Gnostics—mingled with kobolds and goblins. A mage was in command, wielding a wand at the back of the army, barking orders, and casting powerful spells at critical junctures. A very different style of combat than they saw today—and Farquois saw frowns on their student’s faces.

“Starting to wonder, yes? How could this handle the threat? A few mages, but primarily ordinary soldiers—in your minds, hardly a force capable of repelling any tír invasion. Threats so great, our best mages often give their lives to stop them—how could an ordinary contribute anything? That’s what you’ve been taught, and it’s accurate to the threats of today.”

Everyone was nodding at the assertation, but it didn’t match what they were seeing. These soldiers were clearly putting their lives on the line against the Gnostic forces—but to the students’ eyes, it was all so tame. No waves of tír creatures overwhelming them. No gate open in the sky, raining things that might not even count as living. The only signs of gnosticism were a few humans or demis with altered body parts. In which case, yes, an army like this likely would suffice. A tough fight, but little different from wars between opposing groups of humans—no need for a dedicated unit of Gnostic Hunters.

“But turn the clock back far enough, and a time like this did exist. Far fewer mages than there were today, yet they were enough to keep the world safe. Why do you think that was? Was this quality over quantity? Were each of them absurdly powerful?” said Farquois. “Hardly! Certainly, there are any number of magical techniques lost to the march of time, but in terms of pure combat potential, we are far more powerful than the mages of yore. The speed of technological advancements only accelerates the more people there are to study them. Everything learned through our bloodstained history has made us stronger. That is beyond all doubt.”

Farquois was answering the questions on every mind. There were certainly times in which ancient mages were lauded, and in specific ways, those reputations were well deserved—yet that did not refute the general trend of technological improvements resulting from the advances of time and population expansion. All the ancient cultures that had risen and fallen in days gone by could not begin to match the sum of modern Union power—a commonsense view. There were certainly theories out there arguing against this consensus, but few in the magical world took them seriously.

“So how was it these ancient mages were capable of holding the line? The answer is simple. The Gnostic threat was far smaller than it is today.”

Farquois made this sound obvious. And it lined up with the evidence before their eyes. Ancient Gnostics were weaker than modern ones; thus, they required far fewer mages to stop them.

“I’ll add this is not merely Gnostics. The regular tír migrations were nowhere as frequent as what we see now. And the scale of them was much smaller—it was extremely unusual for anything to cross over that could cause legitimate damage to human populations.” Then Farquois asked, “…Doesn’t that strike you as odd? They had far less opposition back then compared to now. If they had invaded at full strength, our world would have stood no chance. And yet—it’s almost as if the tír gods were waiting for us to grow.”

Farquois flashed a grin. Terrifying, Oliver thought. He could tell where this was going, yet he found himself listening with rapt attention.

“Naturally, that’s not the case. The tír were not reluctant to invade us properly; they had good reasons why they could not. You could say the conditions were not ripe. And they are now—thus, the invasions are formidable. So what are these conditions? There must be a reason why the threat is so much greater than it was then—but what could that reason be?”

Most of the students could guess. But that’s exactly where the great sage went off the rails.

“The number of prayers. The more people are left behind and seek salvation outside our systems, the more prayers the tír gods receive. And that unseen accumulation leads to the gates connecting our world to the tírs. This is why the ancients never faced invasions on modern scales. They simply had a far smaller population in the first place—and thus, the total number of Gnostics never crossed the threshold.” Farquois went on: “Naturally, this number rises and falls with the stability of society, but are there no Gnostics under good government? It’s hardly that simple. The population expands accordingly—we must be mindful that the ratio and sum are separate figures.”

“Wha—?”

“Uh, that’s not…”

“One moment, Mx. Farquois,” Albright said, raising his head as shock waves rippled through the crowd. His brow furrowed even more than usual. He was clearly speaking not just as a student, but as the heir to the man in charge of the Gnostic Hunters. “Apologizes if my ignorance has caused a misunderstanding, but it feels like what you’ve said is a dramatic departure from conventional wisdom. My understanding is that the tír threats have increased in frequency over time due to a corresponding increase in their proximity to our world, and because the tír gods themselves have a mounting will to invade us. In other words, they’re coming to us—that is the accepted theory held by most astronomers.”

“Generally speaking, yes. And it’s a crock of shit. A cockamamie fabrication, a web of words spun for the convenience of the society in which we live.”

Farquois’s harsh words only made Albright grimmer.

A stir ran through the crowd. And as the mood grew ominous, the great sage turned toward their silent colleague.

“I plan to continue in this vein. Any objections, McFarlane? Or do you intend to silence me?”

“…Suit yourself,” Theodore said, eyes closed. “As long as you cover the required content, Kimberly allows all teachers to fill the remaining time as they see fit. Even if you choose to pad your lessons with pointless flimflam.”

At a glance, this appeared to be a neutral stance, but Oliver could tell that was his only option. If he acted to silence Farquois here, that would only be giving their arguments credence. Emphasizing that this was an inconvenient truth kept under wraps. To avoid that impression, Theodore could take no action.

Farquois knew that perfectly well, and with that answer, they turned back to their students. No one here could stop them.

“I have permission, so let’s get back to it. I called it cockamamie, but it stands to reason you all believe it. It’s a difficult point to prove. Are we inviting them, or are they coming to us? Arguably, either theory describes the same facts. In the past, this was the subject of vehement debate; at the time, the factions were referred to as the invitation theory and the proximity theory. For a variety of reasons, the former fell out of favor, and few today are inclined to revisit it. A sad history in which the truth is buried in darkness.”

Farquois hung their head despondently. A theory that had likely gone unvoiced at Kimberly for ages—but the great sage was not done yet.

“That said, I realize it’s hard to accept. The whole world trembles before the rising Gnostic threat—and this argument means it’s a part of autointoxication, a byproduct of the magical world itself, the very definition of an inconvenient truth. We’ve swelled our population heedlessly and, to feed them all, have enslaved countless demi-humans, working them to the bone, offering no assistance to those preyed upon by this society, and simply abandoning them to their fates. Those sacrifices are all viewed as fuel to the fires as we seek ever greater successes in pursuit of our spells. A society like that is bound to drive people to gnosticism. As their suffering mounts, so do their prayers, and thus, the gates from tírs grow ever larger.”

