Nanatsu no Maken ga Shihai suru - Volume SS01 - Chapter 4

Case 4

Purgatory

“A long time ago, you magic paintings served a basic yet vital function.”

A man’s voice, speaking mellifluously. The girl on the canvas listened happily, even as his brush gave her shape.

“You preserved things. Who lived, what happened—the brushes of magic painters recorded all those things. Naturally, that meant realism was a core value, the ability to capture things just as the eye perceived them. The more precise the art was, the more detailed—the better. As an extension of that, mages came to believe that movement was better than the lack thereof. A still painting preserves but a single point in time, but if you can depict motion, then you’ve recorded a line. This idea is why you all became so full of life.”

The way he spoke of history was almost musical. She valued that more than the meaning, and so she urged him on. This made it harder for him to paint, but he just smiled.

“However—eventually, there came an invention that threatened that core purpose. Memorial crystals and projection crystals. These let mages capture and re-create scenes without the use of a brush. Mechanically exact, free of the perceptions and subjectivity the artist brought. Sadly, these were simply far better suited to the goal of preservation. No matter how much we honed our crafts, we could not match the accuracy of these crystal archives. Our passion and predilections actively interfered. Emotions only distort and embellish what was meant to be a record of fact.”

Speaking of this ancient crisis, he mixed a color with his brush. The girl’s half-formed body grew all the more alive; she relished the beautiful chestnut hair the man painted for her. Gently settling her down, the man continued on, like a lullaby.

“For that reason, the purpose of magic paintings was reexamined. For a long time, artists struggled with it. Many concluded that their art was mere entertainment. Many patrons cut off all funding. Innumerable magic artists found themselves without a means to display their work. They were mages, so they did not exactly starve. But that was no salvation. We are not capable of merely living—thus, the artists sought new avenues to apply their skills.”

She thought this was very sad. What was wrong with just living? Life brought so many pleasures. Blue skies, pleasant breezes, the smell of soil—was that not all people needed to be happy?

“Several movements emerged from this process. The introspects and the prunists are both quite famous—the former attempt to depict the inner lives that crystals cannot capture, while the latter place emphasis on trimming away unnecessary frills and improving the view. Both approaches have their merits. Mental control is vital to the use of magic, and if that is visible, then reproduction becomes far easier. Crystal recordings contain far too much information for anyone to process, so a magic painting depicting only what is truly needed is more practical. Yet, both approaches struggled. The former’s attempt to objectively depict the subjective was inherently contradictory, and with the latter, the time required to prune down the data proved impractical. Ultimately, artists were left trapped in a futile struggle against the cold, clear precision crystals provided.”

She couldn’t even follow half the more granular details, but she nodded anyway. Led on by that, the man spoke of the artists’ resurgence.

“But we did not take defeat lying down. Our long, dark time led to two vital discoveries. Symbolization and abstraction. Take the concepts behind the introspects and prunists, boil them down, and crystallize them into technique. I could go on all day, but simply put, the former represents one thing with another, while the latter depicts the common characteristics shared by several things. Still doesn’t make sense? Ha-ha, I know. When I first heard of them, it made no sense at all. It’s far more complex and nuanced than the simplicity the crystals provide.”

The man shrugged. His expression made it clear he was not expecting her to grasp the concepts. Just the fact that there was always something left behind after people struggled and desperately reached for the new.

“By chance or otherwise, these two principles paired well. Combining them opened a new path for magic art to follow. That is the path I am on, and you a success born along my way.”

His brush stopped, and he looked at the subject he was painting. She quickly assumed a pose, attempting to demonstrate how good his work was.

“Post-realism. Some break that down and call it futurism. At risk of being misunderstood, I’ll tell you the simplest version: drawing that which does not yet exist. Perhaps that sounds prophetic, but that is not the intent. We are strictly accounting for the principles of our world and painting visions of the future that we know will not be a natural outgrowth of them. Simpletons dismiss this as mere fantasy, but the intent is the polar opposite. We are not playing around, depicting the unreal. On our page, we attempt to create that which should exist yet does not. And we believe this art will serve as a goalpost, allowing us to reach that point someday.”

He sounded so serious, she had to nod. She might not fully grasp the meaning or intent, but she knew how much it meant to him. That was all that ever mattered to her. If he made this his life’s work, then she would be there to encourage him. She was his creation, the motif he’d chosen—and that would never change.

“Unfortunately, this aspiration was confused with the Gnostics and their offers of superficial salvation. I could grumble for ages about that, so let’s not. Let the artists in their salons bellyache to their hearts’ content. You paintings are the future we have not seen, so why waste my breath discussing a past I never wanted? Regroup and look forward—to the future I wish to depict.”

He was back on track, yet his smile wavered.

“I’m afraid that’s the thing I haven’t quite worked out yet. Don’t look disappointed! I do have leads. On my travels, I saw something that spooked me, and I gathered pieces in the same genre. I’ve painted your eyes, so you can see them yourself, yes? Over there.”

The man pointed across his studio at a wall crowded with paintings. She took one look—and flinched. Every one of them featured hideous monsters and people suffering. Even if she were to be polite, they were not in good taste. The distinctive brushwork he used with her was nowhere to be found; both technically and artistically, these works were fundamentally different.

“Hellscapes. A genre not found in traditional magic painting, these are all the work of ordinary artists. A form of religious art—and mages have no religion, so why would we paint such themes? Yet, for some reason, it stuck with me. I’m not sure why. What is it they offer?”

He looked puzzled. An idea struck her, so she asked, and he chuckled.

“Do I want to turn this world into hell? Ha-ha, that would make things easy, but I’m afraid it’s not that simple. My art is about the future—the whole point is to make the world a better place. Yet utopian paintings do nothing for me. They’re too fantastical. Or too far off to count as post-realism. The sheer chaos depicted is no worse than these hellscapes, mind.”

He put his brush down and took a seat on a chair, gazing at the hellscapes with a baffled frown. Then he turned back to her, speaking like a museum guide.

“My troubles aside, they’re fascinating! The ordinaries have invented so many types of hell. I can’t help but be impressed by the variety of torments awaiting those who fall. One expects them to be pierced with needles or basted in fires, but there are even roundabout punishments, like being forced to pile stones as the river sweeps you away. And that’s for children who die before their parents!”

That concept was beyond her. Why would anyone blame the dead child? He’d known she’d react that way, so he didn’t wait for her to ask.

“The blessings of magical culture are everywhere in the Union, but in Azia there are still many children who fail to grow up. Value your life so you may succeed us—if you take that as the moral, it makes a kind of sense. But interpretations aimed at those still living do nothing for me. It feels…impure, somehow? I mean, hell is supposed to be a place for the dead.”

He ran his fingers along the frame. These paintings gave him inspiration, but his thoughts differed from those of the foreign painters. She thought that was only natural. He was, after all, a mage.

“I believe that even the longest of punishments comes to an end, and beyond it there must be salvation. But what is salvation to a sinner? How can souls so corrupted be pardoned, purified? These thoughts are always on my mind when I gaze upon these paintings. Fretting, struggling, yet certain what I need to paint lies beyond…”

A glimpse of memories not his own—and Godfrey surfaced from them.

“—up! Please wake up! Open your eyes!”

A loud voice urging his awakening. Feeling them close, Godfrey stirred.

“ ……?”

“Ah, his eyelids moved! Don’t go back to sleep! It’s not the weekend! I don’t care how sleepy you are—you have to get up! This is no time for rest!”

That got his eyes open. He sat up, not recognizing the room. A girl in her early teens, wearing a simple dress, stood before him. That confused him.

“…Where am I? You’re…”

“Oh, good! You woke up! You’re inside me. See? Recognize this deft brushstroke? Far superior work to these run-of-the-mill paintings. Even a blind man can pick Severo Escobar’s work out of a lineup!”

The girl put her hand to her chest in a gesture of pride. Godfrey looked baffled, but the texture of her clothes and skin caught his eye. The moment he recognized both were painted, he realized she was a paint sprite, and he drew his athame. Seeing the flames at the tip, she hastily threw up her hands.

“Wait, wait! I don’t mean you any harm! Can’t you tell?!”

She waved both hands frantically. Confused, he frowned at her.

“…Yeah, you don’t seem hostile.”

“Then put that thing down, please! I’m an oil painting! I’m scared of fire! And if you light this place up, you’ll burn, too, okay? Make sure to tell the others when you wake them!”

She pointed, and Godfrey turned to find Carlos, Lesedi, and Leoncio on the ground. That finally called back memories from before he blacked out, and he grasped what was going on.

“…So…we’re inside the painting? The one from our dorm room?”

“Exactly! The beautiful painting you shoved under your bed. I’ll spare you the lecture, but I was furious! I’ve never been treated like that since the moment I was painted!”

