Epilogue

That evening, Katie woke up on a bed in the infirmary surrounded by her

friends. Oliver explained to them all what had occurred.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Katie…but that's what happened."

"..."

The curly-haired girl sat silently in bed. Oliver continued, as if he was

handling something fragile.

"Ms. Miligan didn't mean you any harm. When you first started trying

to communicate with the troll, I'm sure she helped you out of pure

goodwill. All she wanted to do was help a friend who shared the same

values," he said, thinking that could serve as some comfort. But he wasn't

sure if there was any point.

Seeing that Oliver was having a tough time, Chela took over. "But then

you did something she never expected. That troll she'd abandoned as a

failure in her experiments spoke to you in the human tongue, thanks to your

attempts at communicating. That must have come as a great shock to her

after years and years without a breakthrough."

It wasn't necessarily a good thing to have the attention of a mage. Even

the title of pro–civil rights activist wasn't a guarantee that one's humanity

remained intact. Oliver realized how naive he still was to be understanding

this only now.

"I've already informed Godfrey of the situation," he said. "At first, he

was shocked, but he accepted it once he heard the troll speaking human

language. Now that he's keeping tabs on her, Miligan can't do the awful

things she once did."

Oliver had made sure to be thorough in taking care of all the loose ends

he'd put off for so long. After all she'd put them through, Miligan deserved

a fitting punishment. It was only natural that she be put in check, and she'd

need to make reparations to Katie specifically, too.

"…I just want to know," Katie said quietly, seeing that he was done

explaining. "What's going to happen to the troll?"

"Ironically, it's the one and only example in the world of successful

intellectualization. I think it's safe to assume it won't be executed. And if

we use the fact that you're the best at communicating with it, it's possible

we could improve its life."

This, at least, was the silver lining to the situation. Oliver could only

guess, but he believed it was Katie's personality that drew out human words

from the troll. She was always working to see things from its perspective,

even eating the same food and singing together. Little by little, she'd grown

closer to its heart. This wasn't something the snake-eyed witch could

replicate no matter how hard she tried: warm human interaction.

Katie exhaled shortly.

"Got it. So this is a good result, right?"

"Katie…"

There was no way it was that simple. Pity filled Oliver's eyes as he

studied her, when suddenly she yelled sharply.

"Oliver! At attention!"

He instinctively straightened up in his chair.

Katie hopped out of bed, walked over to him, and placed her lips on his

cheek before he could say a word.

"?!?!?!?!"

"…Phew! Okay, Nanao, you next!"

"Mm?!"

Katie blushed scarlet as she planted a kiss on Nanao, too. Their friends

gawked.

"That's thanks for saving me!" she said loudly, standing in the middle of

the group. "Of course, that's not nearly enough to repay you, so think of it

as a deposit. Thanks, you two. And I'm sorry for always getting into

danger," she said, grabbing their hands. Then, while they were still reeling,

she balled her hands into fists.

"But don't worry! I'm not going to let this get me down! I might have

been raised soft, but knock me down enough times, and I'll come back

tough. You say that troll had his brain messed with? That I was kidnapped

by someone I trusted and almost dissected? Ah-ha-ha! Who cares?!" Katie

howled. She was full of resentment, sadness, and a refusal to be broken.

Fortunately, there were no other patients in the infirmary. She put a hand to

her chest and took a deep breath to calm herself, then continued.

"Let me be honest—this place, Kimberly, is truly awful. But that's par

for the course for magical society. If I stay here, I'll get plenty of chances to

duke it out with the problems plaguing this world," she announced. Her

gaze was powerful as she grinned fearlessly. "This is a good sign. I emerged

the victor this time, right? I fought for and won that troll's right to live. We

lost a few battles along the way, and the future's sure to be thorny, but I

didn't stay down when I was beat. And of course, most of it is thanks to all

of you. I still can't protect myself…but I swear I won't stay this way. I'll

get strong, too, so I can live a life I'm proud of."

Oliver's eyes went wide in surprise. While he'd been agonizing over the

right way to comfort her, she'd already made up her mind to keep fighting.

Even after knowing the fearsomeness of Kimberly and experiencing the

cruelty of the world, she chose to keep fighting, covered in blood and mud.

I hardly recognize you, Oliver thought from the bottom of his heart. She

was no longer the Katie Aalto who nearly gave up after her first day of

magical biology class. She was no longer an angel who spoke only of

fanciful ideals.

"I think my first order of business will be to go and smack Ms. Miligan.

She's a rotten traitor, but she was still the first upperclassman to sympathize

with me. I'm gonna give her a piece of my mind, and when that's done, I'll

have a long, hard think about if and where our relationship will go from

there."

Her friends stared in amazement, unable to comprehend that she'd still

be willing to interact with someone who'd put her through so much. Picking

up on their concern, Katie shook her head firmly.

"If I cut off all contact and keep to myself, I'll always be afraid of

anyone I meet. Because honestly, no matter where you go, this academy is

full of people like her."

It was a scary thing to point out, but no one could deny it. Katie snorted

in derision.

