Chapter 33 - The Grilling

Disaster occurred during second period that morning. The first sword arts

class Oliver had attended since relieving his double.

"…"

"What's the matter, Oliver? You don't look so good."

Students were finishing up their sets and moving into the skirmish phase.

Oliver was staring pensively at his athame. Sensing something amiss, Chela

approached, but before he could answer, Rossi chimed in.

"The 'eat is on! Oliver, will you do the honors?"

"…We've already got a duel set for tomorrow, though."

"Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud, eh? We rush straight to the main event,

and you will be left astonished by my progress!"

Not waiting for an answer, Rossi pulled him toward the practice area. Oliver

had no plans to turn down a sparring match—that wasn't the problem here. It

all just felt so wrong. Unable to shake that, he found himself facing Rossi at onestep, one-spell range.

"Ready? 'Ere we go!"

Rossi was already moving. He was melding the boldness of his self-taught

style with the tricky techniques of the Koutz school, and it was getting harder

and harder to read his approach. Oliver couldn't afford a lapse of attention. He

hit his usual Lanoff midstance, ready to parry.

"...Uh?"

They'd made it eight ripostes. Rossi let out a shocked grunt, and an athame

clattered to the floor—knocked from Oliver's hand by a blow to his wrist.

""""""" ?!"""""""

A moment later, students in all directions turned to stare. Rossi taking a run

against Oliver was a regular feature of this class—including the outcome, which

invariably involved him being outmatched and sent packing. Everyone knew

how things were supposed to go. Until now. And this didn't happen at the end

of a furious exchange but during the initial warm-up phase.

"...!"

Oliver was staring at his hand in shock, and his friends came running over.

Guy, Katie, and Pete formed a shield in front of him and glared at Rossi.

"Rossi, you ass! I thought you were better than that!"

"I know you crave victory, but using poison?!"

"Oliver, what's wrong?! What did he do to you?!"

"My honor lies besmirched! I swear, I am innocent! Upon my word as a

Ytallian!"

Rossi threw up his hands in the face of this interrogation. More students

joined the fray, and the commotion got loud enough that Garland turned to

address the class—but just in time, Oliver himself spoke up.

"…He's telling the truth. He did nothing untoward."

A hush settled over the crowd. Oliver collected his athame and sheathed it.

Then he pushed through the students to Rossi, doing his best to smile.

"Victory is yours, Rossi. You finally got me."

He gave the Ytallian a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. Rossi was just

gaping at him, and their respective reactions were making the crowd rethink

things.

"…You're off your game, Mr. Horn," Stacy Cornwallis said.

Fay Willock nodded. "Are you sure there are no poison or curses involved?

Those would be less shocking than this."

Across the room, Richard Andrews was giving Oliver a dubious look. And a

similar thought had the room buzzing again.

"…Then…"

"…He's just having a bad day?"

"Bad enough that Rossi overcame a year of trouncing…?"

And as that notion spread, there was a thud.

"Any nobodies dreaming of seizing this chance, line up before me! I'll crush

you all in turn."

Joseph Albright was in the center of the room, flashing his most terrifying

smile. A few students had taken a step toward Oliver, but they scattered like

spider hatchlings. As skirmishes started up again in all directions, Guy, Katie,

and Pete turned to Rossi. The three friends looked chagrined.

"Sorry I doubted ya, Rossi."

"You really didn't poison him… I'm sorry, too."

"Same here. I just figured it was the most likely situation."

"You are all 'orrible at apologies! Argh, I cannot call this a victory."

Rossi was tearing his hair out. He heaved an especially dramatic sigh, stepped

over to Oliver, and took a firm grip on his shoulder. Half disgruntled, half

encouraging.

"Get your 'ead back in the game before we next meet, please. The duel is off

until then."

"…Thanks," Oliver said, glad for the offer.

In lieu of further sparring, he and Chela paired off, focusing on core forms

while he attempted to adjust himself. They were still at it when class ended.

After class, he'd pushed away his friends' concerns and was now walking

alone down a deserted corridor.

"…Ngh…"

Oliver was shaking with fear and frustration. It had been tough to keep a lid

on that in front of his friends, but he knew the real horror lay once he was alone

again. There was no one else here. And that forced him to face himself.

This was not "off his game" or "a slump." Nothing that mild. This was not his

body. Movements acquired through dizzying amounts of training no longer

functioned at all. This wasn't "something wrong." There was no part of him that

wasn't wrong.

And he knew why this was happening. Only too well. The soul merge—there

was little doubt that that one spell cast on him during the Enrico fight was to

blame for his condition. When he'd woken after three days and nights of

torment, he'd noticed the problem right away. He'd hoped it was simply a byproduct of his injuries and fatigue and gone about his life like normal, but those

hopes had been betrayed. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"…Guh…"

Something vital had broken. That was a terrifying notion, but nonetheless, it

was the first thing that came to mind.

And he could find no argument against it. It was a miracle he'd spent several

minutes fused to Chloe Halford's soul and lived to tell the tale. Others could

heal his wounds, but none could say how bad the damage inside was.

Even mages weren't capable of repairing all damage with a healing spell. The

soul itself was the prime example, but damage to the ether or flesh could be

equally irreversible. Restoration of anything related to mana circulation was

extremely delicate. Growth and training created countless rivers of magic,

branching and diving; the system was unique to each individual, and the shape

of it was a mage's power. The etheric body and soul remembered that layout, so

it would not be lost in a routine injury. But there were exceptions. Specifically,

any time the injuries extended beyond the purview of the etheric body.

And if that applied here—then all the strength Oliver Horn had gleaned in life

may have been lost forever, all for the sake of a few minutes' combat.

He couldn't yet know that this was true. He knew not to leap to conclusions.

But his hopes felt all too feeble. He'd been helpless to defend himself against

Rossi, and that had fanned the flames of his fears. That outcome was more

eloquent than a thousand rationales.

Dark thoughts flowed through him without end. Oliver shook his head, trying

to cast them out. Whatever the truth might be, dwelling on it here would get

him nowhere. He needed to speak to his cousins—then they could decide. He

tried to force his feet into motion…

"Come, Oliver."

…and he saw a girl's hand held out to him.

"…Nanao…?"

He raised his head and found the Azian girl before him, her smile unwavering.

He instinctively reached for her outstretched hand, which then closed around

his. The warmth flowing into him was genuinely astounding. Only then did he

realize how cold he was.

"Warm, yes? My mother sang its virtues. Said with me by her side, she

needn't heat any stones all winter through."

Sharing her warmth with him, Nanao pulled Oliver along. His gaze was glued

to her back. And he remembered doing the same thing—down darkened paths,

with his own mother.

"You have nothing to fear. Nothing at all."

His eyes were wet with tears. They left a trail on the ground where the two of

them passed.

Late at night that same evening, on the edge of the labyrinth's fifth layer—

Firedrake Canyon, where the wyverns nested.

"Oh, Lu! How nice of you to drop by."

Collapsed against the sheer rock face were the remains of the machine god,

beside which stood a shadowy figure like darkness given human form. She

waved cheerily. Few shortened Luther Garland's name quite so drastically, but

he nonetheless lowered his head in reverence.

"…Thank you for keeping the scene safe, Ms. Muwezicamili."

"Awww, why so formal? We used to be thick as thieves."

Baldia Muwezicamili was the school's foremost expert on curses, but perhaps

not manners. Garland deflected her claim with a faint smile, turning his eyes to

the golem's remains—and the back of the old woman standing astride it.

"Have I kept you waiting long, Instructor Gilchrist?"

"A mere three minutes. A trifle. Compared to your time as a student."

Frances Gilchrist had been alive for a thousand years and teaching spellology

for an equally dizzying length of time. A sarcastic dig at Garland's student days

was more than enough to silence the man. Behind him, Baldia's black cloak

rippled like water as she laughed.

"Lu was always tardy!"

"…Let's get to the point. The reason we're here—"

"Naturally, I'm concerned about the same thing. What lies on the other side,"

Gilchrist intoned, pointing her white wand at the remains.

Garland nodded, and behind him, Baldia folded her pale arms.

"It is the obvious thing," she said. "I'd love to turn it over, but if I try, it'll wind

up all cursed. It would be so easy if we could call Vana here."

"I came before that could happen. Ms. Aldiss lacks the delicacy required and

could easily destroy the evidence we seek," Gilchrist said.

With that, she leaped off the machine god to the ground below. Well aware

of his role here, Garland stepped alongside, raising his own wand.

"And I'm your backup? Fair enough. Flipping this mass is a tall order, but

between the two of us—"

"Don't be daft. I called you to bear witness to the accuracy of the evidence."

She pushed her former student's wand out of the way, then gently waved her

own, chanting a spell.

"Revolve inversum."

And her incantation lifted the entire bulk into the air without so much as a

single vibration. A mass more than a hundred feet long wafted skyward,

pausing above them and revolving in place. Then it descended at the same

speed it had risen, raising no dust as it landed. Garland watched with reverence

and awe. Even to the eyes of another mage, this was unreal.

"…Like flipping an egg to you, huh?"

"And now, observations."

Gilchrist stepped onto the air itself as if a staircase lay before her, looking

down at the newly revealed side of the machine god's remains. Garland nodded

and began inspecting the golem's lower half from atop the hilt of his broom.

"They're likely inspecting it by now."

At the same time, on the first layer, the ringleaders of the faculty murder

were speaking.

"Not a problem. All wounds on that giant have been doctored to look like

wyverns and the lindwurm."

"I know that! It was rough work covering up the evidence," a female student

said, shaking her head. "The golem itself was damn heavy—no way to move the

thing. Had to burrow tunnels under and put everything His Majesty hit back the

way it was. Adamant is tough enough to work with, and we had to put up

barriers, keep people away, and work through the night to get it done. Only

reason we made it is 'cause you and Shannon remembered the exact locations

of every scratch."

