Chương 70: CHAPTER 4 : Aristides, the Philosopher of Ignorance (2)
The butterfly's dream of death. With the exception of the yet-unnamed seventh, this was the sole spellblade thought up by an Azian mage.
The titular concept derives from a Chenese fable. A wise man has a dream in which he is a butterfly, fluttering about. When he wakes, he finds himself questioning whether he dreams of being the butterfly or whether he was actually a butterfly—and if what he now perceives is merely part of the butterfly's dream.
Not just a simple prompt to urge skepticism, this fable demonstrates the inherently primitive nature of perception itself. Namely—while actively dreaming, the distinction between one's self and the butterfly is not nearly as distinct as those words imply. The knife of reason divides them upon awakening, but arguably these are categories applied afterward based on human biases. In actual practice, neither the self nor the butterfly exist, and the two are intermingled within the sea of consciousness.
To change the metaphor, imagine the perspective of a newborn babe. They've yet to develop a self, so possess no knife with which to divide the world from themselves. Thus, their experience affords no distinction between themselves and others. They are in a natural state of selflessness, and all subsequent actions stem from that. When they hungrily search for nipples, when they cry to alert us to a wet diaper, they do not direct this toward a father or mother—or even distinguish their parents from themselves. Their actions are projected to the world as a whole, themselves included in it.
And this is not exclusive to babies. Even full-grown adults may find their perceptions in a similar state. Like the earlier fable, when dreaming—but perhaps closer at hand, the state of hyperfocus both mages and ordinaries enter when engaged with their primary subject of interest.
For instance, let us examine an accomplished dancer. They do not consciously think about moving their limbs at specific points in the music. Where amateurs may move in response to what they hear, the more they train, the more that distinction fades; they move without consciously listening to the accompaniment. This is the result of removing the line between themselves and the sounds—and in Azian philosophy, they say the objective and the subjective become unified, and we reach a realm that precedes divisions. A limited form of selflessness.
Similar phenomena are observed in the world of sword arts, too. Where one false move will lead to death, both parties swing blades in a state of extreme focus. Neither the motions of their bodies nor their thoughts are able to function as they do in daily life. Everything unnecessary is trimmed away. For a fleeting moment, perception is compressed and their worldview optimized.
Sword arts duels mean battling within each other's personal space. In the extreme, neither sight nor hearing are necessary. As blades clash, they perceive each other directly, without the intermediary of sensory organs, burying themselves in gambits and predictions. Actions taken within those overlapping personal spaces are a mutual operation in the form of a fight—almost like a single thought performed with two heads.
Demitrio's spellblade hacked into that extreme state of mind. It invited an occupant of his personal space into the depths of the zone preceding the divisions between the objective and the subjective, forcibly removing their ability to perceive the distinction between themselves and their opponent, between stabbing and being stabbed. Then he took advantage of his own acclimatization to the state of selflessness to guide the exchange to an outcome where only his foe was stabbed. No resistance occurred in the process. Why? Because his opponent agreed to the outcome.
That was the fifth spellblade, Papiliosomnia, the butterfly's dream of death. In a state like and yet distinct from delusion and delirium, an undefeatable trick to turn the very nature of perception against them. Even the greatest master could not fight against it. The extraordinary concentration developed over a lifetime of training only worked against them, ensuring their doom.
Thus, this was their final dream. A dream from which they would not wake, a dream of a butterfly's death.
"Why so surprised? As we stepped in range, you instinctively knew we both had one."
Demitrio spoke flatly, his stance never wavering. But then his eyes dropped to the white wand in hand. No blade, not even a scrap of metal anywhere.
"Oh, this? I'm no Gilchrist—and I do not preach anti-athameism. Yet there is a reason why I do not carry one," he began. "First, metal is simply a poor fit for selflessness. There was no metal in the early age of the divine. The dwarves were the first to create it, and god had a low opinion of that act. Metal is a symbol of our division from the world. It's not just the athame; having any metal anywhere on my person causes some small interference in my state of selflessness."
That certainly explained it and came as a bitter blow. How foolish it had been for them to assume he did not have a spellblade based on such flimsy evidence.
"The other reason might make more immediate sense. Camouflage—this way, few suspect I have a spellblade. But that does not mean much against a foe who has one of their own," said Demitrio. "I'm sure you've heard the term: Grand Arts Synchronicity."
Naturally, Oliver knew of it. It was a popular rumor among mages, a prophetic instinct that took hold when two spellblade masters faced each other in earnest. Namely—without the benefit of actually using their spellblades, each would know the other had one.
In hindsight, Oliver recognized the sensation. The shudder he'd felt when he'd faced Nanao shortly after enrolling—part of that had been this. That had not been a trick of his mind—he now had confirmation. Even in this instant, that same sensation was making his skin crawl.
"Let's examine this exchange: I lured you into a state preceding divisions, making ambiguous the distinction between you and me and between stabbing yourself and stabbing me. I attempted to lead you to the former. Meanwhile, you employed an augury's future observation and the uncertainty principle, attempting to select from innumerable potentials the extremely rare outcome in which I would be slain."
Oliver bit his lip. The uncanny sensation of that moment, the blow to his chest that immediately followed—both memories were horrifyingly vivid.
"The upshot is both attempts failed, but the scale of the failure differs. My spellblade's failure is merely an error on my part. With no previous experience perceiving the fourth in action, once my subjectivity unified with yours, I was forced to act swiftly and was not able to pick the correct outcome on the fly. A minor miscalculation caused by inexperience—nothing more than that."
With that conclusion established, Demitrio's eyes pierced Oliver.
"But what about you? Once the fifth caught you, you were helpless. You did not resist the lure, did not even realize your perception no longer distinguished the subjective and the objective."
"...…!"
"And in that state, suspecting nothing, you used your spellblade. The art itself succeeded, and you chose a future—but one I picked, that ended with a blow to your heart."
Oliver could not argue that. He was left flat-footed, his heart sinking. Adding insult to injury, Demitrio summed up the exchange.
"You understand me, boy. My spellblade consumed yours. My failure can be corrected next time. Yours—is a fundamental, fatal flaw."
As they reached that conclusion, the platform beneath their feet swayed. The comrades below saw the duel undecided and resumed the destruction of the pillar—they'd left it at a precarious balance on purpose. Gwyn's squad swooped in again, surrounding them, but Demitrio's tone betrayed no concern.
"That was the last ace up your sleeves. In which case, you have no path to victory." He then cast a spell: "■■■■" Sink.
The ground beneath their feet dropped, and Demitrio and Oliver were swallowed up inside the pillar. Gwyn's squad jumped off their brooms, chasing after them into the depression. With the base shattered, the pillar slowly started to topple. As Oliver desperately searched for an option, Demitrio lightly jumped down.
"Foolish.■■■■" Stop.
His back to his assailants, he chanted. Gwyn's jamming required him to see Demitrio's mouth move—so the full force of it hit them. Gwyn included, five comrades ceased to move. Frozen statue-like, in mid-motion—which took the rest of their breaths away.
"Gwyn…!"
"Petrification?!"
"No! They've stopped in midair—"
Demitrio swung around, forcing them to back off, leaving their stopped comrades behind. As the man moved past Gwyn, he raked him with his wand, and everything below the right elbow fell to the ground. An absent-minded nail in the coffin on a foe already out of commission. His spelljamming was a threat even Demitrio could not ignore.
"So far, I have only used primal spellcraft on the environment, indirect attacks. But at this range, the spells will affect you directly. ■■■■, ■■■■, ■■■■" Stop, stop, stop.
A series of spells locking down more and more students. They tried to evade, but in this depression they had few options—especially since the pillar itself was busy toppling over. If they had simply fled, perhaps escape would have been possible—but that was not an option. They were duty bound to save their lord over themselves.
