Two years and several months prior, on the labyrinth's fourth layer—the
Library of the Depths.
"..."
Within a tower bursting with books, in a corner reserved for reading, a man
sat buried amid a mountain of forbidden tomes. Oblivious to the shadow
approaching from behind.
"...Hey, nitwit."
"...…Mm? Oh, Ashbury."
Morgan turned and found Ashbury hovering on her broom, looking
particularly disgruntled. He waved a hand dismissively but soon realized the
deeper implications and put his chin in hand.
"You're here alone? That's pretty risky."
"Because you didn't come back! The next league starts in two weeks! How
long are you gonna hole up down here?"
He knew all that, which was pushing her to the brink. Seeing the library
guardians turn toward her voice, Morgan clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Sorry, sorry, has it been that long? My research is at a critical stage. I got lost
in the details, planning the experiment."
That was news to her. Ashbury brushed off his hand, scowling.
"The experiment? You won't tell me much, but it's tír related, right?"
Her eyes shot through him, and he folded his arms.
"Given what lies ahead, you have a right to know. Okay, come take a look."
It depended on the research topic, and there were shared lairs, but for the
most part, mages never invited anyone to their bases. And not for lack of
personal connections, either. Thus, this was the first time Ashbury had set foot
in Morgan's workshop.
"I've been studying Luftmarz. Based on the cycles, that tír should get close
four months from now. I'm planning on carrying out my big experiment then."
Morgan had his hand on a massive glass sphere at the back of the room.
"I intend to open a micro-Gate in this and summon fire through it. I'll be
observing and analyzing the flames to fully understand their nature, with the
goal of placing them under my control. That's the gist of the experiment."
"…The moment I heard 'tír' I had an inkling, but…that's risky as hell. One false
move with the Gate, and it'll be a disaster. Even if that part works out, do you
actually have a legitimate shot at getting tír fire under your control?"
"If I didn't, it wouldn't be much of an experiment. And this is all approved by
the faculty. I've pored over all prior research on the subject and made sure I've
eliminated any possible errors made in the past. I'm confident enough I can pull
this off," Morgan insisted. "But nothing in this world is certain. That's why I'm
giving you a heads-up. Whatever the results, once the time is here, I'll be holed
up in my workshop for at least three months. You'll need someone to take over
for me, right?"
At that suggestion, Ashbury tore her eyes off the sphere, glaring at the man.
"…Four months from now, you'll go down to the labyrinth, and three months
later, you'll come back up."
"At a minimum, yes. Assume it could be one or two months more."
"Then let's go with the full five. I won't wait another day. Keep me waiting
beyond that, and there's no place for you on the Swallows. No matter who
argues otherwise, I won't let you back," Ashbury told him. "So promise me
you'll emerge unscathed. And that you'll be my catcher again next year."
The harshness of her terms concealed a simple wish—his survival. That was
her way of offering encouragement. Morgan grinned back at her.
"Always planned on it. Don't you crash and die while I'm away."
"Who do you think you're talking to?"
She swung a fist, but he caught it in his palm. Like he'd known she'd react that
way. It was so smooth, they both had to laugh.
She waited. But the promised day came and went without his return.
The league match was about to begin. The broomsports arena stands were
packed with students. Among them walked a small boy, his face hidden behind
long bangs as he pushed his way through the crowds.
"…Er, coming through… Do you mind…?"
Each time he met a wall of people, a whispery voice emerged. That would be
one thing if this worked, but most students were too busy talking to even notice
him. He was forced to tug on people's sleeves and get their attention.
"…Coming through… In a hurry here… If you could just let me pass…"
This mostly earned him baffled looks. Some stubbornly refused to stand aside,
but when that happened, he had a last resort—his armband. Flaunting that got
him shocked looks and always opened a path, but today, he hadn't needed it.
He threaded his way through the last of the crowd, reaching a table. The
broomstick flying instructor was already seated at it and waved him over.
He took a seat, offering a simple greeting. Before him lay the arena's field and
the sky above it. Opening-act riders were executing fancy maneuvers for the
crowd's entertainment, and he could feel how primed this audience was for the
main event. The boy slipped a hand into his robe's pocket, taking out a small
box. Inside was something goopy, and he scooped out a bit, rubbed it on both
hands, then brushed his hair back from his hairline.
That switched him on. He took a deep breath, used his wand to cast a voiceamplification spell, and yelled, "On your feet, savages! It's tiiiiime—for the
broom fight senior league!"
His voice cracked across the stands like a whip to a sleeping behemoth. This
was Roger Forster, Kimberly's star broomsports announcer.
"Some of these first-years might not know the rules, so here's a brief
rundown! While broom wars are all about teamwork, broom fights are one-on-
one battles showcasing each rider's skills! No tricky dogfights or side fights
here! Only head-to-head bullfights! Every clash could be the end! And I can't
get enough of it!"
All traces of his timidity were gone, blown aside the moment he sat down and
put his hair back. Nobody loved broomsports more, nobody got more into each
twist and turn, and that's why he was so good at whipping the crowd into a
frenzy. That was Roger's style.
"Our analyst today is Instructor Dustin! Things are real crazy on campus right
now, and I'm sure he must have a lot on his plate, but he took time out to make
this first day a good one! A big ol' thanks to you, sir! Can we get you a cider?"
Roger handed him a cup (it was already on the table), and Dustin glared at
him. The dark circles beneath his eyes made it clear he hadn't been sleeping
much.
"…Make it an ale. One of those extra-hoppy brews from up north. And put it
in a mug the size of a sink."
"No booze in the booth, Instructor! But even as we speak, the first match is
getting started!"
Roger dropped the banter, focusing on the match ahead. In the skies above,
two riders had started their descents. As they passed each other, their clubs
clashed. The impact shook both, but they soon recovered, speeding up,
skimming along the surface, and rising again. The crowd whooped as they
headed higher, ready for the next clash.
"Whew, they aren't holding back today! Beverly Lonergan versus Monique
McKay! They've fought before, and their record stands at six to four! Dustin,
what's your call?"
"Two veterans showing how it's done. Whoever wins, we're in for a long haul.
And while they're at it, we should teach the younger kids a thing or two. What's
the founding principle of broom combat?"
"Your commentator can handle a pop quiz, no problem! The answer—speed
makes altitude, and altitude makes speed!"
"Exactly. It's easy to fixate on the clashing clubs, but that principle is still
active here. The better you are at flying, the better you are at fighting."
Dustin was in full teacher mode now, and Roger knew just what response he
was looking for.
"But, Instructor, flying in this sport looks so simple! One goes to the top right,
the other to the top left, both turn together, rocket back down, and BAM! Then
they switch sides and go again! If that's all you're doing, does flying skill really
make a difference?"
"Yes, and a clear one. First of all, when they clash together, whoever is flying
faster will have a major advantage. They hit harder! Which means both riders
here have to think about how much speed they can pile on before the hit."
Dustin's eyes never left the match. Up, down, clash, up, down, clash. Tracing a
figure eight through the sky, both players were constantly vying for the speed
advantage. They were gaining speed and keeping it.
"The most important moments come when you're moving from a descent
into an ascent or vice versa. A lot rides on their cornering and their sense of
timing. A bad turn means a loss of speed, and a loss of speed means they lose
the advantage at the clash. And that disadvantage isn't just that one clash,
either. These blunders tend to add up over time."
And that cumulative effect was obvious even to an untrained eye. Each rider
was tracing an arc through the air—and when those arcs were matched, the
bout had yet to tip in either's favor. But as the speed disparity opened up, the
symmetry broke down. The rider with the speed advantage traced the bigger
arc, while the slower player's arc shrank. The longer the bullfight went on, the
more inevitable that became. The clash was set at the midpoint between them,
and as they both headed toward it, the player at a speed disadvantage was
inevitably at a lower altitude than their opponent.
"The nature of this event means the path of the turn and the timing of it
change each time. The impact of the clashing clubs always causes some
discrepancy in the flight trajectory. They have to decide in the moment how to
minimize the loss of speed while correcting that and how to gain as much speed
as possible before the next hit. They go back and forth a bit before a decisive
gap opens up, but that is the basic flow of a broom fight."
"Makes sense! It may look simple, but it's packed with technicalities!"
