Forghieri, the Mad Old Engineer

They might hide themselves in the light of day, but traumatic memories have

a way of crawling back up in the middle of the night.

"…Unghhh…"

Midnight, not long after they'd laid down to sleep, Oliver heard a groan from

the next bed over. He knew what it was.

"…Haah, haah…haah…!"

"..."

"Haah, haah… Ah, ah… Ahhh, aughhhhhhhh!"

"…Pete!"

There was no sign of it dying down; the noises were only getting worse. Oliver

leaped out of bed and moved to his friend's side, shaking his shoulders to rouse

him.

"Relax, Pete, it's just a dream. I'm right here. Right here with you."

"…Huh… Uh…? …Oh…"

It took several seconds after Pete awoke. He stared at his roommate for a

moment, then darted his eyes around the room. Certain everything was as it

should be, he at last separated dream from reality, and the tension drained

from his shoulders.

"…S-sorry. This again…"

"Don't. This is not your fault. Try to catch your breath."

Oliver kept his tone soft, rubbing the boy's back. No wonder Pete's having

nightmares.

What the mad old man had shown them in his workshop took morality and

ethics and trampled them into the mud. An insane invention that hurled

countless lives into the kiln; seeing the Dea Ex Machina, hearing how he'd

arrived at the concept and execution, and worse—understanding it. That would

rattle anyone, especially someone who'd been introduced to magic just two

years before.

Oliver could tell it had shattered any number of things within his friend.

Concepts of right and wrong he'd still been clutching to, nonmagical norms he

could have lived a lifetime without questioning, all leveled in one go.

Pete knew better now. He knew what mages were, where their extremes lay,

that those extremes might well lie at the end of the path he treaded—and that

no one pursuing sorcery would criticize him for it.

He was forced to redefine everything—ethics, morals, right and wrong.

Concepts at the core of one's personhood shaken and questioned anew. That

would be an ordeal for anyone. Oliver had been through it once himself.

"…Pete, over here."

Oliver put one arm around Pete's back and the other under his knees, hefting

him up.

"Er…?"

Blinking, Pete let himself be carried from his own night sweat–soaked bed

over to Oliver's. He was laid gently down and embraced from behind.

" Uh…?!"

"Sorry it had to be my bed. But if you're willing, we can stay like this awhile."

Oliver pulled the covers up, covering both of them. Their bodies pressed

tightly together.

"…Your pulse is racing. Mana circulation's off, too. Might as well do some

healing while we're at it."

"Wai—! …Mm…!"

Before Pete could protest, Oliver slid his hand up the back of his friend's

pajamas. Pete could feel mana flowing into him through his skin. Oliver had

done this for him any number of times but never in such close contact, and…

"…Er, um… Today, I'm…!"

"Mm?"

He had almost said he was a girl today but let the words die on his tongue.

He knew saying that would make Oliver let go, apologize for the lack of

consideration, reflect upon his own actions, and draw lines he shouldn't cross.

Oliver might never touch him like this again.

Oliver's contact with him, this narrow distance between them—both were

clearly that of a close male friend. That hadn't changed since he awakened as a

reversi. Pete had preferred it that way and said aloud he wanted them to stay

as they were before. Oliver had taken him at his word.

And so Pete was sure if he even once said he was a girl today, that spell would

be broken. And he might lose this warmth forever.

Each time he felt the words crawl up his throat, he choked them back down.

"…Never mind."

"Should I keep going?"

"..."

Oliver felt a slight nod and took that as permission. He resumed healing,

unaware of how much this contact rattled the boy's heart.

"…This takes me back," Oliver said. "I was in your position, but my mother

used to do this for me. On windy nights, or…"

Oliver's smile had grown wistful. Relaxing into his friend's palms, Pete listened

closely.

"If I begged for a story, she always had a new one. So many stories, so good

they just kept me awake, and my father would have to stop her. And all three of

us would oversleep the next day. I loved that."

As he spoke, Oliver's fingers tousled the ashy hair in front of him. He spoke of

days lost, and Pete's chest tightened. These rare glimpses of his past were the

one time his stalwart friend seemed fragile. Like a single push would send him

tumbling down.

Pete could tell this scar ran very deep.

And if he stayed weak, he'd never be able to ease Oliver's pain.

"…Don't…worry too much," Pete said.

"?"

He squeezed Oliver's hand back. Last year was one thing, but he'd survived a

year here. He was a little bit stronger now.

"…I'm not about to swallow that stuff whole."

Pete wanted to clear that up, at least. Given what they'd seen in the old

man's workshop, he knew what his roommate's primary concern would be.

"Same goes for Katie. She's learning a lot from Miligan, but that doesn't mean

she'll end up like her. She's taking the knowledge and techniques and applying

them in her own way, forging her own path forward. I'm doing the same thing."

He was doing his level best to sound tough, but he could tell Oliver's fears still

lingered.

"I know what you're thinking," Pete added. "I don't have a clear goal like she

does. I'm well aware of that. I'm still feeling my way forward on everything.

But…"

He paused, tightening his grip on Oliver's hand. He wasn't Katie. He wasn't

striving toward conceptual ideals. But he had someone worth following.

"…But…I do have a role model."

Pete's voice shook; it took all his courage to say that. It felt like leaping off a

precipice. You're my goal. It's your path I'm following.

And this admission of a lifetime—earned him a smile.

"…Good. It's good to have someone to look up to."

"…!"

That reaction told Pete the most important part had not gotten across at all.

Oblivious to his roommate's feelings, Oliver tightened his embrace, smiling.

"Gah—?!"

And Pete jerked his head backward, hitting Oliver's jaw. Once wasn't enough,

and he landed two, then three more blows, a series of dull thunks.

"O-ow! Wait, Pete, why are you—?!"

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Requests for clarification just added insult to injury. Oliver was stuck taking a

headbutting to the chin for a solid ten minutes before Pete's tantrum subsided.

When the night ended, Oliver woke up and opened the curtains, letting the

summer sun stream in. Not too hot, not too cold. The blue sky was pocked with

low-hanging clouds. A gentle breeze from the west ruffled his hair.

"..."

A peaceful morning. Ironic, given what today held in store.

"…Morning, Pete. Sugar in your tea?"

"...Two, please."

Oliver glanced back to find Pete sitting up, rubbing his eyes. Then Pete's

memories caught up with him, and he turned bright red, avoiding his

roommate's gaze. Laughing, Oliver got the tea ready, just like always.

Guy joined them in the dorm hall, and on the path to school, they met the

girls coming out of their dorm. Katie spotted them and waved.

"Oh, morning, Oliver! Pete and Guy!"

"You must hear this at once! This morning, Katie spoke in her sleep, saying the

most amusing—"

"Augh! You can't start with that!"

Katie clapped a hand over her roommate's mouth. Watching them make

merry, Oliver smiled. He worried he might look tense.

"…When we first got here, only me and Nanao really filled our plates," Guy

said, looking around the table.

They'd headed right to the Fellowship and were tackling their breakfasts amid

the hubbub of the morning rush. Guy's comment was specifically directed at

Katie and Pete, who were both really packing it away.

"But man, these two are getting nuts. Like shoveling wood onto a hearth."

"Not eating is a waste! You're no better, Guy! Here, oatmeal!"

"What, oatmeal?! I mean, sure, I'll eat it. But still!"

Katie shoved a bowl Guy's way, and he dug straight in. Stifling a laugh, Oliver

glanced to his side, and Pete caught the look. He dropped his toast, stabbing a

fork into his steamed veggies instead.

"…I'm eating my greens, see?"

"Nice. Proud of you, Pete."

Oliver patted his head. Pete snorted and kept eating. Chela took a quiet sip of

tea, saying nothing. It was just like any other morning.

Morning classes wrapped up without a fuss—a few injuries, but nobody

batted an eye at that anymore. Katie shot out of the room first thing, headed to

her next appointment.

"Okay! I'm off to see my griffin!"

"I'll be in the library. Guy, Katie, don't forget! Study group after dinner."

"Yeah, I know! I'm literally about to go do some spell practice."

Pete and Katie were gone, and Guy stayed behind for a little elective study.

Waving to him, Oliver followed Nanao and Chela out, but then turned the other

way.

"…I'm gonna stop by the bathroom. You two go on ahead."

"Certainly," said Chela.

Making it seem natural, Oliver slipped through the bathroom doors. Luckily, it

was empty, and he hid himself in a stall.

"Blegh…!"

No sooner had the door closed then the contents of his stomach hit the bowl.

The acid made the back of his tongue sting; he heaved again and again.

"Haah…hah…"

When there was nothing left to expunge, he finally righted himself, resting

against the stall wall. One hand pulled the handle, and water washed the

contents away. He felt like his face was a far more convincing actor than his

stomach.

After a minute's rest, he left the stall, washed his hands thoroughly, and then

rinsed his mouth out. He checked his face carefully in the mirror. He wasn't sure

he was hiding the tension completely, but at least his eyes weren't bloodshot

from lack of sleep. Perhaps Pete had helped him sleep well. With that thought

in mind, he left the bathroom.

"Feeling a tad under the weather?"

The voice echoed through the deserted hall, and—there was a small girl next

to him. He was past being surprised by this.