"■■■■, ■■■■, ■■■■" Stop, stop, stop. "Cancellations and evasions are not possible. No more than I can stop your spells creating fire or electricity. You generated those elements as a means to attack, but I am using no intermediary—this spell's sole affect is to rob you of motion."
Even as he spoke, his assault continued. The toppling pillar had turned walls into floors, but he handled that effortlessly. He was linked to this space, and no matter how it changed, it posed no threat to him.
"Spelljamming was your sole means of resistance. But you cannot replace the source of that. ■■■■" Stop.
Oliver excepted, the last of his comrades were caught. At the exact same moment—the toppling pillar hit the ground below, lying prone.
"Noll—!"
The impact sent up a huge dust cloud. Racing in with their comrades, Shannon searched for her cousin—and a gust of wind cleared the debris, revealing all: Demitrio in a spotless robe, standing there alone.
"…Ngh…!"
"That's you, Shannon Sherwood. I can sense the progenitor vibe about you. A successful throwback? If so, an unexpected windfall."
He was walking right toward her—and something lunged out of the rubble behind him. Oliver, who'd blunted the blow of the impact with a last-second spell.
"Get away from my sister!" he yelled—as covered in wounds and dirt as his opponent was spotless.
Sensing the bloodlust at his back, Demitrio sighed softly.
"A futile effort. ■■■ ■■■■■" Get heavy.
He pointed his wand up, chanting a heartless primal spell. The comrades attempting to back Oliver's attack all fell to their knees. The pressure from above affecting everyone in the area alike.
"…Gah…!"
"M-my arm…!"
"I can't lift it…!"
"■■■■" Stop.
And as they slowed, the next attack came without mercy. The first round of the fight, he'd been keeping them at bay—and now that they'd closed in, he merely used that against them. The nature of the primal threat adjusted to the battle's range. And this close-up—they could not afford to let him chant at all.
"■■■■. ■■■■. ■■■■. ■■■■… ■■■■" Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop… Stop.
Light footwork dodging what spells were cast against them, Demitrio locked up one remaining student after another. Twenty of them rendered helpless in rapid succession. Shannon attempted to help her cousin escape but was caught herself toward the end. Right before Oliver's eyes. A tragedy unfolding in less than a minute flat.
"…Tonitru—"
"■■■■" Stop.
Oliver's spell had been a shriek—but Demitrio's incantation did not even allow him to finish. Silenced and helpless, Oliver was rendered immobile, like his comrades before him.
No more resistance remained. The silence this man brought was more thorough than death. Fatal blows might well leave curse energy behind. But stopping them—that afforded no such concerns.
The man surveyed his surroundings, certain nothing left still moved.
"That's all of you? You held out longer than I anticipated."
With that appraisal, he moved toward Oliver, reached up—and peeled his mask away. Revealing the face of a third-year boy.
"So it was you, Oliver Horn. I had suspicions, but for a mere third-year to be at the center of all this? No wonder our response lagged behind."
Demitrio shook his head, then aimed his wand at the boy's head.
"But it ends here. I'll uncover your motives, your purpose, your scale, and who backs you… Somni ludere."
His invasion began. Deep into Oliver Horn he went, to dig up all that lay within.
The next thing Oliver knew—he was in the first-layer hidden workshop, seated across the table from his cousins.
"Mm?"
He blinked. There was a plate of piping hot pancakes in front of him. Something felt wrong here, but he could find no basis for that impression.
"What's…wrong, Noll? Your pancakes…are getting cold."
On his right, Shannon sounded baffled. When Oliver found no words, Gwyn looked concerned.
"Not hungry? Should we go with something easier to get down? A sorbet?"
"You're pale, my lord," Teresa said, leaning in from his left.
Feeling guilty for worrying them all, Oliver shook his head, still reeling.
"N-no, it's not that. It's…"
He tried to speak, but not one satisfactory phrase came to mind. Across the table, Gwyn sighed.
"The fatigue's catching up with you. That's it! Today, you rest."
"Come. To bed, Noll," Shannon said, getting up and tapping his shoulders.
Teresa stood up, too, tugging his sleeve. "I'll accompany you."
"Heh-heh. That's nice… Gwyn?" Shannon asked as Oliver rose.
Gwyn hesitated, then smiled. "Sure… It'll be a nice change of pace."
The four of them headed for the bedroom. Leading him, they pulled off his robe and laid him down on the bed. The others went to lie down on either side of Oliver.
"It's been…so long." Shannon giggled. "It's just like…we used to do."
"The bed is a bit small. Teresa, scoot closer to Noll."
"Don't mind if I do."
Teresa buried her face in Oliver's chest. Even as her warmth flustered him, Shannon whispered, "Should I tell you a story…until you drift off? The three clever ball mice…and their adventure…or the long journey…of the bent broom…searching for a friend?"
Two fairy tales she'd often relayed to him. That took him back, her kindness wrapping around him, easing the confusion within—and drowsiness rose up inside.
"…The bent broom," Oliver whispered.
"Mm, okay. A long…long time ago. There was a broom with a very curvy shaft…"
His sister softly began to regale. Letting her voice wash over him, Oliver drifted off to sleep.
Again, he snapped out of it. Seated at a table in the Fellowship, his friends chattering away.
"The nest's temperature is just right, and I've added soundproofing. Like this article said, I've taken leaves out of its diet…"
Katie was muttering away, scribbling in her notes. Oliver watched closely, and she clutched her head, yelling.
"Arghhh! It's not working! Nothing I do will make the digwing warm their eggs!"
"Don't let it get to you," Guy said, refilling her cup. "Have some tea and sit on it for a while."
This was an everyday sight, and Oliver watched in silence. Then Nanao leaned in from his right, examining his face.
"You seem not quite here, Oliver. Does something ail you?"
"…Nanao…"
"You have a habit of taking on too many worries," Chela said, smiling across the table at him. "Katie will be fine! Leave her be for a few days, and she'll come up with something brilliant. She always does."
A board game was thrust onto the table from Oliver's left.
"Exactly! That's why you should play Magic Chess with me!"
Yuri Leik, with an innocent smile. When Oliver saw that, he felt a surge of emotions he could not put a name to. Fighting off tears he knew not the cause of, he managed an answer.
"…Yeah, Yuri. That might hit the spot."
Yuri gleefully began laying out the pieces. Oliver joined in, keeping himself in the moment.
Watching the same dream from on high, Demitrio was carefully observing Oliver.
"His guard's gone down. Time to pry into his memories."
He began taking stock. As Oliver adjusted to the dream, more memories grew available, and Demitrio carefully checked these over. One image after another of times Oliver Horn had lived through. A deadly battle not far in the past among them.
"So this is who took down Enrico. The Sherwoods, Karlie Buckle, and Robert Dufourcq… Aha, she was a force, and he knew his curses. Good choices to tackle a Deus Ex Machina."
The fight against the machine god was a furious one. Demitrio ran through it thoroughly and then dug deeper into the past—finding his first victim.
"And here's Darius. A pure one-on-one? Using his arrogance against him, but still…luck was not with you, Darius. The shock of a first-year with a spellblade—but if you had spent just a little more time on your sword arts or been just a bit less talented as an alchemist—you could have obtained a spellblade of your own."
A whisper of regret. This man knew full well why Darius had not followed that path.
"I've seen their primary members on-site. Let's go back to before he arrived here, explore his background…"
But when he tried to go further, he ran into a wall. Like a miner stymied by hard rock, he could not dig further into the past.
"…A powerful barrier. Less caution than unvarnished trauma. These years must have been very unpleasant."
Considering the cause, Demitrio swiftly changed tactics. There were several ways to get past a memory block—one of which was changing the angle of approach. Sealed memories were like blood vessels with a valve that partially blocked the flow. He might not be able to go directly there from the present, but looping before them and moving chronologically often made it possible.
"A slight detour, but I'll take the long way around. Let's head back to when you were happy. No need to rush. Just dream away as we follow the time line."
