"…Do it…Sister…"
And so he sought it himself. So that his gentle sister—who felt the pain of
others so deeply—would blame herself less. So that all this pain would be his
and his alone.
And Shannon got that, too. She hesitated for a long, long moment, then
wiped her tears and drew her wand. There was never a choice. This was a
burden carried by blood, and from the moment of her birth, she was at the
heart of this.
"…Duaedetroni… Misce, misce…"
Her voice shook as she chanted, and something massive flowed into Oliver.
Like the fate of a ceramic dish into which lava has been poured. The first crack
in his soul.
" !!!!!!!"
The first instant evaporated all the pain he'd felt so far. It was so much worse.
Like he was losing the essence of himself, a sensation that could not be
contained within concepts like pain or suffering. His body's rejection was
extreme, surpassing the rotary limits of his joints, and his father and Shannon
were desperately holding him down, lest he destroy himself by his own hand.
"Noll… Noll…!"
Shannon had already finished the soul merge on her end. Only a portion of
Chloe's soul had poured into Oliver, a mere drop mingled with him. But that
was already a fatal dosage.
"You see now? This is the torment brought by an invasive soul."
What seemed eternal was but a few minutes. The self-destructive rejection
began to subside. The hyperventilation died down, but it took a few more
minutes before the light of reason returned to Oliver's eyes. Seeing that his son
had not died, his father spoke again.
"A minuscule degree of her experience has flowed into you. Experience by a
master you could never hope to match through mere training. But that is not
yet your experience."
He pulled a small bottle from his pocket and poured the contents into Oliver's
mouth. Oliver swallowed, and the liquid slid down his throat. The resulting heat
spread to all corners of his body like a fever. An elixir so pure it was said it could
wake someone from death's door.
"Only by making use of that experience will your soul accept it. And this must
take place immediately after the soul merge. Like hammering iron while it's
hot."
His father stood up, moving to the center of the room.
"Draw your blade. We've got more training to do."
His athame was at the ready. His son had endured a lifetime of pain to body
and soul, and he planned to fight him more.
The first to move was not Oliver but Shannon. She pointed her white wand at
the man, hiding her cousin behind her. A girl who never picked a fight herself—
this might well be the first time she ever had.
"…Let Noll…rest…!"
"That will make this all for nothing."
And he cut her courage down with a single line. Seeing this, Oliver forced his
leaden body to move. It took several tries, but at last he was on his feet.
"…Thank you…," he whispered.
Oliver took her hand, pulling her aside, facing his father in her stead. Seeing
his son's quivering arms raise his athame, the man nodded.
"Good. That's how it should be. Unless you swallow the pain, we will get
nowhere," he told his son. "And we'll repeat this process more times than you
can count."
Oliver knew that. He'd never once desired to reject it.
This had never been forced upon him. This suffering was not at his father's
command. By his own free will, he had inherited his mother's intent, sworn
revenge, and sought the power that lay within her soul.
"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Burning his life away on a broom, striking the machine god with an athame
wet with his own blood. Fending off the attack, the mad old man fought back
with words.
"It's like—your soul is a chimera. To accept the outstanding soul of one Chloe
Halford, you were forced to warp the very core of your being!"
"Gladioooooooooo!"
His severing spell gouged the armor on the arm as if trying to drown out a
voice he detested. Oliver swore he'd cut it off next time, his broom turning in
the air and charging back in.
"That is not hard work—it's self-abuse! To let her soul in, to recreate her skills
postmortem in an average body—you must have torn apart your body, ether,
and soul, time and time again!"
In the corner of his mind, Oliver admitted it. He had done just that. To gain
the power needed to take down the seven, to borrow a fraction of his mother's
soul, his innate mediocrity had left him no other choice. Even if that meant a
fatal distortion to who he had once been.
"The effort to better yourself is unquestionably admirable! But what you have
accumulated is torture and abuse, the denial of self! And that is nothing but
pain and futility," said Enrico. "Alterations to the soul have an irreversible effect
on the personality! The price of learning to fight like her has cost you more than
your lifespan alone! You must have sacrificed something far more essential!"
The mad old man was relentless. Forcing him to look at what he'd cast aside,
what he'd thrown into the furnace to obtain this strength. Oliver's jaw clenched
so hard his teeth cracked.
"I'm sure you know what! There must be something you could once do but no
longer can, no matter how you try! A gaping hole left behind!"
And Enrico's words forced him to look inward. To remember how he'd been
before he did this to himself. He knew it was meaningless but did not fight it. It
was a scream from the soul forced through irrevocable alterations, a loss he
could not bring himself to let go of.
I give! Mercy, please! My sides are killing me!
Oh, my son. Noll! You are so good at making people laugh!
"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Tears of blood flowed without end. A frigid wind whistled through the hole in
his heart. Even his loathing felt like salvation. Using that to fuel his sword arm
was the only warmth he had left.
He had no lack of fuel. Oliver had hatred and loathing without end. This man
had put an end to his mother's laughter, triggering a change that continued
until nothing of him was left.
"And the saddest part of all?" Enrico said. "You've done all that, yet come
nowhere close to replacing her."
His tone had suddenly grown still, and that dug far deeper than any attempt
to rile Oliver up.
"You know that better than anyone. You're nothing alike. You've forced
yourself and forced yourself and copied but a fraction of her arts—but the real
one was never…this."