"So I'll just grow a thicker skin," she stated. "And if I see an opening,

I'll be sure to get my own licks in. I swear I won't always be on the losing

side; just you watch. I'm gonna fight, and hopefully by the time I graduate,

this academy will have become just a tiny bit kinder!" she proclaimed

loudly.

Tears spilled down Oliver's cheeks at seeing her like this.

"Huh—O-Oliver?! Wh-what's gotten into you?"

She'd expected them to go, Oh, that Katie, but not even in her wildest

dreams had she foreseen someone crying. She burst into a panic, fussing

over him but not sure what to do.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Are you crying because I'm being too reckless?

Should I start with a more realistic goal?" she fretted, but Oliver shook his

head and smiled through the tears.

"No. No, that's not it, Katie. I just…"

Little by little, the words bubbled up as he remembered his past worries.

She'll end up breaking one day, he'd found himself thinking. At some

point, something would be the last straw, and the shadow of defeat would

fill her eyes. Secretly, he'd been prepared for that possibility after the latest

incident.

But he was wrong. The girl who stood before him was stronger, yet

hadn't lost any of the kindness in her eyes. She'd have to face many trials in

the future, of that he was sure. She'd experience unimaginable pain, too.

But even so, she wouldn't let it take her down for good. She'd keep moving

forward. Katie Aalto shined so brightly that he couldn't help but believe in

her.

"…Do you mind if I think of this as a victory for me, too? That even I

was able to protect something?" Oliver mumbled through tears. His one

eternal wish was for kind people to remain kind, yet in this world, it seemed

like such an unreal wish. Now, however, in a small way, it had been

granted, because of this girl. It was such a joyous, blinding thing—his tears

simply wouldn't stop.

Midnight, about a week after the incident involving Katie and the troll.

"So you came, Mr. Horn." A heavy voice echoed in the darkness of the

labyrinth, no different from the impression he gave off during class.

"…Yes."

Oliver stood before the man who had summoned him, expression stiff.

"Follow me and don't dally. I'm sure you know this already, but it's

infinitely more dangerous here in the labyrinth's depths than in the higher

strata. Be sure not to lose sight of me."

"…Understood."

And with that, the alchemy instructor turned and proceeded down the

labyrinth hall. Oliver followed wordlessly. Their footsteps echoed in the

empty space, their only companion the encroaching sinister air.

"Where are we headed?"

"Would you really like to know?" Darius asked with an air of drama.

Oliver nodded, and the instructor dropped his voice low. "Right before you

started school here, a student was consumed by the spell. We're headed to

their workshop."

"…!"

"It goes without saying that we're here to retrieve and preserve their

research. Most of the time, this is handled by other students, but when

things are too dangerous, a faculty member is sent instead. This is one of

those times. This was a very bright student, you see."

Darius stopped, held out his wand to a nearby wall, and chanted a spell.

Immediately, it vanished to reveal a staircase. This was probably a shortcut

to the lower layers that only faculty members knew of. Oliver followed

Darius, wary of any possible danger.

"Being consumed by the spell is a mage's greatest fear, but at the same

time, it is also the most honorable death possible. It is proof that your

relationship with magic has grown extremely close, after all. But most

importantly, such people always leave behind results. Their life essence

itself becomes the cornerstone for our ascent to the next realm."

Darius grinned boldly as he preached.

Oliver remained mostly silent, only giving minimal responses.

They walked for almost an hour, taking many secret passages. Oliver

could feel the magic particles getting denser, and it was getting harder to

breathe. Finally, at the end of a long hall, Darius stopped in front of a door.

"This is it. Once you're inside, don't take a step away from the

entrance," he warned. The man drew his athame and cast a spell. The door

instantly swung open, and the smell of blood and rotting flesh wafted out.

"We have company."

"…!"

The first thing Oliver saw inside the vast chamber was the endless

number of corpses covering the floor—corpses of magical beasts. It looked

as if there had been a vicious scuffle among the creatures, with the

survivors eating the dead. And standing atop them was a bizarre figure.

"As I expected, the Gate was left open. Some nasty beasts have

managed to crawl out."

Darius snorted. Three beasts still survived in the room, like dregs

swirling the bottom of a vial of poison: a nidhogg, covered entirely in fieryred scales; a bicorn, its pure-white hide speckled with blood; and a zahhak,

one-eyed snakes protruding from its shoulders. All of them exuded mindboggling levels of mana, but the zahhak in the very back made Oliver

shiver. That one was bad news. It was most likely one step from deity

status, on a similar level to the garuda before it had been weakened.

"I, Darius Grenville, will be your final opponent. You should be

honored," the instructor said, facing off against the beasts without a change

in expression. The moment he took a step forward, the creatures all turned

their attention to him. Waves of mana rolled off Darius, inciting their

hostility.

The beasts attacked, their malice unabated. The quickest of them, the

bicorn, charged first. Its twin horns housed ice and lightning elementals,

which endowed their host's onrush with a divine protection. Once the

bicorn got close enough, its prey was already dead. Freeze it and blow it to

bits—that was its hunting style. Its two horns closed in on Darius as the

creature rushed forward.