He adjusted the dream, and the sights Oliver saw followed.
"Nice, nice! Just a bit more! You're almost there!"
Encouraged by her voice, he pushed his little hands on the floor, getting up. His gait was too unsteady to really call a walk, but still he moved forward. The moment of his first step.
The boy reached his limit and toppled into his mother's arms.
"Gooooooood boy! So, so, so, so good! You did it, Noll! Not just standing up! You took two and a half steps! Did you see, Ed? He'll be tap dancing by this time next year!"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. But good work, Noll. Impressive effort."
His father reached past the blond witch, rubbing the boy's head. A wiry body clad in a plain, solid-color sweater and slacks, eyes framed by square glasses. His movements tidy in a way that suggested "teacher." An awfully drab-looking man to be the legendary Two-Blade's husband.
Watching this scene play out, Demitrio recognized his face and nodded.
"…Her boy with Edgar? Gave birth while holed up in that forest, did she? Hard to believe she kept it hidden. She was called up by the Gnostic Hunters several times while raising him."
A few years later, the baby was now a toddler. Sitting on his mother's knees, Oliver was examining the alchemy materials before him.
"This one's winding weed. And that's a chuckleshroom. And…stained lantern."
"Good job! So what's this one?"
"An onion. Is that for dinner?" The boy laughed at the vegetable in his mother's hands.
Next to them, Edgar folded his arms, thinking.
"He remembered all these just watching us brew? He learns like I did. Makes a father proud…"
"What other reaction could there be? You're brilliant! So smart! My son is the best in the world!"
Tickled pink, Chloe picked up Oliver, swinging him around. Edgar quickly put a stop to that, helping the dizzy boy into a chair. It was his job to stop her from overdoing things. Just as it had been before they married.
Observing this same scene, Demitrio muttered, "He isn't doting like Chloe… Must have realized the boy took after him."
More time passed. Oliver was on Chloe's knees in a darkened living room, his eyes on a man in a projection crystal.
"I'm home. Sorry, I ran a bit late—"
""Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!""
Edgar came in, greeted by peals of laughter. He came over, then put his bag down, shaking his head.
"Watching Mr. Bridge's magic comedy again? I'm glad you're enjoying yourselves, but it's not really meant for a five-year-old."
"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…! It's a bit late for that. He was hooked from the first one! The hand of destiny at work!" Chloe insisted.
Young Oliver pointed at the image, insisting, "I wanna use spells, too!"
"Oh, do you? Well, we'll just have to practice!"
"Ch-Chloe! Not so fast! We've agreed to gauge the moment carefully!"
"Yeah, the moment he got interested! C'mon, Ed, bring it over!"
Swept up in her enthusiasm, Edgar moved to a shelf in back and took down a wooden box. He held it out to Oliver, who looked surprised.
"…What's that?"
"Open it. There's something nice inside!"
Oliver did as he was told, lifting the lid. Inside was a wand, the smooth surface gleaming.
"Isn't that a pretty wand? Ed and I picked the materials and carved it ourselves. This is your wand, Noll."
"..."
His hand was drawn to it. Oliver picked it up, held it aloft—and stopped moving. Forgetting to blink at all.
"Déjà vu!" Chloe said, hands on her hips. "Everyone acts the same when they get their first wand. It makes you feel so powerful, your body just starts shaking. What is that about?"
"I've heard it described as…filling in the missing piece. To a mage, a wand is like a part of their own body."
Many a mage would agree with Edgar's sentiment. He knelt down before his son, eyes at the boy's level. The boy noticed, turning his gaze to his father.
"Listen, Noll. You've just gained a lot of power. And because that power is so big…it can also be scary."
"…Okay."
"There's a lot of things you can do with it. You can make fire and lightning—and hurt someone you're mad at. Or even burn down this house."
"?! I don't wanna do that!"
"Exactly. That's why you always have to think before you act. You're going to learn a lot of magic. And I want you to always think about what'll happen if you use a spell.
"Magic can make things…and it can break things. But it's much harder to make than to break. And most of the time—if you break something, you can't fix it. Do you see why that's scary? Think it through and imagine why."
Oliver frowned, thinking hard.
"It's important that you do," his father said. "All mages have to handle their own spells. That's our responsibility."
"…Responsi…bility..."
"That's right. Since you're still little, Mom and Dad will help. But as you grow older, you'll have to take care of things yourself. When you can do that, you'll finally be a proper mage. Don't forget what I said here."
He rubbed the boy's head. Chloe knelt down next to them, smiling. Her eyes filled with trust—as long as his father was here, she need not worry.
A warm family moment. Watching it, Demitrio muttered, "…Standard-issue upbringing. Like it's not Chloe's boy at all. It's like watching some village mages raise a kid."
He almost smiled. What he was watching now told him exactly why they'd told no one about their child.
"…That's exactly what they wanted."
"Flamma! Impetus! Tonitrus!"
Older again, Oliver was now a young boy. Practicing spells in the garden under Chloe's and Edgar's watchful eyes.
"Good, good, your element switches are getting smooth. You're improving, Noll!"
"Haah, haah…!"
Out of breath, Oliver stopped chanting. A beagle came up, rubbing against him.
"Doug…you're encouraging me, too? Okay! I'll hang in there!"
Motivated, he went back to practicing.
"…No real variation by spell type," Edgar murmured. "He uses all elements equally well. And before improving his strengths, he tries to correct his weaknesses—that studious personality is like me, too."
"Mm-hmm. So what?" Chloe asked, eyes on Oliver.
Edgar folded his arms, pulling a face. Neither of them realized that Oliver was watching this. And listening to what they said.
"He's very much my son. But…he's also yours. And yet…so tame. No spikes in his talent. I can't put that thought out of my mind."
"Does that disappoint you?"
She kept her tone light, but Edgar wheeled around to face her, angry.
"Non! How could it? Quite the opposite—I love him all the more!" he insisted. "Just—I know he'll struggle with it later. Everyone will see him as Chloe Halford's son, and at some point he'll start to be conscious of that himself. I worry about whether…he'll find a way to be proud of himself."
Edgar trailed off. Chloe kissed him on the cheek.
"Good. If you'd nodded, I'd have punched ya."
Their son came running up to them. A pall had hung over their conversation, and even at his age, he knew he was the reason why. That's why he chose to smile.
"Mommy, Daddy, watch this!"
"Mm?"
"What is it, Noll?"
"I'm not Noll. I'm an angry dahlia! Always mad about something."
He scowled. Was this some sort of game? Edgar looked baffled.
"But on a day like today, the sun feels too good… Lanarusal!"
Raising his wand, Oliver cast a spell. Somewhat misshapen petals appeared all around his face, like a sunflower in bloom.
"Shit, I accidentally bloomed," Oliver swore, still scowling.
This was famous gag by a popular magic comedian. Edgar clapped a hand over his face, and Chloe broke up laughing.
"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! What is that?! When did you practice this?!"
"Eh-heh-heh! When you weren't looking!"
"I never saw it coming! C'mere!"
Overflowing with love, Chloe hugged her son tight, kissing him on the lips. His arms and legs started flailing, and Edgar had to call out, "Ch-Chloe! Noll can't breathe!"
"…Bwah! You're next!"
"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━?!"
No sooner had her lips left Oliver than she tackled Edgar. With both males down, she stood triumphant.
"Husband! Son! You've made me far too happy, and a mere kiss will not suffice! How can you be so lovable?! It's not even fair! No matter how hard I love you, it's never enough!"
She flung her arms open wide, wrapping them around Oliver. Rubbing his cheek against her chest, he whispered, "I love you, too."
"Ugh, you're going for the kill! Ed! Whaddaya mean, no spikes?! Your son's a born gigolo! And a future comedian!"
"…Apparently. I retract that statement." Edgar nodded, bemused, gazing happily at Oliver, as if savoring the joys of a son this wonderful.