As they reached that conclusion, they drew their wand, chanting a spell. A number of graphs appeared in the air above the students’ heads. A diagonal line rising, and below it, another set of numbers rising in tandem.

“Back to the truth behind both the invitation and proximity theories. If we simply reduce them to the numbers on record, which theory is correct is as clear as the sun is bright. The number of Gnostic incidents, the number and size of gates that open—all directly proportionate to the expansion of the Union and its population. Well? Do you see which theory makes more sense now? This is far more tangible than chalking it up to the unfathomable will of the tír gods.”

Backed by the statistics, Farquois urged understanding. As the students studied the graphs, wavering, Andrews raised a hand. Faculty or sage, no Kimberly student would ever swallow something unchallenged.

“If I may, Mx. Farquois. No one here can prove you haven’t altered these figures to fit your argument. And you collected this data yourself, I assume? There are some clear discrepancies from the figures I’ve previously been familiar with.”

“Ah, well spotted, Mr. Andrews. You’ve got the prior knowledge to avoid being easily taken in. Yes, you’re right. The graphs I’ve prepared have some dramatic differences from the official figures released by the Gnostic Hunters. Naturally! They’re manipulating the figures before release. Carefully and thoroughly, to ensure nobody has a basis to revive the invitation theory.”

Farquois’s smile was rather bitter. Andrews had expected just this argument and took it in stride, but the great sage’s tongue was still wagging.

“The numbers on these graphs come from my personal information network. Specifically, they’re provided by apprentices spread throughout the Union. If you insist I can manipulate them as much as I please, I can’t refute that. But—if I don’t gather my own numbers, we’ll never have accurate data. After all, our own society does not want this to be true. No official numbers are reliable. The only numbers I can trust come from people I know—with their feet on the ground.”

“I respect the logic of that, but what basis do we have to trust it?” Andrews asked, not backing down. His question implied that no answer could convince him this man’s claim was anything but a delusion.

Seeing their student steadfast, Farquois nodded. “You clearly need more evidence. But…do the others?”

They glanced across the sea of faces. Andrews flinched, turning to get a look for himself. Farquois was one of the world’s few great reversi mages, and their speech was far more than mere words. Regardless of the content, the fact that Farquois themself was speaking carried unnatural weight.

Andrews’s humbling experiences in his first year had proven the springboard to fortifying his own mind—and he had been unmoved. But not all students here had such defenses. Even in close range, Andrews could see several who had clearly been captured—and while they might not yet be Farquois’s puppets, they’d evidently taken a big step in that direction. Andrews turned back around, glaring fiercely at them, but the great sage merely shook their head, smiling.

“No need to get worked up. I’m not expecting you to believe it here and now. I merely ask that you file my claim aside in a corner of your mind. For one thing—just because I’m a proponent of the invitation theory does not mean the content of the class to come will change much. Sad to say that does not in any way mean you don’t have to fight the Gnostics.”

With that, they raised the book again. Feeling a shift in the atmosphere, the students quickly braced themselves anew.

This was no time to dwell on the sage’s words. They were already on a battlefield.

“Let’s begin. Assignment one: The Monster Rock that Fell on Geshele.”

Certain they were ready, Farquois plunged into the heart of their lesson. The scene around them shifted three times, and they found themselves in another time, in another place, on another street. The ordinaries in these ancient records were all looking up. Spotting a gate yawning above, every student blanched—and as they watched, polyhedrons rained down, each with over fifty faces.

“You can feel it, yes? Like the migration you witnessed last year, these hailed from the Uranischegar of old. Considering the great conjunction next year, this is the first type you’ll need to learn to handle. Give it your best shot.”

At Farquois’s word, the battle began. The fourth-years split into front and back lines, and the latter divided the territory, drawing magic circles on the ground, erecting barriers—matching the defenses used in last year’s migration.

The great sage smiled approvingly. “Mm, mm, excellent. Being extra cautious of the risk of corruption is never wrong. But if you’re too defensive, that’ll limit your movements. Don’t forget their first action will be to expand their territory.”

They were well aware of that. Students with faith in their damage dealing were out front, and Guy, who usually hung back, was moving aggressively with them. Dice with too many sides were rolling their way—and each time a side hit down, the ground beneath it changed. The faces they imprinted folded up, connecting swiftly into new objects.

They were copying themselves—a fact that made him shudder. Guy threw out some toolplant seeds, spreading their cursed roots. Like thorns coating the ground, snaring the polyhedrons, slowing one after another down. Between the curse’s strength and Guy’s magical interference, they could not corrupt this soil as fast as ordinary ground. And once pinned down, the other students’ spells rained down upon them.

“Heh, effective application, Mr. Greenwood. Against something this unnatural, it should be hard for you to locate an effective conduit for the curse. But if you attack with cursed toolplants, you need not change your fighting style. Not picky what they target—a reliable technique.”

Farquois was calmly evaluating things, but even as they spoke, polyhedrons were breaking through the concentrated spellfire, bearing down on the fourth-year formation. Like with the migration last year, Uranischegar’s minions proved exceptionally resilient to damage that altered their shapes. For that reason, most students resorted to other spell types…

“Gladio!”

…but Nanao’s iai spell cleaved through five polyhedrons in a single swing. The students behind her winced. Compatibility with her target be damned—this was all her exceptional mana output and the sheer sharp edge on her severing spell. Anyone could tell just how beyond the pale that was, and indeed, Farquois folded their arms, snorting.

“Nothing fazes you, Ms. Hibiya. No matter who or what you’re up against, you fight the same way. Children like you embolden those around you and diminish the fear of the unknown. A joy to have you on the front lines. Though it reminds me of someone vexing.”

The sage pursed their lips, and their phrasing nagged at Oliver’s mind. There was no time to dwell on it now, however—he was firing spells at a group that had wheeled around the pack ahead. As he did, Pete’s miniature golems were flitting about, making noise and casting lights near the enemy. These polyhedrons had no obvious sensory organs, and he was testing to see what made them respond. Surmising as much, Farquois spoke up.

