CHAPTER 2 : Lovers and Rivals

Team Deschamps had lost their first match. This news sent a stir through Team Leoncio's prep room.

"…An unexpected loss. That team was rock-solid," Gino said, wondering what had changed that.

"Haaa-ha." Khiirgi smirked. "Snake-Eye got 'em good. Sly as they come and getting slier."

Meanwhile, their leader remained seated on the couch in back, saying not a word. They turned their gaze to him.

"It won't matter," Khiirgi purred. "Not once Leo gets like this."

He wasn't ignoring them—their chatter hadn't reached his ears at all. Leoncio was in a state of extreme focus, his eyes fixed on the air before him. In this state, even his friends dared not approach. They might lose a limb just entering his personal space before they even managed to tap a shoulder.

"They won? With that team? Huh."

Yet in Team Godfrey's room, Tim sounded almost appalled. Team Miligan was in their camp, but somehow, they found it hard to celebrate her victory—they were more concerned with what nefarious grifts she'd pulled. If that lineup beat Team Deschamps, they'd need at least two or three tricks so dubious they'd stun the entire audience. They'd not yet been told the specifics of the match, but their assumptions were right on the money.

Still, it was good news. Lesedi had been doing stretches in the back, but she straightened up, clearly ready to go.

"Then we've just gotta keep it rolling. You ready, Godfrey?"

"Of course."

Godfrey finished his own warm-ups, turning his mind to the rival he was about to face. Long had they opposed each other, often they had clashed—and romantic overtures had been made.

"…It's been a while since we last committed to a duel."

He hadn't noticed the smile playing on his lips. As they rose to leadership within their factions, it had become tougher for them to square off. He got why there was a need for self-control, but acquiescing to propriety left him feeling deeply frustrated. He was done competing over ancillaries like support from the student body, acceptance of policies, or the number and quality of their followers.

"Time! Team Godfrey, head on in!"

A staff member leaned into the room, calling out—and all three teammates turned toward the door.

"Everything we are rests on this fight. Let's knock 'em dead."

""Aye, aye!""

They stepped out. To where their rivals awaited. To their final battle, the climax of their time at this academy.

As the start of the second match approached, league staff cropped up in the stands. They cleared the front row seats and began strengthening the barriers. That alone told the Sword Roses how fierce this fight would be.

"…They're really amping up those barriers. Like they're expecting a dragon rampage," Guy said.

"Entirely appropriate," Chela replied. "Given what each side is capable of…"

Most students were fully aware of the threat here and were voluntarily calling out to first- and second-year students, urging them to retreat to the back rows. Yet, despite those concerns, nobody seemed inclined to leave. Every soul here knew for a fact that this fight would be worth seeing—no matter the risk to life and limb.

"A fight between the strongest fighters Kimberly has to offer. I imagine I won't be saying much here," Oliver warned, adjusting his posture. They were seated toward the front, but since all present had reached the main round of the lower forms league, no one felt the need to warn them off. Rather, they were expected to be looking after the students around them—Oliver did a quick scan to ensure there was no one at risk.

"Ain't no reason for us to back off!"

"C'mon, Dean. Don't be like that."

"It's just a precaution. This way, we can focus on watching."

He saw Dean Travers passing by with Rita and Peter each pushing him toward the back row. Teresa was tagging along after them, which brought a smile to Oliver's face. Them backing off on their own meant one less concern.

"The second match is almost here, but first, an important announcement."

Garland's voice rang out, an ominous growl. Well aware of what this would be, the audience fell quiet, listening.

"For this battle alone, we're clearing the first two rows. That will leave a portion of the audience standing, but this is for your own safety and to ensure our combatants need not worry about collateral damage. We ask your help to ensure they can fight unfettered."

The bulk of the students were way ahead of him. The urge to stay out of this fight's way had arisen without passing through morality or benevolence. No one wanted to ruin the spectacle to come—and few were foolish enough to stick their hand between gears spinning at high velocity.

"Instructor Gilchrist and I will be positioned directly next to the arena. We promise to handle any stray shots, but in the interests of abundant caution, we've strengthened the barriers considerably. This is why the first two rows were vacated. Apologies to anyone forced to stand, but be mindful of the situation and try not to squabble over the remaining seats."

This rebuke made a few scuffles reluctantly die down. Making a scene here would cause the league staff to eject you; for once, everyone was forced to be magnanimous. They could always kill each other later—after this fight, for example. In its most basic form, that was Garland's entire point.

"It's time. Teams, enter."

With the venue prepped, Glenda's voice echoed more solemnly than ever before. That alone made every back straighten. The tension in the air was like that around an altar before a sacred rite—and from east and west, the teams entered.

"Our fighters here need no introduction. Every student at Kimberly knows their skills and their characters. Any embellishments I might make would merely be a digression."

Always one for motormouthed hype, for once Glenda chose brevity. The implication: For this one fight alone, she, too, wanted to remain a spectator. No one there dreamed of chastising her for that.

"But if I can air one personal opinion—I know this to be true. All my time at Kimberly has been for one purpose alone: to see this fight."