"Useless mule. Can't even recognize your superiors?" Darius spat. The

bicorn went flying right past him, crashing into a wall and toppling over. Its

head had been severed midcharge. Oliver grimaced. He hadn't even seen

what the man had done.

Next came the nidhogg, apparently not bothered by the bicorn's death.

Its red-hot scales glowed even brighter, and the heat combining inside its

body became a giant fireball that it belched out. It was easily ten times the

size of one of Oliver's fireballs, and they kept coming from the fearsome

dragon's maw.

"I'll keep the scales. The rest, I have no use for."

Darius weaved through the fireballs; just one was hot enough to turn his

whole body to ash at the faintest touch. He dodged each one by a

hairbreadth, yet he never felt any fear thanks to his precise predictions and

confidence.

The dragon managed to launch three fireballs before Darius got in close.

Before it could belch the next one, Darius sliced off the beast's head. It

didn't even have time to attack with its fangs or claws.

"Now all that's left is you."

Darius repositioned himself to face his last target, the zahhak. It rushed

at Darius, gripping dark blades in its shriveled hands. First it came in low

with a stab, then twisted into a chopping movement. Darius parried the

relentless blows with ease.

"Hmph, you have a modicum of skill. Were you perhaps a mage, eons

ago?"

The zahhak had escaped the limits of the human body long ago. There

was a unique tempo to its footwork, like the flow of some dense liquid. As a

result, it was difficult to judge its attacks. Darius traded his first blows with

his target.

"But your previous life is of no importance to me," he said after

blocking a horizontal swipe. "You were no more than a man who was

consumed by the spell."

The fight ended as soon as it had started. The zahhak stabbed at the

man's chest but hit nothing but air, sending it slightly off-balance. Darius

used that opening to slide his blade into its neck. The featureless severed

head fell to the floor and rolled faceup. Darius stomped on the face cavity

without hesitation.

"Hmph. Not even worth the effort."

Even without its face, its head seemed to be the core of the zahhak. Its

headless body spasmed, then turned into black mist and vanished, leaving

not even a corpse behind. Oliver struggled to close his gaping mouth as he

stood in the entrance.

"…That was amazing swordsmanship. You took on those three beasts at

the same time and didn't even cast a spell."

"Stating the obvious will not endear you to me, Mr. Horn," the man said

flatly, but the corners of his mouth were turned up ever so slightly. "But you

are not wrong. Save for our venerable headmistress, I am the best

swordsman in all of Kimberly. I would be a much more suitable sword arts

master than that cowardly Garland."

Darius pulled no punches there. His mention of Master Garland

confirmed one thing Oliver had heard before: that once, Luther Garland and

Darius Grenville battled it out for the title of sword arts instructor.

"However, my current position is what it is. Unlike Garland, I have

worth outside of the sword. I have a higher calling: to teach and lead my

students in their studies. I cannot afford to neglect my duty as an

instructor."

He exhaled through his nose, then proceeded further into the room,

staring down at the twisted space peeking through the floor. This must be

the "Gate" the beasts had crawled out of. Around it were layers upon layers

of magic circles. The man pointed his wand at them and erased a section of

the equation. The frayed section of space quickly sealed shut.

"Now the Gate has been closed. All that's left is to retrieve the research

results from within the workshop. You may move now, but don't touch

anything. A mage's base contains many tools that can kill you with even the

slightest misuse."

And with that warning, Darius set to investigating the room. He kicked

the bodies out of his way as he went, only mildly irritated by the room's

state of disarray. Carefully, Oliver approached him.

"…May I ask a question?" he asked quietly as Darius continued his

search.

"Go ahead. What is it?" Darius replied, not turning away from his task.

Oliver took a breath.

"You knew about that troll's brain, didn't you, Instructor?"

A few seconds of silence passed. Darius kept up his search, neither

confirming nor denying the question.

"Oh? What makes you think that?" he asked back.

"It seemed unnatural to me that you were in such a rush to execute the

troll, not the instructor in charge of the magical beasts. I don't think it's a

stretch to say you wanted to destroy any evidence of its brain being

tampered with before someone found out."

"Are you saying I was covering for Miligan?"

"Yes. You supplied her with all manner of demi-humans for years, so I

thought it was clear," Oliver said, revealing the damning evidence.

A smile rose on Darius's lips. "You've done your research. Is that

another one of your specialties?"

"You could say that. There's just one thing I don't understand. Why did

you support Ms. Miligan's research? You don't care one bit for the

betterment of demi-humans."

Oliver knew what this man had done, but the motive eluded him. He

studied, but the instructor snorted disinterestedly.

"The betterment of pseudohumans, eh? Certainly, I have no interest in

such foolish pursuits."

"Then why?" Oliver asked again.