"Exactly. And that gap's starting to open up here."
The battle had raged on as they spoke. Six clashes in, the player on the right
was starting to trace the larger arc. An advantage a mere correction of speed or
altitude could not overcome. This was the second phase of a broom fight and
where the crowd started wringing their hands, sweating the results.
"As the gap in speed widens, it gets harder to turn the tables. Once things end
up like this, the disadvantaged rider has only one option—try to end things
before that gap becomes insurmountable. As you're about to see."
The disadvantaged competitor on the left had shifted her grip on her club. A
small motion to be spotted from the ground, but not one Dustin or other
veteran observers would let pass unnoticed. At full speed, the pair plummeted
toward each other, their shadows passing. The crack of club on club was extra
loud—and the rider heading right did not ascend again. Her body was off the
broom, dropping straight down, snagged by the catcher below. The crowd
roared.
"Down she goes," said Dustin. "She went for an Encounter, but her opponent
hit her with the same move. That could still pay off if you've got the sword arts
skills, but…eh, this time, things went as well as expected."
"Lonergan wins the clash! She kept her accumulated lead and rode off with
the victory! The catchers have escorted the plummeter off the field, and the
second-round players are entering! We don't waste time between matches in
the broom fights! Don't worry, people—your favorite riders are coming right
uuuuup!"
"Using the first match to guide new viewers—Instructor Dustin's zeal for
audience engagement and expansion is an asset to us all."
Chela nodded, impressed. They were seated on the north side of the stands,
directly opposite the commentary booth.
Watching the new contestants enter, Pete folded his arms.
"They really made that match easier to follow. But broom fight or broom war,
they still haven't answered my biggest question—why do mage sports not
involve spells?"
A natural question for anyone from a nonmagical background. Oliver and
Chela both turned toward him.
"Why are there no spells in broomriding? Well, basically, that's asking why
the broomsports rules settled on a variation without," said Oliver.
"Strictly speaking, there are variant rules that allow spells. There was even a
time when that was the primary discipline. Yet, as time passed, the spell-less
variant took to the fore."
"The path to that was anything but simple. But we can name two of the
biggest factors: First, broomsports are, above all, games played while flying.
Flying faster, better, smoother—that's what the riders strive for and what the
audience craves. And that core factor works against the inclusion of spells."
"Why? Does casting disrupt the flying?"
"It makes you slow," Chela replied. "For the simple reason that you're feeding
mana into your broom as you fly, so if you're casting, the broom itself receives
less power. The deceleration is unavoidable. In a sport emphasizing speed,
that's clearly less than ideal."
"…Oh. So allowing spells takes the shine off the flying."
"That's the first reason, yes. Additionally, we might add that hitting people
with spells midflight is easier said than done. The exact challenges vary by type,
but dogfight, side fight, or bullfight, the deceleration from casting leaves you at
a disadvantage. So not only are you unlikely to hit anything, the attempt
undermines your position."
"Meanwhile, blunt strikes with clubs take advantage of the speed. The faster
you're going, the harder they hit. Naturally, the strike itself does cause a
slowdown, but that just makes the battle all about finding ways to increase your
opponent's speed loss while minimizing your own. And that means the match is
about flying speed and skill."
Chela had brought it back to that core concept. Eyes on the match above, Guy
nodded, mulling this over.
"If the brooms are the star of the show, the spells are just a distraction."
"Yep. And that's not just broomsports. Aerial combat with brooms—real
fights—follows the same principles. If you've ever seen the Gnostic Hunter
riders in action, the way they fight is a logical extension of broom wars and
broom fights. A clear representative of that ethos is the existence of an athame
built specifically for aerial combat—the balmung."
Oliver's descriptions of the Gnostic wars carried grisly implications, yet they
brought a smile to Chela's lips.
"The balmung riders!" she said. "I heard the stories as a little girl. Many of us
grow up on them."
"One of them's sitting right there in the commentary booth," Oliver said,
shooting their broom instructor a meaningful glance.
Dustin Hedges was leaning back in his seat, scowling at the skies above,
looking like any other die-hard broomsports fan. Yet, he had been one of the
world's foremost heroes on the aerial front lines. It was hard to imagine now,
and the attempt made everyone laugh.
"…Our turn's coming up, Nanao," Oliver said, getting to his feet. "We'd better
head in."
Nanao was one of many entrants waiting for her slot; she and Oliver were
already in uniform.
"Mm, let us proceed," she said, standing up. "Friends, we shall meet again
anon."
"Knock 'em dead!"
"We'll be cheering for you!"
With those cries buffeting their sails, they ran off. Just as they were out of
sight, someone stepped forward from the other exit, and Katie called out to
her.
"Ms. Miligan!"
"Oh, there you are. I'm running a little late. I meant to be here for the first
match."
The Snake-Eyed Witch was carrying a very large satchel. One eye on the start
of the fourth match, she took a seat next to Katie.
"Pardon me. I assume Nanao and Oliver already headed out?"
"You just missed them!"
"That's a shame. I would have liked to wish them luck."
She shifted her satchel to her knees. Something inside it was moving.
Guy shot her a quizzical look. "…? What's in the bag?"
"Were you aware that the league victors are allowed to make a speech before
the crowd, Guy?"
That wasn't really an answer, but it was clearly relevant somehow. Guy's
frown deepened.
"And during election seasons, the victors generally mention who they're
voting for. If Nanao wins, I figure she would happily do that for me."
Miligan unzipped one section of the satchel, and Guy caught a glimpse of a
cage within. Behind the bars: the face of an adorable bird.
"So naturally, I'll be offering a salute in return."
The arena's western clubhouse. From here, it was a straight shot down the
corridor to the field; the room was currently packed with riders waiting their
turn.
There was some tension, but their opponents were all in the clubhouse across
the field, so nobody was starting anything here. They were focused on
communing with their brooms, polishing their clubs, or kicking back with
magazines.
"…Ready, Nanao?" Oliver asked, looking her over.
She was seated on the bench next to him, but in answer, she turned her head
away.
"Far from it," she said.
"…Something bugging you?"
"My catcher has not motivated me sufficiently."
Oliver's eyes went wide. There was a long pause; then he reached out with
both hands, snagged her cheeks in his fingers, and pulled.
"...Let's not get needy," he said.
"Nya-heh-heh."
She was giggling like a mischievous child. Oliver let go of her cheeks and drew
her into an embrace instead. Feeling each other's hearts beat, they remained
like that for a full ten seconds—and feeling the time had come, he let go. Nanao
shot to her feet.
"Strength—a hundredfold! I must go fetch Amatsukaze!"
She raced off to the broom corner, and he grinned after her.
"…That's your true strength," said a voice in his ear. He turned to find a sixthyear girl standing there. She was on the Wild Geese with them—Melissa
Cantelli, the team's vice captain.
Embarrassed by the scrutiny their actions had drawn, Oliver looked away, but
she just smiled and shook her head.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. Love between players and catchers is
ideal. If your bond is unstable, so is her performance. And I've seen more than
enough unstable pairings to know how that ends."
Realizing he couldn't just ignore Melissa, Oliver bent an ear her way.
"Ashbury's a good example. In her prime, she was something else. No one
could stop her, no matter which discipline she was in. But when she lost her
catcher, she was a wreck. I can't say I ever liked her, but it was still rough to
watch."
"..."
"So go on and dote on Nanao all you like. Don't take that affection for
granted, either. You can never have too much. A mage's desires know no
limits."
What had started as advice from a teammate was swiftly deteriorating into a
busybody aunt's fussing. Oliver's nod was rather wobbly. This failed to
discourage her—if anything, she hitched herself a notch closer down the bench,
whispering in his ear.
"…Are you taking time for sex? No skipping foreplay because you're tired,
now. It's critical! You've gotta get her engines going or—"
"Stop!"
"What's all this?" Nanao said, returning with her broom just as the escalation
proved too much for Oliver to handle. He jumped to his feet and grabbed her
hand.
"Nothing!" he said. "Let's go, Nanao!"
He pulled her toward the field. As Melissa watched them go, a fist landed on
the back of her head. Another sixth-year teammate—the Wild Geese captain,
Hans Leisegang.