Her words sent ripples through the stands, forcing their expectations skyward. Both teams lined up on opposite sides of the stage. In the announcers' booth, Theodore had taken over for the sword arts instructor. When he saw the teams ready, he called out, "First combatant—step forward!"

Each team's leader started up the stairs and soon were face-to-face onstage. One had saved many a student from peril or had put them out of their misery: the student body president. The other had numerous students under his umbrella, controlling the opposition through skill and magnetism. Each had long since lost count of the conflicts between them and, thus, had few words to exchange here.

"You don't change, Godfrey. You are as you have been since the day we met."

"Same to you, Leoncio," Godfrey replied.

Leoncio smiled faintly and shook his head. "No, I have changed. And those changes are your fault."

Speaking of a truth only he knew, his tone almost a lament. Dealing with this one man had forced the tides of change upon him, and the years had at last allowed him to accept that fact with resignation. Anger had proven inadequate. That had given way to hatred and finally transformed into affection. That progression was all too clear to him, and thus, he felt no compunctions about where his passions took him.

"The time is ripe. Today I shall drain your cup, my beloved Purgatory."

"Come at me, Golden Lord."

Leoncio and Godfrey addressed each other by epithet alone before their athames leaped to their hands. They could not wait another second. Perceiving that, Theodore said the one thing he could—the one thing anyone wanted to hear.

"Begin!"

The next ten minutes would be carved into Kimberly legend.

"Ignis!"

"Solis lux!"

Incantations rang out. Red and gold flames spurted from their athames, clashing. Neither was inclined to fuss about oppositionals. All attention that might be diverted there was instead poured into speed and power. The clashing infernos swelled up above the stage, swiftly becoming a sun. Each backed off out of that sphere of influence, shifting to the next incantation with minimized lag.

"Solis lux!"

"Ignis!"

Pouring still more flames into the sun, it doubled in size. The dazzling light of it eliminated all shadows in the entire arena.

"Oh—!"

"Urgh…!"

"Gah—!"

The light was too strong, and it left Guy's, Katie's, and Pete's eyes burning. Oliver and Chela acted swiftly, putting up a protective coating to diminish the light's glare. Chela had her eyes locked on the spectacle beyond, and her voice shook.

"…This is just…"

"…'Tis the stuff of myth," Nanao concluded. She spoke not only for the Sword Roses but for every member of the audience here. Mages dueled each other on a daily basis at Kimberly, yet this fight was so removed from those that it entered the realm of the truly fantastical. Like something from ancient times, a critical moment in history, a singularity bubbling up for one brief, blinding moment.

"..."

Selectively eliminating his own coating, Oliver observed the sights with naked eyes.

"Oliver, your eyes—," Chela said, concerned.

"I have to see this, even if it burns them away."

That said, he siphoned a chunk of his consciousness to adjusting his pupils. In the seat behind him, Nanao followed his lead. Her thoughts matched his.

Burned-out eyes were but a small price to pay to witness a match like this.

No quarter, no retreat, not even any variation in element employed. Each fighter merely cast the same spell over and over, the shock waves swiftly carving away the center of the stage.

"Huff!"

"Haaah…!"

Two minutes since the match began, and both men had cast well over twenty spells. At this point, their spell duel was brought to a halt by a force unrelated to the upper hand.

"Ref, the stage is no more. What's next?"

His athame trained on his rival, Godfrey threw a question to the sidelines, where Garland watched. His words were not the least bit exaggerated or figurative. Save for the small fragment of the rim upon which they stood, the vast majority of the stage had been vaporized. No trace of the original structure remained.

Even Garland winced at that one. They'd put extra emphasis on reinforcing the repairs to the damage from the first match, making the most indestructible stage to date. Yet it had not even lasted the opening three minutes.

Admitting they'd failed on that front, he glanced at Gilchrist, then at Theodore. Both nodded, and the league reached a consensus. Garland merely had to voice it.

"…Very well. For this match alone, we'll classify the entire pit surface as 'the ring.' Do you agree, Mr. Echevalria?"

"Naturally."

"Appreciated, Master."

Leoncio nodded, and Godfrey briefly expressed his gratitude. With mutual consent, the inbounds range expanded, which forced their waiting teammates back into their respective entrances. If the entire pit was the ring, then fighters not yet in play couldn't stand within it.

Once the new fight terms were met, they were given the go-ahead to resume the suspended battle. But the same thought crossed both minds; neither Godfrey nor Leoncio moved. A short wait, and they'd hit the three-minute mark. They'd have to regroup anyway; might as well do so once new faces arrived.

"I like that gleam in your eyes, Lesedi. Too much shackled us during the Rivermoore fiasco. Isn't it nice to finally be free to pulverize me?"

Their second participants stepped forward. The first to speak was Team Leoncio's own Khiirgi Albschuch, an elf with a perpetually sinister smirk. Team Godfrey's Lesedi Ingwe glared back.

"Lemme clear up one misconception, Khiirgi."

"Mm?"

"I am mad. But not 'cause you stole my girlfriends."