Darius stopped searching the room and turned to face him. "To eradicate

stupidity from the human race. That is my greatest wish," he replied,

revealing his ultimate desire as a mage. "I'm sure you're aware that ever

since ancient times, humanity has been made up of ten percent wise men,

ninety percent fools. No matter how far back in history you go, this ratio

stays the same. Thanks to the spread of education, this has changed a bit,

but there is still a limit. Those born as apes can play at humanity, but they

can never rise to the realm of wise men."

Darius insisted that the majority of humanity were these apes. And that

he, the only person who lamented this fact, was one of these so-called wise

men.

"To change this law of nature, I need to revise human intellect itself.

Taking a lower element and turning it into something precious—this is the

true principle of alchemy. Miligan's research was just one of many specific

approaches to this. I cared only for the possibilities her research presented,

not the intentions behind it."

It was all about the methods, Darius seemed to claim.

When Oliver understood what he was saying, his expression stiffened.

"So you…wanted to apply the intellectualization of demi-humans to

humans?"

"Correct. Those pseudohumans made good test subjects to at least

improve her technique," Darius replied. Then his expression soured. "But

Miligan was incorrigible. She had no issues cutting open countless demihumans in the name of her research, but she wouldn't allow me to execute

the troll in order to avoid complications. Then she brought in Garland and

meddled in the decision to keep the creature alive. And now her research

itself is on hold. Ridiculous, skewed priorities."

The decision to kill the troll for anything other than research was where

the difference in their stances emerged. Now it all made sense to Oliver.

Vera Miligan had committed countless atrocities against demi-humans in

the name of winning them civil rights. Beneath this twisted logic was at

least a current of her own brand of justice and love. She'd cut up hundreds

of demi-humans in her workshop—but when it came to sacrificing one troll

for her own self-preservation, she just couldn't bring herself to do it.

"..."

Oliver was reminded of an old adage: For every hundred mages, you'll

find a hundred different forms of madness. He stood rooted to the spot, a

grim look on his face.

"It's truly depressing," Darius said with a heavy sigh. "Another year,

another flood of fools joins the academy. There is a certain joy in sifting

through the rabble for the rare gems, but once that's finished, all that's left

is the Herculean task of elevating the intellects of the remaining hordes of

fools. Just thinking about it makes me dizzy."

"..."

"Still, it's not their fault for being born fools. Thus, as an educator, I

must show them the way. Until we find a more definite solution than

current teaching methods, I have no choice but to exhaust myself for the

greater good," he lamented, then suddenly fixed Oliver with a stare. "Now

that our work on that troll's brain has been made public, it won't be easy to

produce test subjects. Miligan's research has been halted for the foreseeable

future. I cannot hold a grudge against you, as you were merely a victim of

hers, but I hope you are aware of my disappointment."

"…What do you want from me?" Oliver asked quietly.

"Become my apprentice and aid me in any research I conduct," Darius

proclaimed. "People like you who excel at everything make perfect

assistants. Join me, and with my wits, I'll take you to heights you never

could have reached on your own."

From his bold attitude, it was clear that he himself considered there to be

no greater honor. Oliver balled his fists and looked down.

"Heights I could never reach on my own, huh? You've certainly made

up your mind about that."

"It's not my decision; it is fact. You have some sense of what I'm

saying, don't you?" Darius said, trying to drive the nail deeper. As if he had

already seen the future. "You have no prominent talents. On one hand, you

can solve most problems easily. But you can never hope to stand out in any

one area. You're a textbook unremarkable mage—that much is plain as day

to anybody. Refusing to accept this will only hurt you in the future."

His words completely denied any future Oliver might have, and yet

there was no malice behind them. In the man's own way, he was trying to

give a kind warning.

"But there are bits of you I have hope for. Regardless of your magical

talent, you are clever. Your ability to discern the relationship between me

and Miligan is impressive. You do tend to go looking for trouble, but that

recklessness will settle down with time."

Oliver smiled wryly. He would never amount to anything as a mage, but

he was perfect for the role of a servant, handling odd jobs—that's what

Darius's speech essentially meant.

"…I hear that you say the same thing to many students this time of

year."

"I won't deny it. It's my policy to reach out to any first-years I see

potential in. As you progress through the years, the wheat will be separated

from the chaff, and your numbers will naturally decline."

Oliver felt no urge to shout and make counterarguments. There was a

strange humor in seeing things play out exactly as Andrews had said they

would.

"I understand what you're trying to say, sir. Also, may I ask another

question? It's on a completely different subject."

"Go ahead."

Darius wasn't exactly sad to hear Oliver change the topic. He was

probably in no rush to convince the boy to join him. Darius once again

turned around to resume his search.

"The night of April eighth, 1525 of the Great Calendar," Oliver

whispered. "Where were you, and what were you doing?"

The air froze. Immediately, Oliver sensed that his words had hit a nerve.

"What an interesting question." Darius slowly turned around, his sharp

smile no longer containing any trace of his previous generosity. "Perhaps

too interesting. Careful which bushes you go poking at; you may find a

dragon instead of a snake. Look me in the eyes and tell me: What is it you

know?"