“Well…sorry about that. I’d better get the others up.”

“Go ahead. Please do, actually. Otherwise, we’ll never get anywhere.”

She urged him on, and Godfrey started shaking their shoulders, deeply unsure what was happening.

To no surprise, Lesedi clutched her head the moment she woke up.

“…And I’m in the painting? Please tell me I’m dreaming. Can I go back to bed?”

“Sorry,” he said, then suggested, “Let’s clear our heads and hear her out. She seems like she wants something from us.”

Lesedi eyed Leoncio, who they’d left unconscious.

“First, what about him? He’s an even more unwilling participant. Can’t predict what he’ll do when he wakes.”

“…Let’s at least take his wand. If we give it back once we’re out, we can try to avoid a fight here. He’ll hold it against me, though…”

They’d figured out the rest once he woke. Godfrey swiped the athame and the white wand, as Carlos advanced on the girl.

“First, let me ask—can you take us to where Lia is?”

“You mean to the children captured by the hellscape sprites? I can. But there’s something I want you to do there. Have a seat, and we’ll talk.”

She waved to some chairs. Still wary, they sat down. The girl took a seat on the opposite side of the round table in between them, resting her arms on it.

“You’re from the lower forms, right? I heard what you were saying before I pulled you in, but just to be sure—what do you think is going on here?”

“Speculation, but…an upperclassman skilled in magic painting was consumed by the spell deep in the labyrinth, and as a result, the paint sprites went wild. And you were likely drawn by the same hand,” Godfrey replied.

“Good, right on the money. Let’s proceed. I’ll tell you what you want to know most—the captured children are still safe. For the simple reason that he doesn’t mean them harm. The painting Severo’s working on requires mages as a component of the layout—that’s why they were captured. Corpses don’t benefit him, so he’s left them alive. As simple as that.”

The three friends hadn’t expected this, and they chewed it over.

“You sound sure of that,” Godfrey said. “I assume this isn’t conjecture. Given that you’re aware of what the paint sprites are doing…can you see them?”

“Of course. There’s a channel between all works by the same artist, and we all know what the others are up to. We can communicate as well—just not right now. They don’t want to see me. The hellscape sprites synched with Severo after he was consumed by the spell, while I’m valuing the way he thought before that happened. A small distinction, but a critical one.”

She sighed, and Godfrey rubbed his chin, considering this.

“We were hoping we could rescue our friends by traveling through your painting. It sounds like that is possible, and you’re willing to help.”

That worked in their favor. If he believed everything she said, it was almost ideal. But he was a Kimberly student and did not take that for granted.

“So let me ask,” he said, giving her a piercing look. “What is it you want? You pulled us in here for a reason, yes?”

The girl straightened, explaining herself.

“Help Severo finish his painting. That’s all I ask for.”

He raised a brow at this—and Lesedi furrowed hers.

“…You want us to help your creator complete his spell? Not save him?”

“I wish he could be saved, but he’s past that. This isn’t a question of your skills—I know it’s too late for him. Severo went too deep. He can’t come back. What matters now is what he accomplishes there.”

Her hands were on her lap, shaking, but her mind was made up. Godfrey went quiet, aware she was a paint sprite, but she seemed to be telling the truth. She looked human and meant what she said—that’s what his instincts told him.

“Okay. But what can we do? I’m afraid I know little about art. I doubt I can do anything to help the creative process.”

“Right—I’m not expecting any technical help from you. What matters is your value as a motif. I felt you had that, so I’d like him to meet you. If only that could have happened before he was consumed…”

She hung her head. Godfrey felt a pang of guilt—instead of being annoyed by the painting, he could have heard her out. Her head came up.

“Go find him. Talk to Severo,” she said. “That’s all I’m specifically asking you to do. Naturally, if you can save any of the captured children along the way, I’ll help. The hellscape sprites grabbed all sorts, but Severo never had a use for them. That’s why I’m sending him the motif he really needs.”

She argued that this did not go against their goals, but Lesedi cut in.

“You’re offering up Godfrey’s life in exchange for the captured students. That’s how I hear your proposal.”

“…I only want to give Severo inspiration. But I can’t promise it won’t end poorly. He’s been consumed by the spell. I no longer know what he’s thinking. All I’m getting now is a terrible urgency.”

The girl broke off, looking deeply remorseful—and that was the last piece Godfrey needed. He decided to trust her. If she meant to deceive them, why admit to any of that? It was certainly possible that was how she meant to trick them, but that level of suspicion was unproductive.

“Very well. I accept.”

He made his intentions clear, and Lesedi let out an exasperated sigh.

“Have you lost your—? No, I already questioned your sanity.”

“Sorry, Lesedi,” Godfrey told her. “In any case, I have a request of my own. Can you send Lesedi and Mr. Echevalria—the boy asleep over there—back to the school building? This was a mission for me and Carlos only. They shouldn’t be here.”

“I would if I could, but it’s too late. Look.”

The girl pointed over their shoulders. Behind them was a frame—likely the enchanted one they’d come through. The real world should lay beyond it, but they saw nothing. It was sealed tight with insulation paper.

“After I pulled you in, a group of upperclassmen carried it back to the school building. I’m sealed away by Kimberly faculty. You’re not getting out of that from the inside. All I can do now is send you to the exit in the labyrinth.”

“So we have no choice? Then I’m going.” Lesedi huffed. No brave fronts of bravado—she was in.

Before getting dragged here, she’d had all sorts of reasons not to join their suicide mission, but with retreat not an option—none of those mattered. In which case, she was joining them. Protect her friends, defeat their foes, no other options, no use thinking about it. Ironically, this had saved her a ton of worry.

“Wait—he’s awake,” Carlos called.

Leoncio’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up, seemingly unbothered by his missing wands. He must have woken earlier and maintained the pretense of slumber while getting his wits about him.

“…I could use a briefing. What…is this?”

“Glad you could join us, Echevalria. Yourself included, we’re about to be sent to the labyrinth’s depths. That’s no coercion—it’s the only way out. Give him the rundown, Carlos.”

Carlos moved over to Leoncio, carefully explaining the facts. They were inside the painting, could not leave by the way they’d come in, and the only other exit led through the labyrinth’s depths. They added the painting girl’s request and the group’s goals, at which point Leoncio nodded.

“…Understood. I concede there’s no other choice.”

He wasted no time on questions, and that appeared to impress Lesedi.

“A speedy decision, Mr. Echevalria. I expected you to grumble.”

“I’d like to, but time spent on useless gripes is time wasted. Painting girl, where does this labyrinth exit lead?”

“Severo’s studio in the fourth layer, the Library of the Depths. I imagine you know you won’t be escaping on your own. That’s far deeper than anyone your age should go. When your purpose is met, gather in a reading space and wait for rescue. The paint sprites can’t get you there.”

“That’s what I had planned. Is there a short path to safety from this exit?”

“No, first you have to get out of the studio. However, countless paintings have blended together into a makeshift world. I wouldn’t recommend acting on your own, no matter how quickly you wish to escape. You’re only second-years—I imagine you’d die first.”

She wasn’t mincing words. Leoncio rubbed his temples, his eyes gleaming.

“In other words, if I wish to get back to campus alive, I must tag along on your suicide mission.”

“Beautifully put. I’m starting to like you, Echevalria.”

Lesedi clapped, but Leoncio ignored her spite entirely, holding his hand toward Godfrey.

“…Wands. This is no time for fighting.”

“Okay.”

Given the situation, he chose to trust the man—and gave back the stolen wand and blade. The moment Leoncio gripped them, his other hand formed a fist—and he swung.

“ !”

“Al!”

A crack against Godfrey’s face had him staggering sideways. A trail of blood ran down his cheek. Not backing off at all, he looked up again, and Leoncio snorted.

“A reprimand. That will not be the last of it—I owe you ten times that for getting me mixed up in this absurdity.”

With that, he spun on his heel, red eyes raking the exit frame in the distance.

“But not until we’re back on campus. Open the exit, painting girl.”

The girl rose to her feet, nodding. She had four cloth pouches in her hands.

“Before I go, take these. They’re important.”

“…What the…?”

“…Burnt coins?”

What they found in the pouches baffled them. Azian characters were carved on the coins, and all were discolored, as if they’d been exposed to high heat.

“It’s hell money,” the girl explained. “There’s a bunch of stuff in each—hell’s rules vary by painting, so you’ll need to be ready for them all. Consider them a form of talisman.”

All nodded and tucked the pouches into their pockets. The girl closed her eyes, concentrating. Figuring she was feeling out what lay outside the entrance, no one interrupted.

“Okay, go. I picked the safest place I could, but nowhere’s perfect. Hide as soon as you can.”

Godfrey drew his athame.

“You go first, Godfrey,” Leoncio said. “Perhaps that will improve my mood.”