“Mr. Reston, testing with golems is fine, but careful about making contact. Corruption has been known to happen through a familiar. Auto is preferrable to remote, and if any get caught, immediately cut the channel. If anyone else is using familiars, take the same precautions.”

Pete immediately switched up his golem’s functions; Mistral had been using his splinters along similar lines and quickly pulled them back. The battle raged on, the fourth-years’ spell barrage refusing to let the enemy close in. Their swift action at the start paid off, halting the polyhedrons’ initial offensive and leaving them helpless. Students were using convergence spells on the shattered fragments, making sure all parts were melted in their flames.

“Just over eight minutes to annihilation,” Farquois said, folding their arms and grinning. “Perhaps too easy for you. Oh, right—you’re all formidable. Let’s skip a few stages. Assignment Two: The Day Kuan Harbor Fell.”

The pages of the forbidden tome danced, and once more, the view shifted. Now they were in a large port town. People were loading and unloading sailing ships, and an even bigger gate appeared in the sky above. The fourth-years sprang into action, and Farquois watched with delight.

“I didn’t plan to throw this at you today, but I’m pretty sure this is the limit to what you can handle. Don’t worry—no matter how it goes, I am here.”

Naturally, no one banked on that promise. The core stance carved into every Kimberly student’s heart and mind sent them hurtling into the fray.

There were quite a few close calls, but in less than an hour, they fought their way to victory. The Library Plaza reverted to its original form, and the fourth-years were all alive, if badly out of breath. Farquois went around, swiftly healing the wounded; a few had been corrupted, but since this was merely a reenactment, it left no lingering effects. This cleanup took little time, and before they knew it, everyone was of sound mind and body.

“Excellent work. Right, that’s enough for today. A reward for making it through—I’m sure you’re starving.”

Farquois waved their wand, and enough lunch baskets for all came sailing in from who knows where. The students hesitantly opened them up and found baguette sandwiches loaded with colorful fillings, and a congratulatory message written out in condiments on top. A stark contrast to the rough battle, and they had to laugh. As the tension finally drained away, everyone started eating. Not a common sight at Kimberly, which rattled the Sword Roses—but then a friend strolled up, lugging his basket.

“Free lunch? Here? Talk about generous.”

“Guy.” Oliver gulped, turning to him.

Oliver was torn between the desire to burst into tears and to apologize profusely—but logic barely kept him from either. They each took seats in a circle and dug in.

“Sorry I kept away during the fighting,” Guy said, savoring their proximity. He bit into his sandwich. “Didn’t dare take my eyes off that group. Mackley was loud as hell, squawking and wailing, ‘I’m doomed!’ every few— Ow!”

A rock hit the back of his head, falling to the ground. Putting a hand to the bruise, he looked back to see Mackley scowling over the Barthés’ shoulders at him. He hadn’t expected her to be in earshot.

“She got ears in the back of her head?” he said, wincing. “Uh, anyway, figured I’d at least eat with ya. Wanted to see how y’all are doing.”

“Mm, yeah, of course,” Oliver replied.

He managed a nod, taken aback. He’d caught a glimpse of some unfamiliar friendships and was rather conflicted about it.

Guy looked away from Oliver, checking each friend in turn before settling on Katie, who was very obviously trying to hide behind Pete. Sensing a weird vibe rippling out around her, he frowned.

“Y’all are gloomy as hell,” he said. “None of you are even trying to hide that something happened. What, you guys have a squabble about the brownies I left behind?”

“Yeah, no, we split those evenly,” Oliver said. “Each of us is savoring the final morsels.”

“There’s no replacing your desserts. Come back to us and bake some more,” Pete demanded.

This curt behavior showed no changes in their affection.

Guy closed his eyes, nodding. “I’d like to think I’m making progress. Sorry it’s taking so long.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Chela said. “But know that all our thoughts are with you.”

Guy smiled—then refocused on the friend acting least like herself.

“…So? What’s up with you, Katie? You a bur on Pete today?”

“Let her be. She blew a transformation spell this morning. Gave herself a great big bushy beard, doesn’t want you seeing it.”

“…I did not…”

Pete’s story was so appalling, it forced Katie to pop her head out from behind him and deny it. That alone reassured Guy, so he took another look around. He hadn’t spoken to them in far too long. Not just Katie—he could tell things were strained among the group. Unable to work out why, he sighed.

“…I guess a lot’s happened. I wasn’t there, ain’t gonna dig further now.”

“We don’t want to cause you any concern, really,” said Chela. “Not to change the subject, but you’ve found yourself a new crowd. Ms. Valois, the Barthé twins, and Ms. Mackley? I realize you were with them in the lava tree mold, but—”

“Yeah, and once you get to know ’em, they ain’t that bad. I can’t get much thinking done on my own, so it’s a big help. Right, Annie?”

“Hold this for me, male twin. I gotta knock a bitch over.”

“Sit, Mackley!” Gui yelled over his shoulder. “Guy, quit winding her up!”

Mackley had her wand half drawn, and Gui quickly restrained her.

Guy shouted back an apology, to which Oliver commented, “You fit right in. A relief…and yet I’m also jealous, if I’m honest.”

“Oh yeah, Oliver? You miss me that much?”

Guy crossed his arms, making a joke of it, but to his surprise, Oliver just nodded gravely.

“I do. It’s like the biggest light in the room burned out. Really drives home how much you warm my heart and illuminate the darkness within.”

This sounded so sincere, it took Guy’s breath away. He could tell Oliver was fighting back tears. Ordinarily, Oliver would never let himself look this fragile, so it struck home. Before he knew it, he was reaching toward him—an unconscious reflex to embrace a friend in need. Catching himself in time, Guy balled up his fist, punching himself in the face.

“Guy?!” Katie yelped, leaping to her feet.

“…That was close. Could’ve been real bad.”

“What are you doing? That was so loud! Did you break a tooth?”

Chela pulled her wand to heal him, but Guy was on his feet, back turned. He dropped his half-eaten sandwich back in the basket.

“Sorry, I’m not handling this well, either. Gonna pull out before I slip up,” he said. “Oh, but first: Extruditor.”

Guy fired a spell over his shoulder as he left. Oliver hadn’t been braced for that and went flying right as Guy had visualized it.

“Huh?”

“Oliver!”