"Only Chloe Halford's Gladio is capable of slicing adamant," Gwyn said as he

brewed a potion for his cousin. "Like the fourth spellblade, just seeing those

marks would be enough to link us to her. We knew the cleanup would be rough

going in… But our teachers aren't about to let us hide everything."

With that grim proclamation, the door to the room swung open. Both

students looked that way and saw their lord standing there, looking very upset.

Shannon glanced up from her writings and jumped to her feet.

"There you are, Noll… So the side effects have manifested?" Gwyn said. "Over

here. Lie down."

He took his cauldron off the fire and beckoned Oliver to a gurney in the next

room. Shannon came over and nestled herself close to her cousin, who

promptly yielded to her examination.

"It just feels…off. Like the surface…has been repaired."

They'd been examining the golem for a good ten minutes before these words

escaped Garland's lips.

"Your instincts were always good," Gilchrist said, nodding from the sky above.

"There are distinct signs of magical modification. It was merely an impression

on the top side, but the back has had minimal interference; they likely had to

tunnel in, unable to flip the golem."

That made a lot of sense to Garland. Having found what she was looking for,

Gilchrist dropped back to the ground.

"This proves the boy did not blow himself up. Enrico fought and was bested.

That much is certain."

Garland nodded and hopped off his broom. If Gilchrist had nothing more to

say, that meant there were no more clues to be found here. Whoever was

responsible was clearly as skilled at subterfuge as they were in combat. Mulling

that over, he asked the loaded question.

"…Who do you suspect?"

The witch merely shook her head. As he had anticipated.

"All I know now is that it was not me. There are signs of a cover-up, but we

should not read too much into that. We can't even say for sure the minimal

processing on the back is not an intentional ploy to mislead us. Make not haste;

make your foe show their tail. Hence the investigation," Gilchrist said. "Still,

whoever this killer is…they will not be sitting on their hands and waiting for us

to make the next move."

Early the next morning…

The Kimberly campus had an area reserved for magical creatures. The section

where Marco had been kept a year ago currently housed the griffins, and Katie

had become a regular visitor. Magical biology classes often met here;

depending on the time of day, there were a lot of students moving in and out.

But at this hour, with dawn barely broken, only a few ever ventured near.

Chief among them was Vanessa Aldiss—the magical biology instructor so

terrifying, the students had nicknamed her "the Tyrant." Her work duties

naturally meant this area was her domain.

"Aw, shut yer traps. You ain't roosters. Or do you want me to roast you for

breakfast?"

The cries and growls of sundry creatures stopped dead the moment they

sensed Vanessa coming, her presence so palpable, they instinctively grew quiet.

Her every motion was rife with violence, conscious or not. She strode from cage

to cage, making her morning rounds.

But something felt amiss. She knew full well how loud manavians were in the

morning and which cages should be the loudest at this hour. Yet, one particular

cage was quiet as a tomb.

"…Hah?"

Vanessa turned toward it, peering through the bars. She found the griffins flat

out on the ground, deep in slumber…seemingly just as she'd left them the night

before.

"…Hmm…"

But that was not slumber. The moment she realized not a single griffin was

breathing, Vanessa knew—what had happened here and for what purpose.

"Oh-ho, taking a run at me, are ya?"

Her right arm transformed, twisting the bars of the cage. When her palm

opened again, the metal fell to the ground, crumpled into a ball like a wad of

paper.

Several others had the misfortune to be in the animal pens that morning.

"Okay, okay, good, good! Keep it up. Now this way— Augh?!"

The griffin's wing had batted Katie aside, knocking her down. The young

griffin she'd been trying to lead around glared at her a moment, then lost

interest and turned away.

Miligan was watching Katie's struggle from a safe distance, arms folded.

"Hmm, it sure has your number."

"Erk… B-but still! It doesn't attack like it used to!"

Katie was soon back on her feet, ready to face the griffin again—but the

Snake-Eyed Witch stepped in.

"Now, now, let's keep our heads about us, Katie. This works just like it did

with Marco. We can't forge a healthy relationship when they're frightened of

us, but likewise, we'll get nowhere when they're looking down their beaks at us.

It seems like you've managed to convince the griffin you aren't an enemy. The

next step is to persuade it you're more than an equal."

The griffin saw Miligan approaching and backed away, hackles raised. Clearly,

it had sniffed out that she was not to be trifled with. With Katie, it lacked that

defensiveness—which was an advantage—but it had a distinctive derisive

streak that rather undermined that. Seeing her stuck between a rock and a hard

place, Miligan had proposed they work together.

"And that requires a demonstration of power. In nature, a powerful foe

inspires fear, but a powerful ally generates trust. Seeking friendship from a

position of power will not be refused so lightly."

"…But I don't want to hurt it," Katie said, fists balled up tight.

Miligan smiled, nodding. "You won't bend on that point. I know. We have to

demonstrate power without a direct attack. That is a challenge."

They fell silent, thinking it over. The three of them—griffin included—were at

a stalemate. Then heavy footsteps came their way. The girls turned to look and

saw a tall boy leading a troll in their direction.

"'Sup. Thought I'd drop by."

"Guy? Er, why is Marco with you? Out for a walk?"

"That too. But I had an idea. You're struggling with the griffin bonding, yeah?"

Marco moved toward Katie. The griffin could hardly remain indifferent to this

troll-size threat and spread its wings—a gesture of intimidation.

"KYOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Whoa…!" Katie cried. "W-wait, Marco. You'll scare it. Best to keep your dis

—"

"Nope. This works. Let him get close."

"Wha—?!"

Unsure where Guy was going with this, Katie's head spun; Marco stomped up

to her side. He glanced down at the griffin, who flinched—and fell silent, folding

its wings once more. Miligan watched avidly, stroking her chin.

"…Hmm. Might not work on a mature griffin, but at this stage of

development, Marco is a clear superior. It knows it wouldn't stand a chance in a

fight."

"Unh… Now what, Guy?"

"Right there is good. It's your turn, Katie."

"Huh? Me?"

"Have Marco put you on his shoulder," Guy said, grinning.

Blinking, Katie looked up at the troll. "Uh, okay… Marco, do you mind?"

"No mind."

Marco nodded and held out his hand. Katie stepped aboard, and he gingerly

lifted her to his shoulder. She was soon seated at his eye level. Seeing the

griffin's gaze glued to this whole process, Miligan figured out the plan.

"Interesting approach," she said.

"Not something the griffin can just ignore, right?" Guy chuckled. "Here's

something much stronger, obeying her directives."

Violence was hardly the only way to demonstrate strength. Having powerful

creatures serve you was proof of superiority. Miligan had to admit the strategy

had merit.

"Katie," she called. "Try bringing Marco along the next few times you interact

with the griffin. Be careful not to give the impression of borrowed authority—

make sure it sees him obeying your directives."

"O-okay!"

Katie also had it figured out now, and from Marco's shoulder, she began

pointing, telling him where to go. The sight of Marco doing just that was likely

making a big impression on the griffin. Its gaze never left them. One eye on

that, Miligan slipped over to Guy, jabbing him in the ribs.

"Very clever, Guy."

"Thanks. When she's facing a creature, nothing else enters her head, huh? I

figured it'd never occur to her to put Marco in the middle."

"Yes… I should have thought of it myself," Miligan said, rapping the side of her

head.

Katie yelled down from Marco's shoulder, "The looks it's giving me are totally

different! I think it's working!"

"Well, great. Still…"

Guy's gaze ran down her person. Scrapes on her hands and arms, dirt on her

uniform, grass in her curly hair. Clear signs of the struggle so far. He put a hand

to his brow, sighing.

"…Never mind. Keep it up!"

"? Don't be weird."

Katie shot Guy a baffled look, then gave Marco another directive. Guy

observed her, stone-faced, and Miligan raised an eyebrow at him.

"…Holding your tongue?"

"You know, so don't ask."

"Heh-heh-heh. I suppose I do. You're certainly minding Katie's moves."

"It's more like she doesn't, so someone's gotta."

Miligan shielded her eyes with one hand, like he was too bright and she

couldn't bear to look.

"Ahhh…she doesn't lack for options."

"What?"

"Never mind. Just thinking out loud."

But no sooner had the words left her mouth than every living thing present

shuddered.

" ?!"

"...!"

They couldn't move. The tension was so great, they could barely breathe. And

the moment they realized this stemmed from something coming up behind

them, all eyes were drawn toward it: Vanessa Aldiss, both arms ominously

swollen, taking big strides their way, eyes raking across human, troll, and griffin

alike. Three different species all registering the same hopeless threat.

"…KYO…O…"

Her eyes bored into the griffin specifically, and its mind registered her as

inescapable death. A threat so great, it did not dare to run, let alone fight. Its

animal instincts spoke loud and clear—from this range, it was already caught in

her jaws.

"…A-ah!"

Yet, in the midst of that uncharted pressure, Katie alone took action. She

dropped down from Marco's shoulder and stepped out in front of the others.

Like with Darius the year before, this was proof of her remarkable will. Here,

however, she was but a lump of meat placed before a starving carnivore.

"…You gave…permission! What…do you want from us, Instructor Vanessa?"

The instructor's palpable hostility scorching her face, Katie attempted to

communicate with words. Here was the sole hope of every living thing present

that wasn't Vanessa. If words wouldn't work, no other options existed.

Resistance itself was futile. Even unintelligent creatures knew that to be true.

"…This one's alive."

Thus, when actual words were offered in return, their looming deaths made a

swift retreat.

"…?"

"Carry on. Miligan, keep an eye on things till classes start."

And with that, Vanessa turned on her heel and stalked away. Once she was

out of sight, Katie's knees buckled. Guy and Miligan each caught an arm. She

was damp with a cold sweat, like she'd been caught in a midwinter shower.