As she spoke, she removed each boot. Tipped with adamant, they landed on the ground with an audible thunk. Now barefoot, she flexed her toes on the turf—and Lesedi's right leg vanished, severed blades of grass fluttering through the air as if that sweeping kick had been a sharpened scythe.

Everyone thought she wore those boots to enhance the force of her kicks. But that was entirely wrong. Those weights were protective. They kept Lesedi safe from the sheer strength of her own kicks.

"The reason I can't let this go—is because you made them cry!"

With this bellow, she leaned forward, an ultralow stance derived from the martial arts of another continent entirely.

Her roar made Khiirgi shiver.

"Oh…that's it, Lesedi."

The elf nodded, hand to her brow, beside herself. In that moment, she envied Leoncio like never before—if she'd had his equipment, she'd have had it standing prouder than ever before.

"Your fury is a thing of beauty. When you rage against the unpardonable, when your passions fuel your fight against reality itself—you shine brighter than the setting sun."

Her feet stepped forth, unbidden. Like a moth drawn to a flame, aware it would burn but unable to stop herself. She had to see it close, place it in her hands—the same urge that had led her to plunge so many lights into the darkened depths.

"You must know: I have a need to see you like this in perpetuity—and thus, I have repeated the same course of action."

With no trace of guilt, Khiirgi offered up her dark and dire devotion, emotions so twisted the acceptance of them led only to destruction. This was not the first time she'd displayed this, and Lesedi was long since done being disturbed.

"Two key words have fallen out of your dictionary: repentance and restraint."

"Haaa-ha! I remember those! How oft my parents used to chant them at me."

"I'm gonna carve 'em into you. The last role I'll play here!"

The ground behind Lesedi exploded, and she disappeared. Thirty yards cleared in a single second; her kick descended on Khiirgi's face twisted with delight. When the elf ducked under that, Lesedi Sky Walked into a second kick from the opposite side. When that, too, was narrowly dodged, she fired a spell on her retreat. A rush without a moment to breathe, yet Khiirgi handled it all, sighing: Ah, how can this be? You've never been this cool.

"Ms. Ingwe and Ms. Albschuch join the fray! And they're also going at it hard right off the bat!"

"Magnificent. It's been far too long since I saw Ms. Ingwe barefoot."

In the announcers' booth, Theodore was grinning and nodding. Glenda was keeping commentary to a minimum, so he followed suit, saying little. But what he saw got to him. Cutting the amplification spell on his wand, he spoke to himself.

"Ms. Albschuch was pretty far gone when she washed up at Kimberly. She'd already worked out exactly who she was. I felt sure she'd be consumed by the spell within two years. I invited her here on the condition that I handle the fallout when that happened."

Listening to his murmuring, Glenda glanced once his way. Kimberly might draw the best of the best, but it was exceedingly rare for an elf like Khiirgi to enroll. When they did, there was always someone involved—and having an instructor arrange her admission was one thing she had in common with Nanao Hibiya. Theodore was among the few mages who'd taken an elf bride, so perhaps that had played a role.

"My concerns came to naught because of who she met here. They are each far too exceptional. Both Mr. Echevalria, for getting her in his pocket, and Ms. Ingwe, for withstanding all the clashes with her. That she found both is well worth calling miraculous."

And that history meant he watched this match with a hint of gratitude in his gaze. He'd fancied it a gamble with diminishing odds. More than likely, it would simply plunge the school into chaos and benefit no one. And that was precisely why this outcome was a credit to the students alone.

"The elves couldn't handle her. But here, she was never alone. And that—that's something to be proud of."

Theodore's voice was a rasp. A bashful look on his profile spoke volumes—sometimes a long shot pays off. And that's why he'd never stop taking those risks.

To no one's surprise, turning the fight into a two-on-two made it all the fiercer.

"Ignis!"

"Solis lux!"

They'd lost count of how many spells this was. The turf had widened, and there was less to obstruct their spell duel; as the big guns clashed, the second fighters traded furious gambits.

"Haaa-ha!"

Laughing, Khiirgi Wall Walked across the wall right below the stands. With the stage burned away, that wall was now inbounds, and Lesedi soon spotted her goal—trying to shoot Khiirgi there would skirt the edge of the crowds. Lesedi might not manage it herself, but Godfrey's spells could well burst through the barrier, and he couldn't afford to aim her way. They had to protect the students—and that was being used as a shield against them.

"Huff—!"

But she'd always known these people were vicious. Lesedi kicked the ground, rocketing right at her opponent regardless. Khiirgi cast spells from on high aimed straight at her opponent. Rather than divert mana to intercept, Lesedi poured it all into her legs, her explosive speed allowing her to duck beneath the spells and run up the wall. At her ascent, Khiirgi made a new wall between them, perpendicular to the ground. Breaking that wall with a spell or going around it—each required a disadvantageous extra move, so Lesedi chose neither.

"Shaaaa!"