Enrico knew the genuine article, and it was all too obvious. The blinding light
of Chloe Halford's blades, that unparalleled beauty—the sight would never
leave him.
And in light of those memories, this foe was clearly but a pale imitation.
However close the forms matched, even if they were copies from the original's
soul—the arts this boy delivered were not her sword. Merely a shadow with her
shape, cast by the light of Chloe Halford.
"Up against Gnostics, up against tír gods, even up against me on her last night
—she was always herself. Laughing, crying, raging, or sympathizing as her
emotions drove her, swinging her blades as an expression of that. Ruled by no
logic, consumed by no spell, she lived on her terms, as Chloe Halford and no
one else. Her sword was always free."
True, Oliver admitted. No other master had been able to match his mother's
style because it derived so wholly from her own personality. Things every other
mage cast into the mud early on she had miraculously kept with her. That's why
she captivated everyone. Inspired them to be like her, lit a fire under them. Like
the one under him now.
"That is what your blade lacks most. What you cannot obtain no matter how
hard you try. Precisely because you denied yourself time and time again to let
Chloe's soul in. You would not allow yourself to be yourself. The worst of all the
restrictions humans place upon themselves! The furthest thing imaginable from
Chloe's way of life!"
Each of Enrico's words was like a knife piercing through him. Shut up already,
Oliver's soul screamed. I know all this. I don't need you telling me. I know better
than anyone!
"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
He flipped in midair and came back in swinging. But as he turned, his body
was yanked downward, hard.
" ?!"
"…Mm?"
Caught off guard, Oliver plummeted—then two arms reached out and caught
him, like he'd fallen during broomsports.
"Don't be mean to our king, Instructor Enrico."
Karlie's face was right by his, her arms around him. He struggled, trying to get
back into the fight.
"GA A !"
"Okay, take a breath. There, there."
Even as she soothed her lord, Karlie shifted to a grapple hold, keeping him
still. Seen up this close, he was a fright. Blood oozing from torn veins left every
inch of him crimson. Impossible movements had broken every bone in his body,
and the rapid healing had connected them all wrong. Less than two minutes of
combat had left his body seconds from total annihilation.
"…Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! Pardon me. I may have gotten a tad carried away!"
Enrico did sound mildly repentant. Confronted with the lingering scent of his
former student, Chloe Halford, he had not exactly been his usual self. Realizing
that, he switched back to his teaching voice, addressing the students below.
"Just to be clear, I will accept your surrender. Rebellion against Kimberly is
among the most dire crimes in this world, but if I speak to the headmistress,
there may well be some wiggle room. Perhaps not all of you will die! And I
would like to credit your hard work."
A magnanimous gesture, from a mad old man certain of his superior position.
Karlie glanced up at him, then leaned in to her injured lord's ear.
"What say you, Your Majesty?"
The decision was his. And the question—once again, brought forth memories
held within his mother's soul.
"…I'd take an alien god any day."
The man's voice oozed contempt. Chunks of his body had turned to
translucent crystal, his arms turned to flintlike blades—but he was no longer
capable of swinging them. Everything below the waist had been mercilessly
shattered.
The bodies of the man's comrades lay all around in pieces. The boon provided
by the tír god crushed, the man's own life flickering like a candle before Chloe.
"…Magic, my ass. To hell with mages. All you people do is toy with lives,
chasing after madness."
Chloe spoke not a word. Given the events leading up to this, she was
disinclined to argue with his spite.
The Lantshire mages had blown an experiment on curses, tainting the
surrounding land. Breaking the curse quickly had proved impossible and left
thousands trapped. The area was under strict quarantine, and faced with a slow
and inevitable death, they had turned to their last resort, praying to a tír god,
becoming Gnostics—and the Gnostic Hunters had been ordered to dispose of
them. The man before her was the lone survivor.
"…Go on, burn me. That won't end a damn thing. Not in the least!"
His last words were a prophecy—one Chloe would later discover had been all
too true.
"Please, let me go…"
For every vicious condemnation she heard, there was a plea. And those beat
Chloe down more than any monster's roar.
A trembling woman sat in a basement nook, cradling a nursing baby in arms
as frail as withered branches. That alone told Chloe everything she needed to
know. Impoverished folk wandering until a group of Gnostics took them in—all
too typical.
For better or worse, magical society had made pursuit of sorcery its sole
priority. Other concerns—like welfare programs—were seen as comparatively
trivial. The result was that the lower income ordinaries were abandoned to
their fates, and Gnostic followers had learned to expand by absorbing these
outcasts.
"…Please…even just the baby…!"
The woman lurched forward, holding up the child—and the third arm hidden
behind her shot out, swiping with jagged claws.
"...!"
Gnostic Hunters had a hard rule to never hear out a plea—to avoid surprises
like this. Chloe's team stepped back, dodging the wild swings. This opened a gap
wide enough for the woman to bolt through, headed for the stairs. Her last
hope.
"Ignis."
But it was not to be. One of Chloe's companions fired a spell at the woman's
back. Mother and child were enveloped in flames and collapsed on the stairs.
The baby's wails echoed through the basement. The mother staggered,
clutching her child, glaring at the mages through the fire. Clear loathing in her
eyes.
"You'll pay for this…! All of you! This will come back to haunt you!"
Her final shriek was seared into Chloe's brain. A sight she could not escape
and would never forget.
"…Haven't you taken enough…?"