Chela caught him on reflex. In her arms, feeling her warmth on his back, Oliver gaped after Guy.

Guy turned his head halfway around, giving them a sidelong glance.

“You’re the ones fighting, right? I dunno what’s going on, but you patch that shit up. Drawing it out don’t do nobody no good. You two have been on the same wavelength since day one.”

With that parting gift, he stalked away. Unable to speak, Oliver just stared after him—and Chela kept her arms tight, like she was loath to let him go.

“ ……”

“…Chela…”

He heard a choked sob. She was crying into his back, and that robbed him of words once more.

Staring at them intently alongside Nanao and Katie, Pete ventured, “He’s right. You don’t have to forgive and forget—but at least chew her out, Oliver. You’ve punished her enough. Ain’t nothing harder for Chela than you shutting down around her.”

The same went for Pete, so he knew this was best approach he could take. Oliver had no response; he just sat listening to the sobs behind him. What reason did he have to make Chela cry?

As that thought settled in, the emotional gridlock he’d been left in following the previous night began to grind again at last.

Once they’d reached the first layer, the others headed up to campus, while Oliver and Chela alone went to their hidden base. They might miss the first afternoon class, but neither cared. It was clear to both what their priority was.

Together, they moved wordlessly to the living room and sat down on the couch without even making tea. There was a very long silence. Unable to find words that sounded right, Chela abandoned her attempt and wore her heart on her sleeve.

“…Um, Oliver. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t force it. Let me say my piece instead.”

He took the lead. In his mind, he already knew what to share with her. He had just been readying himself for that during the silence. Saying this out loud took a lot out of him.

“There’s something you should know. Something…I’d prefer you keep to yourself, not a word to the others. So far, only Nanao knows.”

“My lips are sealed. I swear on our Sword Rose,” Chela said, hand to her heart.

Oliver understood this was her solemnest vow and meant more than any contract possibly could. Putting his faith in it, he nodded and took a breath.

No need to tell her the whole story or any details. Just a summary of the salient points.

With that in mind, his lips made to speak.

“I was forced into unwanted sexual relations. While still young. Family reasons,” he began. “And—the daughter resulting from it perished.”

“ !”

Chela’s face froze like she’d been hit by a blizzard. Doing his absolute best to keep emotion from his voice, Oliver pressed on.

“This is why I’m resistant to sexual contact. And why I was so insistent on contraception in our second year. I don’t want any friends of mine to suffer like I did. This history makes me incompatible with typical sexual practices for mages. Even if there is logic to it—no, especially if the argument is a logical one—my body and mind viscerally reject it. This is why last night’s incident got to me.”

There, his admissions ended. All too brief considering the events involved, but Chela’s reaction showed she got what he needed her to know. She had a strong imagination and knew how to speculate with precision. What he’d said would let her fill in the rest. Even without the fine print, she’d know the unspeakable grief and horrors that had beset him.

“…That’s…awful…”

An agonized gasp escaped her. She was forced to reevaluate last night’s events—flipped by a single blow. A witch’s victory turned to a memory of the highest cruelty she could inflict on a friend.

“…I feel as if I finally understand the true meaning of the phrase an unpardonable sin. How badly I hurt you, how deep the cut must go, how cruelly I twisted that knife…”

“Don’t go too far with that. The wound was already there. You simply got your finger caught in it unawares.”

“Ignorance is not an excuse! Not with something like—!”

She broke off before she could shriek.

Chela had realized she was in no position to get emotional and restrained herself. Her heart rocking like a ship on a stormy sea, she forced herself to think. What could she do? How should she face the wounded heart before her?

“…That’s hardly fitting. Beating myself up for it will just make you miserable. Give…give me a moment. Not to ease the burden on me, but to choose words for you.”

With that, she buried herself in her thoughts, well aware this was an insurmountable problem. No true comfort could be found, and even knowing that, it was hard to truly be there for Oliver. Apologies and condolences would serve no purpose. So what should she say? In light of all potentials, what could she do?

In time, she reached her answer. No better options presented themselves, no matter how she fought.

Therefore, she merely needed to descend to the depths in which he stood.

“…I’m done thinking. And gathering my nerves.”

“ ?”

Her tone sounded weighty, and Oliver wasn’t sure why. Chela turned toward him, her eyes like mirrors to his—and she took a step down the stairs to the abyss below.

“I have an admission of my own. It may take a while, but I’d like to swear you to silence as well.”

Those few words made it clear what Chela was asking; to her, this was tantamount to flinging herself upon the pyre.

Oliver realized she was not saying sorry or trying to cheer him up but attempting to restore balance. In other words—offering up a history as grim as what he’d shared.

“I swear. On our Sword Rose.”

The same vow she’d made. Chela nodded—and began.

Approximately nineteen years ago, in a house so ancient that its history was longer than Kimberly itself—the McFarlane manor.

“Hoh-hoh, hoh! My, my… A sight for sore eyes indeed!” an elderly witch said with a cackle.

They were in a medical ward, protected by every manner of magical barrier, the elemental density in the very air carefully controlled. The witch was washing her newborn great-granddaughter. The baby’s ears had been pointed at birth but were now rounding themselves off.

“…Undoubtedly a half-elf. And a rare morphling! Even I have never encountered one outside the pages of a dusty tome. And for it to be a babe that carries my blood, bathed for the first time by my hands…”

Her voice was filled with joy and exaltation. Pulling the infant from the bath, the midwife dried her off and wrapped her in swaddling cloth, reverently offering up that little bundle to the mother. To the very woman who’d brought elf blood into the McFarlane clan, now lying exhausted on the birthing table.

“Well done, Mishakua. Birthing this babe does the McFarlanes—nay, the magical world—an enormous boon. Perhaps you will live to see the results of—”

“Hold your tongue, child.”

With a word, the witch was silenced. Not another person in this family would dare speak like this to her—but even the head of the McFarlane clan could not talk back to Mishakua. The elf had been a mage far, far longer. In a meeting room, perhaps the witch could have wielded order as a shield, but at the moment of this child’s birth, no one had labored harder. A dash of rudeness provided no excuse for protest.

“You had to make it hard for me,” Mishakua whispered, smiling at the fussing baby. “Was my belly that comfortable? You were far too reluctant to leave. We almost had to cut me open to get you out.”