"You're one dedicated covert operative," he said. "You usually follow me into

the men's room?"

"Certainly not under ordinary circumstances. But today…"

Teresa trailed off, looking up at him with concern.

Marveling at that fact, he mustered a goofy shrug. "Don't be too worried.

Given who we're up against, I think this is the right level of stressed."

"Any means to ease it?"

"There are, but I have no wish to bring in potions that'll affect my mental

state. Can't risk any dull to my edge."

He slowly balled up his fist. He had to be in peak condition. No way he could

ever face the warlock otherwise.

"You aren't scared, Teresa?" he asked, gazing back at her.

She looked down, considering the question.

"I'm…not sure," she replied. "Scared of death? Not especially. I was born and

raised here in Kimberly, after all."

And that meant risking her life was a daily occurrence. Fear and cowardice

only got in the way, so she'd long since eliminated them both. That was the

education she'd received, and her answer served as a reminder to Oliver.

"...…"

"...?"

Without realizing it, his hand had reached out to her, his fingers mussing her

black hair. He was sure Teresa herself had no clue what that meant. She shot

him a baffled look, and he grimaced.

"…We're all messed up, huh?"

Each was concerned for the other, but their feelings never quite connected.

Perhaps they had that in common. Deep down, neither one of them could

admit they were worth caring about.

And their mutual damage felt good right now. Though part of him hated

himself for finding salvation in that feeling.

"Don't worry. Same as before," he told her. "Once the fire's lit, the shaking

subsides."

He met her eyes, the vow unwavering. Teresa nodded.

"I believe in you, my lord," she said. She recalled the night he'd claimed their

first target. If she could see that sight again—that was all the motivation she

needed.

Meanwhile, on the labyrinth's fourth layer, deep in the Library of the Depths'

shelves of forbidden tomes…

"What'd you make of him?"

Parked at a reading table, checking over their athames and magic tools, Karlie

and Robert were waiting for the operation commencement. Groups of their

comrades were on standby around the labyrinth, ready to converge on the

battlefield when the time came.

"…Y-you mean our lord?"

"Yep. The kid."

Robert looked up from his cursed tools.

Her feet up on the table, Karlie went on, "I ain't talking about his current

combat skills. That's our thing, and it's the king's job to sit at the back looking

regal. If he's weak, it's no big deal." Then she added, "What I don't get is why

it's him. Not Gwyn or one of the other upperclassmen. But this kid. He's a good

kid! Too good to be at Kimberly at all. And forcing a kid like him to play boss

puts a bad taste in my mouth. Even if this is about his mom."

She was among the eldest of their comrades and acting like it.

"…I th-think…I get it, though," Robert said quietly.

"Elaborate," Karlie barked, thumping her heel on the table.

"I d-don't know how," Robert started, shaking his head. "Just…he has

something I d-don't. Something you don't; n-none of our other comrades do.

Deep down inside his…his c-character."

Karlie listened to his halting speech intently, frowning. She pouted her lips.

"I hate abstract shit like that."

"Ha-ha-ha. You always h-have."

Robert smiled at her, and she snorted. This was how they usually were—and

how they'd remain until the fight began.

The day seemed endless, but at last it was nine PM. Oliver stepped onto the

labyrinth's first layer.

"Yo!"

He was met by an older girl just beyond the painting he'd entered. He nodded

at her and moved right past.

"Assides Imitantor Vitae."

As the spell left her lips, she was enveloped in a thick fog—and when it

cleared, there stood a second Oliver Horn. A perfect imitation, down to the

hairs on his head and even the shape of his nails.

"Got your alibi covered. Go all out."

"I will."

And with that, Oliver headed for the labyrinth depths, leaving no lingering

concerns behind.

His first friend was nonmagical. This is true of many mages, though few talk of

it much.

It's hardly strange for mages born to ordinary parents, or mages residing in

ordinary towns and villages, to befriend nonmagicals. But it's surprisingly

common even among the children of storied magical houses, although they

have a mage's mentality drilled into them from an early age and tend to look

down on ordinary people as a result.

A famed magical comedian once put the reason in plain terms—they were

suffocating.

"The more history your family has and the greater your talent, the greater the

expectation and responsibility riding on your little shoulders. Children under

that pressure day and night grow weary of it, and when they hear of a world

outside where the rules are different—they get curious. But if you want to get

there, you need a go-between."

He was clearly speaking from experience, and his words had carried weight

accordingly. In his case, it had been a boy who delivered milk to his manor every

morning—and that boy had been his point of contact to ordinary society. There

were plenty of mages who had ordinaries employed as servants, but there were

many ways to make first contact.

And not all of them were particularly commendable.

" aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAHH!!!"

As the dawn sky lightened, a boy on a broom came flying in, his scream

trailing behind him. He was maybe eight years old. He wore beautiful, tailored

robes poorly, showing both that he came from money and that he didn't know

what that meant.

"…Uh-oh, him again."

"He's extra loud this morning…"

A farmer couple glanced up from their just-heading cabbages. Everyone had

long since stopped being surprised by his arrivals. "The crybaby's morning

broomrides" were famous in these parts. They happened once a fortnight.

"Aughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"

His broom carried him across the fields, and the rustic town spread out below

him. As new ground was broken, the population was starting to expand, but it

was still very deep country. There were towns just like it all across Yelgland.

Fixing his tear-blurred vision on the streets below, he turned his broom's head

down, flying straight to his destination—past the houses on the outskirts,

toward the central shopping area's west side, where little shops catered to

morning shoppers. The boy chose a clearing just outside as his landing zone.

"Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"

He failed to slow in time and lost his balance. His feet barely hit the ground,

and he dropped his broom, stumbled forward, and went rolling across the

street. He crashed headfirst into some empty barrels, and splintered timber

flew everywhere.

"Waaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

His head popped out of the wood piles, his wails growing extra powerful. He'd

gotten off with minor scratches—mages were sturdy like that—but they still

hurt. Heads popped out of buildings all around, wondering what the racket was,

and saw him lying there. Then a girl came running around the corner.

"…I thought that was you! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! What, you blow the landing

again? You're so dumb!"

"Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

The boy's cries seemed liable to split his throat. Subjected to that at pointblank range, the girl snapped her hands to her ears, laughing.

"Kya-ha-ha-ha! You sure can belt it out! My ears are splitting!" She pulled out

a lollipop. "Come on now, stop crying!" she told him, shoving it right in his

mouth. The boy's wails ceased.

"…Mmph."

"Mm, mm! There's a good boy!"

She took a knee, rubbing his frizzy hair with both hands like he was a dog. An

older woman's face popped out of the crowd around—she ran the candy store.

"Him again, Noemi? He can come all he likes, but he needs to land quietly! I'm

always scared he'll come crashing through my roof next time."

"Aw, he's not that bad," the girl said. "He's picking safe places to land! And if

you do smash someone's house, you can fix it for them, right, little mage?"

The boy sniffled and pulled the candy out of his mouth. He moved it to his left

hand, then pulled his white wand and cast a spell. The smashed-up barrels were

soon restored to normal, lining the street like nothing had happened to them.

The girl grinned and turned back to the candy store lady.

"Can we get some candy, Aunt Monica? Four lollipops, please."

"So why were you crying today?" Noemi asked.

They were walking together, working on their lollipops, and she'd decided the

boy was calm enough to talk. His hand clenched the candy's stick tight.

"…I was drawing a blueprint. It's gonna be the biggest golem in the world! I

told you about my dream, right?"

"Mm-hmm. I remember. You talk about it a lot. You said with normal

construction, it won't move at all if it gets too big?"

She remembered him babbling excitedly, clearly prepared to talk her ear off

until the sun went down.

"Mm, so I need technological revolutions in fuel, materials, and construction. I

don't even have a clue yet on fuel, so I'm working on the other two."

He shoved his hand into his robe and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper.

He spread it out and showed it to the girl.

"This is it. The red parts are my mom's corrections."

"Yikes."

Noemi didn't know if the blueprint itself was any good, but the sheer detail

and energy of the lines spoke volumes about how fired up he'd been.

What made her yelp were the red comments scrawled across it, like barrels of

ice water dumped on a fire. Requesting grounds for the numbers, pointing out

poor material choices, lists of flaws in the design—she'd been merciless. That

alone was enough to kill a boy's spirit, but the final evaluation was extra

merciless: Blueprints are not for drawing your fantasies.

"I can't take it anymore! Day after day of staring at data and other people's

work, and she never lets me make anything my way! If I ask, she just says I'm

not ready yet! I've gotta be a perfect builder first! Better than perfect!"

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Your mom sure doesn't pull her punches!"

Noemi laughed heartily, one eye on the boy's downcast face. He was still

licking that lollipop.

"You gonna quit the whole mage thing?" she asked.

It took him a second, but he shook his head.

"…No. I haven't made anything yet!" he said. "But…the more work I have to

do, and the more mean things she says…I…I just can't breathe. Before I know it,

I'm on my broom. It's like I'll explode if I don't scream across the sky."

He looked up at the girl.

"Do you ever get like that, Noemi?"

"Sure!" she said, hands on her hips. "I can't fly, but the rest? You betcha."

"Really?"

"Yep! Our shop's pretty big, right? You gotta be nice to some not-nice people.