The goblin elder lay dying before the burning embers of his town. Treatment
of demis without civil rights was even harsher, and mere suspicion of Gnostic
activity often led to villages being burned to the ground without any attempt to
confirm the truth. Chloe despised the practice; it made no difference what she
felt nor whether these demis really were Gnostics. More often than not, by the
time she reached the scene, the fight was already in progress.
"…Where will this lead…? All the lives you burn… A city built on corpses…"
Chloe had no answer. She already knew. If a Gnostic Hunter survived a battle,
the next fight was the only thing waiting for them.
"…If you torch…even your own heart…what is left…?"
With those words, the goblin drew their last breath, leaving her standing with
fists clenched. To end this fight for good required a fundamental change.
"It took me a whole lot of punch-ups, but I finally figured it out."
This one was different. This wasn't from his mother's soul—it was Oliver's
own memory.
This was how he remembered her. Her tone stayed bright no matter the
subject, but on this one occasion, she'd grown grim. Oliver had listened
carefully, sensing that this was really important.
"Even the Gnostics have people they love. Just like I love you and Ed, Noll.
They have family and friends they can't bear to lose. All they want—when you
get down to it—is a world where no one gets in their way."
Coming from the most lauded Gnostic Hunter of her day, this was
unthinkable. Yet, Oliver also thought it was very much her. Coming to
understand her foes by exchanging blows with them—that was how Chloe
Halford had always communicated.
"Dragging in alien gods is just a means to that end. It's never the goal. And
we've gotten that wrong this whole time."
This was her regret and a lesson for him. And he took it as such. His mind was
young, not fully formed, yet it tried to grasp her meaning. Chloe saw that and
smiled, then gave her young son a big hug, whispering in his ear.
"Noll, I'm gonna teach you a spell that can make the whole world better."
She didn't mean it to be, but these words became the lynchpin of his life.
"It's easy. We all just have to get a little bit nicer. That'll make the world get
better, too. That alone will end the Gnostic wars."
He'd been so young, the memories were fuzzy. But he had believed in that
magic.
Oliver pushed Karlie's arms away, but that seemed to snap the strings holding
him. He landed on his knees.
Palms on the ground, a torrent of vomit. His comrades gasped. The bloody
vomit was filled with chunks of a necrotic, ejected lung, and the pool below him
was the size of a throw rug.
"Noll!" Shannon shrieked. The constant healing only added to his pain, but if
she stopped—he'd be dead. She had never had any choice but to inflict
ceaseless torment upon him.
"…We…"
The last of the blood out, a whisper fell from his lips. So faint that only Karlie
heard.
"We can't…let them put anyone else…through the wringer…"
He sounded delirious. But this was a vow that had never once changed, no
matter how much his loathing of their enemies corrupted his heart, no matter
how many times he shattered his own soul.
Lives as tinder, Oliver thought. That tinder fuels the flames of this madness.
No one—be they demis, ordinaries, even other mages—hesitated to sacrifice
their own lives. That was the way of the mage, a slate that could hardly be
wiped clean. The mad old man was guilty of it, as was Oliver himself.
In a world run by mages, lives were but a means to an end.
In the pursuit of sorcery, hearts were there to be trampled.
That was what made it so tantalizing. If the world could just be a little bit—
even a tiny bit—nicer.
Then maybe his mother wouldn't have died like that.
Maybe his father wouldn't have suffered the way he did.
Maybe his sister could have escaped this torment.
Maybe his brother would be free of sin.
Maybe Alvin Godfrey could have been a great student leader without being
anyone's final visitor.
Or Carlos Whitrow could have been by his side, best friends for life.
Or Ophelia Salvadori could have been there laughing with them.
…And maybe, just maybe—Oliver could have stayed a happy boy who made
everyone laugh.
A comedian who lived a life full of smiles.
He knew better. Those were all just dreams. What was lost would not return.
But still. Even so.
His heart yearned to use this life for a world where those things were
possible.
He put his feelings into words. Just as his mother once wanted—the one thing
of hers Oliver had sworn to hold to, steadfast, forevermore:
"…So the nice things…can stay nice…!"
Karlie's gaze turned grim. Her comrades tightened their grips on their
athames.
This was a lord worth dying for.
"…Okay," she said. "You got it, Your Majesty."
She patted him gently on the shoulder. He'd bet his life to buy them two
minutes. And they'd used it to decide their course of action.
Karlie spoke over her shoulder to one of their comrades, the one she'd been
closest to.
"Robert. Go on ahead."
Blunt and to the point. Robert knew exactly what she meant and made a face.
"Y-you could s-soften it a bit. I am y-your husband."
"Shut up. This ain't the time for griping, sourpuss! I bore three kids for you."
When she still didn't pull any punches, Robert smiled.
"Yeah. And I can't thank you enough."
Perhaps the first time in his life he'd expressed his feelings without stumbling
over the words.
With several other comrades, Robert stepped forward. Realizing what that
meant, Gwyn started to speak, but—
"The rest is yours," Karlie said, dusting off her hands. "We'll crack it open for
you."
Then she looked down at Oliver.
"…Our youngest didn't turn out so good. Might not make it as a mage."
The boy listened in silence. Carving this into his memory so that he might not
forget. Knowing it was her last words.
"If you can make this a world where a kid like that can be happy, well… I
couldn't ask for more."
Oliver nodded. This was all he could do, the greatest honor he could grant.