"There!"
With a clang, an athame flew from his hand and landed on the turf. Older again, Oliver toppled over backward on the grass.
"…You're so strong, Mommy…!"
"Ha-ha-ha-ha! Of course! I'm the strongest in the world! Catch your breath and let's go another round!"
Chloe brandished her athame enthusiastically, but Edgar cut in.
"Non, that's enough," he said sternly. "Noll, come review the fundamentals with Dad. Mom's…definitely strong but pretty out-there. Not really worth copying."
"Why not?! You're leaving me out again?! Fine, be that way! I'll just go play with Doug!"
Sulking, Chloe led the dog out. Making a face at her, Edgar started teaching his son basic forms. Oliver studiously practiced them.
"…Sorry, Noll," Edgar said. "My lessons are boring, aren't they?"
"? No they're not!"
"That's good to hear. It's a different path than your mother took, but this is how I got strong. Lots of practice, lots of study, lots of thinking…and bit by bit, I got there."
This was basically an admission that he'd had no talent. His son took after him in this, and Edgar felt a twinge of guilt about that.
"Working hard like this is tough, even for grown-ups. But—the harder you work, the more your strength feels like it belongs to you. Like a building erected on solid foundations, no matter how hard the wind blows, you won't fall," Edgar explained. "That's how Lanoff-style works. You're tenacious, so it's a good fit for you."
As a father, he was sure of that much. Practicing alongside Edgar, Oliver said, "I like Lanoff, too."
"You do?"
"Mm. It's, um, very precise. There's lots to remember, but there's always a reason for everything, and the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. Whoever invented it must've taken a very long time, thinking about how to teach it. And how to make it so people learning it didn't get confused or mess up…"
That was his best explanation. He already had the imagination to pick up on that. As his father had hoped he would.
"And that's a lot like you, Daddy. That's why I like this style."
"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━!"
Edgar dropped his wooden sword and pulled his son into a hug. The sudden embrace surprised the boy.
"…Daddy?" he asked. "We can't practice if we're hugging…"
"Ahhhh! No fair, Ed! You can't cuddle Noll without me!"
Chloe came racing in, Doug on her heels, and joined in. A big family hug—and Oliver looked thoroughly fulfilled.
Naturally, not every day was a happy one. Everyone has painful experiences as they grow, no matter how great their parents' love is.
"…All animals grow cold in death. Isn't that sad, Noll?"
Chloe's voice weighed heavily. Oliver was crying, clutching Doug's body as the warmth faded from it, his efforts to save the dog in vain. He'd made a mistake, and the price had been this life. A loss he could never make right.
He'd been given a wand, learned spells, begun to study alchemy. So many more things he could do—and that's exactly where it starts to go to a mage's head. When the dog got sick, his parents had examined Doug's symptoms and decided to wait for it to get better on its own. Nonemergency treatment for nonmagical creatures, ordinaries or animals, was best done without the aid of magic.
But Oliver hadn't waited. Wanting to relieve his friend's suffering right away, and knowing that mages could do that, he'd made a potion himself—with his limited knowledge. There'd only been a trace of poison in the ingredients. He'd taken a dose himself, trying to verify the safety of it. But—this dog had not even been a magical beast. It was far more fragile than Oliver had realized.
"…I'll study…harder…! Never use the wrong herb or mushroom…again!"
"Good idea. Let's study all that together." Edgar nodded, sitting next to the sobbing boy. Both he and Chloe behind him had made no contact with Oliver. As much as they wanted to hug the boy, they knew this was an experience their warmth would only sully.
"Remember how cold he feels. Carve it into your heart and never let it go. That is the last gift Doug will give you. The most important lesson your first friend left behind."
A great loss impressed a mage's responsibilities upon the growing boy.
"Whew, I worked up a sweat! We've gotta wash up, Noll!"
"M-mm…"
They'd been practicing sword arts in the summer sun, but Chloe dragged him right into the shower. He was old enough now to be embarrassed about these things, and so he kept his back turned, refusing to look upon his mother's naked form.
"What, are you all ashamed now? Too old for this? Don't wanna shower with Mommy?"
"…No, I just…," Oliver squeaked.
Water gushed from the showerhead above, hosing Chloe down.
"Whoa, that's cold! The elementals are working overtime! Keep at it! Ten degrees lower!"
The deluge was quickly cooling down her overheated body. The whole time, Oliver was stuck in the corner, eyes down. Less shame or embarrassment than awe. The more of a mage he became, the more his instincts told him he should not lightly gaze upon a body as flawless and filled with mysteries as Chloe Halford's.
She chuckled. Perhaps she got that on some level—she turned to her son, spreading her arms to show herself off. "Go ahead. Admire it, Noll. Now is the time."
That made him hesitantly look up, his gaze drawn to her form. Already the Platonic ideal of a mage, yet this petite witch's power was growing even now. Every inch of her skin, every muscle in her was aesthetically unrivaled. It took his breath away.
"…You're beautiful, Mommy," he said, the words slipping out.
"Whoa! Straight shooting!"
Chloe blushed and took his hands, pulling him into the shower. Playing in the water with him until Edgar came in with a towel for each.
One night, Oliver was nodding off on the couch, having trained all day and studied all evening.
"How'd the meeting go?"
"Uh…honestly, not great."
His eyes barely open, he heard his parents talking. Chloe had just arrived home.
"I never expected it to be easy to persuade them. But I feel like their attitudes toward me have shifted. Like no matter what I say, they'll take it like I'm speaking for the civil rights movement. I ain't never made any claims to be that…"
"Your ability to inspire people is working against you, then." Edgar sighed. "But…that's hardly a surprise, isn't it? Between your influence with the rights movement and your proven prowess as a Gnostic Hunter, you could easily upend the magical world if you wanted. The conservatives are gonna fret over how to deal with you."
Oliver often saw them looking this downbeat. Even half asleep, it made him anxious.
"And we've put an awful lot on Emmy's back, making her lead negotiations. That alone makes this impasse painful. Think it's about time we told her about Oliver?"
"I wish we could… But given how she feels, I think we should wait. She's neck-deep in tricky negotiations as is. Don't wanna yank the rug out from under her. Or…see her struggle to give her blessings."
Chloe wasn't often this reluctant. It was a side of her Oliver hadn't seen. He didn't know who they were talking about, but they were clearly worried—and that scared him.
"…I know it's a lot to ask, but I don't want Emmy turning on Noll. I want her to love him. And I want Noll to look up to her, like she's his big sister."
"…If only."
"Yeah, not that easy. But—you know I'm greedy, Ed. I want it all."
With a sad smile, she put her arms around Edgar.
"You being a man wasn't why I chose you. I'm sure of it," she said. "But—now that we've had Noll, she won't see it that way. I could talk myself blue in the face, and she'd stay dead certain her gender was why I didn't go with her. And I just know—Emmy will take that as an unequivocal rejection."
Oliver was too young to fully grasp just how thorny this problem was.
When Edgar said nothing, Chloe added, "So when we do tell her, I want it to be full of positivity. Before they meet, I wanna fill Oliver's head with everything great about her. So he comes in, eyes gleaming." She then said, "'This amazing boy we made has nothing but respect for you, without even meeting you. He loves you like he would his real sister.' I think that's the bare minimum for a happy ending. That's how Noll and Emmy should meet."
Chloe was almost pleading, and Edgar smiled softly.
"I get that… But we're putting a lot on Oliver. I mean, first we've gotta make sure he turns out amazing."
"Oh? Was that in doubt? Is he not already amazing? Have you grown too blind to see his sleepy face? Do I have to slap your vision back into whack?"
"Non, non! I misspoke. Don't bring back the Fisticuffs Champion!"
"Ha, I never hung up my belt. Just you watch: One day I'm gonna land a punch right on Instructor Gilchrist's sour kisser. How do you like that anti-athameism, ya old kook?!"