As she neared the blockade, Lesedi leaped off the stands, kicking directly up. Her feet didn't just break the wall but turned the shards of it into projectiles aimed at the foe above. Khiirgi gulped and dodged, eyes gleaming. Smashing a wall barefoot was madness, but using that same action to shoot back? Every bit as laughable as Godfrey's power. Lesedi could likely kick a garuda to death without even bothering to cast a spell.

"Haaa-ha!"

Before she got chased any farther up the wall, Khiirgi jumped away, flitting back to the ground below. Lesedi gave chase at once, Sky Walking into a dropkick. Spotting that, Leoncio shifted his position, moving the center point of the clashing spells closer to make Lesedi flinch and buying Khiirgi enough time to recover.

"…Every time!" the Alp cried, voice quivering with delight.

Lesedi's movements left mages' concepts of the term in the dust. Her own body as the axis, furious, merciless, powerful in its simplicity. The way she fought brought the heroes of legend to Khiirgi's mind, made her yearn like an innocent child. And it brought forth a wish—to be the Alp befitting her. A shabby monster would be an insult to her hero.

"Progressio—!"

Thus, she became one. Seeds taken from her homeland, selectively bred for several years, embedded all over her body. Ordered to sprout, these swiftly dug roots into her body, melding with her flesh and bones, forcefully expanding her mana flow. This transformation was not merely internal. Vines burst forth from her left arm, spiraling out into a second wand—a tentacle.

"…Ghiiiiii—hee-haw—gurghhh—!"

Ripples ran down her back, burls containing voluminous mana twisting outward. These brought horrific pain and a sense of maddening omnipotence. Nothing left of her fit what anyone pictured when they heard the word elf. Her form grotesque, like a wizened tree subjected to a curse. Khiirgi Albschuch had become the creature people imagined dwelling within the darkness of the forest depths.

"Impetus!"

The expanded mana flow allowed her tentacle to function as a second wand, and a massive bloom at the tip fired a tempestuous gale. Leaping over that, Lesedi observed her opponent's transformation and snorted.

It hardly came as a surprise. Fight enough battles alongside the Watch, and you get used to these things.

"Breaking all the taboos. Must make your parents weep!"

Off-the-cuff snark on the way to her next attack. As she applied further secrets to her contorted form, Khiirgi made to answer—and the words died on her lips.

Don't stay up late; don't play with fire.

On a moonlit night, you'll earn its ire.

An old song echoed. One that had guided her path.

The spooky Alp is watching. Waiting to take you away.

Your mother won't know it left a changeling here to play.

Wherein lay the origins? Khiirgi had pondered that question countless times.

Stories of Alps snatching children often revolved around the same concept—the changeling. Where the human child had been was a beautiful monster, surrounded by a circle of colorful mushrooms.

On the face of it, elves would never do that—they were obsessed with keeping their bloodlines pure. But lateral thinking led to other ideas. Specifically, were all the threats to racial purity external?

Likely not. Their long history had born many a dissident, even without factoring in outsider blood or influence. Like a nightmare made flesh, two parents everyone knew were decent, proper elves might find themselves raising a child whose nature lay in unadulterated evil. Like the monsters in the stories.

Changelings only got worse as they aged. They learned words, spells, the power to flummox and agitate the good elves around them. That threat alone could rock a small, closed community like an elven village. Over their long history, they'd likely been forced to deal with several of these internal blights.

And Khiirgi wondered—if she were a proper elf, how would she handle that?

She wouldn't want to leave the monster close at hand. But simply driving it out of the village was impossible. That would allow elf blood into the outside world. Killing the changeling would be simple, but killing your own kind was every bit as taboo as sharing blood. Sparsely populated villages of long-lived races feared internal conflicts more than anything. Those could easily lead to the village collapsing inward, to divisions within the race as a whole.

If anyone was to act—it was preferable that the changeling's parents took action, "voluntarily." Any lingering resentment would remain within the family confines. Other elves could remain benevolent neighbors, third parties who deplored the tragedy, wept for it, and offered consolation—while being quietly relieved. Yet not all parents chose the same course of action. Elves led long lives in return for low reproduction—wedded couples could not hope to bear many progeny. That served to intensify their affection for their flesh and blood.

How could they kill their own child? They wanted her to live, even if they could not keep her close. No matter how sad and twisted that life was.

And when she mapped that dilemma to her own life—Khiirgi dug up a groggy memory.

My eyes fluttered open. I was lying down, my parents on either side of me. They were crying.

Huh, I thought. What did I do wrong this time? Last month, I wondered what the lizard in the doorway tasted like and took a bite. Last week, I wondered what was inside the stomach of the fairy we kept and sliced it open. Two days ago, I borrowed a friend's pretty eyes to make a ring—I don't remember doing anything after that. But I probably did something. When my parents get mad or cry, it's always because of things I did.

My mother whispered an apology, hugging me.

My father murmured his sorrow and brushed my cheek.

I wasn't sure why. I was usually the one saying sorry. Today it was the other way around. Why would my parents need to apologize to their awful daughter?

Their daughter who preferred her mother crying to her delight.

Their daughter who'd rather see her father racked with anguish than smiling.

No matter how much they scolded, how they chastised me, my heart demanded more.