"Sorry I was harsh on you," Karlie said, grinning. "Bye, Your Majesty."
And with that, she made eye contact with her husband one last time. Robert's
team of six ran straight toward the machine god.
Enrico frowned down at them from his perch. Their plan seemed foolhardy.
"Mm…? A desperate last charge?"
They were firing spells at the golem's knee. Scarcely any threat to him at all.
"Such a shame," the mad old man said. His foes really should have
surrendered. "Such a waste of life!"
A giant palm slammed down from above, flattening Robert's team in a single
blow. Oliver gulped—but Karlie just grinned.
"We won't waste a single one of ya."
Her eyes were locked on the hand that crushed them—which shook. The
vibration moved up the wrist, traveling along the arm. Puzzled, Enrico tried to
lift it, then realized…he couldn't.
"A curse crafter's true value comes in death. Right, Robert?"
As she spoke, the machine god's entire right arm turned toward its own head.
Metal clashed against metal. The impact left the driver's seat rocking, and
Enrico instinctively grasped what had happened.
"Oh d-dear…!"
All six dead mages had been curse crafters, Robert included. They might not
have been in Baldia Muwezicamili's league, but they had quite a lot of curse
energy stored. And the law of curse conservation meant everything they were
harboring flowed into the machine god.
And Dei Ex Machina ran on cursed energy from the lives that fueled them. The
newly added curses mingled with the existing energy, and the focused purpose
Robert's team had died with provided a new direction: kill Enrico.
"Hnggggg!"
The result was that one arm was completely out of his control and pounding
away at the driver's seat. He tried holding it back with the left arm, but before
he could, the right arm got its palm wrapped around the head, firing the purple
light he'd used against the wyverns.
"Ngahhhhhh!"
The machine god's head was melting. The heat had already reached the
driver's seat, and Enrico was desperately using the one arm he had to try and
stop it. He got a hold of the wrist and pulled the right arm away, but it took all
his strength to keep it in check.
"My man does good work."
And while both hands were occupied, Karlie and two comrades flew in,
landing right above the driver's seat. The head's armor had partially caved in
before getting melted by the purple light. The trio pointed their athames at it
and did not hesitate.
"""Magnus Fragor Ultimata Omnisvitae."""
The limit-breaking quadcant caused their bodies to explode. Even as they
died, none of them lost control of the spell, and the impact of it hammered
home a single point. The driver seat's armor was already heavily damaged, and
this new spell dug deep.
"Kya—kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! So close! But not enough to break—"
But even as Enrico thought his armor had held—a blood-soaked robe caught
the corner of his eye.
"Gladio."
The armor-cutting spell sliced a triangle in the last of the adamant and pierced
straight through, taking Enrico's left arm. With the other arm, he managed to
activate the emergency eject. He and his seat were flung free, and a
deceleration spell slowed his landing.
"…Magnificent."
The slice Teresa had taken from his side, and now the arm Oliver had claimed.
Both the mad old man's wounds were still oozing blood, and behind him, the
machine god collapsed with a roar.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Without a second to catch his breath, Oliver's broom came rocketing in close.
All surviving comrades were hot on his heels. Enrico barely managed to dodge
their opening salvo, but he was out of golems to protect himself with.
"No way out, hmm?" he said, wincing. "Kya-ha-ha-ha. Why would there be?"
The moment a Gnostic is detected, they become a prime target to mages
everywhere.
In order to have any chance of survival, they must ensure that no mages
realize they are Gnostics. They must keep their faith hidden.
But that is easier said than done. Tír gods give their faithful many favors, but
the cost of these is invariably a strict oath. To remain a believer, one has to
follow ordained rules. The nature of these varies by the god in question, but
one thing they all have in common—is how hard they are to hide.
They might grow strange plants in their gardens.
They might have unexplained eating restrictions.
They might meet regularly in the dead of the night.
If he had been watching carefully all along, he might well have spotted the
signs.
"…Mm…?"
The first sign the boy saw was black smoke rising ahead of his broom.
At first, he assumed some farmers were doing a controlled burn. But as he
drew closer to town, that was ruled out. There was too much smoke. That was
not controlled.
Was a building on fire? Concerned, the boy flew faster. Fall had passed, and
the first snow had recently fallen. The faster he went, the more the frozen air
stung his cheeks. White breath trailed in his wake.
Ordinaries often struggled with fire, so he was worried. It was hard to put
fires out without magic, and breathing even a little smoke could kill them. He
was scared for Noemi. If there really was a fire, and she got caught in it, he had
to save her.
If only it had been just a fire.
When he reached the skies above the town, he found a good 80 percent of it
aflame.
"…Huh…?"
Unable to believe his eyes, he spent several seconds just gaping.
There were flames leaping skyward from every corner of the town. The red
glow mingled with belching black smoke obscuring everything, but from
beneath it, he could hear yelling and screaming. Occasionally he saw figures
moving. The closer he got, the stronger the flames. Half the buildings had
already fallen.
This could not happen in any accidental fire. It was easy for fire to spread in
the dry winter weather, and towns like this always had steps taken to prevent
that. Whether this town had done a good job of that was another question, but
the roads were wide enough that there was little risk of flames crossing them,
and once the fire started, the villagers would not stand idly by. They'd pour
water on it, and if that was too late, knock the house down—and prevent it
ever getting this bad.