And I'm gonna be running the place one day, so I've gotta be there to help."

This sounded all grown-up, but she was just telling the truth. The boy knew

she wasn't showing off or making herself sound important. Her family ran the

second largest dry goods shop in town. They'd opened their doors to meet a

rise in demand as the town expanded, and that had paid off, their profits rising

steadily over the past decade.

But growth like that often caused internal conflict, and as their eldest, she

was dragged right into the middle of it. She might be ten years old, but in a

small town like this, that was almost grown-up. The future of her family

business could well depend on her proving she had what it took.

Truth was, she was probably too busy to hang out eating candy. Part of him

knew that, but he kept coming to see her anyway. This girl might be two years

older, but she was his first friend, and her advice had helped him a lot.

"…What do you do when it gets tough?"

"Laugh," she said.

He gave her a shocked look, and she demonstrated.

"If I feel like crying, I let out a laugh. So loud it makes everyone jump," she

explained. "And the weird thing is, it helps everyone. They get caught up in my

laughter and start to see the upside. Sometimes they scold me for it, but— Kyaha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

The laugh ripped out of her so loudly the people around them jumped. She

stopped in her tracks and turned toward the boy.

"So when you feel like crying, eat some candy."

"…Does that help?"

"Yep! If your mouth is filled with something sweet, the rest doesn't feel so

bad."

She brandished her own lollipop with a flourish. She'd given him one the day

they first met, and it had become their thing. A spell to stop his tears.

"Then go on and laugh. So loud it shocks your mom. Take all the energy you

got for crying and use it up!"

Her arms were in the air.

"Candy makes you smile! Smiles are invincible! Remember this simple

formula, and everything will be okay."

Noemi flashed her teeth at him. The boy didn't know how she did it, but

seeing that smile always banished the clouds in his heart.

"But if you still wanna cry, then go on and come to me. I'll be right here!

When I hear you wailing, I'll come running."

With that promise, she started walking again. He scrambled after her. She

glanced back his way, the morning sun catching her bashful smile.

"So give me a ride on your broom someday, crybaby Enrico."

Many Kimberly faculty members were also cutting-edge researchers in their

respective fields of sorcery.

Naturally, the contents of their work were a closely guarded secret. They each

had workshops in the school building, but it was the norm for genuinely

important research to be conducted elsewhere, namely: deep in the labyrinth—

for the most part, beyond the fourth layer barrier, in the fifth layer—or even

lower.

This was true for Enrico Forghieri. The Library of the Depths contained a

wealth of data, and his trips between that and his workshop inevitably led him

through the helicoid halls. The mad old man rather liked the quiet and generally

kept his nose buried in a borrowed tome during the long trek down. Servant

golems trailed behind.

Ideal for an ambush.

" Mm?"

Sensing someone up ahead, Enrico's eyes left the page.

There was a figure standing twenty yards away. Not very large—perhaps a

student? He couldn't make out any details; some sort of spell was preventing

him from identifying the individual. The mask covering half the figure's face

seemed the likely cause.

"Don't often run into students in these halls," the old man called, pausing his

advance. "You have business with me?"

There was a long silence before the figure answered. The voice, too, was

magically altered, making it impossible to hazard a gender.

"The night of April eighth, 1525, of the Great Calendar. Where were you, and

what were you doing?"

No mistaking the purpose of that question. The old man stroked his chin,

thinking.

"April eighth, 1525? …Oh! That day," he said. "I remember it well! Such a busy

day. I gathered some prickly colleagues, paid a visit to a witch's retreat in some

out-of-the-way locale—"

He spoke fondly, the words flowing smoothly.

"—and beat a student of ours to death. Taking our time with it."

Not an ounce of hesitation. Like sharing a pleasant memory.

"…And how did that make you feel?" the shadow asked.

"Oof, that's tricky. Very tricky. How to put those feelings into words?" The old

man paused dramatically, his lips twisting into a smile. "That distinct guilty

pleasure of taking a peerless treasure and smashing it to pieces, grinding those

pieces beneath your feet. At your age, I'm sure you've yet to savor the like,

yes?"

Enrico spoke like he was consoling a recalcitrant child.

"Indeed not. I know only one thing," the shadow said, its tones measured.

"The torment she endured when betrayed, smashed, and trampled."

No understanding could be reached here. That had never been in the cards.

The shadow—Oliver—released the enmity he'd barely held in check. The time

was ripe. The passage began filling up. Enrico scanned his surroundings, taking

in the crowd. Each figure wore a mask, their uniforms bereft of anything that

would identify their year.

"Revenge, eh?" the old man whispered. "I assume this is connected to

Darius's disappearance, then."

Even surrounded, he did not seem the least bit disturbed. The gleam in his

eyes suggested he was enjoying this.

"You have the numbers, and you've chosen your location well. I can see this

plan has been carefully considered. You're an organized group with personnel

inside campus and out."

He grinned.

"I approve! An admirable degree of dedication."

Analysis and evaluation. Oliver had no ears for it. And the comrades behind

him caught his intent.

"Deploy it, Shannon," Gwyn said.

"Mm."

She nodded, and something expanded around her. The feeling was like being

wrapped in invisible cloth, and Enrico frowned.

"…Hmm? What did you—?"

""""""""Tonitrus!""""""""

""""""""Fortis Flamma!""""""""

He was interrupted by incantations from fore and aft. Waves of spells

buffeted the old man, the flash and smoke obscuring him from sight. With the

first blow struck, Oliver stepped back, his comrades taking his place.

"A singlecant to pin me down, and a double in a different element to crush

me. Quite the greeting!"

He sounded positively giddy. As the smoke cleared, they saw the mad old man

on a multi-legged golem, protected by sturdy armor. Neither he nor the golem

were the worse for wear—he'd successfully weathered the group's opening

volley.

"Shall we begin? Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

His hands emerged from both sleeves, a lollipop between each finger—eight

in all. Enrico crunched down on all of them at once, issuing a declaration of war.

The six-legged golem darted forth at speeds too fast for the eye to follow,

clearly much higher spec than anything he'd assigned in Oliver's class. There

were balls at the tips of every leg, and these could spin in any direction,

allowing for complex, precise motion.

"A multipedal on ball rollers…!"

"Disrupt its footing!"

"Fragor!"

Oliver's comrades scattered magic tools, combined spells that made the

terrain mildly worse, and hammered them with spells. But Enrico's golem ran

right up the walls, its progress unimpeded. Misaimed spells struck the walls

fruitlessly. The tubular passage and the ball rollers were an uncannily good

match; the modest impediments laid down proved to be of little consequence

as the golem raced across floor, walls, and ceiling at will. Oliver was not

surprised. Enrico had chosen his golem with this terrain in mind.

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! Now it's my turn! Tonitrus!"

And then the old man started firing spells between the chinks in the armor.

Under a barrage from thirty-two mages, avoiding their attacks with every

mobility trick in the book, his aim was uncannily accurate. Nearby allies barely

managed to negate it with the oppositional element before it struck home.

"Don't panic! We've got his retreat blocked in both directions."

Gwyn's voice urged calm, but nobody here would lose their nerve this soon.

They were up against a Kimberly instructor. None of them had thought this

would be easy.

"However agile it is, in an enclosed space like this, it can't evade forever. Try

one thing at a time."

This brief exchange had been enough that they were starting to get a handle

on the foe. It looked like the old man was trying to avoid big hits, so he wasn't

moving toward groups of three or more. They started using that to their

advantage, baiting the golem, giving it an escape route, and leading it where

they wanted.

" Hng!"

As Enrico hit their mark, every athame turned his way. Gwyn's call planned for

every escape route.

"Flatten it!"

""""""""Extruditor!""""""""

Sideways pressure slammed the golem against the wall; not enough to stop it,

but it was forced to strain its legs, pushing back against the pressure.

""""""""Ducere!""""""""

" Mm?!"

And that was their real aim. As the golem pushed back, their next spell

yanked it the other way, peeling it off the wall. Its own force used against it, the

golem and Enrico spun through the air, exposed to the attacks of every mage

around. However good the ball rollers were, they could do nothing without

solid footing.

""""""""Magnus Fragor!""""""""

Over twenty double-incantation spells buffeted the golem before it hit the

ground. Each struck with sound and fury. And the golem was defenseless—

surely this had done more than their first volley. This time, Enrico must have

taken damage. Oliver watched with bated breath.

"…Ack—"

"…Gah…"

" !"

Three comrades went down, smoking at the mouths. No one had expected

that, and every face tensed.

"What happened?!"

"Spell recoil!"

"That was no accident—something induced it!"

The analysis and inferences matched Oliver's own. Doublecant spells were

powerful, but a loss of control would cause a backfire, harming the caster. Yet,

no mage here would make such a basic error, much less three at once. There

was clearly another factor at work, something that had made their spells

detonate.

"…Kya-ha-ha-ha! That was good!"

Adding insult to injury, the multipedal golem came bounding out of the

smoke. There were some burns and dents on the armor, but that was it for

visible damage; far less than they'd hoped. Oliver's comrades were incensed.

"…Enemy's alive and well! Golem damage minimal!"

"That thing's armor is too damn hard!"

"Durable alone doesn't cover it! There's gotta be a trick to it!"