“Always intended to. We brought you into this, so we’ll keep you safe. Stay behind us.”

With that, Godfrey dove through the frame, Carlos and Lesedi right behind. Leoncio was last to go, scowling furiously.

“Keep me safe?! Tch, what an aggravating man!”

Muttering to himself, he crossed the frame, leaving the girl behind.

“Please…,” she whispered, all alone.

“…Unh…”

Meanwhile, Gino’s anesthetic was wearing off, and Ophelia’s eyes opened.

“…My head feels like a rock. Carlos, make the tea extra strong—”

“Chew on this.”

She sat up, eyes bleary—and a hand from one side held out a cube made of compressed leaves. Ophelia frowned at that and turned—to find a boy in girl’s clothing.

“…Tim? Why are you—?”

“Just chew on it! It’ll wake you up.”

He shoved it at her, so Ophelia reluctantly bit into the leafy lump. The sheer bitterness was like a shot through the brain, banishing the last remnants of the drugs and clearing her mind.

“…Ngh…!”

“Hits like a brick, right? Now that you’re up, steel yourself and look around.”

One hand clapped to her lips, Ophelia did just that.

And the view made her forget about the foul flavor.

A massive vertical shaft surrounded by towering rock walls. Hollows carved into the side, with iron bars set in them; each packed with people dressed in burlap bags. Tim and Ophelia were in the bottommost cell.

The walls were covered in cells, like the world’s most tasteless show windows—and humanoid things with black wings patrolled the exterior, long torture implements in hand. “Things” because Ophelia could not ascertain their nature. They resembled harpies more than anything else, but where those demis had wings, these had arms. The wings were separate, sprouting from their backs. Their feet were hooved, like goats—to her knowledge, no such creatures existed. Yellowed, uneven teeth in mouths open to the gums—a design seemingly calculated to provoke fear in all who saw them.

“Wh-what…is this place…?”

“No clue. But we’re clearly in some sort of hell.”

Tim was taking this in stride. He’d certainly been surprised when he first woke up, but nothing more. He’d grown up with horrors.

“You remember going at it with that nasty-ass elf, right? I remember the others coming to rescue us, then these things barging into the fight—and as they ran for it, we got captured. In no state to defend ourselves. That’s when I blacked out again. Woke up about an hour ago. Decided to let you sleep till that toxin wore off. I dunno how to detox.”

With her caught up to speed, Tim looked at the birdmen and their torture devices, grinning wickedly.

“…Can’t wait to find out what they got in store for us!”

Ophelia ran through the story, then gave Tim a look.

“…When exactly did you wake up, Tim?”

“Huh?”

“That elf knocked you out. What’s…the next thing you remember?”

She’d taken a step closer, looking so grim his eyes wandered. His gut told him why—he’d seen a strange familiar pop out of her belly. No ordinary summons worked like that—that was a beast born from a human body.

“…”

“…So you did see it,” she muttered, certain. Before Tim could say a word, she grabbed his shoulders tight. “Don’t tell him. Please.”

He’d never heard her beg like this. And he could see the tears pattering to the ground below. Tim mussed the back of his hair, then sighed and pushed her away.

“…All I remember is how you saved my ass. Nothing else matters! And I ain’t gonna waste my breath on what doesn’t. Trust me on that.”

He caught her eye on that vow, with a sincerity that made her blink and wipe her tears.

“…Thanks,” she managed.

For once, she was unobscured by her usual defenses—and Tim couldn’t help but smile.

“I swear…we’re in hell, and that’s your first concern? You’re as mad as I am. Think, girl! Right now, we ain’t even sure we’ll ever see him again.”

Tim steered her attention to the problem at hand, trying to plan.

“It’s not all bad news, though. As gnarly as they look, I ain’t getting any real hostility from them. And they didn’t actually hurt us any. Also—they ain’t that bright. The fact they left us our wands and gear proves it. Kind of a half-assed way to lock up a mage, right?”

“…What even are they? They look like magical beasts, but clearly aren’t. I assume they’re some sort of mock life-form woven with magic…”

“Wish I knew. They burned like crazy when Godfrey hit ’em with flames, and I saw one burst into liquid when Lesedi kicked it. Does that help?”

That extra intel jogged Ophelia’s memory. She stroked her chin.

“…Paint sprites, I think. Which means we’re likely inside a painting. That would explain why nothing feels real and why I’ve never heard of a place like this in the labyrinth.”

“Monsters made of paint, then? Not my field—would poison work on ’em?”

Tim stood up, taking another look at them—but this earned him a glare, so he swore and sat back down.

“They react to big movements. Doesn’t seem like they intend us harm now, but no telling how long that’ll last. Gotta make an escape plan.”

“Yes, I agree. Tim, turn around.”

“Huh?”

He crooked a brow at that, but turned his back to her. Ophelia pulled a small ampoule from her robe and slipped it between her legs.

“…!”

The magical beast’s components reached her womb and affixed themselves. Wiping her hand with a handkerchief, she turned back to Tim, explaining herself.

“…I implanted a chimera seed. I used the one I had prepped on the elf, so I can’t unleash another until I’ve grown one within me. That’ll take a full day, minimum—but the more powerful options we have, the better.”

“…You sure you wanna share that?”

“You already saw one. No use hiding it. And I’m not about to die trying to hide what I can really do. Neither are you, right?”

She was being pragmatic, and Tim had to agree.

“…Yeah, Godfrey saved my life—I can’t let it end here. I’m calling a truce on our bickering. Let’s make sure we survive this, Ophelia.”

He held out a hand, and Ophelia readily shook it.

* * *

Last time, they’d been yanked in unawares, but this time they were ready for it. They passed through the frame fully conscious, emerging in the space beyond.

“…Wow.”

Hand on his athame, Godfrey looked around. Beneath an ominous red sky lay a rust-colored wasteland, stretching as far as the eye could see. Arid land dotted with rocks and boulders—and between those, desiccated human corpses lying in heaps, surrounded by instruments of torture. A gust of wind carried the scent of iron to their nostrils.

“Certainly not the labyrinth. We’re inside a painting,” Carlos surmised.

“Can you hear me?” the girl’s voice echoed in their heads. “Don’t draw your athames. Stick to white wands. Godfrey can carry me, then stay stealthy and start searching.”

Godfrey switched to his white wand, using a spell to affix the frame floating behind them to his back. They set out across the wasteland.

“You’re our guide, then?” Godfrey asked. “Your voice can reach us here?”

“You’ve been in my painting, so the channel will remain open for a while. Otherwise, I’d never have sent second-years in here. But that won’t guarantee your safety. I should warn you that fleeing back inside me is not an option, no matter how bad things get. There’s lots of conditions when linking between paintings.”

With that, she switched to explaining their surroundings.

“You’re inside the Eight Great Hells. An Azian hellscape Severo painted for study. It’s fairly treacherous, so proceed with caution. And absolutely do not draw your athame without my permission.”

Godfrey and Carlos nodded, and something swooshed through the air behind them. They spun around—and found Lesedi’s foot an inch from Leoncio’s face.

“Let me make one thing very clear, Echevalria. Getting yanked into this against your will does earn you some sympathy, but we don’t owe you shit.”

“…Hmm?”

“The only reason our younger members got captured by paint sprites is because your minion left them in no state to fight. We could argue that your being here is your own fault. Know that hit you landed on Godfrey was entirely out of line.”

“Leave it, Lesedi. Getting through this is all that matters,” Godfrey said.

Her eyes never left the blond boy, but she lowered her foot.

Not batting an eye, Leoncio called out to the girl. “What manner of paint sprites await us? Patterns, viable elements?”

“Hard to say. Inside a painting, you’re at the mercy of the local rules. It’s an oil painting, but you can’t just burn them like you did outside. There are many types of guards, so you’re probably better off making observations before engaging.”

No simple solutions to anything. Her words made it clear they had a hard road ahead of them.

“Hmm,” Lesedi growled. “You make it sound like we’re trapped in a Grand Aria.”

“Exactly. Magic paintings at this level are Arias, limited to the space within the frame. That should tell you just how great Severo is.”

The girl sounded proud, but Godfrey just looked grim. A Grand Aria—often said to be a mage’s ultimate achievement, this was a rite that literally rewrote the world itself, creating a new world under the domain of laws the caster created. Conventional wisdom did not apply—and where they found themselves might not be exactly that, but it was close enough to make Godfrey concerned.

“If you encounter guards, better not to fight if possible. You’re in a remote region, so perhaps you could handle it—but as we near the center, they’ll get stronger and in greater numbers. You simply don’t have the strength to tackle their best.”

“Region? Azian hells have those?”

“They do. And there’s organized oversight on each. There are eight great hells, each of which has sixteen lesser hells around them. You’re in the realm of sword cuts, a smaller hell outside one of those eight—specifically, the reviving hell. This is where you go if you murdered someone with a bladed weapon.”