In that moment, the boy was unable to imagine any reason why that wouldn't
have happened. He learned the reasons later—that more than half the
residents were Gnostics, and that a conflict had broken out within the faith
regarding practices that could not be made public. A group of villagers
advocating for abandoning their faith had taken violent steps, moving from one
godtree to the next, setting them on fire. This had split the town against itself,
leading to all-out war. And the result—was literally divine retribution.
"Ah wahhhhhhh!"
Snapping out of his stupor, he lowered the pitch of his broom, dropping
rapidly. The heat buffeted him, but he was in no shape to care. He held his
breath through the smoke, flying directly to the girl's house.
"Noemi! Where are you? Are you in there? Yell if you can hear me!"
It was on fire but not yet leveled. He did a circuit of the three-story building,
calling her name, eyes and ears peeled for any sign of her. Finally he caught a
faint voice.
"Here?"
Following that lead, he slammed through a third-story window, shutters and
all. He let go of the broom before he hit the far wall, rolling across the floor. He
banged into a bunch of furniture and knickknacks, but pain didn't matter now.
On his feet, he looked around, then heard noises and ran next door. And found
who he was looking for. Noemi, her back against the wall, surprised to see him
here.
"Noemi, you okay? Can I—?"
"Stay back, Enrico! Run!"
Only now did he hear the word she'd been screaming. The urgency in her
voice gave him pause, and a heavy blow caught the air in front of him. He
jumped backward and only then saw his attacker. A strange, twisted mass of
plant, impossible to tell where root ended and vine began. Standing on two
footlike things, like a twisted copy of a man.
"Augh! Wh-what is that?! A monster?! Where'd it come from?"
The threat, at least, was clear. He pointed his white wand at it.
"Don't come any closer! I will shoot!"
He tried to sound intimidating, but the tip of his wand would not stay still. But
when a club made of vines swung up at him, he couldn't stay hesitant.
"Dammit! Flamma!"
He dived away from the blow, casting a spell. Even he was surprised by how
strong it was, and the man-sized thing was enveloped in flame. It let out no
scream nor showed any signs of pain as it burned. In time, it toppled forward,
no longer moving. When he was sure it was done for, he wiped the sweat from
his brow and turned back to his friend.
"…Let's get out of here, Noemi. On my broom! Don't worry, I'm better than
—!"
"Dad!"
Her shriek cut him off, and he froze.
"...What?"
Noemi ran right to the charred remains at his feet. She reached for it, despite
the lingering embers. But where she touched, it crumbled. She flinched, was
silent for a long moment, and then slowly raised her head to the boy.
"…You…burned my father…"
Her face twitched, trapped between a smile and a sob. Like she'd tried to
smile away the sad and failed. Tears ran down her cheeks, dripping into the ash
and hissing as they evaporated.
He couldn't breathe. But as he stood there, his brain kept working. What he'd
done, what he'd set alight—before his mind reached the answer, he forced the
thoughts out of his mind. His instincts telling him he shouldn't know.
"W-we've gotta run," he said again. There was nothing else he could say.
They stared at each other in silence…and then the girl clutched her chest,
keeling over.
"…Gah... Ah...!"
"Noemi?! What's wrong? Are you hurt—?"
Scared, he reached for her—and found himself reeling backward.
"...…?"
He wasn't sure what happened, but he felt a heat in his nose. Something
warm ran into his mouth, and his tongue tasted of iron. His hand shot up to his
face and came away crimson.
"...Run…Enrico..."
He'd been hit. As that realization dawned, Noemi got to her feet—moving
funny. Her limbs turned in all directions, like a marionette with a layman's
hands upon her strings.
"...It's not…me. I'm not…in control," Noemi rasped.
And he saw what was wrong. Countless rootlike things jutting out of her skin
and clothes, swarming around her. There weren't too many yet—but they were
clearly the same thing he'd just burned.
He knew—something was inside her.
"I'll—"
His vision tunneled. Cold sweat ran down his back. He lost all feeling in his
limbs. Barely resisting the urge to scream his lungs out, even as Noemi grew
steadily less human, he forced the words from his mouth.
"—I'll save you. I'll do something. I'll—I'll find a way."
"...En…rico..."
"I promise I will! I'm a mage. I can fix this with a wave of my wand!"
Shouting to drown out his fears, the boy brandished his white wand. Noemi's
body staggered toward him, and he watched closely, thinking furiously. First,
he'd have to stop her from moving.
"Sorry," he said, pointing his wand at her head. "Lemme put you to sleep.
Altum somnum!"
An anesthetic spell to minimize her pain and injuries. She didn't even try to
dodge. It hit home…but she still leaped forward. Surprised, he managed to jump
aside in time.
"It didn't work?! Th-then… Impediendum!"
He switched to a paralysis spell. This time the spell landed right on her chest,
and she swayed backward—but stayed upright. She was still coming after him,
and he was starting to panic.
"…Why…? Why doesn't it work? Why…? Why…?!"
The boy ran through every means of stopping a foe he knew. Every means of
inducing unconsciousness failed, and he was soon out of peaceful options—he
was forced to switch to his athame and use force. He fired lightning and
freezing spells at the legs, slowing it down, then moving closer to cut the roots
off the surface of her body. He even stuck his blade inside her—avoiding critical
areas—and chanted a spell, healing magic designed to strengthen the immune
system. Trying everything he could think of, even if it hurt her.
"…Me…"
When none of it worked, and he was left standing there, out of options,
Noemi's voice came as a whisper. His eyes turned to her lips as she echoed the
words once more.