This golem's design was clearly built to prioritize mobility. No matter what it

was made from or how ingenious the design, it should not have been sturdy

enough to weather twenty-plus doublecant spells. That was a constructional

limit based upon the fundamentals of magical engineering.

"…You catch it, Shannon?"

"...Mm, got it."

It was Oliver's sister who solved the contradiction first. Within the zone she'd

deployed, she felt a faint—yet clear—shift.

"…Lots of little ones, all around… Like elementals…but not."

Not the most articulate, but enough for Oliver and Gwyn to grasp her

meaning. The enemy golem's inexplicable defense, the induced recoil—this

explained both of them, so Oliver yelled with conviction.

"Look out for disruption magic! There's nano golems in the air!"

That caused a stir. The multi-legged golem stopped dead.

"…Fascinating. You noticed them?" Enrico's voice emerged from the chinks in

the armor, sounding impressed.

Oliver raised a hand, halting his comrades' attacks.

"That requires more than simply on-the-scene analysis," Enrico said,

delighted. "You must have had a pre-prepped hypothesis proven by events that

transpired. Excellent work!"

Oliver let him finish, engaging him. Any new discoveries required a tactical

adjustment. It was best to buy some time.

"…A pillar of your research, Enrico Forghieri?"

"Indeed. You can see the logic, I'm sure! To achieve macro success, I must first

master the micro. If you've read a few of my papers, I'm sure you're already

nodding along."

Enrico dished this out like it was a reward for seeing through the trick. This

placed him at a disadvantage, although the mad old man himself didn't seem to

care. In his mind, he was a teacher, surrounded by students.

"You all know perfectly well elementals form symbiotic relationships with

certain magical beasts. My connection to these aerial nano golems is much the

same, albeit with one exception—they serve at my behest. They automatically

cancel out any attacks directed at me—or deflect them."

That was the secret to the impossible defense. The multipedal golem wasn't

blocking the spells at all; the nano golems hovering around it were. Just like the

wind elementals had protected the garuda Oliver fought, countless nano

golems were protecting Enrico. And these were far more durable than those

elementals.

"Naturally, they are not merely defensive. At my prompting, they can attack

directly or interfere with spell activation, causing denotations. You know very

well spell activation is the most unstable moment!"

Oliver gritted his teeth. This, too, was exactly like the disruption magic the

garuda had used. The same trick he'd used to knock Nanao out in his workshop.

And what was most galling was that without knowledge of the nano golem

concept, you could never hope to defeat them.

"So what next, children? You chose this location to minimize my repertoire,

but things aren't quite going according to plan, are they? After all, here I am,

with this utility golem and—"

He broke off as glittering gas jetted out from between the multipedal golem's

legs, spreading around it like mist caught in the sun. He had clearly made these

nano golems light up so they'd be visible to the naked eye.

"—approximately two hundred trillion nano golems. The odds are slightly in

my favor," Enrico added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

He could easily have released them unseen, without any warning, but chose

not to. He wanted the students facing him to correctly perceive the threat—

that he might savor their attempts to foil it.

"How will you handle this? Summon winds? High heat? Or perhaps freeze

them? Try anything you like!"

The glow vanished, and the nano machines blended into the air itself. Oliver

concluded none of those approaches would work. It would boil down to a

contest of strength—the force of their spells against the golem's capacity for

interfering with them. If the air had enough nano golems concentrated in it,

they could easily deflect twenty-odd doublecanted spells. And given their foe's

wild movements, trying to focus any extra fire would be impractical.

So Oliver flipped the logic. The nano golems were not evenly distributed

through a space this large. With that in mind, he aimed his athame high.

"Go red! Repeat! Densa nebula!"

""""""""Densa nebula!""""""""

All comrades chanted after him. Red mist poured from the tips of their

athames, and the wind currents carried it to all corners.

"…Interesting," Enrico purred.

This was just a red mist—no magical effect, no elemental affinity. So the nano

golems did not react to it.

A gust came down the tunnel, sweeping much of the mist with it. Yet, several

red pockets remained, including one directly above the multipedal golem.

"The shadow is cast," Oliver said, his eyes on the mottled red mist. For

microorganism-sized golems to remain suspended in the air, or move around,

they had to follow the air itself. And that meant that the greater the density of

golems, the more mist would remain.

"Can you order them to remove the red, Enrico? Is that a function your

beloved golems have?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He was certain they could not. Issuing an order

would render Enrico defenseless. The golems themselves could not detect plain

red mist, and any means of handling this would require instructions from Enrico

himself. And while they obeyed that, their autonomous defense would be lost.

"Go on and try, if you dare. We'll be waiting to pounce," Oliver growled.

Currently, the field of microengineering was solely Enrico's domain. That

meant it was highly likely any attempts to directly deal with the nano golems

would be fruitless. If they had time for trial and error, that would be one thing,

but they were in a battle to the death.

Yet, they were mages. This was hardly their first time dealing with things

invisible to the naked eye. There were ways to handle things not directly

observable—as they did the ether and the soul. And now that they'd caught

their shadow, the nano golems were no longer an unseen threat.

"And here, you cannot draw more mana from the labyrinth itself. Keeping

countless nano golems active must be a titanic drain on your reserves. I imagine

you're feeling it in your bones, old man."

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! I like it. No one's insulted my age in years!" Enrico

cackled. "Let's find out, shall we? Can you all stay standing until I start to

wheeze?"

No longer concerned about the nano golems' visibility, Enrico's multipedal

golem began moving again, dragging the red cloud with it. Oliver's comrades

moved to resume their attacks, so Oliver barked further orders.

"…Concentrate your spells to dissipate the nano golem distribution. Then,

break off two of the multipedal's legs and seize our chance to crack the armor.

We've got to expose Enrico himself."

Observing the movements of the mist made it clear how the nano golems'

magical interference worked. If they were canceling or deflecting, the space in

the spell's trajectory would always take a deep red hue. And if one location

darkened, another grew light. There was a limit to their total number, so this

was inevitable. Even if two hundred trillion was no exaggeration, it was

nowhere near enough to fill a hall this size.

"Once that's done, I'll finish things."

Oliver saw a path to victory. He quivered with anticipation, tightening his grip

on his athame. If he could reach one-step, one-spell distance, there'd be no

escaping. His spellblade would end this charade.

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! No one's hesitating now! I approve!"

And matching that lack of hesitation, the ball rollers went wild, the golem's

movements growing snappier, trickier. Make it block a spell, then strike again

where the red mist had thinned—that was all they had to do, but the nimble

motions of Enrico's transport prevented it. Watching this, Oliver was forced to

admit the mad old man was not just the world's best builder but a top-class

golem operator.

"We've gotta stop those legs," came a voice. "Colligationem."

Yet, as long as a person controlled it, the movements would be biased. And

one of their number had been watching long enough. Her spell slipped through

the gap in the mist, slamming down on one of the legs. The golem slowed, and

Enrico let out a cry.

"A powerful spell, devoid of any delicacy! That must be you, Ms. Buckle!"

"Ah-ha-ha! Brutal! I know my magical engineering grades sucked, but I still

passed!"

Their other comrades were already firing off spells, and Karlie herself didn't

hesitate to close in. She was heedless of the spells burning her flesh in passing.

Before her very eyes, the golem tried to dodge a concentrated burst of fire—

but Karlie's athame flashed a step ahead of it.

"…What?!" the old man yelped in surprise.

There was a clang, and the tip of the severed leg rolled across the floor. The

most damage they'd done so far.

Karlie quickly backed away, mindful of counters.

"One down!" she said, grinning. "Don't need delicacy to smash someone's

work to pieces, do ya, Instructor Enrico?"

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! You certainly don't beat around the bush! You're the last

person I'd want as a student."

"Ah-ha-ha-ha! Is that any way for a teacher to talk?"

Their laughs echoed through the hall. Oliver felt a chill run down his spine.

They'd been student and teacher for over six years and were trading quips and

sarcasm even as they tried to kill each other. That was a mage's battlefield for

you.

""""""""Fragor!""""""""

With the golem down one leg, they seized their chance, pounding it with

spells. Enrico tried to dodge like before, but the loss of a leg was no small

matter. The old man knew that perfectly well.

"Playing defense will just whittle me down! Very well—time to change the

game!"

No sooner had the words left Enrico's lips than approximately half the red

mist around the multipedal golem scattered to the air. Oliver's comrades

tensed. This significantly lowered their foe's defenses—but obviously not just

that.

"Tonitrus!"

As his golem swiftly dodged another volley, the old man chanted a spell of his

own. A perfectly ordinary lightning spell fired through the chinks in the armor.

He was a Kimberly teacher, and the power was absurd, but there was more

than enough distance to dodge it. The few comrades in its path easily moved to

avoid it—and then the bolt bent in the air, striking two of them at once.

"Kahhh!"

"Guh…"

"?!"

"What? It curved?!"

The unexpected hit rattled them. Enrico was firing spell after spell, each one

changing course in midair, raining down upon his foes. None of these changes

were ordinarily possible.

Six more were hit in rapid succession, but no one let that get them down—

they were all focused on figuring this out. The red mist was spread out through

the air, forming a number of clusters. And the spells were changing paths in

those. The first to notice that called out.