Here, her gaze turned sideways to her husband, who’d said not a word through these proceedings.

“Hold her, Theodore. While I make amends to my ancestors.”

“……Mm.”

Theodore nodded stiffly and took his child in his arms. Seeing the fear behind his eyes, Mishakua repressed a smile. He’d barged alone into her home village yet betrayed no such emotion. This was a man long past fear of death. And yet—what he held now reminded him of what that emotion felt like.

“……?”

As he stared at the baby, the terror in his eyes gave way to tears. A fact that flummoxed him. Seeing her husband at a loss to explain these tears, Mishakua saw right through him.

“You love her, right? Despite it all.”

That choked Theodore up.

This was not his first child. More children than he had fingers bore his blood. Yet—he’d not been permitted to treat a single one of them as his own. They were children of branch houses, and Theodore was never their father.

He’d grown accustomed to that process. Forgetting to fret over it, no longer letting it get him down—and so he’d been sure he could not love. Even if he finally got a child to call his own, he’d been sure his heart would remain frozen over. And from the moment he learned his wife was pregnant, he’d feared nothing more than holding this tiny body in his arms and feeling nothing.

How wrong he’d been. It rocked his world. The moment he held his daughter in his arms, all the emotions he’d bottled up came spilling out. He was allowed to love her—and that fact alone made tears gush down his cheeks, splattering on the baby’s face. Mishakua smiled at the sight of it.

“That’s how it should be. If you cannot love me, love her instead. Love her for all the children you cannot,” she said to him. “What’s her name? You said you had one in mind.”

She spoke like a teacher collecting homework. Holding his child in shaking arms, staring into the baby’s face, Theodore answered:

“…Michela. I chose a name reminiscent of your own. And…”

“Ah. For once, you outdid yourself.”

Mishakua grinned and held out her arms. Theodore nodded, knowing what that meant. He handed the baby back to her.

Cradling the tiny body in her arms, the elf who’d ventured into human land whispered to her, “I am sorry, Michela. You’ve been born into a cruel world. You may loathe me for it all you like. But I do love you. That fact cannot be changed.”

She held her close to her heart. No matter how cruel a fate the future held, the love they felt here was real.

The laws of the world granted elves exceptionally long lives, but the speed at which they grew was no different from humans. Half-elves like Michela were the same. A few years from her birth, she’d grown a lot, and like all children did, she took an interest in anything and everything around her.

“Do I not have any brothers and sisters, Father?” she asked one day.

Theodore was relaxing on the living room couch with her and smiled awkwardly.

“…A difficult question. One could say you do, and one could say you don’t. Our family is a little unusual.”

A vague answer, and he picked her up. It was morning, and her ringlets were freshly set. They swayed as he held her.

Catching an anxious look on her face, he asked, “Are you lonely? Being an only child?”

“No, not at all. I have you and Mother,” she replied. “But—if I do have brothers and sisters, I thought they might be lonely.”

Innocent kindness that broke his heart. Love and sadness welled up within, and he held her tight.

“You’re so nice, Chela. I don’t deserve a child like you.”

“Why not? You’re always nice, too!”

Knowing nothing, Chela smiled. A smile without a cloud in sight.

Theodore wished she could remain ignorant forever, all too aware that was a fragile hope.

Chela grew up bathed in her parents’ love, but on the day she turned eight, her great-grandmother deemed the moment ripe. She took the child to her workshop—to tell Chela about the purpose a McFarlane heir with elf blood must fulfill.

“Do you know what this list of names is, Michela?”

Chela was seated at the table, and the ancient witch unrolled a scroll before her. Looking at the list of names inscribed upon it, Chela crooked her head. All she could tell was that these were likely all male names.

“These men all have reservations on your womb. In time, you may have a child with them. Commit their names to memory—you’ll meet each in turn soon.”

The witch’s tone was as measured as that fate was harsh. Chela considered these words, trying to match them with what she knew.

“…You mean fiancés? One of them will be my future husband?”

That was the best interpretation she could manage. At her age, that was an admirable grasp on things, and in another household—that would have been the right assumption. But her great-grandmother shook her head, chuckling. This was the McFarlane household, a place far removed from norms.

“What an adorable mistake, Michela. I’m afraid this list contains no partners. If you take a liking to one, you can snare him if you wish—not many would refuse you,” the witch said. “But simply put, you must share your blood with them. These are children of households chosen to help spread elf blood in the world of man and ensure it lasts. Naturally, we’ve taken their individual behavior into consideration. From this list…you’ve already met the Andrews boy, yes?”

Chela remembered a boy her age she’d met not long ago.

She’d tried talking to him a lot, hoping to be friends, but after they’d compared spells before the watching adults, he’d grown very stiff. She didn’t get why, and it made even less sense that she’d make a child with him one day. But her great-grandmother wasn’t waiting for it to sink in.

“There have been very few half-elves in history, but you are not the first. Yet, none of those previous mages were able to leave a lasting bloodline. There are several reasons for that, but simply put—they never managed to make their blood set in. Very few humans are able to get an elf pregnant. It requires a high level of magical aptitude for their aspects to properly mingle.”

Chela was aware of this history already. Including the fact that she was the only complete half-elf known to exist in the magical world. Elves and humans could not easily breed, and even if they succeeded, the children were often functionally lacking—and incapable of reproducing.

The higher the magical potential of the human, the milder those issues became; Theodore met those conditions, and so he and Mishakua had managed to produce Chela. She understood that she was being asked to do the same thing. And thus, she at last realized what this list meant.

“Most old houses would try to keep the blood to themselves and repeat the errors of the past. But not the McFarlanes. Mindful of those failures, we renounced our claim on the blood and elected to aggressively loan out your womb. Process this fact and prepare yourself. Be ready to bear a child for every man on this list.”

This witch was not hiding anything. She told her great-grandchild that quantity would compensate for the likely rate of failure. For this reason, she would need to have as many children with as many promising young mages as she could. A purebred elf could bear very few children in their long lives, but half-elves had human advantages and were not limited by that. She made it quite clear Chela was ideal breeding stock.

It added up. The logic of it was sound. Understanding it as best she could, Chela nodded, far too young to imagine the toll it would take on her.