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━"

I tried to ask why, but my lips wouldn't move.

My body felt sluggish, heavy. My mind hazy. A dull pain below my belly.

Oh, maybe I'm dreaming. That's good. My parents don't need to apologize, then.

Relieved, I closed my eyes. Good night, Mother. Good night, Father.

Your Khiirgi will always love you both.

"Haaa-ha—"

So much time had passed since that night, since she left home.

The decadent world outside was so much more packed than her tiresome village. She'd taken to it like a fish to water; time that the average elf would register as a passing breeze felt infinitely longer to her.

She'd fled the village before they exiled her, unsure if that helped her parents. To the village, it was a clear blunder. Even if her parents were hesitant, the others should have driven her out far sooner. Call her a changeling if they pleased—but they should have acted before she gobbled up all manner of elf magic, fully intent on taking it away with her.

In hindsight—perhaps there'd been a reason for their failure. Why had they been so careless? If they didn't want her to escape, if they had to keep her in the village, then why not merely chain her up in the cellar?

Blood is a prerequisite for most elf magic. She could take that know-how to the outside world, but few of these secrets could be reproduced by humans. Thus, it was the blood they protected. That blood escaping, mingling with humans—that was their worst-case scenario, the one thing they truly feared.

So then…then…then what?

What if they had already taken drastic measures to prevent that?

"…Ha-ha…"

In the world of humanity, she'd dipped her toes in every type of immorality. Let herself drown in every imaginable pleasure. Treated her first human village like a buffet, mingling with old and young, male or female as the mood struck her. Never once considered using protection—rather, she'd aggressively attempted to scatter her blood. As if that was her sworn duty. A stance that did not waver even after her arrival at Kimberly.

And yet—though elves may be doomed to a low birth rate, after this many attempts, her womb's failure to conceive began to nag. Enough that she cracked jokes about the fortuity.

To know why—she need only cut herself open. Reveal the credible cause.

Why could she still not bring herself to do so?

"Rahhhhhh!"

A steely foot sliced the air. The toes scratched the skin on her cheek, and her eyes followed it sorrowfully.

Ah, dodging is such a waste. How I long for the moment when that blow will shatter my skull and send my brain meats flying. To see you standing in triumph over my battered body—hearing the roars of the crowd. You get that, Lesedi? The stories of champions out to slay the Alp—they always end in victory.

That's why, Lesedi…you are my darling hero, mine alone.

If I may plea—as the monster you defeat, I have but one request.

Before you crush my skull—please, kick me in the guts. Right here, below the belly button. Pulp my insides so good you cannot tell intestine from anything else. So that when they perform the autopsy, even the best magic doctors cannot find anything but mincemeat and blood no matter how closely they examine me.

Bury that credible cause forevermore.

"…Haaa-ha—ha-ha-ha—ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaa!"

At the six-minute mark, Gino Beltrami stepped into the ring, standing alongside Leoncio—who never looked up from his duel with Godfrey. There, Gino found his other teammate, unrecognizable, crying and laughing.

"You're a bit too buzzed, Khiirgi."

"Piss off, Barman! I can't do this shit sober!"

His reproach only earned him a howl. He sighed and elected to accept it. His words still reached her. She might be far gone, but as yet, she was still herself.

"Drunk, but not blackout. So be it. I shall focus on serving mine."

He turned his attention to his own job. Entering from the opposite passage, the Toxic Gasser's elegant drag. As fierce battles raged at either side, the Barman bowed low.

"Welcome. Do come in. What are you having?"

"Red-eye. Overflowing the mug and topped with your blood."

Tim spat vitriol like breathing. Drawing his athame, Gino shrugged.

"I'm afraid that's not the recipe we use here. But don't worry—I have a cocktail just for you."

"That's grand. But you're the one drinking today," Tim replied, pointing the tip of his blade at Gino—who frowned.

"Looking to get me drunk? You're welcome to try, but that's a tall order."

"Nah, you rotten bartender. You're always standing behind that fake counter acting all impeccable and shit—"

Even as he spoke, Tim lunged forward, closing the gap, and stabbed at his foe. Gino effortlessly deflected the attack as Tim kept talking.

"—and I'mma drag you to the ground, watch you puke your guts up!"

"…Ah, always an aspirational moment."

The Barman smiled as their blades crossed. The poisonous sword arts duel was just getting underway.

"Both teams add a third! Mr. Linton and Mr. Beltrami, the Toxic Gasser versus the Barman! A duel between alchemists!" Glenda cried, turning the audience's attention to the third clash.

"Another pair with a sordid history. But not often have we seen them go at it without access to magic tools. Mr. Linton will have to supplement his poison attacks somehow—"

Theodore cut off his amplification spell and watched the match a moment. Then he grinned.

"—doesn't seem like he's overcomplicating things. That boy's here to make his foe eat dirt."

"Phew…"

Between slashes, Gino let out a quiet breath. Laced with a boozy, beguiling perfume and a hint of sweetness, it permeated the air, entangling the Toxic Gasser in an invisible charm.