"Wait—he's using the nano golems…to change the direction of his own

spells?!"

"Careful! No telling what angle they'll take!"

"Right answer! But I'm not slowing down!" Enrico hollered. "Tonitrus! Frigus!

Flamma!"

Spells shot in all directions; blocking them was clearly impossible. The

comrades aimed at the red mist, scattering it with gust spells—but once

scattered, the mist merely collected again nearby, forming a new deflection

point. Some tried creating magic bubbles to enclose the nano golems, but their

interference easily broke them free. And worst of all, the hail of spells

continued unabated.

"Crap, this isn't just curving!"

"Spells from head-on are hitting us in our backs!"

With no signs of an effective strategy, eight more comrades were down in a

few dozen seconds. Focusing on defense and raising a barrier could allow them

to weather things, but if their side stopped attacking, victory grew distant.

Oliver made his choice, turning to his brother.

"…You're up."

"Got it."

Gwyn pulled the instrument from his back, using his modified white wand as a

bow, and began to play.

"I can go on all day! Toni■■us!"

Enrico made to cast another spell, but—his athame remained still. Frowning,

he tried again.

"…Mm? ■■nitrus!"

There was a crackle, and it dissipated. The incantation was incomplete, and

the second's pause in his onslaught did not go unnoticed. Spells from both

sides, limiting his retreat, and two circling ahead of his path, cut in. One slash

caught a leg, severing it at the halfway point.

"Two down… Careless, Forghieri," Oliver said. One step closer to check.

Now it was Enrico's turn to figure out an unexpected attack. His eyes lit on

Gwyn's viola.

"Auditory spelljamming? And only affecting my voice. How deft!" he said.

"Mr. Gwyn, to think I'd find you here."

"Are your ears burning, Instructor Enrico?"

Named but undaunted, Gwyn had known full well his actions would identify

him. Much like the late Carlos Whitrow's enchanted voice, the enchanted music

he played was a rare talent indeed. No one else at Kimberly could do it.

"Which naturally means that must be Ms. Shannon accompanying you. You've

dragged the Sherwood siblings into this? That is shocking."

Enrico's eyes had gone from Gwyn to Shannon to the figure behind them. It

seemed like the mad old man was finally wondering exactly who he was up

against.

"You there, leader. Who might you be?"

"You'll learn my name—at the moment of your death."

Even as they spoke, the battle raged on. With two legs gone, the golem's

movements were notably less precise, and it was surrounded, buffeted by spells

from all directions. Enrico was forced to put his nano golems back on defense.

But that tactic had only been so effective because his alacrity had allowed him

to evade the bulk of the spells. Now that he was soaking those head-on, he

wouldn't last long.

"Hmm, the tide seems to be against me," Enrico muttered. "Best I change the

premise."

Oliver had been biding his chance to step in—but Enrico's multipedal golem

abruptly transformed. This was no mere minor alteration; the entire framework

of it was reshaped like starting a clay pot anew.

"Don't let him!"

Certain the fight could hinge on this, Oliver cast a spell of his own. His

comrades joined him, throwing in everything they had. But—in response, the

nano golems began to spin, forming a tornado-like barrier around Enrico, letting

no spells pass through. This resistance required immense mana from their

operator and clearly could not last long—but it allowed the transformation

within.

Of the remaining four legs, two became razor-sharp arms. The other two

remained legs but thicker, sturdier ones. Enrico was encased in the torso, but it

was now streamlined, anything extra stripped away. In less than a minute, what

had been a multi-legged golem had transformed into a vicious looking exterior,

somewhere between a man and a carnivorous beast. The overall size was

greatly reduced, and it was less like Enrico was riding the golem than wearing it.

"All done! And ready for more."

Like drawing a breath, the new golem used the vents coating it to inhale all

the nano golems, drawing them inside itself. As its defenses thinned, the spell

barrage began to get through.

They had him now—or so they thought. But before the spells reached it, the

golem jumped—rocketing upward.

" ?!"

"Above us!"

Oliver's comrades raised their athames high, following the golem—but found

no trace of it.

"Nope! I'm over here."

The voice came from right beside them, in the ear of a comrade—who

immediately lost everything above the waist. Blood and guts spattered across

the floor, a feat managed with a single sweep of the golem's arm. Another

comrade flung himself at it—but his athame caught only air as the wind

whistled through the hole in his belly.

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Pardon me; that jab was a bit too strong!"

The golem's metal arms were covered in blood; Enrico laughed maniacally.

Oliver clenched his jaw, eyes like daggers. Both comrades had escaped instant

death, but neither could anyone stop to heal them properly. While the old

man's attention was elsewhere, nearby comrades were stopping the bleeding

and dragging them to the side, but nothing more.

The sight cut Oliver to the quick, but he forced himself to keep his focus

honed on the enemy before him—on this new, as yet undefined threat.

"…A golem exoskeleton?"

"Oh? You've heard of it? You've done your homework."

The old man sounded impressed, but Oliver was well aware just how fringe

this technology was. Not just the exoskeleton. This and the nano golems that

had been tormenting them—these were all magitech that should not yet exist.

Concepts that by all rights would be confined to theoretical papers.

"Isn't it cool? By having the nano golems circulate through the interior, I can

make it both lightweight and high-output! The downside is that it

compositionally doesn't allow much mana storage, so it's a huge drain on the

operator's mana reserves. It works because I'm running it! Mages less blessed

in the capacity department would dry up in seconds!"

The mad old man was living all on his own, a century in the future. As this

thought struck him, Oliver was forced to put aside his own opinion of the man's

character and face the truth—Enrico Forghieri was undoubtedly a genius.

"But it's not a bad prototype at all. It enhances a mage's physical prowess,

completely negativing the sluggish response endemic to the golem arts. With

the mana drain, spells above doublecants are rather a challenge, but in

exchange—"

Enrico broke off, and the golem vanished from view. Two comrades sensed it

approaching and swung their blades its way—but both of their dominant arms

were torn off at the shoulder at exactly the same time.

"—it enables this barbaric fighting style! Isn't it just the best?"

Enrico brandished the severed limbs proudly, with the innocent cheer of a

child showing off their new toy.

"I want a go with it, Instructor!" Karlie yelled, shoving the athameless pair to

the side. Several others skilled in sword arts joined her, starting a close-range

battle with Enrico in his exoskeleton cocoon. But he was more than twice as

fast; he dodged every blow aimed at him, and the risk of friendly fire meant

they couldn't risk flinging spells around. Even Karlie found herself barely able to

avoid a fatal counter.

"...!"

This thing's specs were overwhelming. It was anybody's guess as to whether

Godfrey would have stood a chance against it. They'd almost had Enrico in

check—and he'd cleared the board again. As Oliver scrambled to figure out

their next move, one comrade after another dodged too late and went down.

He turned to Shannon. "…Get it ready," he said. They couldn't afford to hold

back here. Shannon knew why he'd given the order but still flinched.

"Not yet," Gwyn said, raising a hand. "Trust the upperclassmen."

His unshaken confidence settled Oliver's nerves. Oliver kept watching—and a

moment later, a subtle shift occurred.

"…Mm?"

The sound of metal scraping could be heard. Enrico had failed to fully dodge

an athame, letting out a quizzical grunt. More comrades pounced. Mere

moments earlier he'd been running circles around them, but more and more of

their blows were getting through. They were adapting to fighting this thing—

but that wasn't the only reason.

"…It's slowing down?"

Hovering around the outskirts, it was obvious even to his eye. The

exoskeleton was clearly not maintaining its initial speed. Like it was shouldering

heavy baggage, each move it took grew steadily heavier.

"F-finally k-kicking in. You've b-been too sloppy, Instructor Enrico."

A gloomy voice echoed over the battlefield. The old man turned toward it.

"Mr. Dufourcq! One of your curses, I assume?"

"Lead turtles. A th-thousandfold. H-heavy even for you."

Oliver squinted and could just make out shadows swarming the exoskeleton

golem. A curse of encumbrance. In accordance with the law of curse

conservation, Robert had scattered tiny camouflaged cursed items on the floor,

mingled with the obstacles his comrades had laid down. Enrico had been

treading on these since the battle began, unawares. Without the golem's

weight, the shells wouldn't break—so his comrades were at no risk of infection.

And the clincher was the curse effect latency caused by the delayed activation

formula. Each curse he'd trod upon was kicking in, weighing the old man down.

"Colligationem. Let's see if you can dodge the next one, Instructor."

Karlie piled on a binding spell, and Enrico's legs paused for just a moment—

""""""""Frigus!""""""""

""""""""Magnus Flamma!""""""""

—but nonetheless a moment long enough to turn the tide. A singlecant to pin

him, and a focus-fired doublecant—the same strategy they'd stuck to from the

start, but here at last it achieved results. With the nano golems absorbed into

the exoskeleton, he could no longer block the spells. The moment he no longer

had the mobility to dodge, the exoskeleton was done for.

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Wonderful! Simply wonderful, children!"

Just before the barrage of spells wrecked the golem, the air was filled with

flashes and explosions. And in the instant their eyes were blinded, Enrico

detached the torso from the limbs, rocketing himself upward.

"After him!" Oliver yelled.