"...What…was that…?"

"She's…not usually that intense. Even my shoulders were quivering," Miligan

said, speaking for them all.

Katie took Miligan's arm and pulled herself up—then sensed that she was

being watched. The griffin's eyes were on her, a look of wonder in them, as if

the creature was staring at something it could not comprehend.

"…Were you scared? Don't worry. I won't let her do anything to you. Ever."

She reached out to it, her tiny hand gently brushing its feathers. And this

time, it didn't shake her off. Something had changed within the manavian

without anyone—Katie included—realizing it. Or rather: Perhaps this was

curiosity. Curiosity toward a far smaller creature who had faced certain death

and driven it away.

A shadow passed over them, and Miligan looked up. Beasts were flying

overhead: fully grown griffins, wyverns, and the like. Their eyes scanned the

ground—this was undeniably ominous.

"Watchers in the skies," Miligan muttered, her voice grim. "Something's

clearly amiss."

They found out what exactly was amiss the moment everyone gathered for

breakfast.

"…That's…awful…"

Katie's fork fell to her plate with a sonorous clatter. Conscious of Katie's

emotions, her conscience demanding she not mince words, Chela kept her tone

flat.

"I'm afraid it's true. The griffins the second-year students were training have

all been found dead. Only one survivor—the one you were looking after."

Katie's shoulders trembled. She started getting to her feet, but Chela stopped

her.

"Deep breath, Katie. The faculty is already on the case. Those griffins were

Kimberly property, and they aren't about to write off the loss. You saw the

beasts on patrol above."

Her voice was soothing and well-intentioned. Katie knew she couldn't spend

the whole day with her griffin, however worried she might be. But the storm

within was not subsiding. All those lives lost without warning—she couldn't

keep the anguish from her voice.

"…It doesn't make sense! This place is ugly sometimes but especially lately.

Why kill all those griffins?!"

"Is this part of it?" Pete asked. "The teachers—"

Chela put a finger to his lips. She then spoke a warning, not just to Pete but to

everyone seated with them.

"You must not. You must not speak a single careless word. I trust you know

why."

Silence settled over the table. Beneath it, Oliver's hand felt a squeeze from

another person's hand.

"No cause for alarm," Nanao said, her smile warm.

"…You two have been hand in hand since you got here," Chela noted with a

smile of her own.

"I insisted."

"Hee-hee. I envy that. But I do think it's needed."

Her voice revealed her concern for Oliver's condition. And that only added to

his hurt. He hadn't directly ordered the griffins' deaths, and yet—the moment

he heard the news, he knew it had been his comrades' work. Meant to rile up

Vanessa Aldiss.

"Until things settle down, avoid moving around alone," Chela advised. "Not

just in the labyrinth but on campus as well. Try to stay with someone you trust.

Katie, Pete, I'm talking to you."

"…I know."

"Less time in the library, then…"

They had their own thoughts on the matter, but neither blew off Chela's

admonition. The six friends ate quickly and rose to leave—and as if the

Fellowship wasn't already buzzing enough, further news arrived.

"The headmistress has summoned President Godfrey!"

"I have no knowledge of this matter."

A resolute male voice echoed through the headmistress's office. Seated on a

solitary chair in the center of the room was Godfrey, a daunting gaze upon him,

yet his tone never wavered.

"Once again, I am not involved with the disappearances of Instructor Enrico or

Instructor Darius. Neither is any member of the Campus Watch."

Each word had force behind it, as if demonstrating he had nothing to hide.

And without that stance wavering, he shot a question back.

"Why would I even be a suspect? As president, I'm certainly in a position to

move numbers, but as reasons go, that's a leap. Would you care to explain the

logic behind this summons?"

"A simple matter of your personal offensive capabilities, Purgatory."

Her words like frozen steel, the headmistress's gaze bored into Godfrey. One

could argue that sitting before this witch unquailed, retaining your faculty for

speech, was a prerequisite for becoming student body president.

"Neither Enrico nor Darius would be bested by a rabble of ordinary students.

But you alone—there might be a chance. Your name coming up was not a leap

but an inevitability. But that does not equate to the depth of the suspicion. Take

it as an affirmation of your talent."

This was likely the highest praise she was capable of offering. Godfrey did not

look remotely pleased.

"This is merely one stage of our institutional audit," the headmistress

continued. "You aren't the only student we'll be questioning. If you suspect

anyone yourself, name them now. I have a high opinion of your performance on

the council. Thus, I consider your opinions worth hearing."

"My job is to protect the students. Not suspect them."

He didn't even hesitate. With the culprit in hand, he might involve the

authorities, but as the stage of mere suspicion, doing so would be a betrayal of

the students he led. In Godfrey's mind, that truth was self-evident. And the

headmistress knew that about him.

"Fine. I'd like you to relay a proclamation in my name."

"What would that be?"

Godfrey's eyes narrowed. He wondered what words she might offer under

these circumstances. But her answer surpassed his wildest imaginings.

"The faculty are upping the remunerations and prizes for all divisions of the

broom races, broom fights, and broom wars. The victor or MVP on the winning

team will receive a fifty million belc cash prize and a dragrium crystal. The same

conditions apply to the combat league leading into the next election."

" !"

Godfrey's eyes went wide when he realized what that meant. And

Esmeralda's next words fell like an ax:

"That will be all. You may leave."

"Godfrey!"

"You made it!"

Tim and Lesedi were waiting for him outside, looking frantic. That summons

from the witch of Kimberly was clearly an interrogation over the faculty

murders. There was no guarantee the suspect would emerge alive—and that

was not hyperbole. They'd been prepared to bust the door down if they had to.

"…I'll live. Sure didn't feel like it in the moment, though."

He wiped the sweat from his brow, easing his friends' nerves. They gave him a

moment to recover, then Lesedi dug in.

"They think you killed those teachers?"

Godfrey pondered that briefly. "It's more like…they're going one by one

through every possibility. I was called in first not because I'm their prime

suspect but because nobody is."

"So a wide-range investigation, open to the idea that a student could be

responsible… That means they're more in the dark than I thought. This isn't like

her at all."

"Matters are clearly worse than we expected. Two lost Kimberly teachers in

as many years is certainly unprecedented," said Godfrey. "…But she's taken

action. The broomsport Big Three and the combat league before the election

are all getting the prizes jacked way up. The victor and the team's MVP get fifty

million belc and a dragrium crystal."

"Dragrium?!"

Tim's eyes gleamed like full moons. Dragrium was rare enough that any mage

would want some, but that value skyrocketed if you were deep into alchemy.

Tim's reaction proved that point and confirmed Godfrey's ideas about the

headmistress's plan.

"That's bait, no doubt. Designed to drag more students into the school

building."

"…Pretty costly bait. If that's all she's after, she could just hold a mandatory

assembly for nothing."

"An assembly as part of an investigation is completely unnatural. A far cry

from something that draws people out to begin with. This contest lets her

demonstrate that Kimberly is business as usual. If any students stay hidden and

don't take the bait—well, that just makes them likely suspects."

Godfrey took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts. He could see where

things were going. Now it was their turn to act. He turned to the boy next to

him.

"Tim, the dead griffins."

"I didn't do it!"

"I know. I'll negotiate with Vanessa and get permission for you to examine the

bodies. I wanna know how they were killed. If possible, the time of death, too."

"We're running our own investigation?" Lesedi asked.

"No, merely pretending to. For now, I have no intention of pursuing the killer.

This isn't like the cases we've dealt with. As long as there's a chance of faculty

discord, us getting involved is far too dangerous." Godfrey then added, "But the

griffin slaughter proves there's a chance this discord could spread to the

student body going forward. We need to make the culprits think twice about

doing that. So we make a show of looking into things."

Faculty problems were for the faculty to solve—Godfrey had no issue

standing by. Their role was to ensure the students were left out of it. Lesedi

nodded in agreement but offered one word of caution.

"Just don't forget the election's coming. And the headmistress just lit the fires

under it," she said grimly. "The old student council members will be rubbing

their hands together as we speak."

Just as the underclassmen gathered in the Fellowship, there was a hall for

upperclassmen to do the same: the Forum, on the fourth floor.

"I, Percival Whalley, say this unto you: Godfrey's policies are fundamentally

unsound."

A fourth-year student stood at the center of the vast hall, white wand in hand.

Not an unusual sight as the election drew near, but the contents of his speech

were rather provocative.

"In the labyrinth and this school building, the Campus Watch has protected

many a student from harm. These successes have earned them a broad range of

support, and at a glance, that seems like a positive. But think on it, please. What

have their efforts given Kimberly?"

Whalley paused dramatically. Not to actually allow his listeners to think but to

give the illusion that they had. The answer would be the one he provided.

"It is all too clear—the student body has grown weak. Kimberly is where all

mages ought to stand on their own two feet—but now they find themselves

clinging to the council's boots. The Watch have cast themselves as a source of

unconditional aid. A veritable assault on the core tenets of this institute—

freedom and results!"

His voice rose in fury. What had begun as rather fussy oratory was adding in

one trick after another to whip his audience into a frenzy. His tone grew

stronger still.

"If anything goes wrong—talk to the Watch. What say you to that? I say nay!

Perhaps at some middling magic school, but this is Kimberly! We will not allow

such namby-pamby nonsense to go unchecked! If a mage is in peril, they must

carve their own way out! If you need assistance, you must pay the price, prove

your interests are aligned, or resort to treachery and threats. By any means

necessary! By following the principle of self-sufficiency! This is the way mages

ought to be." He paused. "That is what I find so unconscionable about the

current council. They seek no recompense! They dole out salvation to all

students in kind, with no discrimination, no discernment! And no regard for the

degradation it will cause!"