Chloe did a little shadowboxing as Edgar backed away. Ah, Oliver thought. They're themselves again—and with that, sleep won out.
"Ed! Grab Oliver and run! Now!"
Chloe nearly kicked in the door upon her entrance, already yelling. Edgar had been teaching their son how to look after his wand; he bolted to his feet.
"What's wrong, Chloe? Did the negotiations fall apart?"
"Those are still going nowhere! But my neck's tingling! I dunno who or when, but they're coming right after me. We can't be here! I told Emmy to hide herself, too."
The clear urgency in her tone made Edgar nod and turn around. He picked up their confused boy and held him tight.
"Got it. I'll take Noll to your folks. What's your plan?"
"Greet our guests. If I run, they'll just catch up."
Chloe was already prepping for the fight. Her athame never left her side. Oliver glanced at that, instinctively realizing how bad this was. His mother was about to fight. That much was unmistakable.
"…Mommy…!"
Seeing the look on his face, Chloe stepped toward him and gave him a hug.
"Don't worry, Noll. Like I said, your mother's the strongest in the world. The Gnostic Hunters could send a whole-ass squad after me, and I'd brush them off like so much dirt," she assured him. "You might find my family a little stifling, but it won't be for too long. Once I'm back, we'll make pancakes. Lots of syrup and butter. So much that Ed'll scold us for it."
She looked him right in the eye, trying to assuage his concerns. Oliver hugged her back.
"…I'll be waiting, Mommy."
"Thank you. I love you, Noll."
She kissed him on the cheek—and watching this play out, Demitrio realized the truth.
"…Oh. This night."
Leaving his mother behind, Edgar fled through the night with his son in his arms. Their journey was long, and Oliver could tell he was picking his route with great care. Sometimes they even employed disguises or transformation spells. It was almost noon the next day before they reached Chloe's family home—the Sherwood estate. A manor so big Oliver's little eyes could not see end to end.
"Well met, both of you! It must have been awful. Come on in!"
They let the gate guard know of their arrival, and the door soon opened, a cheery-looking elderly couple emerging to greet them. The moment they stepped onto the grounds, Oliver sensed an ominous oppression in the very air, and that only made him even more frightened. His father looked equally grim. They were led into the largest building, likely the main residence.
"Oliver will probably want someone his own age around. Gwyn, Shannon, your cousin's come to visit. Play with him, would you?"
A row of servants met them inside, along with an earnest-looking boy and a gentle-looking girl. Oliver knew at a glance that they were his relatives.
"…I'm Gwyn. Nice to meet you, Oliver."
"I'm…Shannon. Let's…have fun."
"Yes. The p-pleasure is all mine."
Not quite hiding how nervous he was, he bowed his head.
The old lady tittered. "My, my, what a well-mannered boy! Can't believe he's hers."
"You must have taught him well, Edgar. Go get some rest in back. You smoke a pipe?"
"No, not anymore—I appreciate the thought."
Edgar politely declined the offer. Each move his father made told Oliver loud and clear: This was not a place where you let down your guard.
Given the gravity of the situation and their lengthy escape, the reception was kept short and simple. They were soon deposited in a guest room. His father told Oliver to get some rest, but even if the mood here had been less oppressive, Oliver wouldn't have been inclined to lie down.
"…She's still not back?"
He was plastered against the window, eyes on the night view. Unable to sleep, he'd been like this since the sun was still high in the sky.
Edgar couldn't bear to watch. "Don't worry about Mommy," he said. "Come here, Noll."
Oliver left the window, and his father wrapped his arms tight around him. Oliver hugged him back. He was scared—but his father had to keep him safe and must have been even more frightened. Even at this age, his thoughts were on how others felt.
"Ah—"
He sensed it, then.
"…? What is it, Noll?" Edgar frowned.
Oliver pulled out of his father's arms, running to the window.
"Mom's here."
His eyes were fixed on something outside—and then Edgar found it, gasping.
Chloe. Half a woman's figure, pale and transparent, liable to disperse when next the wind blew.
"No…"
Edgar's voice shook. Before them, the etheric body let out a voiceless cry.
"Ah—ah—"
As Oliver stood stock-still, Chloe's ether drifted his way. Her wispy arms wrapped around her son, and she smiled. Relieved to have made it home.
"—Ed—Noll..."
With that, she faded away completely. Like the last remnant of a dream.
Neither Oliver nor Edgar dared speak a word. After a long silence, footsteps came down the hall.
"Are you up, Edgar? Shannon felt an etheric body enter your room! Is someone with you?!"
The old man's voice, accompanied by a thundering knock at the door. Both sounds passed in one ear and out the other.
"…She's gone…"
His mother's arms had been around him a moment before. The memory of that lingered. Oliver turned around, looking up at his father. Still not comprehending what that all meant.
"…Daddy…what happened to Mommy…?"
Once Edgar recovered enough to relay what had happened, the mood in the Sherwood manor changed completely. They'd been on high alert, feeling out the situation—but now they were preparing for battle.
"We don't hear from her for years, and then she comes back as a ghost. How like her! To the bitter end."
The grown-ups assembled in the living room. Oliver watching from the corner, with Gwyn and Shannon on either side. They were using a lot of words he didn't understand, but he was doing his level best to follow along.
"How much do you know about what led to this, Edgar? Wayward she may have been, but my granddaughter was a once-in-a-millennia virtuoso. No matter who came after her, she would not have been beaten easily."
"…I know bits and pieces, but…not who carried it out. Only that it must have been someone opposed to her."
"She didn't say a word? Not even her spirit?"
"…From the glimpse I got, her ether was in tatters. It held a form for mere seconds. The fact that it reached us at all…was nigh miraculous."
Edgar's voice shook. Wanting to break up the volley of questions, Gwyn spoke up.
"Grandfather, that's enough for one day. Edgar's grieving."
"I know! But we can't do anything until we know our enemy. There's a limit to what we can achieve with this information, though. What else can we do?"
The old man paused, chin in hand. Then his eyes turned to his great-granddaughter.
"…Her soul's still with the boy, Shannon?"
"…Yes. Holding him tight…not letting go…like an embrace."
Mindful of Oliver's response, Shannon answered. The old man was far less hesitant.
"You can ask the soul yourself. Set the scene."
"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━! But that means—"
"Wait, Grandfather!" Gwyn cried. Arguing like this was not a luxury he was afforded often, but he had to. "Yes, Shannon can make that happen. But let's consider the implications. Chloe's soul is tied inexorably to Oliver's. If she connects to the ether to glean information from it—all of that will be relayed to the boy."
That made Edgar gasp. But the old man just gave Gwyn a puzzled look.
"I fail to see the problem. Or are you saying this child should go through life not even knowing who slew his mother?"
Snapping out of it, Edgar got up and took a knee, pleading.
"Please, sir, not that. Noll's too young! He's not ready to handle what happened to her."
There was a silence. The old man folded his arms.
"A father's love. Yes…I can sympathize with that."
He put his hand on Edgar's shoulder, his smile filled with mercy.
"But, Edgar, you're forgetting something: My granddaughter's death is a crisis. One that affects the very survival of the Sherwood clan."
With that, his expression changed—to that of a mage ready to trample the hearts of man to achieve his purpose. Edgar let out a squeak.
"In light of that, I ask you this," the old man growled. "Do you insist? Though you are but an in-law?"
"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━!"
The words slammed down from on high, silencing any and all protests. The cruelty in that was evident, but Edgar had no position from which to argue. He was the one mage here who did not carry Sherwood blood, and with Chloe's death, his status has fallen to the depths of this man's estimations. In fact—given that his granddaughter had brought in outside blood without permission, he had likely never once rated any consideration at all.
"…I'll…be fine."