The rules for the finals eliminated tools—so neither could employ their usual stock of bottled potions. But—they were both alchemists. Spells with deceptive effects, production and storage of chemicals within the body, applying that to their own breaths—all in a day's work. Creating a zone of bewilderment for his Lanoff style was a key part of how the Barman had earned his rep as one of the trickiest sword hands on campus.

"Ha, your booze blade again? Some low proof on that. I could inhale it all night and not get tipsy!"

Tim was an old hand at dealing with these tricks. With his resistances, charms didn't do a lot; Gino might as well be spraying air freshener. His faculties fully unhindered, Tim's blade darted at his foe's throat.

"I'm afraid today I have a limited selection."

Deflecting the thrust, the Barman offered a sincere apology. With these rules, he couldn't exactly get anyone plastered instantly. Yet this applied to Tim as well—inevitably, their battle would peak in the later stages, when each side had accumulated a sufficient quantity.

For that reason, his plan had been to lay as many foundations as he could. Gino had begun to serve with that in mind—until he caught a shockingly toxic fume.

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━?!"

"That ain't a problem on my end."

Tim's left hand shot out between the clashing blades. Sensing a legitimate threat, Gino backed off—and his sleeve rotted away. His foe's fingers had barely brushed him. This was a Kimberly uniform, well enchanted by default—and Barman had customized that in accordance with his profession. No ordinary poison could ever damage it.

"…My."

From the tingle on his skin, he could tell it was a strong paralytoxin. Narrowing his eyes, Gino focused on his foe's left hand. There was a faint miasma wreathed around it, and he soon worked out why.

"…Poison Hand? You always were reckless."

"What, is bringing my own bottle against shop rules? Better write that on the sign!"

With a wicked grin, Tim sliced open his own palm, flicking his fingers at his opponent. The highly toxic drops of blood were deflected in two directions by Gino's spatial-magic winds.

Poison Hand had its roots in Azian assassination. Closely monitored toxins, dosed and coated over a long time frame, turned your hand itself into a secretive organ. Like Miligan's enchanted eye, all components were biological, getting it past the restrictions on magic tools. But the technique caused the wielder no small amount of pain and side effects. Most abandoned the attempt early in the process of creation, and those who didn't often found the poison took a lasting toll on their bodies.

Worse—this usually took years. But Tim had rushed the treatment through in less than a month. Functionally, it was sound, but balanced against his health—it was clear he'd never intended to keep it long. This was a gambit designed from the get-go to be cut loose the moment he was done here. Since mages regularly regrew severed hands, this was arguably a classic mage move—but the reckless aggression made Gino repress a sigh.

"Indeed, it's not my policy. Especially when the bottle holds moonshine."

He forced his voice to remain calm. Like he was placating a bad drunk. Or lecturing a hopeless student. How many times had they discussed this? He knew it all went in one ear and out the other. Yet—he could not quite bring himself to abandon the attempt.

"Alcohol's roots are medicinal. And all medicine turns poisonous at the wrong dosage. When will you learn that, Tim? That is the nature of what you so proudly scatter."

He looked the boy in the eye, querying once more the fundamentals of an alchemist's role.

"..."

Gino expected Tim's typical vulgarities. But not this time. Relentlessly coming after Gino with athame and Poison Hand alike, Tim spoke with unprecedented tranquility.

"Yo, bartender. What happens when you mess up one of your precious cocktails?"

"I throw it out. I regret my failure and polish my skills so that I may never repeat the error."

"Ha-ha, I figured. Still…"

The Toxic Gasser's eyes wavered; he made a face. That alone told Gino what was on his mind. Everything that Tim Linton had gained from meeting Alvin Godfrey. That one saving grace had kept him alive to this very day.

"…he knocked it back without a word."

"Urk—!"

That innocuous phrase sent echoes deep inside Gino. The man himself could not fully parse what emotions these were—but they rushed through him. Dregs of memories that had settled to the bottom of his bottle.

He'd made a perfect drink. Even today, he was convinced of it.

"Oh, Gino. My lovely Gino."

She picked up the glass and drained it in two gulps. He knew that gesture—it meant he'd aced it. If he'd messed up at all, she'd have turned up her nose at it, then played with the glass in her hand, sipping at it, lamenting the flavor, lambasting his errors for hours. Delighting in tormenting him.

"Your drinks are flawless. If there's anything you still lack—"

She put the empty glass down with a sad sort of smile. Gino was shaken. He'd been far too young to take the measure of her mood.

"—you don't yet know how a drunk feels. That's really it."

The next morning, Gino headed to her workshop and found it flooded by a sea of fragrant liquor.

He knew on sight—this was how she'd ended things. It had already been over the night before. He would never be forced to deal with her messy drunk act again.

He'd fallen to his knees in that amber pool, scooped up a handful of her remains, and taken a sip.

It was too much for him. He could not tell if it tasted good or foul. Like a child getting their first taste of anything alcoholic. How should he savor it? What should he make of it? He could not begin to tell.

And so—what he did was sob.

…Master, tell me this.