“The perfect hell for us and our athames, then. Where do we go next?”

“We’re less looking for a place and more trying to find the Jizo Bosatsu patrolling here and have him help you escape. If you stay put, he’ll come to you eventually, but the more lives are in an area, the more frequently he passes through.”

Following her instructions, they set off across the wasteland. She called it west, but in the painting, they had no way of knowing which way was which, and her word was all they had. That made it hard to feel comfortable.

“Urgh…!”

A giant with a club lurched out from behind a boulder. A subspecies of troll found in Azia, resembling an ogre—one of this hell’s guards. They froze on the spot—and it glanced once at them, then thumped off.

“…It let us go?”

“Yes, you aren’t actual residents here, and the low-level guards aren’t terribly motivated. They’re worked hard for low wages.”

“W-wages? Hell has payrolls?”

“Why do you think I gave you money? If a fight breaks out, that’s one thing, but best if you can pay them off.”

She talked like this was normal. Carlos patted the bag in their pocket through their robes, less certain.

“I’m glad there’s ways to avoid combat, but…it’s so prosaic…”

“Agreed, but the less fights the better,” said Godfrey, “Let’s move on.”

Eyes on their surroundings, they resumed their walk. Here and there, they saw prisoners shrieking as the guards slashed away at them. A brutal sight, but knowing it was a painting—there seemed no point caring. They turned their backs on the screams, pressing onward—until their path was blocked by a forest with metal leaves.

“…And this would be?”

“The forest of swords. Every tree has blades growing on it. We can’t get to the reviving hell without passing through. Good luck!”

“That’s encouraging…,” Godfrey said, poking one of the leaves.

The edges were certainly sharp, but not so bad it instantly broke the skin. And their uniforms were designed to repel blades.

“…Not that sharp. I doubt they’d get through Kimberly robes. Just be careful they don’t hit your face.”

“I guess…” Lesedi nodded.

She swallowed, and they ventured into the forest of swords. They soon found that the hard branches prevented them from simply pushing aside the thicket patches like with ordinary shrubs.

“This sucks ass!” Lesedi swore, ducking under some blades. “Wish we could at least cut through them with our athame…”

“You can, but the guards will come flocking to you. Remember, this is where they keep murderers who killed with swords,” the girl advised.

“And burning our way through would take too much mana,” Godfrey added. “Just grin and bear it.”

As they persevered, Carlos felt a sharp pain on their calf.

“Ack…!”

“Carlos?!”

Sensing something amiss, Godfrey quickly scanned their surroundings. He soon found a small thing, a sharp blade in one hand, bounding around from branch to branch.

“A blade monkey! They come in packs of five or six! Look out!”

“Fight here? Without athames?” Leoncio frowned, raising his white wand.

A blade monkey shot down from above, and Lesedi’s heel hit home.

“Geh—!”

It was sent flying and wound up impaled on a branch blade. It thrashed for a moment and then perished. Lesedi’s kick had found a safe line through the blades around her—she lowered her leg, snorting.

“Moves are telegraphed. They’ve only faced unresisting sinners.”

More foes came dashing in through the trees to one side. Leoncio’s toe caught one’s legs, and it went tumbling into a blade, decapitating itself with its own momentum.

“Trip them up, and it’s that easy? Hmph, the second layer’s beasts are far more imposing.”

With the threat measured, they formed ranks, waiting for the next wave—and felt the hostiles retreating.

“Two down, and the rest flee?” Godfrey said. “That is unmotivated.”

“Hurry onward,” the girl advised. “They may not be too dangerous, but they might call other guards.”

They healed Carlos’s leg and pressed on through the forest of swords. They watched for further attacks, but none came—twenty minutes later, they reached the other side, and the view opened up once more.

“…We’re out? Now where are we?” Leoncio frowned.

Countless cauldrons, all over fires, in rows to the horizon. Large guards were stirring these pots—in which were countless boiling humans, their screams and cries echoing in all directions. As they gaped, the girl filled them in.

“We’ve reached the realm of cauldrons. Those who’ve killed and eaten animals are boiled in these iron pots. Unlike the realm of sword cuts, you can draw your athame without incurring immediate wrath, but there are a lot more guards here—be cautious.”

They began their journey across this fresh hell.

Eyes on the boiling sinners, Lesedi wondered, “Stiff punishment for eating meat. Is Azian culture that opposed to the idea?”

“It can be, but all punishments are rather extreme. The goal is to tell the living just how bad things will be if they do anything wrong. Since it’s fiction, they can go all out.”

“Like the money thing, this feels very down-to-earth. I suppose if humans dreamed it up, that’s how things work.”

“I’m less sure. Other depictions of hell are further removed. If you’re unlucky, you might get to see them.”

“Do you really know where you’re going…?” Lesedi growled, glaring at the picture.

Godfrey, in the lead, drew to a halt—before them lay an expanse of boiling water, covering half of all they could see.

“…That is a very large cauldron,” the girl explained. “More like a lake, really.”

After a moment of observation, Godfrey said, “Let’s go around. Less guards to the left.”

Eyes on the guards hurling sinners into the lake, using the smaller cauldrons as cover, they did their best to remain out of sight.

“…They make it look routine,” said Lesedi.

“Like they’re adding ingredients to a stew,” Godfrey added.

“The work is easier than in the realm of sword cuts, so their quotas are higher,” the girl told them. “Look. Up ahead, the poached sinners are being pulled out in sieves.”

“I’d rather not see any of this,” Carlos said. “The sooner we’re through, the better.”

This was the consensus, so they sped up…but a guard finished throwing his sinners in and spotted them. Godfrey saw him lumbering their way.

“…Hng. One’s after us.”

“Take out your hell money. Hold it lightly in your palm. Four of you, so eight coins will suffice.”

Godfrey did as the girl suggested, letting the guard see. The guard turned his back, then held his hand out behind him. Catching the intent, Godfrey was about to pass the money over—when another guard came running in.

“ ?!”

“Another one spotted you? Not good! They’ll come flocking in! You’ll never have enough funds.”

The two guards started arguing, and Godfrey’s group could hear more approaching. Godfrey made his choice.

“Run while they’re distracted!”

All four were soon at top speed. Guards who saw them fleeing began giving chase, but their bulky frames rendered them as sluggish as they looked. Just as Godfrey started to think they’d get away clean, the guards started tipping cauldrons their way.

“Tch!”

“Echevalria!”

“Ah, Al—?!”

Leoncio had been closest, and to avoid getting crushed under the cauldron, he leaped down to the boiling water’s surface, Godfrey hot on his heels. Shocked, Carlos and Lesedi peered over the edge—and found them both standing on the bubbling surface.

“…Unnecessary. Did you think I had not mastered Lake Walking?”

“Glad you have. I really struggled with it last year.”

Godfrey just looked glad that his fears were unfounded. The other two joined them on the boiling lake, leaving the guards gnashing their teeth on the bank.

“Didn’t think of walking on boiling water, but it might actually be safer,” Lesedi said.

“Let’s make a dash for the far shore!” Carlos urged.

Off they went, the waters rearing up and chasing them. The guards had giant oars to stir the pot and were using these to generate boiling waves. Godfrey drew his athame to handle this.

“Stop them, Carlos!”

“On it! Prohibere!”

A hardening spell hit the hot wave, and they ran off, following the girl’s instructions. At last, they reached the far side and were on dry land—and they kept on running, mindful of the guards in pursuit.

“We’re across!”

“Is that the right gate?!”

“Yes! Only one more lesser hell to cross, and you’re in the reviving hell! Use your spells to burst through the gate!”

“Got it. Godfrey! You save yours!”

The remaining three fired at the gate ahead and plunged into the darkness beyond. Another spell to close the gate behind them, and they found themselves in a realm devoid of light.

“…I can’t see at all. Painting girl, explain.”

“This is the realm of darkness. For those who kill sheep and turtles. It may make progress difficult, but do not generate light. Move quietly, keeping voices and footsteps to a minimum.”

Even in this darkness, she knew which way to go. They picked their way along, Godfrey wiping the sweat from his brow. At first, he assumed the heat was residual from the boiling lake, but clearly not.

“…It’s very hot. Yet, no fires…”

“Black flames. Fires made of darkness, tormenting the sinners here. Guards are slowly carrying them around, so keep clear of heat sources.”

Godfrey took this in stride. He’d figured there were enemies nearby when she cautioned against the light.

In time, Lesedi detected movement. “Multiple things moving around.”

“Clip imps. They cut the tendons of sinners’ legs so they can’t flee. They rely on their ears and noses, so if you’re quiet, they won’t attack—”

But sounds drowned the painting girl out. A rustling of footsteps right at hand.

“More and more of them.” Lesedi frowned. “Are we in trouble?”