But despite her youth, she had concerns. Specifically, every name on this list hailed from a house of some repute. Even if not all succeeded, odds were high that many would produce offspring. That would leave her with husbands and children outnumbering the fingers on her hands. Even if mages had no rule against polygamy, these seemed excessive.

“I understand, Great-Grandmother. But I do have one question.”

“What is it? Ask anything.”

“With this many, I don’t think I can love them all. I think that will make the children very lonely. What should I do about that?”

Such an innocent question—the witch could not stop herself from laughing. Not at the child before her—but at the parents who had raised her.

They’d coddled her far too much. Teaching her kindness and consideration would only make her suffer later.

“You don’t yet understand, Michela. Love has no part of this. Each house will handle such trivialities on their own, and frankly—it doesn’t matter. We must establish elf blood in the world of man. No other concern can compare,” the witch explained. “If this doesn’t make sense, look at how your father lives. Men and women have their differences, but his path is much like yours. Watch him close, and you will work out how you should comport yourself.”

Baffled by her great-grandmother’s words, Chela nodded. Nothing she knew of her beloved father matched this speech at all.

Her great-grandmother swiftly made arrangements, and the opportunity soon arrived. The day prior, Chela’s father had grimly told her to accompany him, and so Chela visited an ancient home at his side, unclear as to what this visit meant.

“Now this is a surprise. I did not imagine you bringing the girl on everyone’s lips.”

Chela and her father were seated across from a witch in a parlor that spared no expense. A strong incense tickled her nose, but not unpleasantly; the herbal tea and tarts on the table before her, too, gave off a scent that was excessively sweet. Chela felt out of place here. This was no ordinary welcome—a fact that she sensed, even if she could not discern the nature of it.

“It was not my decision, but my grandmother forced it on me. She’s a smart girl and won’t make a scene. Assume she’s here to learn the ways of the world.”

“Naturally, she’s a welcome guest. Though, I cannot guarantee this is an appropriate education… Heh-heh, what a darling child. I imagine you’ve taught her things, but I can tell she does not yet understand. How long as it been? Since anyone this innocent set foot in this house?”

Eyes on Chela, the witch smiled enchantingly. Odd how she was not remotely tempted to smile back, Chela thought. She took a sip of tea, and the flavor of it made her frown. Theodore silently took the cup from her hand and set it back on the table—not wanting his daughter to drink a brew designed as a functional aphrodisiac.

Wetting her lips with her own tea, the witch stared long and hard, as if searching for how to entertain this company. After a moment, she asked the obvious question.

“…Do we show her everything? If that’s why she’s here?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Like I said before, I don’t plan to stay long today.”

“Such a shame. And here I was all prepared. Still, I’d rather not take her into the bedroom with us.”

With that, the witch stood up, moved around the table, and sat down on the other side of Theodore. This seating arrangement befuddled the child. But as she watched, the witch ran her hand up Theodore’s neck and smoothly placed her lips on his.

Theodore did not budge. Chela’s eyes went wide, and after a long kiss, the witch pulled away with an alluring smile.

“Then let us talk a while,” she said. “If you’re not staying long, can we at least share a drink?”

She pulled a hand from her hip and a set of a liquor bottles and glasses flew from a shelf in the back. She placed three glasses on the table, uncorked a bottle, and filled two of the glasses with liquor. The third, she filled with grape juice, a modest consideration. Her father began talking to the witch, wearing a masklike smile—and Chela watched them as if this was a scene from a far-off, distant land.

A bewildering time passed, and once evening fell, Theodore wrapped things up and took Chela away. She had so many questions, she didn’t know what to say. As they walked in silence, they passed a man at the main gates.

“ ”

Somewhat older than Theodore, the man scowled at the sight of him. Theodore ignored that entirely.

“Evening, Mr. Walpole,” he said. “Apologies for greeting you on our way out.”

“…No matter. I had not intended to see you at all. At least you didn’t stay the night.”

With that, the man quickly sped on past. But a few steps beyond, he turned back, his voice laden with fury.

“If you’re done here, begone. What look did my wife wear to butter you up, McFarlane stud horse?”

This hit Chela hard. She didn’t grasp the meaning of it but could tell from the man’s tone this was an unbearable insult. She started to turn, but Theodore tugged her hand, leading her away. As if letting these words taint his daughter’s ears was far more unbearable than the insults themselves.

When the manor was out of sight behind the hill, they drew to a halt. Chela looked up at her father, whose face betrayed no emotion.

“Father, was that—?”

“Sorry, Chela. Let me wash my mouth out first.”

Talking over her, he pulled a potion from his pocket and swirled it around inside his mouth—as if he could not bear the unpleasant sensation clinging to him otherwise.

Chela watched, waiting. At last, the bottle was empty, and he put it away.

Theodore looked grimly down at her. “I’m sure you’ve worked it out. I must share my blood with the woman we met; that man is her husband. The act itself is yet to come, but there are stages to work through. Connections between houses are always a chore.”

He sounded tired. She’d guessed as much but, with that confirmation, reconsidered what she’d seen. Even from the sidelines, she’d sensed no pleasure there. Thus, she could imagine just how unpleasant it had been for him—and what that meant for her own future.

“…So someday, I’ll be like you were today?” she asked.

“You won’t have to go to them. I like to brag about how light on my feet I am, so I make the trip, but given the repute of the McFarlane family, it’s more appropriate for them to come to you. There is no need to be friendly and please them—that is their task. If you are not inclined, you may merely sit there in silence, sipping your tea.”

Theodore spoke in a flat tone, perfectly aware that would be no comfort at all. If his daughter was the type of mage who enjoyed treating people like dirt or bewitching them with her charm, that would be one thing—but those qualities were as far from Chela as could be. Yet, that did not free her from the obligations of her blood.

Their positions were different, but the witch earlier was much the same. Her duty was to capture Theodore and bring profit to her house; her feelings on the matter played no part. She was used to it, but he could not know if she enjoyed it. Perhaps the distinction had long since ceased to matter. The more of a mage you were, the more that was the case—as Theodore himself knew all too well. He’d been known to act accordingly.

