The Letter

A dark figure loomed over a shimmering orb, her fingers delicately cradling it as the image within flickered—a devastating explosion replaying in eerie detail. Murmuring incantations in an ancient tongue, the mysterious woman waved her hand, and the orb responded. The image shifted, replaying the events leading up to the blast. Among the chaos, one face emerged, impossible to ignore.

"Oztanfil…" she whispered, her eyes narrowing with interest.

In the orb's vision, 'Oztanfil' gestured past the spy slave, causing him to glance away. When the spy turned back, Oz had disappeared. Confusion flashed across her face as she watched. "What?" she murmured, curiosity taking hold.

The scene changed again, replaying the conversation between Michael and King Adrian. "Did he truly ascend to godhood?" the King asked.

Her intrigue deepened as she leaned closer to the orb, absorbing every word that followed: "I'm no wizard, but I'll tell you this, if a demigod wishes death upon us, we do not need another demigod to intervene."

Gripping the orb, she let out a low, menacing laugh. "Just when I reach the 8th circle, you manage to surpass even the divine."

Standing abruptly, her hands accidentally brushed a shard of glass, cutting her palm. Unbothered, she muttered another spell, healing the wound with a soothing green light. "It's time for a visit," she declared, leaving the shattered remnants of the orb behind as she exited the dark room. The broken glass trembled, echoing the arrival of something massive.

---

In the Emerald City throne room, Michael sifted through a pile of letters, discarding unimportant ones from nobles trying to curry favor with the Great Wizard. The discarded letters met their fiery end in a nearby brazier. But when he picked up the final letter, he froze, the name on the envelope catching his eye: "Captain Roland of Veridiana."

He grabbed a letter opener and carefully sliced it open, his expression shifting as he read the contents. The message was serious, and it wasn't good.

Across the room, George was tinkering with the illusion machine he had used for his pigeon trick, trying to fix it. Noticing Michael's sudden stillness, he looked up. "What's going on?" he asked.

"You're not going to like this," Michael sighed, folding the letter.

George, already expecting trouble, walked over. "I don't need to like it. Let me see." He took the letter and read through it quickly. Both of them were silent for a moment, their faces reflecting a growing sense of dread.

The letter read:

"Great Wizard, you may already know this, but the spy we captured bore traces of dark witchcraft. When I attempted to extract information, he disintegrated before my eyes. I won't go into the gory details, but I managed to examine his ears and tongue before he died. They had been mutilated—rendered useless to ensure we couldn't identify his origins. The King thanks you for avoiding a worse situation. I extend my gratitude as well.

Sincerely, 

Roland of Veridiana."

George's grip tightened on the letter. "Who have we just crossed?" he muttered, his voice tense.

Michael shrugged, sharing the unease. "I don't know. But it's nothing good."

George's gaze drifted back to the broken illusion machine. His resolve hardened. "I have to fix this. If that maniac comes after me… I won't stand a chance. I need every advantage."

Michael nodded. "We'll need a backup plan too. If we're up against something beyond us, we have to run. Oz will know where to find the other machines."

George turned, raising an eyebrow. "Machines? You mean there's more like this?" He gestured to the broken pigeon illusion device.

Michael nodded. "He has a projector that lets him appear larger, change forms—things like that. But he hid it away once he found the Persona ring. That ring does the same thing, but with more subtlety."

George stared at the ring on his finger. "Are there more Persona rings? Like this one?"

Michael scratched his furry chin. "I always thought there was only one. But now, with you here, I'd say there's at least two."

George's mind was racing. "What if there's more than two?"

Michael hesitated. "It's possible, but we don't know."

George paced back and forth, frustration building. "I can't keep doing this on a maybe. If I'm going to stay in this, I have to get stronger."

Michael immediately shook his head. "No. You've survived so far because you have no mana. If even a trace of mana shows up in you, the illusion of Oz's godhood will fall apart."

George ran a hand through his hair, glaring at the floor. "Damn it…"

As he muttered, something on the map of Emerald City caught his eye. He moved closer, pointing at a section. "Hey, Michael."

"It's Michael, not monkey. What is it?"

"What's this?" George pointed to a specific spot on the map.

Michael glanced at it. "That's the Emerald City Academy."

"I can read. What's the academy?"

"It's the institution Oz set up to train wizards and soldiers—both magic-users and non-magic fighters. One of the few sensible things he's done."

George's expression shifted, an idea forming. "So, if I go there… I could get stronger?"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Yes, but if you start using magic, your disguise will fail."

George smirked, tapping the map. "Who said anything about learning magic?"