Whalley was arguing that his opponent's greatest merit was, in fact, the

school's greatest shame. And that could not be dismissed out of hand. After all,

this was Kimberly. An institute that had long been detached from the morals of

the world outside.

"After three long years, we have a chance to correct this error. Vote for me in

the coming election, and as student body president, I will restore Kimberly to its

rightful form. Those of you lending your ears need not wonder who is worthy of

your vote. You know there is no other choice. Not if you are a true mage!"

With that final exhortation, he wrapped up the speech. But instead of the

enthusiastic applause he'd expected, a rather sarcastic clap reached his ears. He

turned toward the sound and found a female student, hair covering one eye. A

fifth-year girl running against him.

"A fine speech, Mr. Whalley. I am impressed. It was like traveling three years

back in time. Amazing—to think the candidate back then said exactly the same

things."

"…Vera Miligan."

"But I have my doubts about your claims. Have you even stopped to wonder

why Godfrey felt the need to form his own council? How stifling this place was

under your cronies and their rigid ideas of what a 'true mage' must be? Have a

mere three years been enough for everyone to forget that?"

Before Whalley could answer, a man rose from the listening crowd.

"I don't deny that there was rot in our camp," he said, long golden hair

glittering, half his beautiful features marred by burns. The kind of man who

turned heads wherever he went. "But that is in the past. I have spent three

years carving out that cancer—as I would have done had I been elected. Our

institute does not suffer fools."

Leader of the previous council faction and Whalley's chief supporter—Leoncio

Echevalria.

Miligan smiled. She had hoped to draw him out.

"It's a shame you never got the chance. Oh, have you still not healed those

burns?"

In lieu of greeting, she chose to wind him up. The entire room froze. Whalley

turned white as a sheet.

Leoncio dramatically put a hand to his brow.

"Ha-ha, ha-ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Miligan…"

"Yes?"

"Solis lux."

There was a sarcastic sneer to his voice, like he was trading jibe for jibe—but

this was an incantation. He'd drawn his white wand so smoothly, Miligan was

left unprepared. By the time she had her wand out, her vision was bathed in

golden flames.

"Ignis!"

But fire from behind her pushed those flames back, the two forces equally

matched. Two infernos clashing in the center of the hall. The flames neither

spread nor sparked but instead concentrated. Vying for supremacy, they

dwindled like a reactor core suspended in midair—and then they went out.

"…Put your wands away. The election is a distant prospect! Mind your

tempers."

Alvin Godfrey stepped in, wand raised high. Leoncio greeted him like a longlost lover.

"Ohhh! Godfrey. My beloved Purgatory!" he cried. "It has been far too long.

But at last, I am prepared to invite you to my bed."

He put his wand away, holding out both hands and stepping toward Godfrey

like a lovelorn soul. But the moment the gap between them shrank, a glass

bottle sailed overhead.

"Go fuck a dog, asshole."

A potion hurled by Tim Linton. Everyone not part of the fight turned on their

heels and fled for the hills. Anything he threw would be fatal poison; their only

chance of survival was to get out of range before the bottle cracked. And that

would happen before it hit the ground.

Their expectations were thwarted, however—the rain of death never fell. An

instant after Tim's throw, multiple glass spheres sailed from the opposing

direction—all containing potions and all bursting in the same space as Tim's

bottle. There was a violent neutralizing reaction that left only harmless smoke

behind. Not a single drop of liquid made it to the floor.

"…I see you've made no progress whatsoever. Same old toxic gasser."

A fifth-year stepped forward, shaking his head. He'd customized his uniform

to encase his slim figure in tights; his smile was gentle yet unwavering, designed

to capture the hearts of all.

The tip of his wand aimed firmly at Tim, he continued. "I've said it before, but

you have no understanding of alchemy. Poisons that cause suffering are but a

failed by-product of the brewing process. Potions should heal, confuse, or drive

others mad."

"Go back to polishing your tumblers, Barman. Your cocktails are too sweet for

my taste."

Tim had his white wand out, too, and a new vial in his free hand. The old

council's premier alchemist, Gino Beltrami—aka Barman—returned a look of

pity.

As they faced off within striking distance, Leoncio snorted.

"…Your rabid mutt still isn't house-trained, I see. You should get on that,

Godfrey."

Tim was so focused on Barman's face that he failed to notice the wand

reaching over his shoulder.

"Fragor."

The spell hurtled right toward Tim's head, bursting before he could dodge.

"You're right—he needs it," Lesedi said, stepping in the instant the spell

activated—and then deflecting the opponent's wand with her own. "But that's

not permission for you to snap your whips."

The two white wands creaked, the wielders' faces inches apart—Lesedi's foe a

degenerate-looking sixth-year elf, Khiirgi Albschuch.

"Such a terrifying scowl, Lesedi. Are you still holding a grudge about all those

times I cucked you?"

"Are your lips only capable of emitting foul noises? Then their purpose is at an

end. I'll sew them shut for you, Avarice."

Neither one of them was backing off. Three pairs, each evenly matched.

Seeing that, Godfrey spoke again. "Listen up, everyone! As president, I bring

word from the very top: For the next league round, the headmistress is upping

the rewards for all three disciplines. The winner or MVP from the winning team

will receive a cash prize of fifty million belc—and a dragrium crystal. The same

prizes are on offer for the combat league preceding the election. That is all."

Leoncio put his free hand to his chest, eyes raised in admiration.

"Our headmistress certainly knows how to gild a lily," he said.

"Pfft, she just extended the trough we'll fill with—"

Tim was quick to retort, but he stopped as soon as he started. And he wasn't

the only one left speechless. Nearly every gaze in the room found itself locked

on a single point.

"Exquisite. The perfect stage to make you mine."

"...!"

Even Godfrey gasped. His eyes were glued to Leoncio's nether regions; the

cloth of his trousers had lifted to heights that made all doubt what they were

seeing. Engorged with flowing blood, it pulsated like a beating heart—a

member of truly prodigious proportions.

"Ahhh, the heat…! I can feel it, Godfrey! The mark you left on me is burning

still!" Leoncio cried. "To extinguish it, I must tear everything from you! Rob you

of everything you hold dear! Leave you dazed and confused, helpless to resist as

I lead you to my bed. For days and nights without end, I will torment you, make

you cry, make you groan, make you beg for mercy! I shall put a collar on your

throat that shall remain there for all eternity!"

The man's lust was fanned by loathing and obsession, and he showed no

compunction about voicing it all before his target. This was a declaration of

intent. Arrogant, selfish—and in that, exactly how a mage's love ought to be.

"That day is not far off. Await it with breathless anticipation."

His eyes swimming with passion, Leoncio waved a hand at his clique and

turned to leave, making no attempt to hide his cock's salute—no, he was

proudly showing it off.

That same evening, the Sword Roses aimed to keep their word and inform

Morgan of Ashbury's current well-being. Given the unsettling state of the

campus, they decided it was best for all of them to go together.

"I am familiar with the three broomsports. But what is this combat league?"

Nanao asked.

They were on the second layer, the bustling forest. Making their way through

the trees, they were discussing the headmistress's proclamation—news that

had arrived somewhat late, given all that had happened in the Forum.

"It's an official magic tournament Kimberly holds on a regular basis," Chela

explained. "There are individual and team events, but I've heard in election

years, the former is more common. The idea being to give the candidates a

chance to demonstrate their personal prowess."

She paused briefly to cast a gust spell, mowing down the shrubbery ahead.

Leading the party through the unobstructed path, she issued a warning.

"But that will be next year. The broom events are nearly upon us. Nanao, I'm

sure you can post strong results in any of the three categories. If you intend to

win, we should begin strategizing."

"You gotta go for it, Nanao! Fifty million belc! You know how much that is?

You could live it up in Galatea for a month without breaking the bank!"

"Guy, don't be greedy! But it certainly is a lot of money… If only I was any

good at riding."

"? Wait, you want money?"

"I'm not proud of it! But I could really use more, honestly. Given how

expensive upkeep on magical creatures is…I can never have enough. Ms.

Miligan also said it was high time I started thinking about my income…"

Katie let out a "life is hard" sigh. Research was often a huge money sink, and

minor disciplines came part and parcel with budgetary concerns. She was going

to be dealing with this struggle for a long time.

And hearing this made Nanao think.

"Then if I claim the prize, I shall offer it to you. I've no use for it myself."

"Nanaooo! You're such a good girl!"

Katie threw her arms around her friend, which stopped Nanao in her tracks—

and since Oliver was holding her hand, it threw him off balance.

"…That would be nice," Katie then added. "But you can't. Keep the money.

You may not need it now, but I'm sure it'll be useful someday."

She gave Nanao a firm pat on the back. One eye on them, Guy threw his arm

over Oliver's shoulders.

"Nanao's going for it, so you'd better whip yourself back into shape quick."

"Don't rush him," Pete admonished, pulling Oliver's arm like he was trying to

steal him away from Guy. "I read up on the subject, and a mage's slump is a

delicate thing. You don't want him getting further messed up, do you?"

Since Nanao and Oliver had been holding hands the whole time, this left them

at the center of a cluster—everyone but Chela clinging on to someone. The

ringlet girl giggled.

"…Should I join in?" she asked.

"Please don't," Oliver pleaded. "Everyone, calm down! Give me some space; I

can't exactly move—"

Mid-sentence, the foliage parted, and a burly upperclassman poked his face

out.

"The gang's all here?" he asked.

Katie let out a little yelp. This must have been the Morgan they were looking

for. Everyone quickly let go of Oliver—except Nanao, who was clearly adamant

about this hand-holding thing. Chela stepped forward, speaking for the group.