Theodore turned, gazing at the ordinaries’ town set against the hill, drenched in the light of the setting sun. Chela followed his gaze. The beauty of this view was the sole saving grace, as far as he was concerned. It prevented this precious time spent with his daughter from being an entirely unpleasant one.

“My role in this is partially a penalty. I made a big mistake once and must share my blood with more than other relatives. Grandmother is still furious with me. My mistake led directly to the miracle of your birth, yet still, she cannot get over it.”

Theodore’s eyes reflected the reddening sky.

Over time, Chela had gathered that her parents had not exactly met peacefully. She’d never once thought to ask about the whole story. That wasn’t what mattered to her. She had a dad and a mom, and they both loved her.

But she had long nursed some doubts in her mind, and she took this moment to voice them.

“…Two questions, Father.”

“Yes? Go ahead.”

“I know that you don’t like that woman. That you were here out of duty as a McFarlane. But—why is it you don’t love Mother?”

He looked down to find tears in Chela’s eyes. Theodore pursed his lips. Not surprised. He’d known this question would come eventually.

“That’s a hard question,” he said. “I respect her talents and her character; as partners, we get along fine. Just—if you ask if I can say I love her with the same confidence I do you…that’s much harder for me. When I met her, I’d long since turned my back on such things.”

This was not a question that could be answered in a word. Chela was smart enough to realize the truth was far more complex than she could yet understand, and so she fell silent. Pressing further would just make him suffer.

With some difficulty, she put her feelings away. Telling herself to be satisfied that at least he had not said he didn’t love Mishakua. Theodore sensed all that and thus was infinitely disgusted with himself.

Why couldn’t he answer her? That entire day, his daughter had not asked him for one thing.

“…Okay, then. The other question…”

Her emotions in check, Chela looked up at him again. Her gaze made him fear what was coming next. He felt as if another blow like that one would make him unable to bear being himself.

“…Do you need a smoke, Father?”

The absolutely last thing he’d expected. It took him several seconds before an awkward smile appeared on his lips.

“…Well, isn’t that a surprise? I’ve never smoked in front of you!”

“I’ve smelled it on you sometimes. Always when you seemed unusually unhappy.”

Chela gave him a sad look, like she was ready to cry—and Theodore scooped her up into his arms, well aware this hug was an escape.

“No need for that. I’m with you right now. As long as I can get a hug from you, all my bad feelings go away. I only smoke when I can’t do that.”

Despite his inner turmoil, the platitudes came out all too easily. But he could not let this discussion end there. His feelings didn’t matter. Those were never worthy of consideration. All that mattered was his daughter before him.

“Chela, my darling daughter.”

“Yes?” she said quietly.

He could tell she knew this next part would be important. Knowing it made him a terrible father, he said it anyway.

“You’re a smart girl, so I’m sure you know. You will never get to love or have a family in any normal way.”

“…I know.”

Chela nodded slowly. Neither frustrated nor upset about it. A fact that made Theodore’s heart ache all the more.

A child this wise and kind, and I’m throwing her to the pits of hell. Pushing her onto the path of a spell that will lead her far from human happiness. That truth can never be changed. So at the very least—I can only hope she will find a light to shine upon that treacherous descent.

“If there is hope—then hope for good friends. That alone, we are allowed. If nothing else.”

His voice shook. Once, he’d had a light of his own. Those words carved themselves deep into Chela’s heart, showing her where to place the love she had. In bonds where the value of her blood did not exist, where her heart was allowed to be merely human. Only precious friends were allowed that—and thus, she sought that future more than anything.

“And that’s my origin story,” Chela concluded, allowing herself a small sigh.

Oliver was just staring at her in silence. She’d never imagined she’d reveal any of this, not even to friends. A past that lay beside her, deep within. But sharing it had been the sole means of remaining friends with Oliver—if she’d kept it under wraps, she’d never have been able to meet his eyes again.

“…Your past is, in a sense, my future. Despite the similarities, there is a fundamental difference. And it’s all too clear how that difference led to where we stand now,” Chela said. “Simply put, I adapted to it. But you rejected it and are fighting it even now. That’s the long and short of it.”

Her voice rasped. Facing each other’s darkness shone a light on this discrepancy.

His past was a wound still bleeding. But she no longer even viewed hers as painful. Her heart had grown up with a piece missing, and now she acted as if that had always been her nature. And for that reason, she’d hurt him. She’d blinded herself. By asking him to match her, she’d wounded him all over again.

“One thing fell into place. I wasn’t drawn to you just because we stood in similar depths. That alone is likely matched by any student from an old house. It’s clear to me now—I was drawn to you because you were desperately trying to keep your feet on the ground within those depths. That’s something I unconsciously peeled off and cast away—something you’re still clutching close to your chest.”

Chela revered that. She could not begin to call it hope. What he held on to was a corpse, one that would never breathe again. He knew it would never answer, but he could not stop himself from calling out to it, loving it.

And for that reason, she wished only to put her arms around both.

“May I—hug you, Oliver? If I still have that right.”

She spread her arms, and Oliver nodded, moving closer and leaning against her. Chela felt as if a huge missing piece snapped back in place. She couldn’t lose this. It was too precious to her to ever let go of again.

“…You matter so much to me…,” she whispered, trembling.

Oliver’s arms closed tightly around her. Leaving no gaps between them, as if staving off the chill winds. In the hopes that this could satisfy her, if even for a moment—just as he had always done.

He’d kept them waiting too long. Seeing Oliver in that last class had made that painfully clear to Guy.

Clearly, he’d been too optimistic. He’d only once seen his friend in that bad a state—back in their second year, when he’d been in the throes of that mystery slump.

“““““Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”””””

“Ngh…!”

In a dimly lit curse wrangler workshop, Zelma’s cursed dolls assaulted Guy, scissors and razors in hand. Bisque dolls in frilly lace, cackling wildly—an unsettling sight, but Guy fought them off with puppets made from the cursed wood of his toolplants.

A basic training exercise on the use of familiars, but not an easy one. Zelma’s automatons were unsurprisingly powerful, but what ran rings around that was the law of curse conservation. Each hostile doll he felled meant that much more energy stored in his own puppets.

“…Tch…!”