"…Burn me, Enrico…"
It felt like an icy hand clenched around his heart.
"...You can't…say that..."
"...Please... I can't hold on..."
Her rasping plea came again. Her voice the only thing she still controlled, but
that, too, would not last long.
"...It's…not just my body. My thoughts… They're going wrong. I want…to
plant something…in you. That urge… It's growing stronger… Pushing my
feelings…to the side…"
The invasion of the sinister roots was pushing into Noemi's mind. They did not
have much time left to speak. She could feel it coming, and her pleas grew even
more desperate.
"...Burn me…like you did my father… You can do it… You're a mage…"
The boy shook his head, rejecting it out of hand. The one thing he wouldn't
do.
"…Please, Enrico. Please…"
As she spoke, the arm trapped by the freezing spell twisted in an unspeakable
direction. Her legs did the same, with a series of horrible creaks. The roots
embedded deep in her were forcing her body into motion. The boy's grip on his
athame tightened painfully, and Noemi gasped out one last plea.
"I don't…want to be…anything that…can't laugh…!"
" !"
The horror of it fully sank in. Noemi's mind, her very personality—was about
to disappear for good. And he had no way of saving her from that fate.
All he could do was be here for her. Hear her last request.
While she was still human.
"...Thank you..."
He'd struggled with it for a long moment, but when his shaking hand pointed
the blade at her—Noemi thanked him.
"…Promise me…one thing?"
"...What?"
He couldn't look at her. His eyes were on his feet.
Staring at the drops splattering against his toes, Noemi used the last of her
strength to turn up the corners of her lips.
"...Lift your head."
His tearstained face rose—and he saw her smile. Noemi's smile. The thing he
came to town to see, the thing that brought warmth to his heart.
"…Keep laughing, Enrico. Enough…for both of us."
He nodded. In that moment, the crybaby died.
"Ignis."
The funeral pyre lit, enveloping her body in an instant. All of it burned. The
thing consuming her body, her pain, her smile. The happy times they'd shared.
In less than ten seconds, her body fell apart. But the flames kept burning
where she'd been. The heat blasted the boy's face. He took a step closer, drawn
to the heat and light.
"…Ah…"
He couldn't tear his eyes away. It was so beautiful. The fires of Noemi's life.
Her fire is as beautiful as her heart, the boy thought. She was always so warm
because she had this heat inside her.
And he realized the irony of it.
Something that burned this marvelously had been right in front of him all
along.
"...Ha...ha-ha..."
This would make anything move. No matter how big it was, the fires of life
would set it in motion.
And he swore when the time came, he wouldn't hesitate. Never again would
he cry and shake his head.
He'd already burned the thing that mattered most.
He could throw any kindling on the fire with a smile. He'd promised to laugh
enough for the both of them.
"…Kya-ha-ha… Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha... Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
He felt the flames of that day had never gone out, burning inside of him ever
since.
" Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaa!"
The mad old man's athame flashed, and three advancing comrades went
down, blood spurting from their throats. Spells flew in, aiming for a spare
momentary opening, but even down an arm, Enrico was dodging them all. A
spell fired mid-dodge finished off yet another foe.
Oliver's comrades were unsure how to attack. Even with gaping wounds in his
side and shoulder, the old man hadn't slowed—the crisis was clearly forcing him
into peak performance.
"You thought you could take me now? Without my golems, down an arm?
Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! That was silly. Very silly. I'm Enrico Forghieri! This is easier
than licking a lollipop!"
He slammed the words into his foes. The warped frames of his glasses finally
gave up their grip and fell to the ground, the eyes behind them gleaming. The
fire within was far from extinguished.
"Don't worry, Noemi! I can handle this, just like you taught me!" he yelled.
"Candy makes you smile! Smiles are invincible! I won't lose to anybody!"
The old man's madness never wavered. In the face of it, Oliver had to admit—
the man was strong. His golems lost, his arm lost, vast quantities of blood and
mana lost, all the advantages a builder had were long since gone, and still he
remained a powerful foe. More tremendous than his talent or his techniques
was his refusal to waver in the face of danger. Even driven this far into a corner,
defeat never once crossed his mind.
That was Enrico Forghieri, the mage said to have advanced magical
engineering a hundred years in a single generation. Oliver felt a sense of awe
that was almost profound. He could practically see a wall around the man, a
wall that pierced the heavens.
" Non."
And yet.
He was closing in. Almost in range. He'd been kept at bay when the man still
had his golem, but now Enrico was fighting his comrades head-on. Oliver
hastened to join them. Feinting like he was casting a spell, then leaping off his
broom instead, shoving off the ground into a forward lunge the moment he
touched down.
"Kya-ha-ha-ha! Here comes the false sword!"
Enrico didn't miss it. He was ready, in a mid-tier stance. Certain he could face
down his foe and finish him off. Confident in the skills the years had given him.
As his lunge began, the tip of Oliver's athame rose ever so slightly. As his last
step began, he reached one-step, one-spell range. The next instant would spell
death for one of them.
The old man had made but one mistake.
Borrowed or taken. False or facsimile. Though it may pale compared to the
real thing—
—at this distance, certainty was on the boy's side.
" !"
Every future lay before him, the outcome his to choose. The torrent of time
pushed against him.
Dismissing countless fatal outcomes, he plucked a single strand.