“If we clump up, we can’t dodge properly. Let’s spread out a little,” Carlos suggested.

They began moving at an appropriate range—not far enough to lose track of one another—but every now and then, things flitted among them. Unnerving. They were being tracked by their footsteps and the sounds of their breathing.

“…!”

One false move, and they’d make contact—and be in combat. Hoping to avoid that, Godfrey focused on their presence—and then his toe hit something hard, sending it flying.

“ ?!”

A blunder. Too focused on the enemies to register objects that weren’t moving. That had likely been a rock—and the sound of it made their position far more obvious than their stifled steps.

“Shi—”

“““““GYAAAAAAAAAAAA!”””””

Horrific shrieks echoed through the dark. Lesedi and Carlos strained their eyes.

“Godfrey?!”

“I’ve got the light!”

“No, don’t—!” Leoncio said—but there was already a light on Carlos’s athame.

The things in the dark came into view. Scrawny frames, scuttling on all fours, eyelids melted closed, yellowed teeth, sinners’ blood dripping from hands holding bone scythes. On the verge of tackling Godfrey.

“Run!” Leoncio roared, and everyone shot forward.

They were past dousing the light and hiding once more—clip imps were closing in from all directions. More from ahead, and when they changed course to avoid them, another pack arrived. Soon they had nowhere to run, enemies thronging all around.

“…We’re surrounded.”

“Painting girl, advice?”

“…Um…you might be doomed…”

Her voice shook, so Godfrey steeled his nerve. He’d have to fire a big spell and open a path. As he raised his athame to do that, Carlos put a hand on his shoulder.

“…Wait, Al.”

“Carlos?”

“I’d like to try something. Hold that spell.”

With that, they stepped forward. Before the thronging hell guardians, they placed a hand on their chest and took a deep breath—

“La-la~  ”

—and began to sing. The clip imps flinched and stopped.

The last thing they’d expected.

“My word.”

“An enchanted voice? But why—?” Leoncio frowned.

But the view before them soon explained why. One imp after another dropped their weapons, enraptured by the sounds of Carlos’s song.

“…The guards stopped to listen?”

“…Oh,” the girl said. “The guards are starved for entertainment. They live in darkness and have never heard music before. And a voice this beautiful…”

Leoncio took that to the logical conclusion.

“They cannot fight emotion. The song alone is tantamount to a charm. A curious pawn you have.”

“They’re a friend, not a pawn,” Godfrey insisted. Then he asked, “Carlos, can you keep going?”

Carlos nodded, smiling as they sang. They took the lead, and the throng of clip imps parted, making way for them. Carlos strode down that aisle.

“Let’s follow. They seem disinclined to stop the concert.”

For the next half hour, the group walked on, escorted by Carlos’s song. At last, they passed through a gate and escaped the darkness.

“…We’re through…”

“…Whew.”

Finally, a moment to rest. Godfrey was soon concerned for his friend.

“How are you holding up, Carlos? That must take its toll.”

“I’m fine!” Carlos said, smiling. “They were a responsive audience, so I didn’t have to use that much power.”

Leoncio stepped closer, examining the band tattooed around their throat.

“So this works to seal your enchanted voice? Then you’re far from your limit.”

“But don’t count on it. It works better on some listeners than others, and if I sing at full strength, my body won’t hold out.”

Leoncio nodded and turned away. Before them stood an open expanse of red earth, stretching to the horizon.

“We’re in the reviving hell now. It’s only a matter of time before we encounter the Jizo Bosatsu on patrol. That said…”

The girl trailed off, and they knew why. Dotted across the plains were sinners with makeshift weapons, killing one another. Those who received fatal wounds fell temporarily, but they soon rose to their feet again—like the undead. Even with no foreknowledge, Godfrey could tell this endless fight had given the hell its name.

“…the question is whether you can live that long. The sinners here are consumed by enmity and are constantly trying to kill one another. Unlike the guards, they don’t take bribes.”

“So there’s no avoiding a fight. How long must we hold out?” Godfrey asked, drawing his athame.

The girl considered this. “An hour, at most. Once he arrives, I’ll do the talking; you focus on survival.”

“Makes it simple,” Lesedi said, cracking her neck.

Sinners had already spotted them, and they stepped forward to engage.

Tim and Ophelia had been biding their time in the cage. Certain the patrolling paint sprites were distracted, they exchanged glances.

“…Ready?”

“Yes. Let’s do this.”

They got to work. Spells cast to raise the ground, forming dummies. They covered these in their robes, leaving those in the cell—then cut the bars behind them with their athames, slipping out. They dove into the nearest passage leading into the rock face, escaping the paint sprites’ line of sight—and ran for it.

“…Good, we’re out!”

“That went well! My first time escaping prison…”

Ophelia grinned, riding a wave of excitement. But the paint sprites soon kicked up a fuss by their cage.

“They worked it out? Let’s hurry!”

They ran on, conscious of their pursuit—and soon found themselves before a gate blocking the passage. Both drew their blades.

““Patentibus!””

That spell should have opened the gate, but the door didn’t budge.

“I was afraid of that,” Tim spat. “Okay, busting through!”

“Acid, then a spell? Let’s hope our output’s strong enough!”

Tim grabbed a vial from his pouch, and his spell controlled the flow of the mist, coating a circular section of the door. As it started to dissolve, he and Ophelia cast another spell together.

““Impetus!””

With the door weakened, the blast of wind punched a hole in it.

“Yes!” Ophelia yelled.

“No time to celebrate! Dive in!”

They ducked down, taking turns diving through the hole they’d made, careful not to let the remnants of the potion touch them. They got to their feet outside and found themselves somewhere completely different—rolling hills in all directions. They resumed their flight, glancing back at the paint sprites peering through the hole.

“…They’re not following us. Looks like they can’t?”

“They draw the line at that, huh? Works for us, but I doubt we’re welcome here, either.”

Tim figured the world inside the paintings operated on rules of its own. He and Ophelia reached the top of the hill—and the view that provided made them gulp.

“…Oh my…”

An expanse bathed in pure-white light. Their instincts told them this was not merely the predominant color—but a space not yet painted, the future site of this painting’s centerpiece. An untouched canvas.

“…I can tell without prior knowledge. We’re approaching the heart of things.”

“Yeah. And whoever’s behind it.”

They had their hands clenched on their athames, certain there was no avoiding a fight.

The reviving hell was filled with bloodthirsty cadavers, and the mages’ battle raged on.

“…Hahhh, hahhh…!”

“How much longer, painting girl? It’s been at least forty minutes!” Leoncio roared, turning three incoming sinners to ash at once. Carlos’s enchanted voice was tempering the trio’s aggression.

“I can feel him getting closer!” the girl said, her voice tense. “Ten more minutes…no, five! Hang on a little longer!”

With an end in sight, they summoned further reserves and fought on. Constantly moving to avoid being surrounded—but there were just so many sinners here, and at each new location, more charged their way. None especially powerful—but they came in such numbers, their mana could not keep up. Godfrey was not the only one forced to avoid spells and to endure.

“Hng?!”

Then a mounted knight came charging toward them, knocking sinners aside. Easily eight feet tall. In one hand, a polished halberd. Both rider and horse encased in burnished black armor. Clearly a class above the rest, and all eyes turned toward it.

“…Who’s that?”

“No! The overseer?!” the girl shrieked. “He’s the top guard in this hell! I thought we could avoid him if we stuck to the outskirts…!”

They threw their bags of hell money its way, but it paid that no attention, its horse’s hooves pounding onward. That surprised no one; they knew what this meant.

“No interest in bribes. A fight it is.”

“Careful! He’s a warrior, not a guard. Nothing like—!”

The knight attacked before the painting girl could even finish. A sweep of the halberd with the full speed of the horse behind it. Godfrey blocked with his athame, but was lifted off his feet and sent flying.

“…Ngh…!”

In the air, he was defenseless. Carlos was focused on their song and could not chant a spell to save him. Trying to help, Lesedi aimed her blade at the knight, and Leoncio matched her.

“Tonitrus!”

“Solis lux!”

Two spells of different elements struck the knight’s back—but it did not even flinch. They barely managed to draw its gaze.

“Not even defending itself?” Leoncio spat. “How thick is that armor?”

With spells ineffective, Lesedi changed tactics, shifting her aim from the rider’s back to the horse’s legs. But then a crossbow bolt fired from the horse’s back—and she barely dodged, losing a layer of skin to the passing shaft. Far more powerful than any average bow and featuring a contrivance that meant the next shaft was already loaded.

“No openings! How are we supposed to fight this?!”

Even Lesedi couldn’t keep dodging that bow at close range. But from a safe distance, they had no way of putting it down, and with their attention focused on the knight, the wave of sinners would wear them down. Leoncio scowled. Even a few minutes in these conditions might prove too long.