Oliver's voice made everyone turn, surprised. Part of this was certainly because he couldn't stand to see the old man browbeat his father. But—far more than that, Oliver simply had to know. If there was a way to get answers to all these questions, he was ready to jump at the chance.
"I don't understand…the hard parts of this. But Shannon has a way to talk to Mommy, right?"
He'd gotten that much from the conversation. He turned to the cousin he'd just met.
"Then—I want to hear that, too. What happened to her? What went on while I wasn't there? I…want to know the truth."
Shannon gulped, and the old man grinned. He gave Edgar a frosty glare.
"You've got a good son, Edgar. He knows what's going on better than you."
"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━! Don't, Noll! You can't let—"
"Altum somnum."
As Edgar tried to argue, the old mage planted a spell on his chest—and he fell over, unconscious. Oliver gasped and ran over to him.
"Daddy!"
"Don't worry; he's just asleep. I'll wake him up once this is over."
"Then let's get things ready!"
Without another glance at Edgar's prone form, everyone started moving. Cowed by the intensity, Oliver found the old man's hand on his shoulder, eyes locked on his.
"You're a fine young man, Oliver. This may be rough on a child. But—can you hold fast?"
Oliver knew this was a question that could only be answered in the affirmative.
He was first required to thoroughly cleanse himself in the bath. Once that was complete, he was ordered to drain a glass of green fluid, so astringent the first sip nearly made him splutter. A rather potent herbal liqueur.
"The boy's body is cleansed, so let's get started. Come, Shannon."
"…Ugh…"
Oliver was led to another room and sat upon a chair at the center. The old woman waved Shannon to a chair nearby—but she froze up.
"Hesitant? You have a kind heart. Those with a strong progenitor aspect always do. My brother was like that till the very end."
The woman looked touched—but then her hand clamped down on Shannon's shoulder.
"But you can't refuse. Nor could my brother. This is your duty."
The intensity made Shannon shiver. Unable to watch, Oliver spoke up.
"Shannon…I'll be fine."
What were they doing to him? What was going on here? Those questions were scary, but nothing compared to his need to know what happened to his mother. And Shannon no longer had a reason to stand her ground. She hesitated a long moment and then drew her wand, tapped it to Oliver's chest, and said the spell.
"Animae nexum."
His vision cut out, replaced with an avalanche of new memories rushing in from his mother's soul.
"I'm impressed you survived. But we both know struggling is useless."
Oliver now witnessed the desperate peril Chloe faced in her last moments of life. In a dark forest, the ground around her boiling, molten. And the warlocks swooping in to attack.
"Ahhh, how cruel you are to cut me off! I'm lonely, so lonely! Let me be one with you!"
Giant claws shot out of the darkness. A cursed mist, a voice like a sheep with a crushed windpipe.
"So you're the lightbearer, huh? Must be a real honor, you old hag."
"..."
A full, false moon in the sky above. The silhouette of a towering golem bathed in that pale light. A maniacal laugh.
"Feel free to try me! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
"■■■■" Stop.
An incantation she could not hear hit her hard. The straits were dire, but his mother's spirits uncowed.
"This way!"
A sole light in this darkness—and Chloe darted toward it. Relief and joy welling up. Never once doubting that this girl would be here to save her.
"Emmy…?"
She never saw the betrayal coming. A blow from behind, piercing her chest. A voice in her ear.
"I'm sorry… This was my only option…"
Why? Chloe thought, doubts swirling. Yet her true nightmare was only just beginning.
"Stabbed her in the back? Nice trick if you can make it."
Looking up from below, she could see them standing over her, deep in a cave. The wound to her heart had been fatal, so they'd done the bare minimum to extend her life, leaving her prostrate for them. Unable to talk back, unable to move at all.
"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! Even Chloe didn't see that one coming!"
"Yes, she's always, always treasured you."
Baldia's sarcasm slithered under the old man's laughter.
"The rest…as per the agreement?" a flat voice said.
Chloe's betrayer nodded quietly and vanished into the depths.
The philosopher nodded and drew his wand.
"Then let's begin. I've no taste for this task, but who shall go first?"
"Allow me."
One man stepped forward, an arrogant heft to his chest, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. He glared down at Chloe.
"A pathetic sight, Chloe. In all your confidence, you never once entertained the thought that one day you'd wind up sprawled at my feet."
With a twisted smile, he waved a wand.
"Dolor!"
Violent pain racked Chloe's body from within.
Had Shannon not been adjusting the sensory feedback, Oliver would have screamed aloud, and the rest of this would have been lost. But his cousin's kindness helped him hold out. Allowed him to endure.
"You were a blight!" Darius roared. "I've always, always, always loathed you! Dolor!"
Another pain spell tormented her. All the while, Darius's rant echoed.
"That bitchy sneer! Those snide remarks! That unparalleled blade! Constantly, constantly, constantly burning themselves into my eyes! I loathed you, yet I couldn't look away! Dolor!"
"Get it now? Do you understand anything? Existing in the same universe as you is nothing but agony! Whether you glare or smile, whether you swear or issue compliments! Every time that lifted my spirits, it made me hate myself all the more! I've dreamed about killing you! Dreamed about torturing the hell out of you! Dolor!"
"Don't compare me to Luther! Especially not in his favor! I-I'm—I'm not like that sword-brained fool! I was born to lead the imbeciles to their betterment beneath my wand! I knew my duty and could not afford to spend more time on savage dustups! Ah, why would you not listen?! He has no talent and could remain a fool! Don't ask me to do the same! Don't make me want to! Don't stand around shining like a beacon before me! Dolor!"
An endless stream of curses—the warlock lost himself in his torture. The others watched and laughed.
"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! So young! Such pure, unvarnished love!"
"Heh-heh-heh, I'm sure she was just doting on both Lu and Darry. She never noticed what it did to them. It was a blessing for Lu but a curse upon Darry."
When his invective started going in circles, the man's torture came to an end. Not due to lack of motivation—more the sheer anger had left him out of breath.
"…Haah, haah…! Haah…!"
"Okay, enough. This shit ain't just your party."
A mean-looking woman pushed the man aside, stepping in herself.
"'Sup. I ain't as fixated as that guy, don't worry. We went at it a few times as students, but you helped me some, too. It all evens out. Ain't got no pent-up grudges. Still…"
The last trace of warmth left her face, and she waved a wand.
"Knowing there's someone stronger than me around just rubs me the wrong way. Dolor."
Thirty pain spells at regular intervals. When her torture ended, she stepped back, and the girl-shaped mass of curses took her place.
"My turn, now! Heh-heh-heh… Is your mind still in there? Do you remember me? It's Baldia! Baldia Muwezicamili!" the figure said with a cackle. "You came to talk to me several times at Kimberly. A cursed little rag of a girl, but you just acted like I was any other underclassman. When Vana and I picked a fight with you, you didn't hesitate to punch me bare-handed. I've never been so surprised!"
Baldia sat down next to Chloe, leaning close.
"You didn't discriminate! Just looked down on everyone. And I've aaaaaaaalways hated that. People like us belong in the darkness and the murk, and I loathed how you just marched on in, shining your light around. So right now? I'm absolutely delighted! I mean, now? At long last? I can finally drag you down into the gloom. Heh-heh… I just have to welcome you! Dolor!"
A very nagging sort of torture. Unlike the first man, she never rushed, delightedly savoring the piled-on agony. After thirty-two spells, her torture ended, and a tiny old man stepped in.
"I'm next! How are you faring, Chloe? I'm ever so sad it came to this! You were a total nightmare to have in class, and every time you crushed a golem, I found new ways to improve it! I lived for that! Do you know how that feels? I'm crushing the very thing I lived for under my feet!"
At that, all emotions drained from his face. Like he was carved from white rock.
"Frustrating though it is, this is the way of sorcery. Dolor."
Enrico's torture ended after twenty impassive spells.