"Don't stick your beak that far in right before a match, numbskull. What if you
get them all distracted?"
"S-sorry… I know, but when I see them together…"
"I mean, I get it. But I also like that about 'em. The way they're teetering on
the brink, stopping themselves from taking that last plunge."
He glanced up at their retreating backs and grinned.
"Flowers like that don't bloom at Kimberly often. They don't even bud. I ain't
gonna scold the nosy grandma in you, but some fur is best left unruffled."
"…I'll try. But it's just… Go for it already! Argh, I have so many tips to give!"
"That's just your pent-up frustration. I heard you had another lover bail on
you?"
"Aughhhhh! Are you trying to start a war?!"
He'd hit a sore spot, and Melissa made a grab for him. Hans ducked away,
calmly glancing after Oliver and Nanao once more.
They had stopped at the line on the floor, waiting their turn. A few minutes
later, the official ahead of them flashed the sign, and they hopped on their
brooms, flying the rest of the way. As they entered the field, the lights blinded
them, the roar of the crowds buffeting their ears. This was a moment that
turned many a rider into a lifelong addict.
"Mm? Oliver, over there."
Nanao had turned her eyes toward their friends and spotted something odd.
Letters being written in the air—by a number of birds flying above the stands,
the glowing tips of their tailfeathers leaving trails in their wakes. A few
moments later, the message was complete: Good luck, Nanao Hibiya.
"…Ah, that must be Miligan," Oliver said, figuring out the trick. He soon found
the Snake-Eyed Witch seated near their friends. Nanao waved back, and Oliver
grinned. "Perhaps not the purest of motives, but she is hoping you'll emerge
victorious. Let's take it at face value."
"Mm!"
It certainly seemed to have lit a fire under Nanao. Spotting her opponent and
his catcher, Oliver ran through the final reminders.
"You're up against a fourth-year endurance fighter. Tends to deflect club
strikes, draw out the match, wait for you to slip up. He won't bite on a direct
clash in the early- or mid-going."
"Then I shall just have to make him."
Nanao shot him a confident smirk; he grinned back. She headed upward, and
he headed down to his post on the ground.
"I'll be watching you win down below, Nanao. Go get 'em!"
"On my word!"
Two figures rising, one right, one left. And the crowd cheered for a single
player—the announcer louder than anyone.
"She's here, she's here, she's here! The girl you've all been waiting for!
Arrived at Kimberly in spring of last year, never held a broom before her first
flying class—and barely a year later, she's already tearing up the senior leagues!
Making waves like no one around, it's Nanao Hibiya! Give it
uuuuuuuuuuuuuup!"
"You get way too hyped when Ms. Hibiya's around. You haven't even
mentioned her opponent!"
"Don't worry—I haven't forgotten. She's up against a fourth-year named
Arnaud Jonquet! He's also a young hopeful of the senior leagues, having moved
up in his third year. Can he hold on to that title against his opponent's dizzying
rise?"
The horn sounded, and the match began. Both players shot downward, clubs
clashing together at the heart of the field. The blows were so hard, they rattled
their very bones. Nanao went right and Jonquet left, but Nanao already had the
clear speed advantage.
"Baaaam! Jonquet failed to deflect that hit and struggled to keep control!
Hibiya's already in the lead!"
"Ha-ha! Hibiya's figured out to lay the pressure on. Guess wielding a twohanded weapon every day helps there! Even the best player would have trouble
deflecting a strike like that."
Dustin was grinning like a maniac. He may have ribbed Roger for it, but he
was clearly more than a bit keyed up himself. No matter how long you'd
watched or how much you knew, when Nanao was in the air, it was impossible
to react otherwise. Every eye in the house upon her, she steered her broom
back into the skies above.
"They've completed their post-clash turns and are headed into a second
plunge! With the speed advantage, Hibiya's also coming in from higher up! This
blow will be even stronger than the first!"
"It's only clash two, but Mr. Jonquet needs to show his mettle here. If he loses
this clash, the fight will be entirely at Hibiya's speed. Hang in there! You can't
afford to hold back!"
Dustin got a bit too carried away and forcefully slapped the table. His eyes
were locked on Nanao's and Jonquet's approaches. They passed, their arms
swung—with shocking results. The instant their clubs clashed, Jonquet's broom
went into a wild spin. Unable to maintain flight, he was flung helplessly toward
the ground. Nanao swooped off to the left, making a beautiful turn and easily
ascending once more. The outcome was all too clear, and the audience was left
gasping.
"Ohhhhhhh?! Jonquet falls! That hit had him spinning like a top! Hibiya wins
on the second clash! A much faster bout than anyone expected!"
"He went for the Koutz Tour, and it backfired. I applaud the decision to play
his ace this early, but he clearly hadn't practiced it enough to use on Hibiya.
Perhaps it might have worked on the first clash, but we'll never know."
Dustin was scowling now, pinpointing the cause of this result. The refs
confirmed Nanao's victory, and she waved at the stands before descending
toward the exit tunnels.
"Day one of the league, and Hibiya started things off with a stunning victory!
Awash in the roars of the crowds, she's back on land. But oh, it was not nearly
enough. We can't wait to see you fly again! You there, fly up and put the sun to
bed! Go round the world once and make it tomorrow for us all!"
Landing in the exit passage, Oliver soon caught up. They high-fived, then
headed down the hall on foot.
"…That was a fast one. But not as easily won as it looked, right?"
"Mm, the second clash was a turnup. Had that move been a tad more
polished, I may well have been the one downed."
"That's a high-level Koutz move. Don't think he's ever shown that in a match
before, so probably still practicing it. Don't forget how it felt—the next time you
face him, it'll be that much stronger."
But as they discussed the match, they saw someone up ahead. Diana Ashbury
was leaning against the left side of the corridor, a vicious grin on her face.
"Your first match, and a two-clasher. Think you're a big shot now, Ms.
Hibiya?"
"You were watching, Ms. Ashbury? Fortune favored me. My opponent made
his move early."
"Riiiight, 'cause you forced his hand."
Ashbury cackled merrily. Then she turned away, calling over her shoulder.
"The rest of these gnats don't matter, but be there for my fights. They'll be
worth the look."
She put that promise into practice not ten minutes later. When the crowd saw
the Blue Swallows' ace take to the air—they fell silent. Their mouths became
dry.
"Just the sight of her puts tension in the air. She needs no introduction!
Empress Diana Ashburyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"
"She's been focusing on broom races, improving her time, but still entered
the broom fight league. Very like her."
"She's up against a sixth-year, Lauro Scarlatti. Their record stands at eight to
two, Ashbury advantage. Instructor Dustin, what do you reckon?"
"His recent matches show Mr. Scarlatti's in good form. While Ashbury's been
out of the fight and war rotation. We'll have to see how that affects her."
"Does the Empress's club still live? Oh, and the round is a go!"
The players on the field had started their descents. Everyone assumed the
first clash would be feeling each other out—and that assumption was trampled.
Her opponent put the momentum of the dive into a swing of his club, but
Ashbury left hers resting on her shoulders. Not swinging at all, she shot in close
—and his swing caught empty air. As Ashbury flitted beneath his arm, the tip of
her club caught him, dragging his body the wrong way.
Pulled off his broom, his body sailed through the air, falling to the ground
below. A catcher's spell caught him, and he lay there stunned, unable to
process what had happened to him. His eyes were locked on the sky, where
Ashbury was already headed to the exit tunnel, heedless of the crowd.
No cheers, no applause, not even any gasps. The stands were silent.
".........…What?"
"You're breaking character, Announcer! Not that I blame ya. The senior
league is full of heavy hitters, but it's rare to see anyone downed on clash one."
Dustin's voice was hoarse. The very nature of the format made a one-shot
victory exceedingly unlikely. Even with significant skill discrepancies, the most
you'd see was two or three clashes. But there were shock attacks specifically
designed for that, and Ashbury had just demonstrated one. They were a rare
sight in high-level bouts, more the stuff of acrobatic maneuvers.
Generally, Dustin was not a fan of such cheap tricks. They went against the
intended purpose of competing on the merits of your flying skills. But this time
—he was forced to see it in a new light. He was all too aware Ashbury had used
the move in answer to Nanao's two-clasher earlier on.