The man seethed with dangerous mana, looming over the boy with

crushing pressure. It might have stopped the heart of someone less

prepared, but Oliver stared right back at him.

"I'm the one asking the questions here, Darius Grenville," Oliver said,

abandoning his last show of respect and calling the man by his full name.

He made it clear they were no longer educator and student, but enemies.

"…I see. So this was your goal all along, eh?"

Darius quickly realized this wasn't an accident. The words he chose, the

sharp tone in his voice, and most of all, the fact that they were alone deep in

the labyrinth—it all spoke volumes about the boy's goal.

"To think that woman would have any remaining relatives… How

irksome. Seven years have passed, yet still I must keep cleaning up the

mess," he said and clicked his tongue.

Oliver quietly shook his head. "You needn't worry about that. In fact,

today is the last day you'll need to worry about anything ever again."

The vein in Darius's temple spasmed. Oliver could tell that he had

kicked a hornet's nest with that.

"Enough with the theatrics. The pain curse and confession spell I'm

about to cast on you will make you want to reveal everything down to the

marrow of your bones. The more impertinent you act, the less generous I

will become," Darius said, intending to shut him up.

Oliver smiled. It wasn't an idle threat, that much was for sure. Once he

was disarmed, this man would gleefully begin torturing his defenseless

target in every way imaginable—just as he'd done to a certain woman years

ago. Oliver even knew exactly the kind of depraved smile he'd had on his

face while doing so.

"…At least let me thank you."

"?"

"Thank you for not changing. Thank you for staying the Darius

Grenville I've hated for seven years," Oliver said. He meant every word of

it from the bottom of his heart. Now, in the moments before he crossed the

final line, he was grateful to his opponent for not bringing any doubt into

his mind.

"Let's begin. We're already within one-step, one-spell distance. Draw

whenever you like, Grenville," the boy said without fear, almost as if he

were speaking to a new sparring partner.

The fact that such a young boy took this tone with him seemed to

summon years of rage from within Darius.

"Don't expect a humane death, boy."

The man reached for the athame at his waist. At the same time, Oliver

placed his hand on his sword handle, ready to draw.

A long-debated question among mages is whether a perfect prediction is

ever possible.

Just as the word implies, a prediction is to know the future before it

happens. Many methods of attempting this, such as divination, exist in the

magical world. These methods are all quite varied, from finding temporary

relief from hair-growth jinxes to those that require major preparations and

sacrifice.

What decides the value of a prediction is, ultimately, its accuracy. If a

fortune-teller says tomorrow's weather will be either "sunny" or "something

else," it did not logically follow that their predictions were 50 percent

accurate. A prediction can only begin when one wants to know the future

results of present actions.

However, no matter how far back you go through the history of mages, a

seer capable of making a perfect prediction doesn't exist. It's almost

comforting to see that every famous fortune-teller has at least one missed

prediction in their career. Why is this? Is it really just a sign that they are all

unskilled?

About three hundred years ago, one mage came up with an answer to

this problem. According to him, it isn't possible to perfectly predict the

future because the prediction itself changes it. In fact, perfectly predicting

the future requires that the future be stable, never wavering. This would

only be possible in a space-time that is "rigid" by definition. But can the

world we live in fulfill those conditions? The answer is no. The mountain of

dead predictions is testament to this.

Thus, this one mage continued, prediction isn't about learning the future.

We have always endeavored to decide the future. Thus all predictions,

present and future, will be nothing more than small signposts dropped

ahead of our path. When the pull from this leads to a beneficial future, we

merely express this as "The prediction was correct."

This was a paradigm shift for the magical world. Ever since, the general

knowledge concerning predictions changed.

If we apply this theory on a micro scale, then we can say that the results

of the battle between Oliver Horn and Darius Grenville are not preordained.

Thus, there is a one in ten thousand—no, one in one hundred thousand

chance that Oliver, who is clearly out of his league when it comes to sword

arts, wins. Among all the countless possibilities of him being slain by

Darius, only a tiny number of futures exist where the reverse happens.

All the possible ways this battle might play out, the many threads of

destiny that connect the present to the future—Oliver experiences them as a

vast number of threads drifting through the endless darkness. Most of these

threads are severed immediately. These all indicate futures where Oliver

loses.

Thus, there is only one thing he must do: choose an uncut thread and

mark it slightly earlier.

"...!"

From that moment, he is drawn into the future.

Sequential order is completely flipped on its head. Instead of building up

the present in the direction of the future, he faces the predicted future and

brings it into his present. With the pull of destiny reversed, the rushing flow

of time pushes Oliver Horn toward a single outcome, drawing him to his

one-in-ten-thousand sword strike.

In short: the fourth spellblade, Angustavia—the thread that crosses the

abyss.

The moment arrived. Two figures moved, overlapping. Their manafilled blades clashed. The next moment, Darius's right hand fell to the

ground, athame still in its grip.

"——"

After he and the boy exchanged strikes, Darius looked over in a daze—

or perhaps befuddlement—at the stump where his right hand once was.