“Keep Carlos safe,” Godfrey said, landing and righting himself. “I’ll handle him.”

He gave the knight a look of such ferocity, it wheeled around, raising the halberd again—and he met it not with a spell but with his athame.

“Rahhh!”

The knight swung the halberd, though, even more powerfully than before. The sight alone put fear in Lesedi’s eyes.

“…How can he match that?”

“Why won’t he cast?!” Leoncio roared.

“…One, he’s only got so many shots. Second—he’s defending us,” Lesedi explained.

Even Godfrey’s output wouldn’t down this knight in one blow. And if he attempted it, the knight would likely go for weaker foes first—and their enchanted singer was all too exposed.

But as long as he stuck to blades, that could be avoided. The fight thus far had made it clear the knight preferred that. As long as Godfrey did not cast, he showed no signs of reaching for the crossbow. Thus, Godfrey had chosen this tactic. Keeping the knight’s attention on himself kept the others out of harm’s way.

“…You are determined to infuriate me at every turn,” Leoncio growled, loath to be under Godfrey’s protection.

Even as Leoncio watched, the knight cast the crossbow aside, gripping the halberd with both hands.

“He dropped the bow! Full strength!”

“That was all one-handed…?”

Godfrey grimaced. The knight leaped from the horse, the halberd descending from on high.

“…!”

Godfrey put his free hand on the back of his blade, blocking the halberd. The force was stupendous and caused his knees to buckle. But just as it seemed like his legs would fold under him, he used the full might of the added strength his mana circulation provided and pushed back.

“Rahhh!”

The tip of the halberd swam in Godfrey’s vision, the knight’s finishing blow defended against—and it went still. An absurd use of mana, it left Godfrey feeling distanced from his own body, yet he spied a smile beneath the knight’s helm.

“Hng…”

No longer mounted, the knight stood upon its own two legs. The girl sounded as impressed as she was appalled.

“You’re something else, Godfrey. He likes you!”

The knight struck a high stance—an invitation. As imposing as a warrior ought to be. Godfrey shot forward, responding in kind.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“Rahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

They fought face-to-face. A swift halberd strike, deflected; a step in close as the tip wavered—but the knight had anticipated that and swept its halberd horizontally.

“…Gah…!”

The hilt—not the blade—caught Godfrey’s side. With the knight’s skill, it could do more than enough damage even without actually slicing. The impact stopped Godfrey in his tracks, and the next swing bore down upon him.

“Extruditor! Ducere!”

Leoncio’s spells shot in to prevent it. The first pushed the halberd aside, and the second peeled off a piece of the chest armor. Saved in the nick of time, Godfrey glanced once at the blond mage.

“Oaf of the highest order, why do you play at warriors’ games? What are you?!”

A roar of fury. And a pointed reminder.

“Right.” Godfrey winced. “I’m a mage.”

The knight had regrouped and was stepping in, swinging down. Godfrey stepped back to avoid that—and a spell crossed his tongue.

“Flamma!”

A focused bolt of fire struck the gap in the armor, burning the body within. As the knight staggered, light passed over their heads.

“He has arrived! Hear our plea, Jizo Bosatsu!” the girl cried. “I know you can tell—these children do not belong here!”

The moment her plea was accepted, light poured down from above, enveloping them.

“Mm—”

“Whoa—?!”

The ground underfoot fell away—hell retreated. As the knight’s presence faded, Godfrey caught a last word flung after it.

A gray space, devoid of sound. The mages looked around, taking in where the Jizo Bosatsu had left them.

“…We got away…?” Lesedi asked.

“…Somehow,” the girl said, sounding relieved. “Well done, all of you. Honestly, when the overseer appeared, I thought it was all over.”

Remembering the knight’s last remark, Godfrey grimaced. “He said to come again once I die. Not sure how to respond to that invitation.”

“Tell him hell no. What other answer is there?” Lesedi spat.

Godfrey nodded and turned to Leoncio, offering his hand.

“Appreciate the assist, Mr. Echevalria. He’d have cut me down otherwise. My survival is your doing.”

“I merely called a fool a fool. Spare me the gratitude—it makes me want to kill you myself.”

Leoncio knocked Godfrey’s hand aside, then turned his back, addressing the painting girl.

“So where are we? Not outside the painting, I take it?”

“Afraid not. But we’re close to our destination.”

She urged them on, her voice grim. As she spoke, Godfrey looked around—and found a patch of white light in the gray.

“This painting is, as yet, untitled. You’re in an unfinished hellscape. Severo’s here with you—and the children you’re searching for.”

Tim and Ophelia had kept a low profile, moving onward—but before them lay a space teeming with paint sprites. Too big to dash across, too little cover to sneak by. This left them both with a difficult decision.

“…We’re screwed. Can’t go farther without being spotted.”

“Yes… I hate to, but let’s lie low awhile.”

They nodded and cast at the wall hiding them, slipping into a shelter meant for two. Inside, they closed the openings, leaving only peepholes.

Tim let out a sigh. “Might have been better off in the cage—let’s hope that’s not the case. If it turns out to be, let me say sorry here.”

“No need. Whatever the outcome, I have no intention of leaving my life in someone else’s hands. I’m sure Carlos is coming for me anyway. I’m just worried he and Godfrey are getting themselves in—”

She broke off mid-sentence. Something unnatural beyond the wall sent chills down both of their spines.

“Ngh—”

“…Don’t…breathe…!”

Making as little noise as they could, they peered through the peepholes. Someone was walking frantically back and forth outside—a slim young man with a spellbrush in one hand. His clothing spattered with paint, his gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes speaking to his torments.

“Dammit! I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know! How do I save you mages?! Nothing makes you change! Burning, stabbing, crushing—nothing cleanses the corruption in your souls!”

He was muttering, agitated—and the birdman sprites brought him an unconscious underclassman. One from a different batch than Tim and Ophelia.

“Mm?” The man frowned. “Why are you bringing me children? I’ve told you they’re no use as a motif!”

He sighed, disappointed, and the sprites flew off, leaving the student behind. The man waved his wand, making a chair behind him and then settling down on it.

“I need humans who have sinned. Fully grown mages—or they’re worthless to me. Though even if I had some, I would not know what to do with them.”

He clutched his head, muttering away.

“…If I am to draw hell, I must witness it. Must I copy Azian folklore? All I’ve done, and back to that? Augh. No, no, I can’t. I don’t want that again. Once nearly destroyed me. A second—”

He quivered, then his eyes snapped to the sleeping student. Slowly, he raised his hand.

“…But I have to paint…otherwise, it will be in vain…in which case…”

He rose from his chair, staggering forward. Just as he was about to touch the student…

“Don’t.”

A voice stopped him. The man jumped. And he found Tim Linton glaring at him.

“I’m outta my element, but I can tell,” Tim growled, looking the man in the eye. “This is your moment of no return. Remember what it is you really wanna achieve. It ain’t that.”

Ophelia caught up, standing next to him.

“…Tim…!”

“Sorry, Ophelia. But you know as well as I do—if we fail to stop him here, we’re all doomed.”

He spoke with confidence, and the man’s voice quivered.

“…Who are you? Why are you here…?” he asked, confused.

“Your paint sprites nabbed us. Do you realize you’ve been consumed by the spell?”

Tim put the plain truth out there, and the man gaped at him, then smiled weakly.

“…Ha-ha, don’t be silly… I’m just in my studio, painting away…”

“Then why’s he here? Why are we? Artists know the difference between their own paintings and outside elements, right? Open your eyes. Look around. Was this what your studio looked like?”

Tim waved at the unreal landscape. The man gazed at the space, stunned—and then realization sank in.

“Oh…I see. We’re inside a painting…”

Glad the man was following along, Tim turned up the pressure.

“Nice of you to join us. Let us out. You said you can’t use us, but you’ve captured us anyway. We mages don’t die easy, so we’re loath to accept a pointless death.”

He pinned his hopes on this, and the man’s shoulders shook.

“…So it’s true, Juanita…”

A name crossed his lips. With his eyes unfocused, he rambled on.

“They only bring children… All too young to face their sins. Is that a sign that I must sin myself…? Were you alone not sin enough? I cannot envision the hell I must paint—is that what you’re telling me…?”

“…! Yo, come back to us!” Tim shouted.

“No use. He’s too far gone,” Ophelia replied.

“…Very well,” the man said, his trembling dying away. “I’ll try these three. Sorry I ever hesitated…”

He was still talking himself into it, murky eyes turning to the two juniors.

“Kimberly Magic Academy seventh-year Severo Escobar. Majoring in post-realism. I am, as I have ever been, a hopelessly untalented magic painter of hellscapes. That is the name of the demon who will slaughter you. Curse that name, children.”

That was a declaration of war. Tim and Ophelia each took a step back, drawing their athames—and attacking first.