It was hard enough to operate familiars fueled by his own curse energy; the more alien energy they acquired, the more likely they were to escape his control. Mindful of the puppets’ individual capacity, Guy was pulling appropriate levels of energy from them, wrangling that within even as the fight raged on. If he lost control of a puppet, it would all be over, but if he siphoned too much energy away, the puppets would lose the battle. This was an exercise designed to press home what a two-edged sword fighting with curses was, but…

“I ain’t getting stuck here!”

Riling himself up, Guy used a cursed wood puppet as a decoy, and while the hostiles were focused on that, another of his familiars bound both arms into a single club, swinging horizontally. That crushed two foes at once while the third hostile sliced up the decoy and spun around—but the excess of curse energy slowed it down. Guy had been counting on that and pressed the advantage. His wooden puppet tackled the foe, knocked it over, and trussed it up—and the roots dug into the hostile doll’s body.

“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Ah-ha-ha! Ah-ha! Ah-ha-ha! Ha!”

The invasive roots destroyed it from within—and with nothing left to power it, the screeching laugh was silenced. The doll crumbled away. His familiar was hit with a blast of curse energy, but Guy collected that before it could escape his control. It was virulently unpleasant, but he let it in without fighting it, soothing the energy, settling it down—and when that was over, he allowed himself a relieved sigh.

“What, already done?” Zelma blinked. She’d been reading on the sidelines. “It’s only just past noon. This was a full-day assignment!”

“Haah…haah… I ain’t got time for that! Gimme the next one, Instructor Zelma!”

The thrill of success driving him, Guy swung around for another go.

“At least you’re motivated,” she said, shaking her head. “But I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Huh? Why not? I’m ready for more!”

“I can see that. It’s assignments I’m short on. I neglected to mention this was your final exam.”

Guy locked up a second, not quite processing this. She flashed a grin at him.

“Knowledge, technique, and attitude—you’ve got everything a wrangler needs. The Warburgs are a house of wranglers, and I’d stake my name on it. I knew you were moving fast, but to get here in less than a month? I can see why Baldia was after you.”

She clearly felt the same—and that helped it finally sink in. Guy was already at the goal line he’d been racing to get to.

“…So I’m done? Then…”

“You can assume you’ve reached the minimum threshold for living a normal life with curse energy in you. You know how to stop it from transmitting, and what to do if it does—you’ve mastered that body and mind. All you need to do is make that routine. Naturally, that doesn’t mean you live like you did before you were a wrangler—but you should be able to recover your friendships to an extent. Here’s where you’re grateful to me.”

That last was a joke, but Guy’s eyes were filling with tears.

He could be with his friends again. He couldn’t touch them, and he definitely couldn’t hug them, but he could at least be around them and talk. That did evoke gratitude—and so he voiced it.

“Thank you so much…!”

“Hmm, sincerity is always welcome. That said, you made such smooth progress that I didn’t really manage to wind you around my finger. Shame! And here I’d planned to lure you away from Baldia… Still, your preternatural self-control gave you this outcome. I’ll have to satisfy myself with knowing I helped bring a promising future wrangler to the world. Not calling this a prize for that, but in honor of your completed training, I do have a gift.”

Zelma waved a wand, and the doors opened. Three mages stepped in. Guy knew every face—all three were Kimberly graduates who’d joined the faculty.

“…Gwyn, Shannon…and Rivermoore?”

“Mm, today’s assignment was a bit of a challenge, so I had them on standby in case you lost control of the curse energy. You’re a lucky man, Guy. No other school in the Union had multiple consolers this good, on staff but not full instructors. All credit to your own choice to attend Kimberly. That said, they are busy. Let’s get this done, people. Your consolations should be able to quiet even this powerful a curse for a full week.”

“On it.” Gwyn nodded and put his viola under his chin.

Rivermoore took a seat at the piano, while Shannon sat Guy down on a chair, her hand on his shoulder.

“Let me…touch you, Guy,” she told him. “Don’t worry. Just…relax.”

“Er, um…”

Guy was baffled, but they were already playing. The music stole his attention away, and he stopped squirming.

“Listen close—no need to answer me,” Zelma said. “Instructor David came to me the other day. Said with your talents, a binary choice was cruel and unusual. Wondered if there was any way to give you more time. I found that hard to spurn. I owed him for his help cleaning up the mess Baldia’s apprentice caused; even as her proxy, that’s not a small favor. And I also didn’t want to see you repeat Lombardi’s mistakes.”

As the gentle melody washed over him, Shannon overlapped her zone with Guy’s, consoling the curse. It felt far too comfortable. The tension drained from him.

“To be more specific,” Zelma began, “twice a month, you’ll be getting consolation from this crew. That’ll render the curse inside you temporarily dormant, and during that period, you’ll be able to act almost as you did before becoming a wrangler. Essentially an unorthodox way to keep both fires burning. Half the time, you’ll be able to relax around your friends and look after magiflora. Perhaps the outcome will be stunting your growth in both fields—but I’m betting you’ll deem that a small price to pay.”

Guy nodded, stunned. Sensing this was hard for him to believe, Zelma backed it up.

“I should add this is preferential treatment even by Kimberly standards. It’s a testament to the hopes we’re placing on your talent—and a reward for bringing everyone stranded in the lava tree mold back alive. Deaths down there would have been a thorn in our side. A solid standing for those who wish to tear the headmistress down. Heh-heh—like I told you before, just being alive makes curse wranglers worthy. You were no exception to that rule.”

A flash of her patented wit. And at last, it started to feel real. The concert played on.

“Ironic—Lombardi forced that curse upon you, but your choice to be his Final Visitor is what earned you this treatment. Perhaps some other event would have led to you becoming a wrangler, but no other impetus would ever have allowed you to split your time. Your enemy, and your brother in curses—and without ever knowing him, he gave you much.” Then Zelma added, “…I often think there’s little difference between a blessing and a curse. Both entwine themselves in the fabric of the world, altering fate. Once you’ve swallowed it all—where will it lead you?”

A tear escaped Guy’s eye. Zelma turned away.

“Enough of my noise. Give yourself over to the racket inside and out, Evil Tree. And accept that moniker. It may feel like a curse—but it’s just as much a blessing.”

With that last admonishment, Zelma left the room. Everything but the beautiful music faded from his mind, and Guy gave himself over to it.