"What is this…?" he muttered. Unable to understand the sight—unable

to digest reality—he regurgitated it back up. Before he could regain his

thoughts, a shock pierced his entire body.

"Gah…?!"

Darius toppled forward, the sensation in his limbs gone. Oliver, after

casting a paralysis spell, pointed his sword at the man.

"How odd that you stood still after being cut," he said coldly. "Even if

your hand is chopped off and your sword is gone, you still have two legs to

try escaping on."

Oliver was not uninjured himself. His eyes, his nose, even his ears—a

frightening amount of blood poured from his orifices. This wasn't Darius's

handiwork, however. It was clearly some sort of overload from whatever

technique he'd just used.

"Or was it that big of a shock to be cut by someone so young in a oneon-one fight?"

Despite the red-staining vision, Oliver's tone was calm.

Darius's lips, still capable of some movement, began to shake.

"How…?" He gasped, having come to his senses and attempting to

process what had happened to him. "How…?! That spellblade was

supposed to be lost! It should have died with her seven years ago!" Darius

shouted, understanding but refusing to accept reality.

Oliver's reply came swiftly. "Some things you could steal from my

mother, and some things you couldn't. That is your answer."

The moment he heard this, the shock in Darius's eyes grew even greater.

"You're her…?"

"We don't look alike, do we? I agree." Oliver sneered, both at Darius

and himself, then quietly shook his head. "But that's fine. If I resembled her

even a little bit, I wouldn't be allowed to carry out my mission."

And with a swing of his sword, he redirected the conversation.

"Your specialty is education through pain, so you should know that the

pain curse can only reproduce pain that the user has experienced. It scoops

up only the suffering from the sea of one's memory and inflicts it via magic

on your victim," he explained, sinking to one knee. He brought his face

close to the man lying on the ground. "So don't you worry. The one

hundred twenty-eight brands of pain you inflicted on my mother seven

years ago—I've experienced every last one of them personally. I made sure

not to miss a single one."

"...!"

That was when Darius witnessed Oliver Horn's madness for himself.

"Listen closely, Darius Grenville. You're going to be searching for

words," the boy said, his face still extremely close. The more he spoke, the

more heated his tone became until it was like lava itself. "I'm going to

continue torturing you until you say the right words. One by one, we'll go

through the pains you inflicted on my mother. If we run through all one

hundred twenty-eight before you find the words…then pain that only I

know will follow."

He explained the horrid acts he was about to commit in great detail.

Darius was well aware of how terrifying this would be. It was one of

Darius's favorite techniques.

"So do your best to find them. Suffer through the pain and search for the

words like your life depends on it. Find the magic words that will let me

forgive your actions—forgive you for existing."

The boy drew back and stood up, readjusting his sword stance.

Panicking, Darius began to speak.

"Wait—"

"Dolor."

Oliver cut him off with a spell.

Instantly, pain exploded in Darius's belly, and his eyes rolled back, his

teeth bared.

"Guh—!"

It was the experience of steely talons raking through his guts—the agony

of prey being eaten by a predator, of his entrails being ripped apart. It was

all so horribly vivid.

The pain lasted exactly ten seconds. Oliver then ceased the first torture

session and looked at the man still writhing on the ground.

"Did you find the words?" he asked.

"Ugh… Y-you…! Do you realize what you're doing? I'm a Kimberly

instructor! Are you trying to make an enemy of this whole academy?!"

"No. Dolor."

Instantly, Darius could feel his limbs being twisted from the very tips.

This time, it wasn't a sudden pain. It was the same speed as someone

wringing out a cloth, which only made everything worse. Eventually, his

tendons stretched to their limits; they began to snap one by one.

"Ah… Uwoooh… Gah…!"

The intermittent pain became more intense over time. One of his

tendons snapped loudly, and a giant glob of spit oozed from his mouth.

After ten seconds, it ended again, and Oliver repeated his earlier question

with the exact same tone.

"Did you find the words?"

"Huff… Huff… Huff… Y-you won't get away with this! Your friends and

family will all be killed! You'll soon learn how the headmistress treats her

enemies! If you want to avoid that, then let me—"

"No. Dolor."

"Gwaaaaaaaaah!"

Burning heat exploded from the core of his bones. His insides couldn't

possibly be burning; if they were, he'd already be dead. But he lived as the

heat seared him. This time, the scream from Darius's throat lasted the whole

ten seconds.

"Did you find the words?"

"…Wai…w-wait…! I understand. I'll listen! What do you want?! With

my position, I can get you almost any—"

"No. Dolor."

"Geeyaaaaaaaaaaah!"

This repulsive feeling was like acid eating away at every bit of his skin.

Fresh waves of pain washed over him through his exposed nerves. His

vision went white.

"Did you find the words?

After another ten seconds, Oliver repeated himself. Luckily, in that

moment, Darius's ability to think returned, and his mouth flew open.

"…F-forgive me…! With every fiber of my being, I apologize for the

wrongs I did to your mother…! But listen to me! It didn't happen for no

reason! At the source of it, your mother—"

"No. Dolor."

"Guuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh!"

Something began filing at the soles of his feet. Coarse, metallic

protrusions diligently scraped way at his flesh. Once they'd passed through

and reached the bone, the vibration of the bone being shaved away reached

in his ears and triggered a disgust even greater than any pain he felt.

The torture continued, each session lasting ten seconds exactly. When it

subsided, sometimes Darius would try to beg, but Oliver only responded

with a short refusal.

No. No. No. No. No.

No. No. No. No. No, no, no, no, no—

"…Weird. Why aren't you saying anything?"

Torture and questioning. The endless loop had seemed to last an eternity

but was in reality only ten minutes. The boy looked down at Darius

Grenville, who was curled up and broken. He wasn't capable of talking

anymore.

"We only reached number fifty-seven. That's not even half of the agony

you inflicted on my mother. Pain, anger, bargaining, depression, regret,

despair—you should still have lots to talk about," Oliver said without a

shred of emotion.

The man lay on the ground and didn't move. There were tears in his

eyes and blood-tinged foam in the corners of his mouth. He no longer had

the mental capacity to think, simply cowering in fear of the next pain.

Compared with an hour ago, he was a completely different creature. The

weakened figure brought all of Oliver's emotions rushing to the surface.

"…Speak up. Speak up, Darius Grenville! I told you to search for the

words!"

"Uu… Aa…"

Meaningless sounds escaped his shaking lips. This just made Oliver

angrier.

"Pathetic! This can't be all there is to the Darius Grenville I have hated

for so long! Where's that foul conviction? That pride that allowed you to

call someone foolish for daring to care about someone else—where did that

go? I've been imagining the pain for years! The pain that would break your

mind and erase that pride! I even prepared way, way more than the one

hundred twenty-eight methods of pain you taught me…!"

In the end, he was practically screaming. He sank to his knees and

grabbed Darius by the collar, forcing him to sit up. Oliver violently shook

this man he considered his mortal enemy.

"Where are the words?! Have you still not found them, Grenville?!" he

shouted, almost begging. Eventually, the man's lips began to move slightly.

"F…"

Oliver's eyes widened in delight. Yes! It's not over yet! Of course it

wouldn't end so easily. He brought his face close to Darius's, eager to hear

what he would say next.

"Finish…me…please…"

It had been so long since the man had uttered anything intelligible. The

moment Oliver heard those words, all his rising emotions felt as if they

were being sucked down into a bottomless void.

"...Yes," he responded emptily. Then, after laying the man on the

floor, he placed his athame on his neck. Without a moment's hesitation, he

pushed down with his right hand. He could feel the blade sink into the flesh,

the bone severing with little resistance. The man's skull met the ground

with a muted thud. Before he realized it, Darius Grenville had turned into

an eternally silent corpse.

"Is it done, Noll?"

Oliver was in such a daze he didn't even notice the two figures walk up

behind him. One was the girl with pale-blonde hair he'd introduced to his

friends as his cousin. The other, the one who'd spoken, was a large, ruggedlooking young man with copper hair.

"…Yeah, it's finished, Brother," Oliver replied emotionlessly, not

bothering to turn around. He seemed ready to disappear in an instant. The

girl, unable to bear it, made to run over to him.

"Noll—"

"Please don't come near me, Sis."

He was firm in refusing her.

The girl swallowed and stood still.

"I don't want you to catch this. I don't want an inch of this filth to touch

you," he said, his voice shaking.

The girl was on the verge of tears after his refusal. In her stead, the

young man Oliver had called Brother stepped forward.

"You've stopped bleeding. How was the strain on your body?"

"Same as usual, for better or for worse," Oliver answered, roughly

wiping away the blood from his face with his sleeve. He was no longer

bleeding, and even his red-stained vision was slowly returning to normal.

"No need to worry. But it's nothing compared with using it twice. And three

times… I'd need to prepare for death in that case."

Based on his past experiences, that was the boundary between life and

death there. At the same time, he once again realized that this technique was

not to be used lightly. His situation was different from the Azian girl's. This

spellblade was not supposed to belong to him. It was more that he was

borrowing it from the original owner. Thus, even attempting to wield it put

a great strain on him. As payment for making a one-in-ten-thousand strike

possible, his body screamed from the exposure to the torrents of destiny. If

he let his guard down for a second, his life would vanish in an instant.

"Then you're forbidden from using it three times. If you die, everything

ends," the young man said sternly. The rough affection hidden beneath the

surface soothed Oliver's heart a bit. "Things went well this time, but next

time that certainly won't be the case. Listen to me. Don't ever lose your

cool. As a mage, rein in your power and wait for the perfect moment. We'll

pave the way for you."

His advice was sincere, and Oliver listened intently. The next moment,

someone appeared next to him with shocking suddenness.

"—?!"

"Calm down. She's an ally."

Oliver whipped out his sword, but the young man stayed calm and

explained. Next to him, kneeling in Oliver's direction, was a frightfully

small girl.