One was the only number less than two. That was the sole motivation behind
her decision. By pulling off a move harder than threading a needle, she'd
proven her continued claim on the throne. She hadn't used the surprise to steal
an unjust win—she'd chosen a one-clasher from a broad range of paths to
victory. How could anyone complain? "Impressed" was the only option.
"It's often said the three broomsport disciplines are one and the same. Races,
fights, or wars—practice in any of them leads to strength in the others.
Naturally, everyone places greater emphasis on one or another, but Ashbury
has always made that tenet clear. She improved her race times by knocking
people out of the sky. And now she's done the opposite."
That was what had brought the Empress back to the leagues. Here, Dustin
slapped his own cheeks, and the noise startled Roger, who turned to look—and
found the circles under the instructor's eyes had vanished.
"Ashbury and Hibiya woke me right up. This league's gonna be a wild one."
That evening, they gathered in the Sword Roses' secret base to celebrate
Nanao's victory.
"You made it through the first day! You're the coolest, Nanao!" Katie cried.
Everyone clinked glasses—Marco's was more a wooden barrel—and cider
droplets flew.
Chela wet her lips, remembering the match. "A two-clasher—it certainly got
things off to a lively start. Are swift victories the plan?"
"More like Nanao has no interest in giving anything less than her full strength
on each hit," said Oliver. "We've decided to let her run with that. Results are all
that matter, not the speed of them."
"Ha-ha, that's so Nanao! I like it! And this victory gives us an excuse to party
all night!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Guy. Once we've eaten, we'll be studying. You've been
slacking off on alchemy practice."
"Aw man, Pete with the wet blanket! How do you know what I'm slacking
on?"
"Katie and I will get you up to speed. Isn't that great, Guy? You get to brew
potions all night."
The mood remained celebratory. They talked about the matches today, who
she'd face next—the chatter never ceased. And the party lasted well into the
night.
By three AM, everyone but Oliver was in bed. He slipped out from his covers,
careful not to wake anyone, and exited the base.
He soon left the first layer behind and stepped into the bustling forest.
Breathing in the smell of wet leaves, he cautiously picked his way through the
woods, hurrying to the base of the giant irminsul tree within.
"Huff… Huff…"
A root bulged from the ground and connected to the towering trunk above.
Before he climbed onto it, Oliver took several deep breaths, consciously
accelerating the circulation of both blood and mana. Making sure he was at
peak performance from the first step.
"…Good to go!"
Warmed up, he checked the hands on his pocket watch and broke into a run.
Soles pushing off the bark with force that surprised even him, his body
bounding higher and higher, the uneven terrain proving no obstacle.
(My Lord! I'm afraid—at that speed, I can't keep up!)
Teresa's warning came over their mana frequency, and the yelp in her voice
was a genuine surprise. His covert operative had far more experience racing
through the labyrinth than he did. Barring extreme circumstances, he'd never
once managed to outpace her.
(…Fine, remain on standby! I'll call if anything comes up!)
(Yes, sir… I'm…sorr—)
Her voice cut out before she finished. Without a path created by a powerful
contract, it was hard to maintain mental communication over long distances via
mana frequency alone. He'd be out of touch with Teresa until she caught up—
but conscious of that, Oliver maintained his speed.
"Phew…!"
When he finally stopped, he was at the peak of the irminsul—the highest
contiguous point on the second layer. From here, you could see almost the
entirety of the forest spread out before you. Wiping the sweat from his brow
with the back of his hand, Oliver checked his watch again.
"Base to peak in thirty-two minutes. That's nearly ten minutes off my
previous record."
That previous run had been recorded before the Enrico fight. He'd been well
aware how much faster he was going as he climbed—he never got stuck. Tricky
sections he'd been forced to take on hands and knees he could now run right
through. And at that speed, the magic beasts avoided him. Perhaps it was also
the right hour—he'd made it this far with little to no interference.
"…This is definitely no ordinary improvement," he muttered.
Like Chela had said, even a growing mage would never see this much physical
enhancement over such a short period of time. You saw cases like Nanao's, but
her baseline improvement speed was always "extremely rapid." Compared to
her leaps and bounds, Oliver's growth had been unsettling, like a bug scuttling
slowly across the ground—and then suddenly sprouting wings.
It felt wrong in a way that made one thing clear—this was a life-span
compression.
A simple fast-forward could hardly explain it. Growth meant for the future
had occurred preemptively—concentrated and poured into him now. His flesh
and ether were running on that survival mechanism. His own soul had deemed
him unlikely to pull through otherwise.
The trigger had clearly been the two-minute-plus merger with Chloe Halford's
soul and the ensuing intense battle with Enrico Forghieri. His headlong rush
toward the brink of death had forced his soul to reject itself. It grew convinced
that the operations of flesh and ether it had planned—that is, a life lived
typically—would not be enough for him to last another second.
The result was a fundamental alteration in his soul. To maximize the
experience siphoned from Chloe Halford's soul, a swath of Oliver Horn's total
life span had been begrudgingly condensed—like an hour candle burned
through in a mere five minutes. Anything else would have resulted in his flame
flickering out.
"..."
In exchange for this power, he'd lost a lot of future. Fully aware of that, Oliver
decided he didn't care. This was the smallest of the prices he had to pay.
Nothing compared to the other lives he was to cast upon the pyre.
"Heyyyyyy! OOOOOOliverrrrrr!"
His quiet reflections were shattered by a bellowing voice rushing toward him.
Flinching, he turned and saw another boy climbing the irminsul toward him.
Oliver was still aghast when the interloper caught up.
"Whew, I made it! Damn, you're fast. I almost lost you!"
"…Mr. Leik," Oliver said, reluctant to believe his eyes.
Yuri Leik, the self-proclaimed transfer student, was breathing heavily, grinning
back at him. The cast around his torn-off limb was already gone. As soon as he
caught his breath, he slapped Oliver on the shoulder.
"Please, call me Yuri! Man, this feels amazing! My fifth try, and I finally made
it to the top! Ahhhh…that's the stuff."
His eyes swept the view, and he threw his arms out wide. His profile looked so
unguarded, Oliver found himself making conversation.
"…You just kept hitting this layer? Even after losing an arm?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, I said I would! I dunno about anyone else, but if there's
places I haven't been yet, I gotta check 'em out!"
This boy had the soul of an explorer.
"I'm glad you're here," he said, turning to Oliver. "This kind of triumph is best
shared."
" "
It was so utterly guileless, it left Oliver speechless. Yuri's eyes were eagerly
drinking in the view. The joy of a new discovery, his heart dancing at the sights
before him—signs of an open, carefree mind. And all with a purity nigh
impossible to perform.
Perhaps this boy had no ulterior motives. Oliver's gut told him so, despite all
arguments to the contrary. His rational mind objected, and these two
conclusions clashed within—and as a result, he chose to learn more.
"…Mr. Leik, are you—?"
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!"
But Yuri's shout drowned out his question. The transfer student darted off,
bent over, and came back holding a bug in his hand. He proudly showed it to
Oliver.
"Look, Oliver! I found a bug! This thing is so cool!"
"Don't pick it up if you don't know what it is! There's no telling what it'll do to
you! Throw it—"
Oliver broke off mid-sentence. A wave of hostility had hit them, and only that
mattered now.
He drew his athame, suddenly on guard. Yuri glanced around, bug in hand.
"Uh, Oliver…are we, like…surrounded?"
"…We clearly are. I probably should have stopped you. This isn't exactly a
place for tourism," Oliver said. "But I didn't expect this. The peak here is kind of
a buffer between the different beasts' domains. Normally, you never encounter
any large magifauna here—much less find yourself under attack."
This could be a real problem. He alone could easily break through the pack
and get away, but Yuri was still new to this layer, and bringing him along made
things far more difficult. Plus, he was just starting to warm up to the boy, so he
was disinclined to ditch him.
"Seems they're leaving us no choice… Can you fight, Mr. Leik?"
"Of course! There's a first time for everything!"
"You've never fought before?!" Oliver yelped, hoping like hell that was a joke.
Yuri just grinned at him. "Don't worry! What I don't know, I can pick up by
watching."
He pulled a weapon from his scabbard. A rod with an edge—a construction
far too simplistic to even call an athame.