"You go next, Gilchrist," Vanessa growled. "I don't recommend going last. Lest we start doubting your stance."
"..."
Under her baleful glare, the elderly witch straightened up and stepped forward. Her eyes snapped down to Chloe.
"Can you still see, Ms. Halford? I make no apologies. Curse me all you please."
With that, she placed the tip of her wand on her target's chest.
"I will say this. You were vulgar, crude, and impudent. You could not have been further from the ideal mage I teach. Even your spells were so slapdash it made me cover my eyes—"
With that, her lips pursed. And she failed to stop herself from saying more.
"—but your blade alone I could not bring myself to despise. Dolor."
Three spells, as if duty bound. Her turn complete, the philosopher stepped in.
"You're the last act, Aristides. Bring the curtains down."
"…Quite."
The unpleasant-looking woman urged him forward, and he drew his wand.
"Not much to say at this juncture. Just—none of us were capable of joining your cause. And I genuinely do feel that's a pity," he said. "Dolor."
Twenty spells delivered mechanically, and then all six were done. Demitrio watched this all, two layers deep in memory.
"…That was the devil's work, if by my own hand."
He rebuked his past self. As the cave fell silent, all eyes turned to the darkness in back.
"We're done! Come on out, Esmeralda. You're this party's hostess."
The witch drifted back out of the gloom. The one who'd betrayed Chloe, stabbed her in the back.
"You betrayed her. We tormented her. All as was planned. Now—"
"I know."
She knelt down, cradling Chloe's body. Her gaze turned to the ceiling, her lips parted—revealing fangs. Four teeth, too long for any human—sank into Chloe's throat.
"Oh—"
"Whew."
Her throat quivered, swallowing. Obviously drinking Chloe's blood. Yet instinctively, all knew she was draining something else along with it. The last light in Chloe's eyes faded, and her heart stopped. The woman's arms clasped around her so tight the corpse's bones creaked.
"That was a display!" Vanessa sneered. "How'd it taste? The soul of the woman you loved?!"
The woman turned. This was now his own memory. The face Demitrio knew all too well, the witch who would become the pinnacle of the magical world.
"None of you will ever know."
"Ah—"
The lengthy recollection was followed by a deep slumber—and Oliver woke up in bed. Edgar was by the side of it, holding his son's hand.
"Noll!" he cried, throwing his arms around the sobbing boy. "You're back with us? Oh, Noll… Noll!"
Shannon was with him, eyes red with tears. "Sorry," she said. "That was…so awful. I'm sorry…for showing you that…"
Oliver was not allowed to listen to this long. Word reached old man Sherwood, and he paid a visit.
"You're up, Oliver? You've been asleep for three days. Even I got worried!"
He pushed Edgar aside, taking a seat by the bed.
"So," he began. "Did you see the faces of your mother's killers?"
A chilly gaze locked on his great-grandson's eyes. Oliver didn't need to search for words.
"I did. And I won't forget them."
His tone alone made his feelings clear. The old man grinned.
"…They took half her soul away. Right, Shannon?"
"…Mm. Like…what I do but…very, very different…"
Shannon sounded very sure. The old man looked grim.
"…Esmeralda Catena Draclugh. Assumed she was my granddaughter's remora, left her alone—clearly an error. Her middle name means fetters, a sign she inherits a tainted bloodline, but I had not imagined she'd resurrected the vampires' powers within."
The old man rose, moving from the bed to the window.
"A small salvation, but they know little about us. That is no way to treat a soul; her soul absorb will not serve as interrogation. Personalities and memories are fragile, delicate things; an absorption like that will have shredded them."
He spoke with his back turned. Oliver didn't follow all of this, but he listened intently.
"Regrettably—she may have stolen things far more fundamental. The fixed qualities a soul possesses. What we call soul skills—the very things that lent her the Two-Blade name."
Edgar hung his head. This was forcing him to directly confront what he had lost—what had been taken from him.
"Unlike Shannon, the progenitor blood was not strong with her. Thus, she will not have gained our biggest secret—the soul merge. Even if she had—I do not imagine it reproducible by any race as corrupt as the vampires," the old man intoned. "Either way, our course is clear. She must die. All who betrayed and tormented my granddaughter—and fundamentally, we cannot allow the vampire race to survive. The very existence of that mutation is an insult to the progenitors. The jewel at the heart of a man, treated like that? It is intolerable."
He turned away from the window. His lips contorted with festering fury, the lines around his eyes and nose empowering that diabolical grin.
"Above all—they believe this outrage has put a stop to the mission my wayward descendant dedicated herself to. And that shall not stand."
He may have paid lip service to the family connection, but it was clear to Oliver that this was what really mattered to the old man—and thus, to all Sherwoods.
"Yet our enemies are towering. Putting aside the vampire, the other six faces are no less a threat. While the Sherwoods' sorcery is hardly combat-oriented. Our first priority must be the acquisition of might."
With this shift in subject, the old man's eyes turned to Oliver again.
"That's where you come in, Oliver."
"W-wait! How does Noll—?" Edgar stepped in between them.
"Does it really elude you?" The old man shrugged, exasperated. "Her soul was rent asunder, but commendably, half of it returned to her son's side. As you yourself said—this is nothing short of miraculous. How can we let that feat go to waste?"
Not a moment of consideration for the father's feelings. His own rationale was all that mattered.
"The principle is simplicity itself. They've gained power through vile means—so we shall take every measure to gain it legitimately. As head of this family, Oliver, I order you to attempt a soul merge."
A solemn preamble to a dire command. Edgar reeled.
"You mean…," Oliver said.
"Figured it out, have you? Exactly. Make the power in Chloe's soul your own. Don't tell me you don't want to. Your beloved mother's soul, blending with your own—what more could a boy want? My granddaughter came back to you as a ghost—and only this will let her rest."
Edgar could only be mindful of his place for so long. His anger erupted.
"Non! D-do you even grasp what you're saying here?! You yourself called the soul a jewel at the heart of man! How can you directly meddle with a child's and hope to alter it to your convenience? The very idea is intolerable! Even if it is his mother's soul, I cannot—"
"Prohibere."
The spell halted Edgar's movements. As he went stiff, the old man glared down at him.
"Hold your tongue, stud horse. I am speaking directly to my great-grandson who, unlike you, bears my blood."
The old man's eyes snapped back to Oliver. Not daring to look away, the boy did his best to answer.
"…If I do that, it'll make me…stronger?"
"That it will. You'll inherit your mother's soul and be strong like she was."
"And if I'm strong like her…I can beat those people?"
"Undoubtedly. Do you know why they had to form a team to kill Chloe? Because they feared her strength more than anything."
A flawless answer. And having seen it all himself—Oliver never had a choice.
"I'll do it. Please…let me do this."
His words echoed, reaching Edgar's ears even as the spell wore off.
He gasped for air. "N-Noll…don't! If you chose that path…!"
"How cruel, Edgar. Look at your boy's hands."
The old man yanked the covers away, revealing the arms hidden beneath.
"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━!"
Edgar's jaw dropped. His son's hands, clenched on his knees, so tight the bones had snapped, and the skin turned purple and swollen.
"Ha-ha, yet still his grip tightens! That's what I call fury."
The old man's laugh was a merry one.
"…Sorry, Daddy," Oliver whispered, his head down. "But if…"
He looked up, meeting his father's eyes. Voice shaking with tremendous emotion not yet taking shape as either grief or rage, just pouring out of him.
"If I do nothing, I'll explode."
This boy could not be stopped. That realization made Edgar's face crumple. The old man moved behind him, patting his shoulders with a tenderness that bordered on spite.
"The boy himself consents," he told his grandson-in-law. "Don't even think about taking him and running. You know full well I'll not stand for that."
This last threat silenced Edgar completely. He was aware. He was already in the lion's den. With Chloe herself out of the picture, he and his son had no escape left.