"She was born and raised in the labyrinth under a comrade's

supervision. She's officially supposed to start at the academy next year, but

for the moment, we are the only ones who know she's on school grounds.

Her magical specialty is… Well, I don't think I need to explain."

Oliver realized what he was implying and swallowed. He'd finally

scaled his first hurdle and had let himself go a little, allowing this girl to get

so close he could feel her breath before he realized she was there. This was

a normally unthinkable level of stealth.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, my lord."

She looked up at him with shimmering eyes, her voice prepubescent.

She spoke with unusual formality for someone her age, and Oliver realized

she'd been training years for this moment.

"Your ideals, your training, your passion, your spellblade—before I

realized it, I was drawn to them all. And now I feel more strongly than ever

that every moment of my life so far has been for your sake."

The girl spoke earnestly, trying to convey the emotions inside her.

Adoration and faith filled her flushed face. It felt like a sick joke to Oliver.

"I am but a lowly shadow, but if you would have me, I will be at your

beck and call. No job is too small or too dirty. On the crest carved onto my

body, I swear to live up to your expectations," the girl said, brimming with

youthful confidence. Seeing that her introduction was over, the young man

spoke up.

"Starting today, she's an extension of yourself. Use her as you see fit."

"..."

Heeding his brother's words, Oliver imagined in great detail this girl

risking her life as a spy in his personal war, heeding his every command at

such a tender age. He could picture her on the verge of death, and him

refusing to stop. His mouth twitched in self-derision. Not a problem. At the

end of the day, he was a mage, too. He'd trample over morals and humanity

if it meant achieving his goal. In this regard, he was the same as Vera

Miligan. As he gritted his teeth bitterly, the young man pulled something

out of his pocket.

"One more thing: Wear this whenever necessary. It's enchanted with a

strong cognitive disruption spell. No matter where you are or what you're

doing, you must always be sure to keep your identity a secret."

Oliver knew what the item was the moment he laid eyes on it. It was a

mask. It was only big enough to cover the top half of his face, but the

elaborately infused magical disguise effect seemed much more reliable than

even an iron helmet. He took the mask and stared down at it.

"You don't like the style?" his brother asked. "I tried to keep it as simple

as possible."

"No… I think I could get very used to this," Oliver replied in earnest.

He placed the mask on his face. As expected, it fit like a glove. The jack-ofall-trades, ace-student visage sank into the shadows, and in its place

appeared that of an avenger, the ruler of the nighttime labyrinth.

"Comrades, assemble!" the young man shouted, seeing the

transformation in Oliver's face. At his signal, new entrances appeared in the

surrounding walls, and a stream of mages of various ages and genders

arrived. They gathered before Oliver and knelt.

"Not everyone could make it, but these are the main members. Behold

your vassals, Noll. This is your coronation," the young man said like some

sort of royal adviser. Then he and the girl with the pale-blonde hair lined up

and took their places at the front of the kneeling vassals. They bowed their

heads and swore fealty to Oliver as he looked on sternly.

"Reign over us. Lead us," his brother proclaimed as representative of his

comrades. "Everything is as your soul desires, opened by the swing of your

spellblade. We vow to slay every last one of those villains who betrayed

your mother and took her life."

The targets of Oliver's revenge appeared crystal-clear in his mind—

academy faculty all, and equally skilled mages.

The Prideful Alchemist, Darius Grenville.

The Ruler of the Magical Ecosystem, Vanessa Aldiss.

The Supreme Witch of a Thousand Years, Frances Gilchrist.

The Mad Old Man of Absurd Magical Architecture, Enrico Forghieri.

The Ignorant Philosopher, Demitrio Aristides.

The Sorcerer Who Laughs at Life Itself, Baldia Muwezicamili.

And the Lone Peak that reigned over them all, Kimberly's Headmistress

Esmeralda.

"Yes. We will have our revenge," Oliver solemnly stated before the rows

of vassals. Tonight, he'd slain one of his seven targets. Six remained. There

would be no mercy. None would be left alive.

"..."

At the same time, an unshakable fear took hold of him. These seven

mages weren't the only ones he needed to kill.

As long as they fought for the revenge they so desired, Oliver and his

comrades would eventually make the academy itself their enemy, even the

people who hadn't wronged his mother. The latter half of his path, strewn

with bodies and streams of blood, meant that anyone other than his

comrades could become an enemy. All the faculty, their students, even

Master Garland—Oliver could see them standing in his way at some point

in the future. He was almost convinced it was bound to happen. Then, he

imagined something even worse.

A fellow spellblade user, standing in his way.

"...!"

The words she'd once spoken now echoed in his ears—Enjoy not the

sword of vengeance, but the sword of mutual love. Whether he liked it or

not, he was going to personally test the limits of this philosophy.

The one-step, one-spell distance, where words lose all meaning and the

clash of blades gives way to dueling spells.

In that space are two souls laid bare. Thus, the mages' friendship is

fleeting yet tempestuous.

Destinies intertwine as the wheels of fate keep turning—and then they

will draw their swords. In the flickering realm between life and death, the

seven spellblades will reign supreme.