"GYYYYYYYYYYYY!"
And a beast burst out of the brush, bound for Yuri. A midsize monkey. Light
on its feet, it darted around Yuri, planted its hands on the ground like a
somersault, and grabbed at him with its prehensile toes. Yuri leaped back,
dodging, looking very impressed.
"Wow, your feet are as strong as your hands!" he exclaimed.
As he made his observations, Oliver was firing a spell at a new assailant. The
bulk of the troupe seemed focused on Yuri, easing his burden. While the
transfer student's unpredictable behavior kept them confused, Oliver was
steadily thinning their numbers.
"Getting a good grip down below would be so useful! My toes are shorter, but
I wonder if I can do the same thing!"
Yuri might be fending off multiple foes at once, but he sure didn't sound like
it. Intrigued by the monkeys' movements, he was actually trying to imitate them
himself. He used spatial magic to make his soles stick to the ground, then
manipulated his internal gravity to bend over backward.
"Oh, it worked! Look, I'm just like you! Monkey see, monkey do!"
"GYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"
One monkey seemed to take this as an affront and came charging at him. Still
bent way over backward, Yuri put his hands on the ground and used them as an
axis for an overhead kick, taking the monkey down. Oliver just gaped at him.
Not the most logical way to fight, but the fact that it had worked at all spoke
volumes to his natural talent.
They'd downed eight monkeys now, and the remaining beasts turned their
backs and began retreating. Yuri looked surprised.
"Oh, they're running? They still had numbers!"
"No creatures fight to extinction. I'm more surprised they stuck around long
enough to lose a third of their troupe. It's not like it's mating season…"
Oliver sheathed his athame, frowning. But a second later, Yuri's free hand
clamped down on his shoulder.
"I knew I could count on you, Oliver."
"…Your point being?"
"What say we stick together? I've come this far. I'd like to see the fabled
Battle of Hell's Armies."
He made this suggestion with no compunction—and even threw in a thumbsup. Oliver couldn't believe pressing forward was even in the cards. Nonetheless
—he was disinclined to refuse. The boy could clearly handle himself, but not to
the extent that Oliver felt comfortable abandoning him.
"…I've already made it through. I can watch over your attempt, if that'll
suffice?"
"It will! Just you wait—I'll get it in one!"
Yuri ran off, beaming with glee. Oliver turned to follow, and a thought struck
him—the way this boy knew little of the world yet had the talent to overcome
that, the way he just kept stepping closer even if you pushed him back… He was
more than a bit like Nanao.
Amid the swirling schemes and conflicts in its midst, the broom league was
making steady progress.
Chela and Miligan were in the stands watching a match featuring the SnakeEyed Witch's main rival for the presidency—Percival Whalley. He had not given
an inch in five clashes and had just downed his opponent.
"…Your opposition is rather good."
"Yes." Miligan nodded. "I'm certainly no match for him on a broom. Were it
not for Nanao, he might even be the senior league's brightest young star."
She watched as he flew a slow loop, waving at the stands, then snorted.
"He's a thorn in my side but will probably make a good rival for Nanao. Just…I
do rather hope she downs him. Their battle could well have a significant impact
on the election."
She was never one to hide her motivations. As Whalley flew off, her eyes
turned to the next contestant—the Empress of the broom, twelve matches in
without a single loss.
"But clearly winning the league itself would be asking too much… Ms. Ashbury
is in a league of her own."
"Ashbury winning like this is less than ideal."
That same evening, in the old council's first-layer base, Leoncio was growling
at his followers.
"She has no interest in elections. She won't voice support for anyone if she
wins; in fact, she has a history of blowing off the speech entirely. And all anyone
will be talking about is how she trounced everybody. Most vexing."
He shook his head. Whalley gritted his teeth, then put a hand to his chest and
stepped forward.
"…I will down her. If I win, then no problems—"
Leoncio had a death grip on his skull before he could finish. Watching the fear
on his junior's face, he hissed, "That competitive spirit is an advantage. But you
expect me to count on it?"
"...!"
"…Hmph. Don't be petulant, Percy. The moment Ashbury chose to enter, we
all knew your odds of victory faded. This outcome is expected. And we will not
blame you for losing to her."
With that, he released Whalley, who was forced into an embittered silence.
Leoncio fixed him with a steely glare.
"That said—you must defeat Nanao Hibiya. That second-year girl is supporting
Miligan. And she has many eyes on her—if she steals the show here, the ripple
effects will hit the election hard," Leoncio cautioned. "Your purpose in this
league is to take her down a peg. Etch that into your heart."
His tone brooked no argument, and Whalley took a knee in acknowledgment.
The rest was in his hands—yet Leoncio had his hand to his chin, considering an
alternate solution.
"That said, it's hardly fair for us to be sitting around fretting about it. Don't
you agree, Khiirgi?"
His gaze turned to the elf by the wall. He offered no specifics—but Avarice
took the hint. A smile flickered across her eyes, dark as the hollow of an ancient
tree.
They came for her on the path back to the dorms from late-night practice—
when a broomrider who trained longer and harder than anyone else would be
all on her own.
"…One on the right, two on the left, one above," Ashbury muttered, stopping
below the arch over the path to the dorms. The darkness around her
shimmered, returning no sound.
"I can hear grass breathing these days. Wriggle on out here, grubs."
She drew her athame, and spells emerged from the darkness in all three
directions. The aim and timing were designed to give her no escape—yet they
caught only air. The broom in her left hand had yanked her to the side.
"Tonitrus."
Her return fire flushed an assailant out of the darkness. The attacker came
rolling to their feet, aiming again—but Ashbury had broken into a run the
moment her chant ended, moving ahead of them, her athame slicing across her
foe's wrist.
Their hand was left dangling by the skin alone, their athame clattering on the
ground. As the three remaining assailants gaped in horror, Ashbury wheeled
toward them.
"…You move so slow, I got time to yawn. We done here? Then good night."
She rolled her eyes, and the shadows grew incensed. They leaped back,
gaining distance from her. Abandoning the iron rule of nighttime attacks—keep
the spell volume and power down to avoid unwanted attention—their voices
chanted as one.
"""Frigus Intensum!"""
"Ignis!"
Flames flew over Ashbury's shoulder, far greater than the first spell's
combined might, shielding her from their blizzard's gust.
"Morg—"
The flames struck a chord in her mind, and she spun around. Her eyes
searched for a big man's face, that confident grin of old—though she knew it
was in vain.
And her hopes were soon dashed. The man behind her was every bit as tall—
but clearly not Morgan.
"Attacks on campus are not allowed. State your names and years!"
There stood the student body president, Alvin Godfrey, his voice ripe with
fury. The three shadows turned tail and fled. No use lingering—this man's
arrival meant their ambush had failed.
Godfrey made no effort to pursue. He merely glared after them.
"…Not giving chase?" Ashbury asked, raising a brow.
"I'd love to, but getting you back to the dorms intact is my priority here, Ms.
Ashbury."
"I don't need your help."
"You're getting it anyway."
He was clearly insistent on that, and she knew him well enough to know no
further argument would get her anywhere. She put her blade away and moved
toward him.
As they walked side by side down the path to the dorms, she suddenly put
two and two together.
"Ohhhh, it's election season. Was this part of that mess?"
"You fought them off unawares?"
"What do I care? No skin off my teeth. But if they're after me, then I guess
they've got a candidate in the league?"
"…Candidates have entered. But I can't say for sure this is connected," he said
grimly.
It was easy to make assumptions, but since he was backing a candidate
himself—voicing those speculations carelessly could be deemed improper. That
thought sealed his tongue. Ashbury was never the best at gleaning intent, but
this much she could manage, and his straight-shooting style left her shaking her
head.
"You haven't changed, then. Always were a meathead. Probably why you got
along with him."
"…Morgan?"
There was a sad smile on his lips. Ashbury's old catcher had been a good
friend to him as well.
"Those were the days. He gave me a lot of tips on controlling fire. Without
him, I'd still be burning my own arms with every spell."
"He's good at handling threats. Be it fire or beast."
"…Hmm."
Godfrey was scratching his face thoughtfully. Ashbury shot him a baleful
glare.
"…And I'm one of those?" she snapped.
"Y-you read my mind?! Since when can you—?!"