"If we're raising him for strength, that must go side by side with training. I could find a tutor somewhere in this family… But on that point alone, I'm inclined to extend some generosity to your familial affection."
An order wearing mercy's name. This was not a choice. As a father, Edgar could do nothing else. His voice clenched, he spoke the words prescribed unto him.
"…Please…let me handle that."
"So be it."
The old man nodded, as if this was generous. And offered one final threat.
"But do not coddle him. The instant I see the slightest hint of that, you will never see your son again."
Demitrio watched the training that followed, eyes narrowed.
"…Brutal. I've put myself through my fair share of reckless punishment, but even then…"
Training that left his body racked with pain, followed by risking his life on a soul merge. And worse, more training to make his body adapt to the soul. This was pure madness. No teacher in any school would agree with the principle here.
"Words like training and practice hardly apply. This is mere torture, a long-suffering suicide. That he still lives is mere happenstance. Though considering the original nature of his soul, perhaps he is still dying, even now."
Every day was the same. Their daily basement work left Oliver covered in countless wounds, and Edgar's lifeless voice signaled an end.
"That's enough for today. Ask Shannon for treatment. Rest early and prepare for tomorrow."
"…Dad…"
"Call me Master. Only that is allowed here."
His father turned to go, but Oliver managed a whisper.
"…Sorry I'm so weak. I'll…do better…tomorrow…"
"Ngh—!"
Digging his fingers into his quivering shoulders, Edgar dragged himself bodily out of the training room. Shannon and Gwyn took his place, running to their cousin where his father could not.
"Good work, Noll… Another…hard one, yes?"
"…Sister…"
Oliver barely had the energy to meet her eye. Gwyn put his arms around the boy's tiny body.
"No need to move. I'll carry you to your room."
"…Thank you, Brother."
"Don't thank me. Please."
As they spoke, they carried Oliver to bed.
Demitrio frowned. "Their positions don't seem to line up with the Sherwoods'. I'd like to know more, there. Let's change perspectives."
He stepped out of Oliver's dream. After a moment's consideration, he turned his wand toward Gwyn, invading his memories. Not long after, he'd found his perspective on that period of time.
"…You'll be okay. Rest up, and the wounds and fatigue will be better by tomorrow."
"…Mm. Sleep…tight."
Oliver's treatment complete, they laid him in bed. Gwyn and Shannon left the room. They moved down the hall, out of their cousin's earshot.
Only then did Gwyn speak, his voice quivering. "How is this okay?"
His fist hit the wall. A rare display of emotion from her taciturn brother, and Shannon flinched visibly.
"Every single day spent utterly demolishing him, body and mind. He finally pulls through that, and then a soul merge almost kills him. And then more, more, and more training to make his body adjust to the results! This is no way to treat a human being. Especially a grieving child who's just lost his mother!"
Everything he'd been storing up came pouring out. Shannon put a hand on his shoulder, soothing him.
"I…feel the same way. But don't…lose your head, Gwyn. If Grandfather hears you…"
"He's the one who needs to hear it! Why? Why is he doing this to Noll?! Does he seriously think calling torture training will actually make Noll stronger?! It won't! It's just tearing him to pieces! Breaking him down, shattering what's left, ruining him for good! Until he stops getting back up permanently!"
His voice was almost a shriek.
Shannon hesitated a long time, then said, "Grandfather…doesn't think it'll work."
"What?"
Gwyn swung around to face her.
Head down, Shannon elaborated. "He doesn't…think that…will make Noll stronger. He just…wants to try. To see how much…a soul merge…can change someone. To see…how far they can…be pushed. Before they collapse. He's using Noll to find out."
Gwyn's heart skipped a beat. The last shred of faith he had in the old man ripped apart.
"Did he say that?"
"No, but I can tell. I…feel these things."
His sister's word was beyond refute. Gwyn staggered, feeling dizzy, and put his back against the wall.
"Why…? What has he got against Noll? He's his own flesh and blood! His great-grandson! Even allowing for the bad blood between him and Chloe, even if there was no family bond—he still carries Sherwood blood. Does he not even warrant that deference?"
This doubt, too, Shannon eventually answered.
"Grandfather…is convinced Noll…does not have much. Neither Sherwood blood nor Chloe's. No…prominent talents…anywhere. A thoroughly mediocre boy."
Her voice shook. Gwyn knew why. He knew repeating their great-grandfather's cruelty aloud, conveying these thoughts to her brother—both were as painful for her as the twist of a knife.
"If he's not…going to be anything significant. Then…there's no harm…in using him up…here. That's…how Grandfather sees it."
The last words were delivered through a sob. Gwyn's eyes became grim, and he turned to rush off. Shannon grabbed his shoulders, stopping him.
"Don't, Gwyn!"
"Let me go! I'm telling him off!"
"No use! Our voices won't reach him. You know…they never have. You remember what he made us do!"
"…Rrgh—"
A reminder of their shared history made his feet freeze to the floor. That alone told him how futile a protest would be, and his anger turned once more to his own helplessness.
"…Why couldn't I handle the soul merge? Why?!"
"This is how it works. Souls…are compatible…or they aren't. Noll and Chloe work…because they loved each other…very, very much. They barely resist…the fusion."
"Barely? That's barely?!"
"It'd be far worse with you, Gwyn! Or with me! Chloe never…even met us while she lived. Her soul…is too removed from us. We could never…fuse with it."
Shannon wept. Gwyn's wave of anger left, leaving only emptiness behind.
"…Nothing we can do but watch?" he whispered, staring at the ceiling. "Watch as it crushes him?"
Shannon shook her head, clutching her brother's hand.
"Gwyn…let's go back to his room."
"How can we…?"
"Just act…normally. No need to…overthink it. Just…be with him," she urged. "Noll's…very, very alone. While he's training, the anger and pain fill him up, help him…forget. But—at night, it hurts so much it almost makes him…like a candle in the wind. He bites his pillow…trying to bear it…"
And that made Gwyn realize how often Shannon had seen Oliver do this after training. How obvious the signs of her cousin's suffering had been to her.
"What we can do now…is ease that loneliness. That's all. But without that…I don't think…he'll last long. He might…break down tomorrow…or even tonight…!"
The sorrow in her voice shook him. Gwyn let out a long breath and straightened up.
"Gwyn."
"Sorry for losing it. Do I look more like a brother now?"
Shannon wiped her tears, smiling. He might've been forcing it a bit, but this was the brother she knew and loved.
"…Mm, you're being…cool again."
"Then let's go. I don't want to leave Noll alone."
They nodded and went back to their cousin's room. After knocking on the door, they stepped in when Oliver answered.
"We're back, Noll. Sorry…to keep you waiting."
Shannon ran over to the bed. Seeing the tall boy behind her, Oliver smiled like a bud unfurling.
"…Oh, you're here too, Brother?"
"Not bearing gifts, I'm afraid. But I figured I'd join you."
He waved a wand, pulling two chairs over to the bedside. They sat down, and Oliver's lips flapped a few times before speaking.
"…Um, you can say no, but…"
"What?"
Hesitant, Oliver looked up at him.
"…could you play for me?"
Gwyn stood up and left the room. Less than a minute later, he was back, laden with instruments.
"Which one? Viola, contrabass, violin? Anything else, you name it. I can play anything with strings."
"Wow…that's amazing! Um… Wh-which should I pick? I wanna hear them all!"
"Then I'll play them all. Violin's easy to like. How about…?"
"I know… The dance. The ocean of stars," Shannon suggested.
"Absolutely. Then here goes."
He began to play. Oliver and Shannon listened with rapt attention—and watching this unfold, Demitrio nodded to himself.
"The love of his cousins did the trick…? I see—this is the last thread keeping him together."
He slipped out of Gwyn's memories, invading Oliver's dream once more.
"But if the old man's plans panned out, he wouldn't have wound up like this. What else happened?"
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