Was he ejecting the nano golems like propellant? The exoskeleton's torso had

the old man flying at broom-like speeds into the depths of the helicoid hall. The

students had a barrier up to prevent escape, but Enrico hurtled right at it. The

battle so far had drastically reduced the number of people who could intercept

him.

"Good barrier! But not quite thick enough!"

Enrico started spinning like a drill, forcing his way through the barrier. It took

a good five seconds to break it, but the surviving framework was still sturdy

enough to weather that long a barrage. On the other side it began falling off,

and he hit the floor—the impact of that finally destroying it for good. Fully

exposed, Enrico scrambled to his feet.

"Kya-ha?!"

With no warning at all, a blade shot right toward his heart. Enrico's athame

struck it almost purely on instinct. The deflected blow gouged deep into his side

—the first blood he'd shed since the battle began.

"You're—" He blinked. The covert operative leaped safely away. Teresa Carste

had been on standby outside the barrier from the start, in case he attempted to

flee. But even with the element of surprise, her blade had not managed to claim

his life.

"Kya-ha… Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Enrico tore his eyes off the girl and raced down the helicoid hall, peals of

laughter echoing in his wake. He had more ball rollers embedded in the soles of

his shoes and was swiftly gaining distance. Oliver's comrades took the barrier

down and were forced to give chase on broomback, Teresa among them.

"…I failed to finish him," she said. "I have no excuse."

"No, you did good," Oliver told her. "Don't let him get away! He's injured!"

An injury like that made all the difference. Certain of that, he and his

comrades shot after Enrico at top speed.

Broomriding students were hot on his heels. Enrico could feel the hostility;

they would not be easily dissuaded. He bounded down the helicoid halls as fast

as his feet could carry him.

"Kya-ha-ha-ha! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha…!"

Spells aimed at his back pelted the air like rain, forcing him to dodge or fire

oppositional spells to cancel them out. On even terrain like this, ball roller

boots' top speed was a match for any broom. He could keep his distance for the

length of this tunnel, at least.

But he'd lost both his main golem and the nanos. The students' plan had been

a clever one, a real threat to him, and the sheer depths of their brilliance was

causing explosions of joy.

"This! This is what makes being a teacher worthwhile!"

Enrico was delighted. Becoming a teacher was the right choice. Even with a

flock of students out for his blood, he was having fun.

Oliver's team raced down the multi-mile tubular passage. As they neared the

end, they could feel the air changing on their skins. Where the library layer had

been quite comfortable, the air here was hot and dry.

"Careful! Fifth layer coming up!"

They cleared the tunnel exit, and the fifth layer spread out before them—

Firedrake Canyon. Undulating rocks, a deep ravine, and winged shadows

soaring through the space between. The titular canyon was like a maze

branching in all directions, and many a dragon nested in its walls. Most breeds

were as aggressive as they were powerful; getting through here required the

proper strength to fight one's way past them.

"Don't engage the dragons!"

"Focus only on Enrico!"

The comrades in the lead barked orders. These weren't bird wyverns like the

second layer; these skies were ruled by real wyverns, all with the proportionate

size, flight skills, and ferocity. An inexperienced student lost down here could

easily be burned to a crisp in a single breath.

But this environment wasn't enough to make any member of this group balk.

They broke through the waiting wyverns with suppressing fire and mobility,

eyes on Enrico as he slid down the ravine's sides on his ball roller boots. If he'd

merely jumped down, they'd have hit him in the air, so he kept his feet

grounded. Spells were raining down upon him, but despite the sheer rock face,

he was still proving fully capable of evading everything coming his way.

""""""""Tonitrus!""""""""

But as he reached the canyon floor, the old man's route was cut off. He was

trapped with his back to the wall, students landing in all directions, pelting him

with spells. Enrico threw up a barrier spell and held fast, but this was clearly but

a momentary respite.

"You've chosen this as your grave, Forghieri."

This time they really had him in check. No more nano golems, and even if he

tried generating more from the ground around him, their spells would

incinerate him first. The next doublecant volley would punch right through the

old man's barrier.

"…Do it!" Oliver yelled.

""""""""Magnus Flamma!""""""""

Magic lights fired from twenty-one athames, all bound for Enrico…

"I don't think so," came the mad old man's voice. "Behold."

…but a massive hand broke free of the rocks, slipping between them and the

old man.

"Wha—?"

Massive wrists, arms, and shoulders emerged from the tumbling rock face. A

torso the size of the irminsul's trunk, eyes burning with enmity. Every inch of

the three-hundred-foot colossus was covered in adamant plating. And worst of

all—the drumbeat of life echoed within.

"Noll!"

"Your Majesty, get back!"

Shannon yanked Oliver away, putting him behind her. Karlie and the front line

were gaping up at the giant.

"I can hardly leave this lying about, can I? After that fight, serving up any old

golems would hardly be a fitting reward!"

Enrico was perched on the golem's shoulder, far above the ground. A sight

that should not be—the worst imaginable outcome.

Oliver gritted his teeth. "…Dea Ex Machina."

The giant living golem he'd seen in the man's workshop. That one had been

missing the lower half but had certainly made an impression. It was the last

thing he ever wanted to fight. Choosing a battleground far from that workshop

had been mandatory, and this location was supposed to fit the bill.

"…You made two."

But there had always been the potential for something to throw a wrench in

their plans: the existence of a second living golem.

"You knew about it? I did show it to a few promising students," Enrico said,

seeing they were aware of the concept. "But I must make one correction! This is

Deus Ex Machina. Look closely—this is not the incomplete goddess you know.

This one's form is masculine!"

The old man was pointing down the machine god's length. Certainly, this

golem's skeletal structure was more robust, without the slimmer portions

Oliver remembered.

"Deus here was the first variant of the concept to reach completion. The Dea I

showed off was the second, still mid-construction. Well? Nifty little invention,

isn't it?"

Enrico beamed down at the students. They gulped, staring up at it…and then

felt a rumble from underfoot. They quickly looked around and saw a massive

four-legged dragon charging through the canyon toward them, easily three

hundred feet long, with scales like boulders. Had it not been moving, they could

well have mistaken it for part of the terrain.

"…Lindwurm coming," Gwyn muttered.

Fighting these head-on was a nightmare, so most students passing through

here dedicated themselves to avoiding its notice. But…

"Oh, don't spoil the party. Go on, get!"

Enrico had his machine god, and was not like most people. He hopped into

the control seat in the head and stood before the charging dragon.

"GRRRAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!"

Furious at this violation of its territory, the dragon let out an ear-shattering

bellow. Its charge was capable of toppling mountains—but the machine god

caught it with two hands, not sliding back a single step.

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-

ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

The machine god grabbed the dragon's neck with one hand and swung it

around like a toy. Oliver watched in awe, unable to step in. This was a sight like

no other. Lindwurms were the apex of all magical ecosystems, and this one was

helpless before the golem. Their sizes were similar, but their power was not.

"Whoops, not supposed to kill it," Enrico muttered. "It would disrupt the

whole ecosystem here!"

The dragon was already unconscious and foaming at the mouth, so he simply

tossed it away. The fifth layer's overlord slid across the canyon floor and did not

get up. In the Deus's driver's seat, Enrico turned his eyes from the lindwurm to

the wyverns wheeling overhead.

"There are far too many of you. Let's thin your numbers a tad. Spiritale!"

The golem's raised hands fired a beam of purple light from the tips. Any

wyvern unlucky enough to be caught in the light was instantly incinerated. A

few breathed fire back, but Enrico ignored this entirely, thinning the wyvern

numbers like he was swatting mosquitoes.

"Hmm, mana packing efficiency at less than ten percent."

As wyverns fled, Enrico waggled the machine god's fingers, checking the

functions.

"Hardly peak performance, but it is an emergency activation during

maintenance. Fuel reserves are inadequate, but nothing to be done about

that."

These checks complete, the golem's massive bulk turned with surprising ease,

facing Oliver and his comrades. It lorded over them, making everyone flinch.

The relentless pressure was no longer directed at the lindwurm or the wyverns,

but at them.

"Shall we go on, children? How are you going to kill me now? It's only right

that you do so by overcoming my greatest invention!"

He was clearly champing at the bit. The students, meanwhile, didn't move. All

of them had yet to falter in their attacks, but now they were frozen stiff. They

were at a loss. How could they fight this monster? How could they avoid being

decimated within the next minute?

Despite everything they'd achieved so far, Oliver's comrades were back at

square one. The multi-legged golem on ball rollers, the nano golems, the

exoskeleton—they'd racked their brains and overcome them all, only to find

this nightmare looming above them. Deus Ex Machina, the most horrifying thing

imaginable.

"Ha-ha."

But despite all that, Oliver alone…was laughing.

"Right? You dare talk about what's right?"

The laugh tore out of him like he couldn't endure it otherwise. His nearby

comrades stared wide-eyed with alarm.

"Please, Forghieri. Don't go acting like you have principles. An animal like you

who's betrayed and turned on his own student has long since lost that

privilege."

He glared up at the machine god. All seemed lost, yet the fight had not yet

left him—he was here to kill this man.

"You will die like a dog. Like an insect. Like the trash you are. A fate more

miserable than those of the countless lives you've trifled with. That is the right

way for you to die."