"A pleasure to meet you, Morgan. I am Chela McFarlane, year two. I've heard

you provided my friends with invaluable assistance, saving Guy from serious

peril. I cannot thank you enough. Our friends here are Oliver Horn and Nanao

Hibiya. Like myself, they've tagged along as a precaution—the school is a bit…

agitated these days. That does make for rather a hubbub, but hopefully not an

unpleasant one."

"Oh, so you're Instructor Theodore's favorite daughter? I can see the

resemblance!" Morgan exclaimed. "You're all welcome! This was my request, so

I appreciate your indulging it."

His eyes turned toward Oliver, who pushed aside the urge to hide his and

Nanao's clasped hands and returned the greeting. It took only a few exchanges

for them to feel like old friends; Oliver was relieved. This man was every bit as

gregarious as he'd heard.

Before settling down to the main topic, they chatted about this and that,

which naturally brought them to the current state of things on campus. Morgan

looked genuinely surprised by the goings-on up above.

"Fifty million belc and a dragrium crystal? That's quite a bonanza."

"It seems likely the administrators have goals beyond making the league one

to remember," said Chela. "But perhaps it's best we avoid further speculation

on that topic."

"Definitely the right call. If the teachers are fighting, you underclassmen don't

wanna be poking anything with a stick. Ignore the background noise and just

enjoy the party."

Advice from experience. With that, there was a lull in the conversation, and

Nanao seized the opportunity.

"If I may," she began. "I come bearing word on your lady Ashbury."

"Please. Hit me," Morgan said, nodding.

For the next few minutes, he lent his ear to her tale. When she was done,

Morgan folded his arms, muttering, "…She still hasn't broken that record, huh?"

Nanao added her own impressions. "As a broomrider myself, I can speak to

the importance of a catcher who is with you heart and soul. And to the timidity

their absence can bring."

Morgan's eyes snapped to the boy at her side. "…He's your catcher?"

"That he is," Nanao said, proudly putting her arm around Oliver. This made

him fidget, but Morgan just grinned.

"Every rider-catcher pair is different. Sometimes they stick together like you

two; sometimes they spend the whole time arguing their heads off. But the one

thing they all have in common is that no matter what happens—neither side

can be replaced."

His eyes were focused elsewhere, staring into his own past.

"That was extra obvious with Ashbury. She'd had one catcher after another

run off on her, until I was the only one left. Gah-ha-ha."

The memory made him laugh, but sensing their rapt attention, he let it die

away.

"Honestly, I wish I could go back. But I can't catch anyone with my body like

this. Showing myself to her now will just make things worse."

Morgan sounded resigned to his fate.

Katie looked hesitant to speak but couldn't stay silent.

"…Um, if we talk to the teachers, maybe—"

But mid-sentence, Morgan turned away, coughing hard. A burst of fire left his

lips, curling upward and blackening the branches of a nearby tree.

"…Ahem. Sorry, what was that?"

"...…Um…never mind."

Katie said nothing more. What she'd just seen was more potent than any

hope she might offer. The man ravaged by tír fire was only too aware how little

time he had—and that was why he spoke to them as people who still had lives

ahead.

"You've already done more than I bargained for, but let me ask one more

thing. Don't tell her I'm still alive. There's nothing she can do for me. I'm just an

ex-catcher burning himself out."

That didn't sit well with anyone. But he wasn't about to let them dwell on it.

The instant the mood got gloomy, Morgan's voice boomed.

"So light the fire in her! If she's up against a wall, then the best way to punch

through it is to make her extra competitive. That's how she ticks. The next

league'll be the perfect stage. All she needs is a rival."

He turned to Nanao. One of the few riders capable of entering Ashbury's

zone.

"Take to the skies and face her down, Nanao Hibiya. That's all I can ask."

She nodded once. The heartache behind that request cut her to the quick.

As everything around him was in tumult, Oliver's condition showed no sign of

improving. His cousins' examination hadn't helped much.

"Enough. Wand down, Mr. Horn."

It was bad enough that the teacher had to step in in spellology class. Oliver

froze to the spot as Gilchrist approached.

"Your mind is adrift," she said. "Attending class in that state is a liability for

those around you."

"…!"

He couldn't argue. The results before him said it all. The assignment was a

transformation, one requiring fine control—but the glass he'd intended to roll

out thin as paper was mottled and white. His inability to maintain the

transparency showed how badly he'd failed to control his mana.

"Waving your wand around blindly will not help. Recovery cannot be

hastened. Sit yourself down for self-examination. Do you hear me?"

And here he was getting "helpful advice" from one of his targets. Yet, there

was so little light reaching Oliver that he couldn't stop himself from groping for

an exit. He failed to find any hints on how to even begin the path to recovery;

his days were filled with anxiety, panic, and failure. Class time was no different.

"Whoa, what's wrong, Mr. Horn? You're not usually someone who looks

ready to fall off their broom. Did you break a few bones when I wasn't looking?

Need a little healing, maybe? My spells hurt like the dickens."

Repeating takeoff and landing failures in broom class had Dustin genuinely

concerned. The broom Oliver had been riding for years seemed perplexed, and

he was struggling to even fly straight.

"Well…don't let it get to you, Mr. Horn. This was rather a tricky assignment.

Even upperclassmen blow a brew if they've been away from a cauldron awhile.

We all have bad days."

His brew in alchemy class was a complete write-off, and Ted's smile was very

sympathetic. He had no confidence in the simplest ingredient prep, and the

more cautious he got, the further away success became.

"...…"

His group was all following different curriculums, so Nanao was not in the

alchemy class with him. This itself was not unusual, but in Oliver's current state,

it felt like the one guiding light had gone out.

"…It happens to everyone! Don't let it get you down."

"It wasn't even a big failure. Not like you blew up your cauldron."

Katie and Pete were with him and picked up on his mood. They tried to help,

but all he could manage was a faint smile.

"Oliver Horn, Pete Reston."

All three had been in a hurry to meet up with their friends, and an icy voice

struck them in the back at the worst moment.

"I have questions for you. Proceed directly to my office."

They turned like rusted machines. Her silver hair agleam, standing there in the

gloomy hallway was the witch of Kimberly—Esmeralda.

Where Godfrey had sat earlier, the two boys found two chairs. They took

their seats feeling like prisoners on death row. Standing at the window, her

back to them, the headmistress began.

"You've heard about Enrico Forghieri's disappearance."

"Only rumors."

"…Same."

It took a lot of strength for Oliver to get those words out, and Pete followed

his lead. The witch watched out of the corner of her eye.

"Shortly before his disappearance, you two visited his workshop, yes?"

That explains it, Oliver thought. He chose his words carefully.

"…Yes. Pete was invited, and I insisted on joining him."

"Elaborate on what you saw and heard. Leave nothing out."

As ordered, Oliver gave a rundown of the events. Pete's invitation had

seemed risky, so he and Nanao joined them, overcoming the trial Enrico had set

to reach the workshop itself. There, they'd been shown Dea Ex Machina. All this

was likely in the notes Enrico had left behind, so he had no intention of hiding

anything.

When he finished his story, the witch turned toward them, snapping, "You

loathed his work."

Oliver's heart leaped out of his chest. He had been sure he'd left out all traces

of his bias, but he'd certainly revealed his distaste for Enrico's work to the

man's face. He couldn't allow for that to make him a suspect.

"...I didn't…exactly—"

Trying to recover his poise, he started stammering a reply—but a chant

echoed through the room, and the back of Oliver's chair fell off. He and Pete sat

bolt upright, watching as the headmistress sheathed her wand once more.

"This is my inquiry. Do not speak another meaningless word."

Only now did the shudder catch up with him. She'd severed the back of his

chair through his body, allowing him no response to the chant itself—and

without harming a thread of his robes. Should she have so chosen, she could

have sliced his body to pieces.

"…H-Headmistress!" Pete's voice was a squeak, every part of him shaking.

And yet: "Y-you suspect Oliver and I had something to do with his

disappearance, don't you? Th-this is part of the investigation, right?"

Her silence signaled agreement. A wave of fear hit them, like their heads

could leave their bodies any second. Pete pushed through that, stringing words

together so that he might live.

"Can I ask the estimated time of the incident? Between the last sighting of

Instructor Enrico and the discovery of his disappearance? I have a good memory

of my own activities that day. What Oliver and I were doing, who we were with

—who can vouch for us."

An orthodox approach to proving innocence. Pete kept talking, not letting

Oliver help.

"I heard it took place on the fifth layer. I've never been that deep inside the

labyrinth, but I'm aware that even for a skilled mage, it's not somewhere

reached in a short amount of time. We should be able to provide alibis."

"No need."

His life depended on these words, and she dismissed them out of hand. Pete

stopped breathing.

"You are in your second year. I do not for a moment believe you slew him

yourselves. I am speaking to you regardless for the simple reason that Enrico's

Deus Ex Machina was taken down. Do you realize what that means?"

Her blade turned back toward them. Seeing tears at the corners of Pete's

eyes, Oliver took over.

"If I may clarify something… We were shown a golem called Dea Ex Machina.

An unfinished prototype with no lower body. Is this the same construct you

called Deus Ex Machina?"

"What you saw was a second model, still under construction. What was

destroyed on the fifth layer was a previously completed model."

"…Okay, then… Your culprits are very good and likely more than one."

"Worse. That invention was hardly something multiple skilled mages could

hope to eliminate," she corrected, moving directly beside him. "I believe the

killers had thorough knowledge of the machine god before the fight began."

Oliver felt his stomach twisting into a knot. He knew full well she was right.

"…And you suspect we leaked that information?"

"That is one possibility. Though a separate model, the invention was shown to

you. And Enrico did not show off his work without a basic explanation of the

functionality. That knowledge would make all the difference in taking it out."

He had nothing else to say. A long silence hung between them before Pete

managed to recover enough to speak.