“Partus!”

A swiftly grown chimera leaped from Ophelia’s belly. With a fearsome birthing cry, it attacked—and the man’s eyes went wide.

“A chimera in your belly…? How awful. Your body is a punishment handed down at the moment of your birth…”

And while his eyes were locked on that, Tim closed in. A paint sprite threw itself in front of his spell, but Tim spat the magic potion he’d planted in his mouth. The toxic mist hit the man’s eyes, blinding him.

“…You’ve taken my eyes,” the man whispered. “A lethal poison. Yet, you had it in your mouth… How you must have suffered to obtain that resistance…”

Seizing this chance, Tim and Ophelia joined the chimera, attacking. But the man’s brush moved too fast for the eye to see, drawing bars in the air that blocked their progress.

“…Wonderful, children. Your lives were full of screams. A proper sacrificial motif…”

Before they could recover, his brush moved. A towering demon, a severed head aloft on white wings, a lizardman with a gleaming sword. What he drew in the area became the denizens of hell.

“As you are, wanting for nothing—become my sin.”

Tim and Ophelia fought back against these new opponents, but this man was making paint sprites. No matter how many they defeated, there were always more. Their efforts were fruitless—in no time, they were on the defensive, cornered.

“He’s got no eyes, but we can’t get through!”

“We’re inside his painting. Even blind, this is a part of him…!”

They cast spells, hoping for any way to turn this around. Well aware they had no shot at winning. That a desperate last stand was their only option.

Their resistance did not last even five minutes.

Three underclassmen in a heap before him. The man looked them over, muttering, “No, no…that’s not it…!”

His voice rose to a shriek. He pulled at his hair. Frustrated by the futility of his own actions.

“It’s not right, Juanita! There is no point in suffering! The Azian monks refuted that! Suffering is our constant state—how can that purify a soul?!”

His voice a rasp, like he was coughing up blood. An empty hollow in his eyes.

“I already knew. What I seek…is something I lost long ago. No end of searching will find that anywhere within me. That’s why I looked for motifs outside of art. But what I need is not mature mages, not sacrificial lambs…”

He folded to the ground. Seeking an answer he could not find.

“…We mages have no god to beg for mercy. In the bowels of hell…what name do we call?”

As if in answer, a chunk of wall drawn by his own brush blew inward.

“ ?!”

He swung around to face it and found a boy striding through the dust.

“…Is everyone at this school a giant pain in the ass?”

Three underclassmen were on the newcomer’s heels—but the man’s eyes were locked on the one in the lead. On those eyes, with a purpose far too strong.

“You want help, then? With something you can’t handle on your own? Then say the word. Not to a nonexistent god, but to me—I’m right here.”

As the boy drew near, one of his companions ran over to Tim and Ophelia, standing before them.

“Call for me, and I will come. As long as I can hear your voice, as long as my limbs still move—that is the vow I swore.”

That was how he lived. Tim and Ophelia were gazing at his back, smiling through their injuries.

“You came…”

Godfrey nodded emphatically.

“Kept you waiting,” he said. His words doubled as an acknowledgment of the fight they’d endured. “We’re here to take you two home.”

His voice echoed through the air around them. That alone changed the entire mood.

“Wh-who…are you…?” the artist stammered.

“The man you need, Severo.”

The painting lifted from Godfrey’s back, the girl calling out from within. Severo’s eyes went wide.

“Juanita?! Why are you here…? You shouldn’t be… I mean…you were with me, berating my every move…”

“That Juanita is your sin. I’m the one you painted and cut away from your heart—a portrait of me when I was healthy. When I was alive, you had to capture me. But you could not bear to have me smiling at you. The moment I was done, you gifted me to the dorms.”

She spoke with sorrow. Desperate to make up for lost time.

“The thing you’ve lost, the subject of your final masterpiece—it’s right here. Don’t look away. Face it. I know you can do it.”

“Unh…unh…unhhhhhh…!”

A ripple went through Severo. He raised his spellbrush—an instinctive defense.

Eyes on him, Godfrey asked the girl, “He seems past talking. May I?”

“Yes. No need to overthink this. Just show him who you are.”

“Solis lux!”

A light from the side, not waiting for their talk to end. Severo blocked with a barrier wall. Godfrey looked surprised, and Leoncio snorted.

“I care not about your circumstances. I’m here to kill my enemy—the rest of you suit yourselves.”

With that, he attacked, lunging in without fear. Lesedi watched his back, and Carlos stepped up next to her.

“Hang on a moment longer, Lia,” they said, glancing down. “This won’t take long.”

“He’s in the top year, but what of it? We’re here to do our thing.”

“I’ll keep addressing him as I fight. As many words as I can, for as long as I can. You keep me alive.”

Both nodded. Lesedi and Godfrey chased after Leoncio.

“Carlos, sing!” Godfrey called. “It should work on him!”

“Got it! I’ll sing till my lungs explode!”

Carlos put their fingers to their throat tattoo. It came away like a ribbon, and they started singing—the output of their enchanted voice far more powerful. Calling to the fading mind of a man consumed by the spell—and with the scene set, Godfrey roared.

“Come at me, painter of hell!”

His first spell mowed down the paint sprites in his way. The defensive film on his arm turned white, but there was no use conserving strength here. Godfrey threw himself at the seventh-year with the full force of his ideals.

“You wish to paint salvation! That’s why you chose hellscapes! Correct?”

“……Yes! Yet, that salvation eludes me! Nothing I paint is sufficient to save a mage! No matter how I move my brush, I have seen every hell this world offers, and I know they are beyond salvation…!”

The answer he got was a desperate cry. But the fact that he responded at all—seemed like a path forward. Godfrey stayed focused on the fight, but lent his ears, chose his words, moving steadily closer to Severo’s heart.

“Our salvation? I’d argue you must save yourself first. How can you save anyone when you yourself have not been saved?”

“I do not want it—I no longer have the right!”

A vehement rejection—and Severo’s brush painted countless torture implements, which flew at his foes. Godfrey’s second spell burned these away, his tone unchanged.

“Then that is equally true for the mages you wish to save. Do you see the contradiction? Their salvation is your salvation—you cannot have one without the other. No success without sacrifice. That is how a mage thinks! No wonder you’re going in circles.”

He was pointing out the obvious flaws in Severo’s logic while demonstrating his understanding. Godfrey had faced many mages on campus, and many had shared the same distorted ideals—as the artist before him did.

“The salvation you seek lies outside that cycle! And I believe I know the answer.”

“Then tell me! What manner of punishment is it?!”

He painted more sprites even as he asked; Lesedi’s kicks and Leoncio’s spells made short work of them, allowing Godfrey to remain close and try to get through.

“…I loathe this school. For many reasons—but chief among them? Nobody takes care of themselves. They all see themselves as further grist for the mill. And that only gets worse with each passing year, the more complete a mage they become.”

His speech tore the covers from his foe, yet equally revealed himself. Godfrey saw that as a fair exchange. Attempting to reach his opponent’s heart without baring his own would be the height of arrogance.

“We all die eventually—thus, as long as we go on living, we are bound to lose that which matters to us. This is true not just for mages, but for ordinaries, too. But how are humans meant to handle this loss?”

Severo had no answer to that, so he said nothing.

“We grieve,” Godfrey said, providing one. “We reflect on what we lost, on feelings that cannot be replaced—and we make that a part of ourselves. If that leaves a hollow that cannot be filled, then that is a reminder of what we once had. You cannot paint over it; you cannot turn your eyes away—you can only run your fingers along the frame.”

“What meaning does that have?!” Severo screamed.

Swords shot from the ground at his feet. Godfrey leaped away, his third spell melting them, and spoke again before his feet even touched the ground.

“It has no meaning, nor should it. That is inherent to the concept of the irreplaceable! It matters too much for anything else to take its place? Then that is the core of our humanity! And you know why? Because we are more than logs for the pyre! Our lives are not a means to someone else’s end!”

Godfrey’s speech rang out above the clamor of the battle.

“…I don’t get it! I don’t get it…!” Severo wailed, shaking his head. “Nothing you say makes sense! Please use words I can understand…!”

“No, you already do! Deep down, this is what you crave! You simply have not accepted it. You once possessed a spark so vital it could not be replaced. Yet, you stubbornly avert your eyes from it. Because you were taught that a mage should not reflect on the lives cast aside, taught that all such sacrifices have meaning.”

Severo’s brush generated a blizzard, and Godfrey’s fourth spell pushed it back. The protective film was gone, and Godfrey’s arm was starting to burn. None of that pain showed on his face—his eyes locked only on the artist.

“I’ll say it again. Trace the hollow within. The place it used to be. It may not mean anything; it may be objectively of no consequence—by sorcerous standards, it may appear a laughable concern. But that was a spark you alone cannot deny.”