I've pondered it ever since. Back then—what if I had given you a different drink?

Perhaps one less than perfect?

One that made your eyes pop with how bad it was.

How dare you let this pass your master's lips. Graduation just got a lot further off. I've got a lot more to teach you. I'd have offered no apology, just listened to your red-faced lecture the whole night long.

Then—would you have stayed in this world awhile longer?

"Har?"

Tim let out a weird gurgle. His foe's hand was right there—Gino's left hand, fingers locked with Tim's Poison Hand.

"Then let me do the same."

With a hiss, his skin festered. The pain dizzying, his whole arm turning numb. He was resisting it as hard as he could, forcing more words out.

"Make me drink. I'll analyze it for you. Tell you where you went wrong, what you could fix to make it better. See if that process turns you into a drink of note."

No mixer whatsoever, just the raw spirits in his glass. Yet Gino believed—he'd served many a drink since losing his master. Faced many a customer, most of whom were not easily pleased. Unable to give them the buzz he desired, he'd pulled out all the stops, yet their tenacity had brought him only frustration.

And that repetition had taught him the thirst perfection cannot slake.

He'd learned that facing someone—sometimes required abandoning one's creed.

And now—yes, that final sip—today, he'd have understood.

"Lay it on me. All of you. I'll drain the glass, no matter how dead-drunk it makes me!"

"Stop, you're making me blush! Where's this romantic twist coming from?!"

Tim's tongue had lost its bite. This, he couldn't deal with. No spite, no sarcasm, just a man trying to connect—leaving him with far too few recourses.

As the two alchemists crossed swords, another fight on this field was nearing its climax.

"Gah—ah…!"

A powerful kick snapped Khiirgi's left knee, and she toppled over. Lesedi didn't stop there, Sky Walking into another hit. Khiirgi's tentacle snapped up to shield her, but the blow landed so hard it crumpled the block, the remaining momentum hitting Khiirgi hard in the chest.

"Kahhh—!"

"Huff—!"

Wood shards scattered, Lesedi landed soundlessly, and Khiirgi hit the ground a few yards away, spraying blood from her mouth. Her lungs half collapsed, her left leg bent the wrong way at the knee. No longer able to stand, she backed away—the athame in her right hand still aimed at her rival.

"I— I'm not done yet, Lesedi!" Khiirgi cried. "I need more… It's too much fun!"

It was almost a plea. The roots inside her reconnected her broken leg, stretched anew through the shattered tentacle arm, struggling to get her back on her feet. Coughing up blood, struggling to the final moment against the end bearing down on her. As if that was her sworn duty.

"…The evil elf is right here! Take her down…! Save those precious children! Slay the Alp…like the champions in fables…"

Summoning all the strength she had, Khiirgi unleashed one last bolt. As it bore down on her, Lesedi toppled forward, slamming both hands on thin air into a handspring over the bolt. A full forward flip into a heel kick that struck Khiirgi's athame from her hand, and as Lesedi landed, she pinned the hilt beneath her foot.

"…Evil perishes, peace returns, and the people are safe to live happily ever after?" she said. "No, thanks. Never did care for those stories. Don't you dare cast me in that role."

Even as she gave her answer, Lesedi's off hand balled into a fist. Unable to fight back, her rival stared up at her, her eyes begging—and Lesedi met that gaze.

"I never once considered myself heroic. I don't like you, so I'm here to kick the shit out of you. That ain't ever gonna change. Until you see the error of your ways, I'll be back to do the same."

Her fist lightly bumped her rival's head. Then she drew her in close, forcefully.

"Relax. I've got more ass kickings where this came from. Just not today," Lesedi growled. "Go on, sleep. That much, we all deserve. Rest comes for the good people and the evil elf alike."

"…Haaa-ha…"

With a hint of relief—Khiirgi blacked out. Lesedi fell to her knees beside her. That two-handed Sky Walk handspring had not been a choice for style or flair. It had been her only option. With her protective boots off, kicking as hard as she could—her legs were a mess, her injuries every bit as extensive as Khiirgi's.

When that spell came her way, she'd been unable to jump, much less dodge in either direction. If she'd gone for the oppositional, she'd have lost momentum and stood no chance at winning. She'd used her arms as a last resort, launching herself forward. That had been Lesedi's sole path to victory—and with that achieved, she hit her physical limit.

"…The rest is all yours, dipshits."

Calling out to her teammates, Lesedi closed her eyes. Garland came running in, catching both fighters in each arm and pulling them quickly out of harm's way.

Meanwhile, the stands were in chaos. The vaporized stage had expanded the fight's range and created blind spots. Some students were pushing up to the front rows, trying to get a better look.

"Hey, don't go there!"

"Settle the hell down!"

"The stairs are in the damn way!"

"Let us go! This is worth dying for!"

The staff were pushing back, but the students pushed harder. A group of underclassmen broke through the line, and the students on their heels pushed them farther forward.

"Ugh—"

"Augh?!"

Worse, the constant spell barrage had left a hole in the barrier right before them. The kids were pushed right over the barrier, falling into the arena.