"It doesn't take magic to tell what's on a dipshit's mind. Context!
Countenances! Creepy pauses!"
This man was an appalling actor. But even as she shuddered, a thought struck
her, and she stopped in her tracks.
"Wait, speaking of dipshits—if these are election hijinks, then should you be
shooting the shit here? There's someone with a bigger target on her back than
mine."
Godfrey stopped dead. He wasn't that dumb.
"…Nanao Hibiya? They might go for it, but she'll be fine. I've got other Watch
eyes on her. And she's not prone to late-night solo pract—"
"That's assuming she heads back to the dorms after practice. You really think
the leagues would be enough to make her turn in early? She's every bit as dumb
as you."
Ashbury took a step closer with every line, and Godfrey's expression turned
grim. He turned toward the school building.
"…Ms. Ashbury, I'll have to take my—"
"I said I didn't need help! Go on, get!"
Her roar on his heels, the man broke into a run. Few words hit harder than
"as dumb as you." If that was true, there was no way she would cooperate.
Meanwhile, amid the teeming life of the bustling forest, beneath the
everlasting artificial sun, Oliver was once more at the base of the irminsul for
rehab—and shaking his head.
"…You again, Mr. Leik."
"I've been waiting for you, Oliver!"
He let out the loudest sigh he could muster. But Yuri was not discouraged,
and he came dashing over, grinning merrily. Oliver kept a few steps back, on
guard.
"…I don't remember ever agreeing to meet you at the base of the irminsul.
Did you spot me coming from up above and dash down to meet me?"
"Oh, you noticed?! That's right! I've just been hanging out up there. Resting a
while, taking in the view—then I saw you coming and was like, I just gotta!"
"What a fortuitous coincidence!"
Yuri's excitable yammer was interrupted by a new voice as someone else
landed behind him. Oliver realized who she was and nearly jumped out of his
skin.
"…Nanao?! Why are you here?! Where did you even come from?!"
"Like this gentleman here, I was lying in wait atop yonder tree. You have
neglected to invite me on your labyrinth excursions of late."
"Because things are dangerous right now, and I told you to stay on the
surface!" Oliver yelled, advancing on her. "You're in the league! And everyone
knows you're on the current council's side. There's danger even on campus, and
you come sauntering down into the wilds of the labyrinth—what if someone
attacked?!"
"Fair points, all," she said, hanging her head.
That was when Yuri smacked a fist on his palm and stepped in between them.
"I think that's just about enough, Oliver. Lots of light on this layer and plenty
of people around. And since voices carry on the air, it's probably safer than the
first layer."
"You stay out of this, Mr. Leik. This is between—"
"Calm down, Oliver. Deep breaths."
When he tried to speak again, Yuri pulled him away from her, over by a root.
Then he jerked a thumb back at Nanao.
"See that face? She knew all along what you're saying is true. And she came
anyway."
"? That's worse! Why take the risk—?"
"Obviously. She just wuvs you so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so,
so, so, so, so, so, soooo much! She came to see you! She couldn't wait till
tomorrow! She needed to be with you so bad, she didn't even factor in the
risks!"
Yuri was shaking Oliver's shoulders now, getting rather worked up himself.
But Nanao was far enough away that she couldn't make out what they were
saying.
Head down, she murmured, "…I just wished to be with you, Oliver."
And that struck Oliver like an arrow to the heart. It took his breath away. He
had to clear his throat several times before turning back to her.
"…Well, acting in haste will just draw attention. Let's head back up carefully,
making sure we don't run into any sketchy characters," he told her. "There are
lights in the lounges and study groups burning the midnight oil—far less risk of
ambush than here. If you wish, we can sit and talk awhile. How does that sound,
Nanao?"
Her face lit up.
Yuri gave them a satisfied nod, then said, "I've had enough exploring for one
day. Much as I'd love to give you two some room, best we stick together until
we reach the surface, yes? Safety in numbers."
"…Can't argue with that. Very well, Mr. Leik… Honestly, your delving this deep
not long after your transfer here is pretty risky, too."
"Don't worry! From now on, I'll only delve with you, Oliver! Sound good,
Nanao?"
"Verily! I believe we shall be firm friends."
Nanao and Yuri exchanged high fives. Oliver rubbed his temples. He'd sensed
they had some common ground, personality-wise—and clearly, he'd been right.
Now he had to look after two unruly children. Sighing, he turned to head back
up…but stopped a step later.
"…Wait." There was an urgency to his tone that cut their cheery introductions
short. Eyes on the dense vegetation before them, feeling the hostility within,
Oliver muttered, "Too late."
Then he turned on his heel, breaking into a run. He grabbed both
companions' wrists, pulling them along, and they soon followed suit, each
keeping an eye on their backs. Chants echoed behind.
"…Oliver!"
"Oliver!"
"Up the tree!"
The ground at their feet and the brush to one side were struck by bolt after
bolt. Narrowly avoiding the storm through serpentine footwork, they made it
back to the base of the irminsul and started up a branch.
Not far along it was a large burl, and they dove behind it, taking cover. An
instant later, an especially large lightning bolt struck the other side. Oliver let
out a breath.
"…Okay, we've got the positional advantage. They can't flank us or hit us from
behind without a lengthy detour around the branches, and if they're sticking to
the shrubbery, they can't get too close. If they take to their brooms and fly up,
we can shoot them down before they get close."
Even as he spoke, his mind was on something else. If he didn't catch her mana
frequency here, then Teresa was out of range. She'd warned him as much;
she'd be out today, helping with a scheme to turn the faculty on one another.
His comrades weren't coming to help—the three of them would have to escape
this together.
"Keep one eye out for flanking maneuvers and hit them hard if you catch a
glimpse. Don't miss your chance."
Both nodded. Yuri was peering over the rim at the brush below.
"…Five of 'em," he said. "Two upperclassmen."
"You can see them?"
"No, but I asked. Oh, here comes one. Flamma."
He waved his athame. A moment later, an enemy stepped out of the brush,
right into Yuri's spell.
"Gah…!"
"See?" Yuri grinned.
Oliver attempted a follow-up, but this was neutralized by a different foe's
support barrage, and he was forced back behind the burl. The damaged foe
dove into the shrubbery. To Oliver's eye, they were moving a little slower. He
turned to Yuri.
"Mm? What's up, Oliver? Something on my face?"
A smile as clear as the sun. But how did he—?
Before he could finish that thought, the enemy's explosion spell struck the
burl. He was forced to shoot back. The enemy was trading suppressing fire,
curving spells across cover, trying to get a bead on them. Oliver threw up
barrier spells on their flanks, returning fire.
"Fragor! No, keep doing what you're doing. Can't let them get close."
"Hrm, there is precious little I can contribute in a fight of this nature."
"That's not true. Even if you're just firing at random, it helps. What matters
isn't hitting them but making it clear a careless move will get them hit."
"That, I can manage, but will we not start a fire?"
"Damage to the forest itself will be repaired by the labyrinth homeostasis.
Unless you're Godfrey, there's no risk of turning this place into scorched earth.
Go for broke."
That freed Nanao from all concern, and she took a swing with her katana.
"Very well. Flamma! "
Polished by her mind's eye, a fireball flew from the tip of her blade. It landed
in a corner of a copse and burst, lighting up the terrain for yards in every
direction. An enemy happened to be lurking near and was forced to dive out of
the line of fire—not missing a beat, Oliver downed them with a follow-up spell.
"Wow, Nanao!" Yuri yelled. "You burned all that with a singlecant?"
"I've begun to find the knack for it, yes."
"With your mana output, that's the kind of force you should be casting,"
Oliver murmured. "They know we're second-years, so they'll have assumed we
can't hit that hard—it was a real stroke of luck we managed to down one."
He glanced toward the unmoving foe by the burning copse. He'd hit them
with decent force—they weren't getting back up soon, even if a friend healed
them. And if Yuri was right, there were four more.
"It's going well!" Yuri said. "Seems like they can't get up here—have we got
this in the bag?"
"Absolutely not. At least, if you're right about the two upperclassmen."
Oliver was disinclined to be optimistic. Fighting Vera Miligan his first year had
knocked that out of him. At Kimberly, "upperclassmen" meant fourth-year and
above—so two of their remaining foes were Miligan-level or worse.