He had walked a bloody path, making sacrifices for which there were no
amends.
And at the end of it, at his destination—was a present he could never have
reached without each and every one of them.
The fourth spellblade—Angustavia, the abyss-crossing thread.
The riposte of a lifetime shattered every wall and pierced the old man's heart.
"…Kya…ha."
The laugh halted. Strength faded from Enrico's arm, and his athame slipped
from his fingers.
It hit the ground with a shrill clink, sounding the quiet end to their long battle.
It was over. The wyverns continued to flee, leaving an eerie hush over the
fifth layer's canyon.
"…You hit the flaws in the design…," Enrico said, lying on his back at Oliver's
feet. "When I designed Deus Ex Machina…I admit, I backburnered defense
against curses. That weapon was only designed for battle against tír gods. I
never intended it to fight human mages. If the mana packing efficiency had
been higher, perhaps I could have retained control…"
"..."
"…But that's just an excuse. I knew the risk of using curses as fuel from the
get-go. Allowing you to take advantage of it was my oversight, and a credit to
Mr. Dufourcq and his team for spotting the weakness and striking it. Such…
magnificent students."
Enrico sang praises to the fallen.
There, Oliver cut in. "Nothing else to say?" he asked, his voice devoid of
warmth.
Enrico's remaining hand scrabbled at his pocket, pulling out a lollipop and
offering it up.
"…Would you like some sweet candy? To celebrate your victory?"
Oliver batted the candy aside and pointed his athame at his dying foe.
"Dolor."
And the torture began. Enrico was racked by incredible pain, the same that
once hit this boy's mother. But even then, all it earned him was another peal of
mad laughter.
"Kya—kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
"…Stop that. Stop laughing. Don't you fucking laugh!"
With this explosion of rage, the mask fell from Oliver's face. For the first time,
Enrico recognized him.
"…Mr. Horn. So it was you."
Oliver tried to cast another pain spell, but Gwyn pinioned his arms.
"That's enough! I'll cast for you—!"
"Lemme go!"
Oliver tried to throw him off, but Gwyn was begging.
"Please, Noll… You're at your limit… And so is Shannon…!"
"…?!"
Oliver spun around, looking behind him. Shannon was there, white wand
raised, tears streaming down her cheeks. As long as Oliver's breaking body
wielded magic, she was forced to keep healing, to prolong her cousin's
suffering.
And that forced him to stand down.
Looking up at him, Enrico asked, "…Are you related? To Chloe?"
"…My mother," Oliver croaked, his fists clenched tight.
"Oh," the old man said, his smile forlorn. "There really is no resemblance.
How sad."
"...!"
Unable to find a retort, Oliver gritted his teeth again. He knew the man wasn't
even trying to wind him up; he was just being honest. Oliver knew better than
anyone that it was true.
Still holding Oliver's athame hand down, Gwyn stepped forward and aimed
his own athame at Enrico in his injured cousin's stead. It took several seconds of
silence before Oliver could bring himself to accept this kindness.
"The answer to this question will be your final act," he began. "Why did you
do that to my mother?"
He had always planned to ask this.
"You ask that now?" Enrico said, raising an eyebrow. "Surely, you must know
what she was trying to do to the world."
The answer he'd expected. But he clenched his jaw even harder.
"And you couldn't handle that? That she was trying to keep the progenitor
vow?" Oliver demanded. "Not just saving those you deem people but the other
demis and Gnostics, too?"
"No? In fact, I thought that was very her. I couldn't imagine Chloe doing
anything else! Just—we had a drastic difference of opinion. We disagreed
beyond all hope of reconciliation. And she was a great woman. She could well
have changed the world… And so we killed her."
Enrico spoke with ease, but the words left Oliver shaking his head.
"…I'd like to make a hundred—no, a thousand concessions!"
"…Mm?"
"When your difference of opinion reached a fever pitch, you struck first,
betraying my mother and assassinating her. I can look at that sequence of
events and even comprehend certain parts! Accept, absolutely not, but…
begrudgingly understand."
He had looped through this thought so many times before. What twist of fate
had led his mother to that end? Gathering every scrap of information he could,
trying to find a reason that made sense. Doing so was the only thing that kept
the hatred from burning a hole in him. But no matter how fine a microscope he
used, no matter how thoroughly he examined his enemies' positions, one fact
still stood before him.
"But if that's true, then why did you make her suffer? Not satisfied with just
killing her, the seven of you inflicted every form of torture on her, stealing her
very soul! What possible justification is there for that?!"
Oliver's voice had become a howl. His mother had not just been slain; she'd
been beaten to death. Stabbed through the heart by a trusted friend, and when
she could no longer fight back, subjected to every torment imaginable. He knew
all of it. The memories and experience he gleaned from merging with Chloe
Halford's soul were by no means complete, but the agony of her final moments
was definitely there.
And Enrico peered through the boy's rage, spying the truth inside, and with
the clarity afforded only to those who know they are about to die.
"I see! That's the core of your grudge. Not the fact of your mother's death,
but the assault on her person."
"So answer me!" Oliver yelled. "If it weren't for that, I might not have been
driven to this point! I might not be defiling her sword with these despicable
acts!"
He remembered again what his mother had told him. "Get angry with the
unreasonable. But try not to hate. That'll turn into a poison that eats you up
from the inside. Forgiveness will save your heart most of all."
"Maybe I could have managed it. Eventually, in time…maybe I could have let
this grudge go."