"I understand why we're here. But I'm certain we are not the only students

Instructor Enrico showed his work to. And it was supposed to be only me there;

Oliver invited himself along afterward. Since the instructor allowed that, I think

it's safe to assume he showed it to many other students."

"You talk a lot, Pete Reston."

This was praise, not a snide remark. Formulating a clear rebuttal required

analytical skills, as well as the gumption to continue speaking even while

shaking in fear. Pete was accomplishing something any Kimberly student could

be proud of.

"Your reasoning is sound. You are not the only students invited to view the

machine god. That is why I said 'one possibility.' The two of you visited the

workshop right before the incident in question, and one could argue that

students who visited the workshop long before the incident are far more likely

suspects."

Feeling like the pressure was lifting, Pete blinked—but the witch's next words

slammed it all back down.

"Yet, at the same time, you said it yourself—Oliver Horn was not supposed to

be there. He invited himself."

Pete looked like he'd been struck by lightning. He had never been the target

of this investigation.

The witch's gaze turned to Oliver—back to him. To the prey she'd always had

her sights on.

"Enrico gave you a considerable challenge. Not one any ordinary second-years

could ever overcome. Yet, overcome it you did, earning you the privilege of

viewing his work."

"...!"

"What made you that curious, Oliver Horn?"

Only now did he fully understand why suspicions had come his way.

Certainly, other students had viewed the machine god. But the vast majority

had demonstrated magical engineering excellence and were invited there by

Enrico. Someone asking to visit his workshop was clearly exceptional. And

Oliver was not generally a particularly enthusiastic magical engineering student.

Given what had happened after, finding his motives suspect was entirely

natural.

The panic was making him sick to his stomach. He racked his brain for an

explanation. What could he say that would alleviate these suspicions? If he

simply said the truth—that he'd been worried about letting Pete go alone—how

would that sound? Would that lousy answer satisfy this witch? He suddenly

grew very conscious of the severed back to his chair. Cold sweat left his clothes

clinging to him. If the next utterance he made was deemed meaningless, her

subsequent spell would slice—

*

"We merely accompanied our friend out of concern for his well-being."

It felt like a warm breeze against his back.

That settled everything. She'd spoken for him, saying what he'd hesitated to

admit. No second thoughts, no trace of contention. Only with pride.

"We had no other motivations, Headmistress. Does that answer meet your

needs?"

Standing straight as a pin, the girl stepped beside her friends. Pete called her

name as if handed a lit torch when lost in darkness. "Nanao…!"

The Azian girl stood between them, directly staring down the witch of

Kimberly. As she did, Oliver's eyes caught a glimpse of something on the

headmistress's face that had not been there before—a brief twitch of her brow.

"…Leave this room, Nanao Hibiya. You were not summoned here."

"That is most strange. Three of us attended Instructor Enrico's workshop—

Pete, Oliver, and myself. If the two of them are under suspicion, then I must be

as well. Am I not?"

Her tone was as soft as her stance was firm. No trace of hostility or reticence.

She sounded as if she was speaking to a friend. That, in all likelihood, was what

perplexed the headmistress. Not a single student had dared this kind of

approach since she began her reign over Kimberly.

There was a long silence. However—it was clearly not like the silences that

came before. This was not a silence designed to intimidate; it was simply the

result of someone struggling to make up their mind.

"…Today's inquiry is over. You may all leave."

And when the witch spoke again—there was a trace of a sigh in her tone.

They'd escaped the witch's grilling with their lives. No exaggeration—that was

how both boys felt.

"…Hahh, hahh…!"

"..."

They staggered down the hall outside her office and dragged themselves into

a first-floor lounge. Pete collapsed on a chair in the corner, chest heaving like

he'd been running for his life. Oliver had his head down, not moving a muscle.

Nanao was standing behind them, stroking their backs.

"You are safe now. You have my word."

"I'm making tea!" Katie said, stuffing leaves in a pot.

If they headed to the Fellowship, they'd find Chela and Guy and all the food

and tea they could want, but neither boy was capable of walking that far yet. A

few minutes in the headmistress's office had left them thoroughly exhausted.

As far as an audience with the witch of Kimberly went, this outcome was likely

extremely fortuitous.

"…You really saved us," Pete rasped. "I dunno how much more I could've

taken…"

Nanao smiled and shook her head. "I should have been there from the start.

Credit must go to Katie, who thought to fetch me."

"Nanao, you said you had tea with the headmistress before, right? I

remembered that, and then I didn't stop to think more. I'm so glad it worked

out!"

Katie wasn't taking her eyes off the pot, waiting for the tea leaves to unfurl.

And while they waited, Pete finally managed to catch his breath.

"…I can't believe…you can just talk to the headmistress like normal," he said,

staring down at his cup as Katie filled it. "Every answer I gave, I felt like I was

teetering on the edge of a cliff."

Relieved to see Pete was on his way to recovery, Katie glanced at the other

boy.

"You want some, Oliver? It'll help you relax. I put in a lot of jam."

She handed him a teacup laden with apricot jam. Tea culture had spread to

every part of the Union, and this particular style was popular up north. Oliver

took it listlessly, but the heat rising from it proved irresistible, and he took a

gulp.

"…Nn…"

Sweet, hot liquid slid down his throat and warmed his stomach—and as it did,

big tears spilled from his eyes.

"…Er…?"

Katie had been prepping a third cup for Nanao; Pete had been taking a sip

from his own. Both saw Oliver's tears and froze to the spot. He sat hunched

over his warm cup, his tears making the surface ripple as he sobbed

soundlessly.

"…Sorry…I couldn't…do anything…"

Apologies spilled out of him. He wanted to curl up and disappear.

"Nanao stepped in to save us. Katie went to fetch her. Pete kept the

headmistress arguing until she got there," he said. "But I didn't do anything. I

just let her cow me into submission, sat there shaking like a leaf, not even able

to explain myself… Just letting all of you protect me…"

Once he got started, there was no stopping his remorse. Katie flailed about

for a moment, then pulled a handkerchief out of her robe and started dabbing

Oliver's tears.

"…Oh…"

And from that close, she made a new discovery. When this boy cried, he

looked far younger.

"…I never had any real strength. Not compared to the horrors in this school…

But that's exactly why losing what little I have is so damn scary. Walking down

the halls, speaking out loud…just breathing is absolutely terrifying now…!"

Everything he'd been trying to hide was tearing out of him. And that put the

same metaphor in both Katie's and Pete's minds. It was like a heart made of

crumbling clay, exposed and floating before them.

Both moved without thought. They couldn't not put their arms around him.

They knew how often he'd protected them, and they couldn't let him fall apart.

His body was cold to the touch—painfully so. Neither Katie nor Pete said a

word; they just held their trembling friend tight. And Nanao put her arms

around all three, like she was a blanket laid upon them. They stayed like that

until the steam stopped rising from their cups.

"…Oliver, let us repair to our base tonight," Nanao said at long last.

She flashed a toothy smile, as if that alone could banish all his fears.

"I have a notion by which we might proceed."

That same evening, they'd collected Guy and Chela, relocated to their secret

lair, and were once again discussing the gravity of Oliver's condition. Whatever

this was, it obviously wasn't just going to go away on its own. That much

needed to be clear to everyone.

"..."

When the initial discussion concluded, Chela rose to her feet. She moved

around the table to Oliver's side—and took his hands, almost falling toward

them.

"…This is my oversight. We should have picked this apart and dealt with it

long ago. How could I have been so blind? I should have known how dire this

was the moment you dueled Rossi in sword arts class." She went on. "I am so,

so sorry… I can't apologize enough, Oliver. Here I claim to be your friend, yet…!"

This had hit harder than anything since she enrolled here. She had looked the

other way when her friend was suffering, and the resulting guilt brought her to

her knees, shaking her more than any spell. She cared for him yet had come up

short—and that realization made her heart bleed.

"…No… No, Chela…"

He managed a whispered denial, but even that had no strength behind it.

With no way of resolving this matter on his own, he couldn't find a way to

comfort her. Their friendship was going in circles, connecting nowhere, and Guy

couldn't bear to watch.

"Okay, okay, deep breaths, everyone. Why do you folks have to be so dang

hard on yourselves…?" he grumbled. "It doesn't matter who missed what or

when we knew. What matters is putting our skulls together and figuring this

out. Let's do that."

Here were two friends prone to overcomplicating things, so Guy offered a

simple solution. Rather than dwell fruitlessly on bygones, they could put their

minds to making things better. That sounded immensely appealing. Katie and

Pete were both nodding.

"Guy speaks the truth," Nanao said. "And I do not believe this matter is as

insurmountable as you fear."

Sensing her confidence, Chela wiped her tears, asking, "Really? Nanao, you

know how to cure Oliver?"

"'Cure' may not be apt. But as my people say, 'a single sight is worth a

hundred words.'"

Invoking a saying from her homeland, she began spelling out the specifics of

her solution. They would use the base's main hall, normally split into four

quarters—Marco's room, Katie's animal pens, Guy's garden, and the indoor

exercise room—as one large space. Together, they moved everything—animate

or not—aside. This took nearly half an hour.

"Mm, that should do it. Marco, if you could just stay in the corner…"

"My planters are all good. I'd just harvested everything anyway. And we put

softening spells on the whole floor like you said—but why, exactly? We gonna

be doing some tumbling?"

They'd done as Nanao asked and found themselves in the middle of a vast

springy floor, like a gym covered in mats. She nodded her approval and turned

to the others.

"You have my thanks. Now we are ready to play at being demons."

At what? said every face there. Sensing they weren't familiar with her term,

Nanao gave them a rundown of the rules, and they were soon nodding.

"…Ohhh, you mean like tag," said Guy.

"Where I'm from, we call it catch and catch," Pete mentioned.

"Fascinating," Chela added. "To think Yamatsu children play the same game!"