He took a step forward, athame brandished at his side. Then he called over

his shoulder to Gwyn and Shannon.

"Do it."

"…!"

Shannon shook her head. A refusal far more adamant than she was ordinarily

capable of. Fully aware of why she was so reluctant, Oliver commanded her

again, his voice like steel.

"That was an order from your lord. Release the seal, Shannon Sherwood!"

He spoke to her not as his sister but as his vassal. She looked ready to burst

into tears, but Gwyn put his hand on her shoulder.

"...Shannon."

His voice said it all. This was the only option left.

"...…"

And it forced her to act, knowing this would put her cousin through hellish

suffering.

"…Duaedetroni."

Her mind made up, Shannon raised her white wand, chanting. As he heard the

words, Oliver felt a familiar presence join him. A great and powerful soul, using

him as a temporary solace.

"Misce, misce."

"...Ah..."

It overlapped with Oliver's soul, merging with it. Pouring into him like molten

gold.

" kk "

Dizzying heat, pain racking his body. Every ounce of his flesh rejecting the

invasion, resisting, trying to force it out. This response was a defense

mechanism, one Oliver had to override with inflexible willpower. That

intractable contradiction caused yet more pain—yet that, too, was but a taste

of what lay in store.

" AH ah "

In accordance with the golden flow, the change advanced from his soul to his

etheric body, from there unto his flesh. The flow of mana expanded and

accelerated, rebuilding his very bones, causing an eruption of hurt a hundred

times that of growing pains. An orchestra of maddening torment that the boy

squashed with incessant loathing for the enemy at hand.

" A A "

He embraced the pain, like a cup of hemlock willingly downed. From the

depths of his melting reason rose an ironic relief. This was an apt punishment

for defiling his mother's soul.

The blood vessels in his eyes were ripping open. Crimson tears flowed from

both eyes, flowing down over his mask and onto his cheeks below.

" GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

With a howl, he hurtled himself into the air. The broom on his back was quick

to react and took flight, catching his feet atop its back.

Aboard the sprinting broom, Oliver assumed a stance, turned right, hand low.

A heretical form found in none of the three core sword art styles—but one he'd

shown a hint of before, when dueling Nanao.

Chloe style, unleashed.

Arts once lost, now reborn. By swallowing the soul of a genius, the boy

became a comet, trailing tears of blood in his wake as he shot toward the

machine god.

"Gladio!"

He swung his athame in passing. The impact of the severing spell struck the

machine god's shoulder, and shards of torn-off adamant fell through the air.

"You broke through the armor with a singlecant?!" Enrico gasped.

Behind the giant, Oliver wheeled around, coming back in. The machine god

swung its arms to swat him out of the sky, but he evaded this with daredevil

maneuvers and dove beneath the arm, raking the torso's side with a doublecant

severing spell. A metallic screech assaulted everyone's ears, and once again, a

deep gash appeared in the armor.

"…An adamant-piercing Gladio."

The mad old man's voice had dropped deep and low.

The machine god's palms went out, aimed at Oliver's trajectory. The same

purple light that had decimated the wyverns now became a barrage of shots

peppering the vicinity. The blasts were far too dense to evade, no matter how

good you were with a broom.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

But faced with that unavoidable bombardment, Oliver leaped off his broom.

Freed from his weight, the broom easily slipped safely through the gaps, and

Oliver stepped on the air itself, dashing in three dimensions through the

onslaught. A few steps later, the broom wheeled back, and his feet landed on it

once more.

"…Acrobatic broom tricks mixed with Sky Walking…"

All these moves defied magical combat de rigueur, making the word masterful

seem like an understatement. But the old man had seen them all before.

"Who taught you to fight like that?" Enrico demanded.

In lieu of an answer, Oliver fired a severing spell at the machine god's head. It

used its arms as shields, weathering the strike as Enrico remained fixated on

deciphering the situation.

"…No. Nobody did. Even if she personally trained you, they're not moves you

can imitate. Moreover—how are those absurd maneuvers not tearing your

body apart?!"

Flying a broom at impossible speeds, pausing only to dash across the air well

beyond the limits of what Sky Walking could do. These maneuvers were beyond

what even mages should be capable of. Forcibly turning that hard would crush

your organs. Enrico had seen someone prove him wrong on that before.

"…Mm—"

But there was one clear difference here. The red stream of blood left in the

boy's wake was no longer mere tears. Blood was pouring from every inch of his

body, his long-since-sodden robe unable to soak up any more. Enrico tweaked

his observations accordingly.

"…They are tearing you apart. Yet, you are healing in tandem. Maintaining a

healing spell to match the toll on your physique? Who is…? Where? How?"

Successive impossibilities should long since have destroyed him, yet

someone's healing was keeping that at bay. Enrico could tell that much, but he

had no clue who was capable of that or how they were pulling it off. It was

clearly beyond the boy himself, but the distance was too great for his comrades

to be offering remote support. Healing was a delicate art to begin with,

generally requiring the finesse afforded only within the range of spatial magic. It

couldn't be done to someone performing mid-aerial maneuvers.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

But reality refuted that theory. Damaged but not downed, the boy's aerial

display continued unabated. His crimson-stained eyes gleamed with hellish

hostility, and Enrico felt a chill he had not felt in years—and this sensation, too,

gave him pleasure.

"…What a thrill! So many mysteries…!"

His bleeding eyes left his vision stained red. Bottomless pain and loathing

strobed in and out of his mind.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Heat like molten lava was running through his veins. Oliver fought like the

embodiment of hell on earth.

The word pain had long since ceased to have meaning. His body shattered, his

soul splintering; there was no part of him that didn't hurt, no moment of relief.

All five senses merged into the agony, and external information was carried to

him on waves of torment. And that's what made this so essential. Just as Deus

Ex Machina was fueled by a curse, he was running on pain.

Spell light fired from the machine god's fingers. A single hit would evaporate

his flesh, forcing him to dance across the sky heedless of inertia. The enormous

strain ripped the flesh from his extremities, but every wound was healed within

moments. It was like a punishment. He was a damned soul not even allowed

the privilege of an end.

As it should be, the boy thought. As it has to be. He laughed. There were two

indelible sinners here. And he had never dared dream that one might be spared

from torment.

Oliver was going solo against Deus Ex Machina, fighting like nothing in this

world. Feeble attempts at support seemed liable to undermine that, and his

comrades below were unsure what to do.

"Where do we aim?!"

"The joins! Armor's too thick elsewhere!"

"Anyone think they can punch through adamant?!"

"At point-blank range, sure! Someone back me!"

"Wait, no reckless charges! If we can't get to Enrico himself—"

Even battle-hardened upperclassmen were left in disarray. Frustrated by their

lack of options, some comrades broke away from the pack, hopping on their

brooms, determined not to let their young lord fight alone.

But their actions didn't go unnoticed. They were barely in the air before a

purple light swept toward them from the machine god's palms.

"Ah—"

"Crap—!"

Realizing their blunder, their faces blanched. When taking flight, you had to

hit a set speed before evasion was possible. And that left them fatally exposed,

helpless to avoid bathing in that merciless purple light.

"Extruditor!"

Oliver slipped in a spell and a hand, saving his two comrades from death by a

hairbreadth.

"Huh…?"

"L-Lord…?"

He'd knocked one away with a spell and dragged the other by their collar. All

of them just managed to get outside the kill zone in time. Leaving them

stunned, the boy was back on his broom, rocketing skyward.

" GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

He roared for Enrico's undivided attention. Comrades safe behind him, he

took on the terrifying machine god all on his own. They were no longer

protecting that boy; he was protecting them.

"Dammit, Gwyn!" Karlie roared. "What the hell was that?! What's he thinking,

stepping in to save anyone?! One false move, and we'd have lost our king!"

"…I doubt Noll is capable of thinking," Gwyn said, his bow wand never

pausing. The tones he put out were a mess, betraying the emotional toll that

putting his cousin in harm's way took on him. But he couldn't afford to stop.

The enchanted healing music was the only thing easing Oliver's suffering.

"He's fused with the soul of Chloe Halford, the mage of the millennium. It was

sheer luck that his body didn't explode on the first attempt, and it's honestly a

miracle that he's still fighting. He's got no room left for logic."

Harboring his mother's soul—to Oliver, this was like putting a lion's heart

inside a mouse. It could not fit; it could only tear him apart. Even if it was

somehow forced inside, a single beat would cause a rush of blood so powerful

his flesh would explode.

"Even a momentary fusion is risky. And right now, he's maintaining it, even as

he fights. That's not a sane act. Regardless of the foundation he's built from

repeated prior fusions…"

Gwyn knew what a titanic feat this was better than anyone but the boy

himself. As a mage of the Sherwood clan—their eldest son—this was a hand

fate should have dealt to him first.

"I couldn't bear it. I couldn't handle the pain for even a single second."

And he would never forget the sin of forcing his burden onto his cousin.

"Sanavulnera… Sanavulnera… Sanavulnera…!"

In Gwyn's shadow, Shannon was casting healing magic through her tears. This

was keeping her cousin's body intact, yet also torturing him with ceaseless pain.

Rapid healing went hand-in-hand with recovery pain. The wounds themselves

hurt, and so did the repairs to them—Oliver was fighting while buffeted by both

at once. And the pain Gwyn mentioned, the one brought by Chloe's soul—that

was yet a third source of suffering.