Draw her once a day. His mother’s orders, when he was very young.

At first, Severo was baffled by these instructions. A nonmagical girl, hired as a servant—how could that serve as a motif of any value? Would he not be better off spending that time acquiring other techniques?

But in time, he understood. She was not a servant, but a teaching material. A girl doomed to an untimely death three years hence—and he was to record her progression to that demise, burn her life and death into his eyes.

“You know what, Severo? I think mages are very sad creatures.”

Thus, Severo continued to draw her. As her cheeks grew gaunt, her skin dry. Where once she had bounded around merrily, now she could only lie in bed.

“To pursue your spells, you must trample on morality and ethics. Throw what really matters into the fires of your ambitions. There is nothing protecting your heart. It’s like you’re standing naked in a field, at the mercy of the elements.”

Severo remembered every emotion and idea the girl had expressed in her short life.

“That’s why we ordinaries make up gods. We imagine salvation from nothing, and it gives us comfort. I think you need something to serve that function. Without it, you will lose sight of your own essence.”

There was a smile on the girl’s face. The kindness there alone unchanged from when she was healthy—a fact that struck him as cruel.

“Promise me you’ll paint that one day, Severo.”

“And so I painted,” Severo whispered, tears he’d long held back streaming down his face. “Painting after painting. I had to create great works, the likes of which no one had ever seen, art that could lead to the future of sorcery—nothing else made sense. If the art drawn in your blood does not hold value equal to you, that’s just unacceptable. If I fail, then what did you die for? How am I to reward your sacrifice?”

A plea, delivered through sobs. The girl’s painting had been hovering away from the front lines, but now it swooped down next to Godfrey.

“…Imagine,” she said, speaking words to the artist that she alone could offer. “Imagine that right here, right now—the world ends. Everything you mages built, the history dedicated to the pursuit of sorcery—all for naught.”

A harsh hypothetical. An awful future, in which no sacrifices were rewarded. But despite that fact, her voice did not waver.

“The time we spent together is still here. It does not have to mean anything. It’s still with us, Severo.”

In the frame, the girl had her hand on her chest. Severo dropped his spellbrush, clutching his head with both hands.

“…Unh—ah—aughhhhhhh…!”

The painted world began to waver. As the artist’s mind shook, so did the order imposed upon this space. All that was left was to wait for its collapse, taking everything with it—and when the girl realized that, she barked an order.

“Burn it, Godfrey.”

“Burn what?”

“Everything. There’s too much clutter on this canvas.”

Godfrey doubted his ears, yet he realized that was the only path left to them. The girl gave him one more push.

“Cleanse it. If all else is gone, his eyes will see what he is meant to paint.”

A simple plea for a blank canvas. Godfrey had to nod.

“Very well. If I can manage that before I burn myself up, that is.”

Godfrey raised his athame. He’d fired four spells already, and his arm was badly burnt—realizing what he meant to do, Lesedi looked aghast.

“No—you’re gonna doublecant? That’ll turn you to ash!”

“I’ll apply the convergence magic principle. Help me control it, Lesedi.”

She grimaced but moved up beside him. Placing her own wand alongside Godfrey’s, but warning, “It’s not my forte! Don’t blame me if we both burn up!”

“Then let me say sorry now—and thank you,” Godfrey told her with a smile.

That was the last push she needed, and her voice grew calm.

“Then let me make one minor request. Instead of Flamma, use Ignis.”

“Mm?”

“I feel that fits you better. Don’t ask why—it’s pure instinct.”

An abrupt proposal as he laid his life on the line. But that was what had brought them here. Words from a trusted comrade. Godfrey nodded readily.

“…Okay. Somehow, I think you’re right.”

He focused, took a deep breath—and chanted the spell.

“Enfoldo Ignis!”

A surge of mana raged within. Focusing it, controlling it, manifesting flames from his wand—Godfrey was entirely unable to handle it all, the overflowing fires began to burn his arm.

“…Gah…!”

“Focus! Don’t let your visual slip!” Lesedi urged.

He held on for dear life, but that was not enough. Now the flames were wrapping around her arm.

“…Shit… I can’t hold it…!”

“Back away, Lesedi!” Tim shouted. “There’s still time—”

“Shut up, moron! Want me to split your head before the fires consume us?!”

Lesedi had never scowled harder, pouring everything she had into controlling the spell. Godfrey felt sensation leaving his arm, knew death was approaching…and then he saw another wand join theirs.

“…Fools. Must you make me do everything?”

“ ?!”

“Echevalria?!”

“I’ll hold your reins! Abandon your sloppy attempt at control, make like the overpowered oaf you are, and blast at full strength! That’s your one and only talent!”

With that insult, he joined the effort. The overflowing flames forced in the right direction, focusing—and with three mages pouring mana in, the power of the spell grew stronger still.

“You can say that again.”

Godfrey nodded and abandoned all restraint. The flames he issued enveloped the collapsing world.

“Ah—”

Severo floated in the midst of it, his mind bereft of destination.

“…It’s burning,” he whispered. “It’s all consumed by flames.”

Even as the words crossed his lips, he thought it odd. There had been fires in the eight great hells they’d crossed—all meant to torment the sinners there. But here, there was no such suffering. Bathed in these cleansing fires, his body consumed by them, Severo felt more at peace than ever before.

“…It doesn’t hurt…? Why…are these flames so—?”

“They’re consuming your burden.”

The painting girl hovered next to him. Flames already licking her frame. That old, familiar sight made Severo’s face crumple.

“Juanita…I’m sorry. I never managed—”

“You don’t have time for apologies. Take brush in hand.”

She interrupted him, urging him to action. Suggesting he no longer had anything to fret about. What he’d been seeking was here before him.

“You can see it, right? This is what you wished to draw. A cradle of gentle flames, cleansing mages of their sins, calling forth the humanity that lies within,” she told him. “No more tears. No more punishments. Your salvation has always lain here.”

Only then did it fall into place. Hell was for those who’d sinned and died—not to punish the living. Suffering was not the answer—that went hand in hand with life as a mage. What they required was absolution for a soul stained with grief.

“…Purgatory. Oh yes…that’s the word…”

That was a concept from ordinary religions. A place between heaven and hell, where souls were cleansed in fire for their own salvation. He’d known the word but had been unable to imagine it. He could envision flames as punishment but not as salvation.

Yet—now they lay before him. Gentle flames, wrapped around his wounded soul.

His brush leaped to his hand. Harbored with infinite passion. Grateful to all who had led him to this end, he gave it shape, shape that would remain.

“How…warm…”

It all went up in flames—and consequently, they were expelled from the finished painting.

“Hahhh…!”

Snapping out of it, Godfrey found himself standing, athame in hand. He’d used all his mana, and there were no flames left to offer. Looking around, he spied an unfamiliar room. Leoncio and Lesedi stood on either side, equally stunned—and Carlos at a distance, looking around, Tim, Ophelia, and many other underclassmen at their feet.

“Where…are we…?”

“His studio. Thank you. Severo completed his work.”

Godfrey turned toward the fading voice. There, he saw the painting they’d emerged from—the last echoes of her voice came from within. Godfrey stepped closer, straining to hear them.

“All captured children…are now free. They’re all with you.”

“So it seems. Mr. Escobar?”

“Severo…has already merged with the painting. But don’t feel bad. He was…truly grateful.”

Her joy was genuine. Even as her voice grew faint, that last message came through.

“I’m melding with him. My last…request. Take this painting…up to the school.”

With that, he heard no more. After a long moment, he straightened up.

“…It’s over,” Carlos said. “The channel is broken.”

“So this is his masterpiece? Awfully cheery for a hellscape…,” Godfrey said, looking the painting over.

It showed people covered in orange flames, but their eyes were closed, their expressions peaceful. He was no art critic, but he sensed that this depicted salvation for all mages: the final answer one magic painter had arrived at.

Lesedi joined him for a while, but soon her mind turned back to reality.

“There’s no threat here. Let’s wake the others and head for the library. I’ve seen enough hells for one lifetime—don’t ever want to see another.”

Shaking her head, she put Tim on her shoulder. Godfrey heard him grumble—and then spotted Leoncio, standing across the room, his back to them.

“Echevalria? Your burns—”

“Stay away!”

A bark that stopped him in his tracks. A beat hung in the air.

“The injuries are not substantial,” Leoncio said, calmer. “Look after yourself.”

“…Okay, will do.”

Once back in school, their conflict would resume—so Godfrey was not about to insist. Carlos had started healing Ophelia, so he headed that way.

“What does this mean…?” Leoncio whispered, clenching his hands. “Why…am I crying?”

He could not comprehend his own emotions—and he glared balefully down at his own crotch. At his outsize member, pushing up the cloth at full salute.

“And why…are you hard…?”