"But…why now?"

Nanao just grinned at Oliver's question and said, "'A single sight is worth a

hundred words,'" again. Don't think, do—apparently. Still somewhat perplexed,

Oliver nodded. Best to take her word for it.

"With standard rules, whoever the demon catches becomes the next demon.

I'd like to suggest a deviation there. The demon makes catches but remains a

demon—thus, as the game progresses, the number of demons increases."

"Oh, I've played by those rules!" Katie exclaimed. "The last player has to run

like crazy from everyone!"

"So how do we score it? Wouldn't that mean the game ends with all

demons?" Guy asked.

"Precisely. Thus, there are neither winners nor losers. As humans, you flee as

best you can; as demons, you endeavor to catch the survivors. That is how

children play."

Play for the sake of play—not for bragging rights. With the objectives clear,

Nanao turned her back and covered her eyes with her hands.

"I shall serve as the first demon. I will now count to ten—so I suggest you all

start running."

She began counting, and the others spread out across the open space. None

of them went too close to the walls—they needed room to maneuver as the

demon closed in.

"…Seven, eight, nine, ten… Ready or not—here I come!"

Nanao spun around and made a beeline for Katie, who quickly turned and

ran…albeit a bit too predictably. Nanao turned ahead of her, closed the gap,

and her palm slapped Katie's shoulder.

"A-already?!"

"You are now a demon yourself, Katie!"

"Argh, then let's get everyone! Grrr!"

"Whoop…!"

Katie had flung herself at Oliver like a wild beast, forcing him to leap

backward. She had leaned too far forward and went head over heels, but that

was why they'd softened the floor; it caught her easily, and she bounded right

back to her feet.

"…That didn't even hurt! I love it! We can go all out!"

"Pete, your back's unguarded!"

On the other side of the room, Nanao's palm was closing in on the

bespectacled boy. She'd caught him against the wall, and just as he seemed to

have nowhere to run—his feet carried him diagonally up the wall. Nanao let out

an impressed cry. A few steps later, Pete lost his balance and was back on the

floor near Oliver, who stared wide-eyed.

"…Crap, I can't get past three seconds. Need more practice."

"Wall Walking? Pete, when did you—?"

"If I've seen it, I've practiced it. Obviously."

Pete was already running off. Those shoulders seemed far sturdier than when

they'd first met—but before Oliver could marvel at that further, his gaze landed

on Nanao, and he was forced to run again. He incorporated a sideways feint to

get her off his tail.

Meanwhile, Katie was throwing herself into this whole demon thing. She'd

switched targets to Chela, lost her, and then got Guy cornered by the wall.

Neither one was moving a muscle, just staring each other down—and it was

hard to go into a Wall Walk without any momentum. Guy had two choices—left

or right. And Katie was hell-bent on nabbing him, whichever path he chose.

But Guy was not so easily tied down. He drew his white wand, chanted a spell,

and used the ensuing smoke cloud to slip past her. As he ran off, he yelled over

his shoulder, "Nobody said no spells!"

"Augh! Cheap trick, Guy! Is that even allowed?!"

"As long as the spell won't hurt anyone, I rather think so," said Chela. "Do you

agree, Nanao?"

"But of course!"

The rules expanded by request. Oliver grimaced at that, but come to think of

it—this was how children's games worked. Their feet nimble, their minds free.

He sensed a touch of that youthful whimsy coming back to him—and felt a pair

of arms close around his chest.

"Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh. I caught you, Oliver."

"…Yeah, you got me," he said more ruefully than he'd expected. Even as he

switched to the demon role, he swore not to get caught next time. He hadn't

yet realized just how into this he already was.

Meanwhile, Katie had been after Chela again, but when she spotted Nanao's

arms around Oliver, an idea struck her.

"…Oh! Catching someone means you can touch them."

"An excellent interpretation, Katie," Chela called back, their minds as one

even as they fled. With three demons, Guy didn't last long. Chela held out to

the bitter end but was soon surrounded and fell. Without pausing for breath,

they went into round two.

"This time I'll serve as the demon. Commencing the countdown!"

Chela covered her eyes and began the next round. The other five took

positions, putting what they'd learned to use, mindful of the expanded rules.

"…Nine, ten. Here I come!"

She turned around and set her eyes on Pete, who had—fascinatingly—placed

himself in the corner. Clearly, he had some sort of plan in mind, and that piqued

her curiosity—so she headed straight to him.

"Clypeus!"

Wand in hand, he made a protrusion high above, then used the triangle jump

principle to kick off both walls and get high enough to grab it. He pulled himself

up onto the protrusion, looking down at Chela below.

"How's that? If you try and climb after me, I can knock you back with a gust

spell."

"…Interesting. You've made yourself a safe spot to camp, rather than running

willy-nilly."

"It goes against the spirit of the game, I know. So I intend to try it out this

round and go with something else next time."

From his perch, he had his wand ready—and Chela smiled back at him.

"Don't worry, Pete. You won't have to."

And with that, she put her foot on one wall—not running like Pete had. Just

strolling up it, like she was on level ground—perpendicular to the wall. The

bespectacled boy's eye twitched.

"…You…can do that?"

"Watch and learn. I'm not yet a match for my father—but this is a real Wall

Walk."

The gap between her and Pete's perch was closing fast. He recovered enough

to make good on his gust spell threat, but she effortlessly neutralized with the

oppositional element. Even mid–dramatic Wall Walk, Chela still had the

capacity to sling spells.

"…Argh…!"

This perch was no longer safe. Pete used a blackout spell to blind her and

tried to jump down the side she wasn't on. But he couldn't disguise his

intentions, and Chela jumped into his path, wrapping her arms around him as

he fell.

"Wah?! C-crap…!"

"You're the first! Now, if you'll excuse me."

"…Um, h-hey—"

In her arms, Pete looked flustered—but Chela paid that no mind, giving him a

good squeeze. He found himself surrounded by warmth and soft flesh and went

very stiff. The embrace lasted a full ten seconds before Chela finally released

him. Where Pete was positively fossilized, her smile gleamed.

"What a wonderful game, Nanao. We can hug our beloved friends as much as

we like!"

"?! No, wait! Hugs are in no way necessary!"

"Strictly speaking, no. But neither is there any rule against it. Much like your

spell use, Guy."

She'd clearly expected his argument and came prepared. Guy quickly gave up.

He'd expanded the rules first and couldn't really gripe if someone else did the

same.

"Awww…you got me! Now I'm a demon!"

Katie went down two minutes later. She'd definitely been running for real but

didn't sound remotely disappointed to be switching sides. Her eyes caught

Oliver's across the room, and she grinned.

"…You don't mind if I get a bit rough, do you?"

"…Sh-sheesh, Katie, you sound like you've got ulterior motives!"

Oliver backed away; Katie's grin made her look like a carnivore sighting

dinner. She lunged toward him—but Guy stepped between them, wand raised.

"Not so fast! All rules in moderation."

"You can hug whoever you like, Guy! I won't mind!"

"Like hell I can!"

"Then you're next, Guy!"

Chela jumped into that fray, and the game sped up. The girls became

fearsome hug warriors, and the boys were forced to flee their dreaded

embraces.

Three hours straight of working their bodies to their utmost. No one had

infinite stamina—not even mages.

"…Hahh… Hahh…"

Pete was on his back, breath ragged. He'd been the first to go down, but Katie

and Guy soon followed. The three of them were all slumped together by the

wall.

"…Well? You satisfied…? Having your way…with me…?"

"…You kept on…butting in, Guy… I wanted…to catch Oliver more…!"

"…You're not even…trying to…hide it…"

"…Friends can hug! It's not…weird…"

Guy and Katie were arguing through their panting, but three of their friends

were still going strong. They didn't look remotely tired—in fact, now that the

players were more equally matched, they were going even harder.

Pete managed to pry himself up off the floor enough to see, muttering, "…

How are they still moving? It's been three hours… No breaks…"

"Yeah… Even off his game…we're still no match…"

"…But…"

Katie frowned, looking over again. Her gut was nagging at her. Everything

here appeared to be as usual—but something had changed.

"…was Oliver…always that fast…?"

The boy himself had not yet noticed.

"…Huff… Huff…!"

Oliver was in a white-hot high. His mind purely on the game afoot, chasing,

being chased, a world of pure simplicity. No room for anxieties or fears.

The severity of his condition, the possibility it could not be cured—all such

thoughts were banished. He spared not a thought for what lay ahead, simply

running moment to moment. Dodging right, leaping left, feinting down but

leaping overhead instead—and Nanao's hand got his ankle anyway.

"Caught you!"

"…One more!"

"Then I'll be the demon!"

The next game began the moment he landed. With only three players left, the

rules had tightened up; no more spells, but "caught" now required a "hold" on

any part of the body. Even if a demon got your back against a wall, if you could

push past them without them grabbing on, you were free.

"Hahhhh!"

Chela's hand snaked out, and Oliver deflected it with the back of his own

hand. They traded feints a moment, neither gaining an advantage. All three had

trained in hand to hand, so this was almost a martial-arts exchange. Only the

demon could "grab," but anyone could "deflect." Get good enough, and you

could go toe to toe with the demon. But even these rules were not enough to

satisfy their thirsts.

"I'm all warmed up now! What say the demon has to get their foes pinned?"

"The yielding arts! Now that tickles my fancy!"

"I'm in! From here on out, getting your opponent's back on the floor is a

'catch!'"

A few exchanges later, Chela caught his arm and turned from him, both hands

going for Nanao, who wasn't backing down. They grabbed for sleeves and

hems, skill against skill from any stance.

"Sword arts is too often about immobilizing opponents…but going hand to

hand like this is a thrill all its own!"

"Don't bite your tongue, Chela!"