"…It's only gonna get tougher. Here they come!"
He spotted two figures breaking out of the brush. Their footwork was too
nimble, their speed too fast—they had to be the upperclassmen.
"Aim for the leader!"
At Oliver's word, all three focused their spells. If they split their fire, both
might get through; it was best to make sure they took down one at a time. They
were on a long, thin irminsul branch—only one way up to them. Taking full
advantage of that terrain, they might have a shot at downing them this way—
but Oliver knew only too well that was a faint hope.
"...!"
His worst fears were realized. As they reached the branch, the approaching
figures shifted to the side—and the underside. Racing up the branch using Wall
Walk—but of course they did. Any sword arts technique Oliver and Nanao had
mastered was old hat to an upperclassman.
"Do it, Nanao!"
He had anticipated this, and it was why he'd chosen this spot to camp. Even
as he shouted the order, he grabbed Yuri's hand, pulling him back, gesturing at
the bark below with his athame. Nanao saw that—and knew exactly what he
wanted.
"At once! Gladio! "
She swung her blade down. A full-strength severing spell directed at the
branch below them—and cut it through.
" ?!"
"...!"
No longer connected, the branch creaked, then began to fall. Both assailants
let out silent yelps. A branch of the irminsul was the size of a fully grown tree,
and second-years could use only single incantations—no one would expect
them to manage this feat. They had yet to fully grasp how exceptional Nanao
really was.
But this in no way ended the fight. One foe went down with the branch,
fleeing to the surface. But the figure at the fore kept right on running, never
slowing down. As she approached the schism, she worked their way back to the
top and jumped. The gap was a good twelve yards wide—too far to vault. She
put her hand on her broom, trying to propel herself across, but—
"""Impetus!"""
Three gale spells were waiting for that. Their foe threw out the oppositional
element, but channeling mana into her broom while countering three spells at
once was a bit much even for an upperclassman. Enough wind got past to slow
her down—and she released the broom. In the air, she was a sitting duck—
dropping to the ground was the only escape. Oliver was certain they had her,
but—
"Haaa-ha!"
A breathy laugh sent shudders down their spines. Their foe did not fall—
instead, she stepped onto the air, jumping. Twice.
" ?!"
None of them had expected this. The second jump took her beneath them,
putting the branch between her and their spells. She snagged a protrusion,
flipping herself upside down and planting her feet on the underside of the
branch. Then she came walking around it toward the top.
"...!"
All three of them backed down the branch, keeping their distance, but this
time, Oliver genuinely couldn't believe it. Sky Walk—and two steps. Even one
required incredible talent and massive amounts of training. If she could take
two steps, she was a master of the form. It was a feat far beyond even Miligan's
caliber.
They clearly weren't dealing with an ordinary upperclassman here. This had to
be one of the top fighters in the upper years. Her uniform disguised the specific
year, but Oliver looked her over again, searching for clues. She had a hood deep
over an ancient wood-carved mask, hiding her face from view.
"…Don't suppose you'd care to share your name?" he asked, allowing a touch
of spite.
His mind was churning. She hadn't used a doublecant, probably concerned
the scale of the ensuing spell would attract attention. Even at this hour, there
were plenty of students on the second layer, including Campus Watch
members. He could bet on that and cast a siren spell or toss out a rescue orb,
but…
"Not yet the time for that, Oliver," Nanao said, catching his thought. She
flashed a grin, and it hit him like a bolt from the blue. He caught a whiff of his
own timidity buried beneath the workings of his rational mind.
"…Right you are, Nanao."
He nodded, raising his athame to midstance. That bet would have been
presumptuous. No guarantee a call for help would improve the situation; it
might well drag in an even bigger threat. It was a last resort when nothing else
could be done—but things were not yet that dire.
"…Come on, then. It's high time I stopped quaking in my boots whenever I
face an upperclassman."
His words were half a whip across his flagging spirits. Their strategy had paid
off—they'd managed to turn this into a three-on-one fight for the moment.
That was a solid advantage and one they'd earned. Now they simply had to
follow through on it.
"Turbo Flamma!"
As if extolling Oliver's courage, a flaming tornado kicked up behind their foe.
"You're really going at it. Mind if I join in?"
A low growl—not a voice you'd ever mistake. As the flames died down, all
eyes turned toward the man on the ground—the three of them, the foe before
them, and the enemy attempting the long way around.
"Morgan!" Nanao cried.
Clifton Morgan raised a hand in acknowledgment, taking in the scene.
"Hmmmm? …Am I imagining things, or do you have two upperclassmen?" he
said. "Gah-ha-ha! I must be! That'd be an absolute disgrace! At your age,
ganging up on three second-year kids."
His assessment had certainly brought out the sarcasm. And with literal sparks
flying from every inch of him, his words packed a real punch.
"That would be intolerable. If it were true, I'd have to clean up. With a
charcoal filter."
With that, he raised his athame high. The girl before them clicked her tongue,
then flung herself off the branch, landing in the brush below. The others beat a
hasty retreat in kind, vanishing into the forest. When there was no trace of
them left, Morgan finally lowered his blade.
"They're gone. Gah-ha! You kids never learn," Morgan said, glancing up the
irminsul at them. "Delving at a time like this? I guess that is pretty dang
Kimberly of you."
The three of them jumped down, Nanao at the fore.
"The assistance was most appreciated, Morgan," she said. "And timely, as I
have need to speak with you. Can you spare a moment?"
Morgan cocked an eyebrow. And Oliver realized Nanao was not just here to
see him—she had bigger fish to fry.
Attack Nanao Hibiya in the labyrinth with lasting damage, be it wounds or a
curse. No need to fell her, just prevent her from flying at peak performance.
That was how she'd interpreted Leoncio's intent.
After all, the girl was a second-year, and the task itself was far too easy for
her. And it was inherently in bad taste. Even Kimberly students had an
unwritten understanding that fights were best left to those of similar ages. For
that reason, she had not planned on being directly involved—the plan had been
to kick back and watch her juniors take care of business.
"…Haaa-ha-ha!"
The memory brought a smirk to her lips. She hadn't expected to have such
fun.
Leaning against the wall, the masked woman's gasping sigh of a laugh pealed
on and on. The male student across from her intensified his glare.
"…What's so funny? You failed miserably."
He didn't even try to hide his frustration. They were in one of the old council's
bases on the first layer, and their candidate, Percival Whalley, was biting his
nails again. The cause of his irritation was none other than the report from the
failed ambush team.
"The targets showed such promise, you let them see you Sky Walk? Both
steps?! Far too rash. Why even bother hiding your ears and face?!"
At Whalley's howl, Barman shrugged. He'd been behind the counter, silently
working a shaker.
"I agree, but it's hardly unprecedented. How long have you known this
covetous elf?"
"Yes, her lusts are much too unfettered! Why were you even at the scene? It
was hardly a plan we could not afford to fail. Do you have no concept of risk
and reward?"
Whalley glared at her again. His strategies were always constructed of the
purest logic, and he frequently found the whims of his allies a far greater threat
than anything an enemy could do.
But despite the scathing rebuke, the ambush leader removed her hood and
mask with a smile. The sixth-year elf—Khiirgi.
"…I only meant to sneak a peek. Kill some time. Then I saw how they fought,
and the itch took hold. Like being out for a walk and seeing a young doe shaking
her tail at you. How could I not play?"
Avarice showed no remorse. As Whalley fumed further, she took a quiet step
toward him, cupping his ruddy cheeks in her hands.
"Don't you scowl at me, Percy. If there are consequences, I'll handle them.
This will not stop you from winning the election. Besides, we reeled in some
better news. Right, Leoncio?"
Khiirgi's head swiveled. At the back of the room, a man sat deep in a chair.
"Indeed," he said, nodding. "Morgan—you're alive."
His hand clutched a crystal. Inside, images and voices played—a hearty laugh,
delivered by a confident man. A sixth-year student all had assumed long since
consumed by the spell.
Kimberly generally held two leagues for broomsports a year. They'd hold
leagues for all three disciplines, and once those were done, the second league
would loop back through the disciplines in the same order. The order of those
disciplines varied by year, but this year it was broom fights, then broom wars,
and finally broom races.