He could no longer hold back the tears. The more he thought about her
torment, the more he hated the sorcerers who'd trampled her dignity—the
further his life grew from what she'd wanted for him. His loathing corrupted the
sword he gleaned from her soul, and he had long lived with the sin of that.
Yet, he'd made his choice. He'd chosen to follow this path for the sake of the
future she might have brought to pass.
"…You really hate yourself," Enrico said. Once again, he saw it all: love for a
mother, hatred for her killers, the ordeals he inflicted on himself, the crippling
weight of this burden—and the screeching void that had been left in the boy's
heart. With all the friction and conflicts he shouldered, it was nothing short of
miraculous that he was still in one piece.
There was irony in the boy's strength, the old man thought. He could tell this
intense self-hatred was a key reason this boy could withstand the pain of the
soul merge. This boy yearned to be punished and therefore accepted both the
denial of self and the shattering of his soul.
"I wish I could answer you, but I'm afraid that's not possible. I'm not trying to
be dramatic; I simply don't have what you seek."
Oliver glared at him like he was trying to kill with looks alone.
Enrico's tone didn't even waver.
"Our treatment of Chloe was symbolic. We pulled her star down to earth,
desecrated it, and trampled it beneath our feet. Like proof of our shared
complicity," he said. "Even mages can conceive of sin. Especially when casting a
great soul into the fire. The feats she might have done, the bright and shining
future she might have brought to pass, the possibilities now lost—all of that
weighs upon our shoulders."
"..."
"Achieving results that can make up for that loss. That is the task set before
us, as mages. Even if no such thing exists."
A faint sigh escaped the old man's lips. Chewing over this answer, Oliver
asked, "…The torture was neither a means nor a predilection, but…the shared
experience itself was the goal?"
"That was my perception of it, at least. If you ask the others, you may get a
very different response. Even I cannot begin to imagine what was going through
their minds."
Enrico shrugged, staring up at the boy.
"But the answer you want is nothing so intangible."
"..."
"In which case, I am not the one you should be asking. Speak to Esmeralda. It
was her idea to torture Chloe and steal her soul. Thus, she alone knows the
reason for it."
But even as he provided a lead, he had to laugh.
"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Good luck with that, though. Getting a real answer out
of her, as she is now…?"
Further talk would teach him nothing more. Oliver put his athame to his foe.
As weak as the man's breathing had grown, his life had entered the final
countdown either way.
"Are we done?" Enrico asked. "Then one last piece of advice."
"You think I'll just let you talk?"
"Do listen. It's for your benefit."
There was a strength to the mad old man's voice, something in his eyes Oliver
could not ignore. And so he stayed his hand.
"I'm sure you are well aware that going up against the witch of Kimberly is
akin to turning on the whole of the magical world. Against the very systems that
our world runs upon."
"..."
"Chloe might have been able to pull it off. That, I won't deny. That is why we
feared her. However—can you do the same?"
Oliver said nothing. And to that silence, the old man offered a parable.
"An ordinary pot and molten gold made from half of a priceless urn. That's
what we have here. You swing your hammer and smash the pot, piercing the
pieces together to contain the gold. Smash and weld, smash and weld. That's all
your merges with Chloe's soul are accomplishing."
"..."
"But no matter how much you hurt yourself, you will never be gold. You're
nothing but a patchwork chimera. The more you chase after Chloe, the more
you reach out desperately toward her light…the farther you will get from it and
the more you will hate yourself."
Oliver offered no rebuttals, felt no irritation. Just the empty nothing of being
told something you already know.
"Your best choice would be to pursue an entirely different path. Forget
everything and move to some remote location, bury yourself in the activism of
the civil rights crowd or find somewhere to look after the ordinaries. Any one of
those would suit you well." Enrico then asked:
"Haven't you done enough? You got Darius and me. That's very impressive!
Chloe would be proud."
Silence was sufficient to reject this proposal. There had never been a way to
turn back. Especially now that he'd thrown so many lives on the pyre.
"…But if you choose otherwise…"
Enrico went on, pouring what little life he had left into this warning.
"…then along this thorny path…at least meet someone. Not a replacement for
Chloe, but someone all your—"
He was interrupted by a blood-laced cough. As Oliver stared down at him, it
turned into a fit.
"…Kya-ha-ha. Pity. I'm afraid…I can speak no more."
Realizing this, his hand—almost reflexively—reached for his pocket. He felt
around inside.
"…Oh… I'm out of candy…"
Deprived of this comfort, he looked terribly sad.
"…We'll have to go get some more. What flavor would you like…?"
As the light died from his eyes, he spoke like a little boy again. Lowering his
athame, Oliver listened, forgetting all about finishing him off.
"…I like cherry best." Enrico answered his own question. "Same color as your
cheeks…"
There was a bashful smile on his lips, his eyes on a sunrise from the distant
past.
And with his last words addressed to someone precious—the old man
breathed his last.
Gwyn took a knee, his hand moving about the body. The final confirmations.
Then he turned to his cousin and nodded.
"...It's done, Noll."
Oliver stood where he was, letting it wash over him. There was no joy in this
victory, no shouts of triumph. He could find nothing inside himself at all.
Thirty-two entered combat on the fourth and fifth layers.
Combat goal achieved. Enrico Forghieri slain.
Eleven comrades lost in battle.
With that, the second target of his revenge met his end—just as he'd wished.