As they fought for balance, Nanao suddenly shifted. Her right hand caught the

sleeve by Chela's elbow, her left the collar—and with those held firm, she spun

her body, her back against Chela's front. Chela flew upward, twirling overhead

before landing on the floor again. This was one of the Hibiya-style yielding arts

Nanao had learned back home.

"…Oliver!"

"…Come at me!"

Those words proved enough, their minds aligned. According to the rules,

neither was a demon right now, but that had ceased to matter. They were

children at play. And they played as their hearts led them.

"…Shaaa!"

"Raaah!"

They clashed, blood boiling. A moment's lapse would leave him sailing

through the air, and Oliver threw himself into turning those tables. His spatial

magic was now uselessly inaccurate, so he cast that out, reading his opponent's

tells, biding his time to counter her moves.

She turned that back on him, too—baited him into a throw or a leg sweep. He

hit the floor twice, then three times, bounding back up for more each time

without stopping. Neither even considered it.

Nanao almost had his arm, so he jumped. He felt an elbow coming at him and

bent himself just in time.

"Ha-ha…! Submission moves aren't in the cards, Nanao!"

"My apologies! I was enjoying myself, and my body acted out of turn!"

She let go of the arm she had twisted behind him, laughing. A furious

exchange of blows followed by collar and sleeve clutches, then more skills on

parade. Her left hand forced his elbow down, and then Nanao half spun into the

boy's bosom. The move she'd used to throw Chela! Even as that registered,

Oliver was already in motion. Not fighting the flow of power but flinging himself

in the direction of the throw, keeping himself in control in midair, and getting

his feet down on the floor.

"…Hng!"

"Hahhh!"

Nanao let go and righted herself, but Oliver turned that against her, attacking.

In quick succession, he used three leg moves designed to push her down, and

when her center of gravity was leaning forward in response, he switched his off

hand from her wrist to her collar. He spun himself into her bosom, grabbed her

right arm from below, and jerked his hips up. First, incapacitate the dominant

hand—the hand holding the athame. A Lanoff-style sword art move devoted to

that principle—the throwing technique Break Wheel.

The sound of her hitting the floor followed. Nanao lay there on her back, and

the momentum of the throw left Oliver tumbling down beside her. They lay

together, gasping for breath.

"Magnificent," she said.

The others had been watching in awe, and they all scrambled to their feet,

rushing over.

"Oliver, did you…?"

"Uh, you just threw Nanao!"

"My man! You've got your groove back, right?"

Guy said it all. To their eyes, Oliver's movements had been getting sharper

and shaper. He'd been too lost in the moment, but in hindsight, he felt it, too.

His body worked. He knew how it worked. The nagging uncanniness that had

plagued him, the feeling that he was trapped in someone else's body—all that

had faded away like it had never been there to begin with.

"…A simple matter," Nanao said. "When your body changes, you need only

move it. Dwell not on moving like you once did. Cease restraining yourself with

notions of how you should move. Leave your mind behind as your heart guides

you, like a child racing across the fields."

She was still flat on her back, but she turned her head toward Oliver.

"Your body and mind were not aligned. That is all this ever was," she told him.

"Oliver—you did not lose strength. You gained it. You gained so much power

that you could not operate as before—and entirely unawares, at that."

Oliver let those words wash over him like sunlight. Nanao's explanation

proved insufficient for the others, who all turned toward the ringlet girl.

"…Translate that, Chela?"

"…A significant improvement to the mana circulation in a short period of

time. As a result, how he need handle his mana is dramatically transformed in a

way that leaves his consciousness one step behind. I believe that's the gist."

"That happens?"

"...I can't rule it out. We are all growing mages," Chela replied. "Just—as far

as I can remember, Oliver's mana output had been steady. Incremental

increases in line with his body's growth, but no signs of such dramatic leaps.

Given that it left his own mind behind, this is clearly a remarkable case. Perhaps

there was some trigger outside of our knowledge."

There were still mysteries involved, but that was all the analysis Chela could

offer now.

As everyone turned to him, Oliver muttered, "…So I'm not weaker?"

"Not a whit. You are, in fact, stronger than before."

"Then I haven't lost…lost everything I'd built."

"The heavens and earth could switch places, and that alone would not betray

you."

Nanao spoke with authority. The foundations he'd laid remained within him.

"…Ah—"

His throat shook. His vision blurred. Emotions welled up within—ones he

could not hold back.

"Ahhhhh…!"

Even as the emotions assailed him, he knew why he had so feared losing his

strength.

Without that strength, he couldn't fulfill his desire. He couldn't avenge his

mother or do anything for the comrades who'd fallen. Each of those reasons

was accurate and yet not all there was to it.

The strength he had was inherently corrupt. Borrowed from a greater soul,

the result far too warped to even dub a facsimile thereof. As the mad old man

had so viciously decreed, his blade scarcely resembled what Chloe Halford's

own soul had been capable of. Once stained with hatred, no matter how he

polished it, it was never more than the sword of a killer.

And yet—despite all that, it was a link back. His love for his mother, his

admiration for her, his efforts to be like her… There was strength gained from

that, too. He could look back and see his warped footprints in the sand, but if he

followed them backward, it would take him to that shining past with her.

However deep in darkness he now was, he knew there was still a path leading

back to the light.

No matter how mistaken the nature of it was, the bond remained.

"Unh—ah—"

Thinking of days he could never have back was making his soul scream.

Oh, Mother, how I loved you.

Even though he had changed so much—though his nature was altered

forever, the madness of that love alone remained.

"…Do not cry, Oliver. This is not the time."

Nanao sat up, looking ready to cry as well. As the boy grieved, she pulled

herself on top of him, brushing his cheeks with her fingertips.

"I cannot bear it. Cannot bear to stand uselessly by, watching these tears

flow."

Her face moved in, and her lips touched his. Like a lid upon his tears.

"Uh, Nanao…?! …?!" Katie yelped, but Chela reached out a hand and held her

back. The look on her face made it clear she would brook no interference. This

was not a moment anyone else could be a part of.

Guy and Pete felt the same. They held their breaths, watching.

"…Bwah…!"

After a long, long time, Nanao pulled away. She'd kept their lips together as

long as she had breath, and now her shoulders were heaving, her cheeks

flushed.

Oliver looked up at her, and she rasped, "…My apologies… I knew no other

way to calm you."

She had allowed herself to act and felt a tinge of shame. Her fists clenched,

her eyes wavering between sense and sentiment, she stood ready to accept any

rebuke.

And gazing up at that, all Oliver did was smile. "I don't remember us making

any rules against kissing when caught."

Those words freed her from remorse, and he followed them by putting his

arms around her. Brushing her head, soothing her, he patted her back with his

other hand and poured all the affection he had into it.

At length, their embrace ended, and they stood up. Oliver turned to his other

friends.

Guy spoke first, still rattled by these events. "Should we, uh…give you two

some space?"

"Don't make it weird, Guy."

Oliver slumped right over to his friend and threw his arms around him. Guy

was too shocked to produce sounds with any meaning.

"Uhhh…?!"

"We're still playing demons. Hugs are all part of the rules. Right?" Oliver

whispered. Then he tickled Guy's ribs. Guy screeched and Oliver let go, turning

to Pete.

The moment their eyes met, Pete looked away.

"Hmph," he said. "Almost a pity. We fixed you so fast, I didn't get a chance to

protect you myself."

"No, you absolutely did, Pete."

Oliver put his arms around Pete, who was attempting at a brave face. The

bespectacled boy kept his expression resolutely cross, but from within his

robes, where no one else could see—his hand clenched Oliver's shirt tight.

His third hug finished, Oliver turned to Katie. Realizing what was about to

happen, she started backing away.

"…Er, um…Oliver…"

"Let me have this one, Katie. Even if I get a bit intense."

He spoke over her and smiled from ear to ear, cutting off her escape. His

embrace showed no mercy. It was very intense. His hands moved like he was

petting a puppy.

Once Katie was down for the count, he handed her off to Nanao and turned

to Chela—last but not least.

"…Chela, when I'm feeling most like saying sorry, you always come and

apologize."

"…Yes, it's a habit we should both try to break."

Wincing a bit, the pair reached for each other. Chela was doing her level best

to act natural, but deep down, she'd been fighting to keep control. Overjoyed at

seeing her friend in good spirits again, she was one step away from acting just

like Nanao.

"…Uh-oh," Oliver said, letting her go. "I feel like a single round of hugs isn't

nearly enough."

It was as if her own desires had rubbed off on him. Chela puffed out her chest

proudly. "Then by all means, keep going. Get all the hugs you need. Or…why

not? What say we agree that within the Sword Roses, we have a free hug

policy?"

"What in the heck…? It's not like tea or coffee!" Guy groaned.

Chela was smiling brightly but clearly not joking. Everyone picked up on that…

and was forced to give the proposal serious thought.

An eye on one another's reactions, they began responding.

"…Fine, but only with fair warning," Katie said. "I'd want a moment to

prepare."

"…I'll push you off if I'm not in the mood. The rest of the time, go ahead."

"I have always hugged whosoever I pleased."

With Pete and Nanao on board, Oliver was now nodding, too. Guy remained

the extreme minority. He blinked a bit, saw the expectant looks, and threw in

the towel.

"…Argh, fine! Knock yourselves out. Just don't yell at me if I'm sweaty."

Possibly a touch of sour grapes, but everyone started grinning, and then all of

them threw themselves on him at once. He tried to run, but Katie pulled him in,

sniffing.

"...Hee-hee-hee, you do smell a bit sweaty."

"Don't worry," said Chela. "I'm sure we all do."

"Whoa, not all at once! The bath! Someone run the bath, please!"

Guy's yowls filled the lair, and everyone laughed.

When one petal faltered , the other sheld fast until it could recover. The flower their swords made still bloomed strong.