"The white-hot fury of the broom fight's first league wrapped up yesterday!
Missing them already? Don't you worry—the next party's already starting!
Broom wars league one starts todaaaaaaaaay!"
To many mages, broomsports were synonymous with broom wars. The stands
were filled to the brim, and the crowd was already roaring. Roger had to raise
his voice to be heard above everyone.
"One-on-one is fun, but this here is the main event! Not just raw player talent
—wars require strategies and teamwork, too! An extra heaping of everything
good—like your plate at the end of the buffet line. Where do you even begin,
Instructor Dustin?"
"I promise you, he isn't kidding. There's too much going on! I don't even know
where to look! That's what everyone says the first time they watch the broom
wars. It's more than enough to just keep your eyes on a favorite player, so don't
think too hard about it—but it is true that learning how to watch a game will
enhance your enjoyment. I thought I'd explain a few tricks for you all today."
"Please do! Our first round is the Rabid Hawks versus the Blue Swallows!
Come on out, O beloved brutal broomriderrrrrs!"
The horns blared, and from east and west, two teams shot onto the field. The
Blue Swallows were on the east, doing their final pre-match rundowns.
"…Uh, Ashbury, I should at least ask."
"I'll do my thing. You keep up as best you can."
She didn't even bother glancing his way. A chorus of sighs went up from the
team.
"Our ace never minces words."
"Can't argue with results, though."
"With the streak you've been on, any strategy would just tie your hands
anyway."
There were definitely some sour grapes here, but Ashbury just took them all
as statements of fact, grinning like a shark.
"You know it. I'll down 'em all in the first half. It's time I had a perfect match."
"Madness!"
"But those eyes—she means it!"
"I'm too scared to look her in the eye!"
When their ace spoke, all shuddered. And the horns sounded again, forcing
them onto the field.
Both teams sprang into action. As the breathless crowd cheered, Roger
slapped the table.
"And they're off! Ohhh boy! My eyes already can't keep up! Where should I
look, Instructor?"
"Don't try to focus on a single point. Take in the whole field. Observe how the
players are arranged around their captains—that'll give you a solid sense of
what each team's plan of action is. The Rabid Hawks are making it easy for you
—they're in a standard formation, balancing offense and defense."
Dustin's tone was almost talking the announcer down. Naturally, Roger hadn't
gotten this job without being a longtime broomsports fan—he knew exactly
how to watch a match without any tutorials. But it was his style to act like a
newbie fan when the need arose. Just as he had in the broom fights, he
carefully played along with the broom teacher's lessons.
"A broomrider without speed is helpless. This isn't like chess—you can't leave
your king sitting pretty. You see what they do instead?"
"I do! That's why both captains are doing loops on the far ends of the field!"
Roger pointed a finger in each direction. Like he said, both captains were
maintaining speed, but not leaving the narrow confines of their team's territory.
"Right you are," Dustin said with a nod. "With two guards on each. Naturally,
if the enemy flies their way, the attack squads'll knock 'em down. I'm sure
everyone's gut tells 'em this much, but in broom wars, it's never easier to down
a player than when they're busy chasing someone else. The captain is the
biggest target and the player they can least afford to lose—yet at the same
time, they serve to draw the offense's attention. It's a role that requires nerves
of steel."
Dustin flashed a shit-eating grin. Broom wars was a sport demanding constant
action, and a captain who just hung out at the back was doing nobody any
good. When the other team was on the run, the captain would be chasing, too;
when their side was on the run, the captain would be fighting back. That's how
the game was played.
"The other roles are also aptitude-based. Aggressive, fearless types get sent
first into the fray; cautious, defensive types are tasked with fending off the
enemy's assaults. But those role divisions are always in flux. If the situation
demands it, the whole team can go on the offense—it's what we call the Full
Attack formation. You'll most likely see it in the back half of the match, once
one side has a big numbers advantage."
"And until that happens, both sides are trying to thin each other out."
"Yep. At the start, the attackers are going at each other, while the back line
watches for their chance to swoop in and help. Basically, those frontline fights
are the main thing to watch in the early going. Unlike broom fights, they get hit
from the side all the time, so nothing is ever predictable. A single downed
player can shake up the whole game."
Even as he spoke, the two teams' attackers were clashing—and then a player
shot through the center of the fight, rocketing toward the opposition's rear line.
The crowd gasped.
"Whoa, Ashbury's going in solo? Instructor, is that allowed?"
"…Oh, she's starting already? I mean, it's normally not a good idea. That's the
problem with her matches. 'Normal' really doesn't apply," said Dustin. "I
mentioned how the captain's job is to bait the opposition? Same goes for small
squads flying deep into the enemy zone. Nobody's about to just let 'em be.
They can monopolize their foe's attention and create gaps in the enemy lines
that their teammates can take advantage of."
He sounded annoyed—or was pretending to be—but there was definitely a
hint of a stifled laugh behind it. He knew full well the risks but couldn't help
himself. Every broom wars fan loved to see a single player tear up the rules.
Fighting the temptation to abandon his commentator role and act like a
regular old fan, clinging to the illusion of being a proper instructor, Dustin
managed, "It's a batshit crazy position only the dumbest and best can pull off.
We call it…the berserker."
He wasn't wrong. The moment Ashbury flew in, it became impossible for the
Rabid Hawks to think straight.
"Guh!"
"Gaughhh—!"
She hit a player's back in passing, and they plummeted. A teammate
swooping in to retaliate crashed into another player in pursuit. As they tried to
regain their balance, Ashbury flitted back and finished them off. Panic spread
among the rest of the Hawks. This was no time to stick to their positions—
everyone made their own best judgments, going after Ashbury. All cohesion
lost, chaos reared its head.
"Wait up, damn it!"
"How long are you gonna keep this up?!"
But the harder they tried to put her down fast, the more they danced in the
palm of Ashbury's hand. She stirred up their formation, leaving the Rabid Hawks
in disarray, and the Blue Swallows' offense was mercilessly taking advantage of
that. Once the collapse began, there was no stopping it. Hawk after Hawk went
down; Ashbury slipped past club after club swung her way, grinning like a
maniac.
"Isn't it obvious? Till every last one of you is down!"
The audience gulped as one. This wasn't a match. It was a hunt.
Normally, berserkers didn't stay flying for long. Flying solo into the heart of
enemy territory made it all the more likely you'd be downed quick. Create a
minute of chaos and let your team handle the rest—that was more than
enough. But Ashbury wasn't going down. In fact, she was dropping her foes left
and right.
"…As a broomrider, Ashbury's physique and skills are both beyond
perfection."
This wasn't even commentary anymore. Dustin had actually cut the voice amp
spell and was just talking to himself, unable to peel his eyes off Ashbury. Next to
him, Roger could only listen.
"Even to my eyes. She's always been far more a pure rider than I ever was. My
job was to cut down the monsters on the front lines of the Gnostic hunts, but
she's only ever had one enemy—time. I honed my speed so I could kill faster. In
the back of my mind, speed itself was never more than a means to an end. But
not with her. Speed is the goal, and her entire life is devoted to that pursuit.
She's never once wavered from that."
Dustin spoke with a mixture of awe and envy. Then he said a number aloud.
"2:25:21. You know what that number is?"
"…Every broomsports fan knows that number, Instructor."
"That they do. The infamous world record for the broom race regulation
course."
The broomriding instructor spoke as if beholding a marvel.
"That's what Ashbury's really up against. Can she surpass that number? That's
the sole meaning of her life. But the rider who set that record died even as they
shattered it. It's one of those numbers. The time itself is a spell."
"…The time…is a spell…"
"There's one other reason I said time is her enemy. Broomriders pushing the
limits of speed hit the peak of their abilities shockingly early. Late teens, early
twenties. Past that point, your times at the highest speeds stop improving.
There are a lot of theories why—but I say you just accumulate too much other
stuff." Dustin went on. "Ashbury is twenty years old. The hard limit on setting
that record is coming up fast. She knows that better than anyone."
From the way she was running the field wild, Dustin could feel her urgency.
Yet, another part of him sensed he could never truly know what it felt like. Like
that former top player once said, riders aiming to be the world's fastest were
always alone. And no coach could do anything to help.