Karlie looked at the siblings, then at Oliver above, catching up on just how bad

all this was.

"He's not capable of thought…?" she asked. "Hang on—then why would he

protect us? He's basically in a trance! He shouldn't be capable of protecting his

pawns…"

Unable to find a reason why he'd have stepped in, Karlie was at a loss. But in

Gwyn's mind, the answer was obvious. Even as he played his instrument, he put

it into words.

"It's the other way around. Without the constraints of his rational mind, Noll

is incapable of abandoning anyone. Even with his mother's killer before him,

even with his body racked by pain."

Gwyn bit his lip, and a drop of blood ran down his chin. It wasn't nearly

painful enough, but without it he could not stay sane. He couldn't let his cousin

suffer alone.

"…Deep down, he's just nice. Incorrigibly kindhearted…!"

His voice was an anguished cry. And the emotion in it was what allowed Karlie

and her brethren to fully understand who their lord really was, what kind of

person she'd allowed to lead her into war.

"…Holy…shit…!" Karlie swore, emotions boiling up inside: shame, inadequacy,

and something beyond both she did not have a word for. And not just her; the

other comrades were shaking as mana raged within them. They resisted the

urge to leap right into the fray, holding themselves in check, eyes on the battle

above.

"…How long does it last?" Karlie asked.

"We've never tried longer than two minutes," Gwyn growled.

That clinched it for everyone. Their lord was carving his own life to ribbons,

buying them time—time to come up with a plan worth what he was putting

himself through.

Up in the machine god's driver's seat, Enrico had already ceased to see these

students as a threat, his enthusiasm entirely directed to Oliver alone. He found

his opponent's inexplicable strength and the mechanism behind it deeply

fascinating.

"…I think I'm starting to piece it together. Still a lot of guesswork, though."

He'd made enough observations to voice a hypothesis.

"Her soul lies within you, yes?" he said, certain that much was true. "The soul

of Chloe Two-Blade Halford herself."

Oliver was past responding. His very bones creaked from the speed of his

broom. He ducked beneath the golem's mighty swing, doggedly aiming for

Enrico's perch before chiseling away at the armor with yet another severing

spell.

The mad old man paid him no heed. He just kept musing away.

"A soul merge! I was aware of the theory but have never seen it in practice

before. I heard only two demi species in history have ever pulled it off! To blend

another's soul with your own, making their nature and experience yours… What

a feat! We have scarcely any method of directly observing the soul, leaving

soulology a sadly nascent field, so I have no way of proving this, but…"

Successes in an unobservable domain had results in an observable one. That,

too, was commonplace where mages operated. And it allowed Enrico to narrow

down what must be happening within his opponent.

"But once I eliminate the alternatives, a soul merge is the one remaining

option. Chloe's sword arts were hers and hers alone. Even Garland could only

learn a fraction of the whole and proved unable to copy her fighting style in any

measurable way."

A particularly strong slash struck the golem's hand, slicing off a finger. Enrico

remained unperturbed. Indeed, he seemed impressed by how smooth the cut

was. A spell indifferent to the hardness of adamant—was it severing the bonds

between matter at a micro level, or was it just yet another testament to Chloe

Halford's superiority?

"A once-in-a-generation ability, one that cannot be passed on through blood

or education—we mages call that a soul skill. And Chloe had more soul skills

than any other. There is but one way to obtain them—if you have access to that

very soul. As you and the headmistress do."

When the seven of them had taken Chloe Halford down, the headmistress

had absorbed her soul. That was her role—that, and the surprise betrayal.

But the sight before him contradicted what he knew—and led him to a

different conclusion.

"On the night in question, the headmistress didn't manage to steal all of

Chloe's soul, I see. A portion of it escaped her clutches and made its way to you.

That's the only explanation."

Enrico was sure of that. He didn't understand how that worked, but a portion

of Chloe Halford's soul must have split away and was here inside his foe,

allowing this boy to use her arts against Enrico.

And having reached that conclusion, the instructor drew a deep breath.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

"Kya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

His laugh tore up from the diaphragm as if trying to drown out his opponent's

murderous roar.

"Compare us to the demis, and you shall see! Humans—are creatures of

individuality!"

The mad old man was yelling now, to a foe who seemed unlikely to be

capable of conversation. Yet, he raised his voice to make his words reach home

—nay, hit home.

"That is especially true for mages! The art of the soul merge is fundamentally

not for us! The stress of two souls melding must be beyond imagining! The

headmistress is managing to dominate the soul she stole, but even a witch like

her is left with chronic headaches!"

Oliver didn't need to be told this. He knew how impossible this feat was. Even

as they spoke, he shed blood, stifled his agony, and groaned under the strain.

These sensations were telling him that same thing. But he didn't listen. If he

paid them the slightest heed, the spell would break. And he knew that would

leave him unable to lift a single finger.

"Meanwhile, what you're doing is far more demanding! The vessel of your

flesh cannot match the soul skill! Each move you make destroys you,

necessitating constant healing!"

Accurate. Oliver's body was only in one piece because his cousin's healing was

faster than his physical collapse. Without her support he would have been long

since rent asunder. He'd lost count of how many times his tendons had snapped

in this fight alone.

"Humans can receive only a finite amount of healing in one lifetime. I'm sure

you know that! How much of your total lifespan are you sacrificing for each

minute you fight like this?!"

The old man's words called forth a memory. At the back of Oliver's mind was

a step on the road to what he now was.

"Feel that? You're starting to hit that wall."

On all fours in a cold cellar, Oliver listened to the even colder sound of his

father's voice. For fifteen hours straight, they'd been training, leaving every inch

of his body in pain. Oliver had lost track of how many bones he'd broken or how

many times he'd passed out. Liberal use of medical treatment and potions

forced his recovery, but that was proving to be increasingly fruitless to get him

moving again.

"…Kah… Hah…"

"That's the limit of your talent. Obtaining any techniques above your level will

take ages, or prove entirely impossible. Only the truly gifted can overcome that

wall. And I'm afraid you have no such talent."

Even with his son on the brink of death, his father's tone stayed flat. No trace

of any emotion. The purpose of this attempt was to break his son's body and

mind; they had no use for feelings here.

"Physical growth and experience can supplement it to a degree, but that

won't be nearly enough. Each of your targets are real talents," he told Oliver.

"That's where Chloe Halford's soul comes in. Inputting the experience of a

genius—experience you could never hope to reach—will allow you to break

through this wall and nothing more. That is, of course…only if you can

withstand the soul merge."

Too tired and hurting to speak, Oliver still somehow managed to grasp his

father's words. Thought alone must never be abandoned. The cessation of

thought meant the loss of all meaning. If meaning was lost, then the pain to

come would be unendurable.

"Do you know why we hurt you to your limits before we attempt a fusion?

Because we require your soul to feel the need. To convince it that you flesh will

not survive otherwise," his father explained. "Human souls are fundamentally

not capable of accepting outside input. The shells of our selves are very hard

and can only be changed via the filter of our own experiences. That remains

true even with the soul-sucking progenitor power. But if we meet a number of

conditions, that can change. And one of those involves weakening the soul's

resistance to the merger."

The voice droned on, no variation to it. All the training and pain so far had

merely been preparations for the real goal. Oliver felt a cold wave of fear—fear

he'd thought long since paralyzed. He couldn't begin to fathom it. Suffering

greater than this? How was that even possible?

"The pain will be unimaginable. There is no guarantee you'll endure it. When

you are ready, say the word."

He offered no smidgen of reassurance, merely a promise of a future filled

with agony. And his father was well aware how merciless it was to demand a

decision from him here.

"…Will…?"

Oliver feebly tried to string the words together. He hadn't spoken in hours,

and now that he did, it was not to voice his own suffering but to ask an urgent

question.

"…Will it hurt…Mom…?"

"...!"

All this time, his father had kept that mask of indifference over his heart, but

these words caused its facade to crack. His nails dug into his quivering cheeks,

stilling them. Between those fingers, Oliver caught the briefest glimpse of the

man his father once was. Of the time when Oliver had been happy.

"…A being that exists only as a soul does not have a conscious mind like the

living. Only when the body, ether, and soul are assembled does the mind truly

function. Chloe is not capable of feeling the pain you do."

This was the first and only respite Oliver had been granted since this training

began. A small hint of relief amid the pain he'd been through and had yet to

experience, none of which would reach his mother.

"Put that unneeded concern out of your mind. Focus, else your personality

will be lost on the first attempt."

The man aimed his white wand at the room's sole door, calling, "Come in,

Shannon." Opened with a spell, the girl plastered to the door this whole time

came tumbling into the cellar: Shannon Sherwood, her eyes red with tears.

"Noll!"

Seeing her cousin barely breathing, Shannon scrambled over to him, wrapping

her arms tight around his frame. The corners of his lips twitched. He could

barely feel anything but pain, but her warmth pushed through. He could feel

her love for him.

"Do it. You're from the main line; you know far better than I do that this is the

duty our lineage demands."

And his father was already snatching away that small comfort. Oliver knew

that was for his benefit. If he was allowed a rest here, if the thread of tension

snapped, then he could never endure the pain to come.