This happened near Tim's fight with Gino, out of the corner of his eye.

"Ah!"

Tim blanched—and a projectile escaped Godfrey and Leoncio's exchange, headed right their way. Their duel was far too close for either to worry about which way they deflected each other's spells. And this happened just as Garland's hands were occupied by Lesedi and Khiirgi—while Gilchrist was positioned on the exact wrong side of Godfrey and Leoncio's fight.

Gino paid it no heed. He was against the Toxic Gasser—how could he possibly focus on anything else? Tim knew full well he should do the same. Too much rode on this fight to consider anything but their victory. He couldn't afford to care about students dumb enough to burst into the ring here.

He thought all that—and not long before, Tim would have acted accordingly. He'd have felt no compunctions about that choice. The old Tim had nothing to protect outside of Godfrey and the Watch.

"You're a wonderful person, Mr. Linton."

And yet—

Those dumbass kids, falling in—brought another face to mind.

"Dammit!"

Tim broke away from the duel, into a run. Leaping in front of his panicking juniors, chanting an oppositional against the inbound flames. But this was a stray blast from their duel. Tim's output couldn't begin to cancel it. He'd have to use his body as a shield—and steeled himself to do just that. Red and gold flames filled his vision…

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━?"

A moment later, he wasn't burned to a crisp—which was baffling.

And another moment later, he realized this was because the very man he'd been fighting had soaked the burn for him.

"…The hell are you doing?" he murmured.

Gino had stepped in right as the oppositional hit, and when the flames proved undeterred, he'd soaked them on his back. On the brink of death, Gino mustered a feeble reply.

"…Your sudden exit surprised me, patron. I have not made you drunk yet."

Tim tried to argue further, but Gino sealed those words off with his lips.

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━?!"

This proved one straw too many for the Toxic Gasser, and he froze up, unable to think of a way to fend this off. The saliva flowing into his mouth contained a powerful paralytic that swiftly invaded his entire body.

Having narrowly managed to complete his task, Gino pulled his lips away.

"…It seems…I've had a bit too much to drink. How very…unlike me…"

With that self-deprecating whisper, he crumpled—his arms still around Tim. That made Tim's legs give out, too. Studying his rival's unconscious face, inches from his own, Tim swore.

"Well, shit. You even look good blacked out."

He had an urge to punch him for it but no longer had the strength. Even with his resistances, he couldn't stave off the paralysis of direct injection from someone with Gino's skills. He had no feeling in his hands and feet, and his vision was narrowing by the second.

The man he loved was still up there fighting, and he caught one last look, muttering, "Sorry, Prez… I'm…dropping out…"

"With one pair down, Mr. Linton and Mr. Beltrami bow out, too! Problems in the audience played a factor—but…well, that's a twist I sure didn't see coming!"

You could hear the surprise in Glenda's voice. Watching Gilchrist's spells toss students back out of the ring, Theodore smiled. Even if Tim hadn't stepped in, the faculty would have been there in time. Nonetheless, he was disinclined to dismiss his students' choices.

"I saw the signs," Theodore said. "Mr. Linton's a changed man. Enough that an impulse like that no longer feels out of character."

He turned his attention back to the stands, a rare glint of steel in his tone.

"Underclassmen pushing to the front—back off now, before I get mad. Every one of you owes them a debt. Mr. Linton would have done the same no matter who fell in. And I'm sure you're aware by now—at a school like this, a man like him's a rare commodity."

The students stopped pushing, and after a brief stall—they began moving to the back again, surprisingly orderly. Not just because the faculty were glaring at them, either. Quite a few of their eyes were on Tim, as Garland carried him to safety.

Their teammates were going down in pairs. Catching those eliminations out of the corners of their eyes, Godfrey and Leoncio both broke off the spell duel. Neither suggested it, but both their circumstances demanded it. The no-holds-barred barrage had walked a tightrope no other student could have matched, leaving both dizzyingly drained.

Still at range, they glared at each other down the length of their athames. Managing to catch his breath at last, Leoncio threw out a question.

"Tell me, Godfrey. What are your thoughts on perfection?"

Godfrey looked perplexed. But he was born diligent and gave it his best shot.

"Hard to say. Not a notion I've ever been near."

Smirking at how predictable that response was, Leoncio put a hand to his chest.

"I'm closer to it than anyone else here. I was brought into this world expected to embody the concept."

He let out a sigh, eyes drifting to the ceiling. His beautiful smile turned rather sour.

"But these days—I believe there is no curse more absurd."

His fists clenched so tight the bones creaked as he voiced this for the first time ever. His own rejection of the Echevalria mission. The primal fury that drove him.

"What is perfection? Where does the standard lie? Who made that up—and when? If someone made that decision before I was born, then were they more perfect than me?"

"I'm considering dropping out."

It had been a year since he'd invited Percival Whalley to join his followers. The boy had arrived looking unusually cornered and opened with those words.

"…I suppose I should ask why?" said Leoncio.

"I can't take it. I've got no talent. I'm sure you're well aware."

Whalley's head was down, his fists clenched, feeling powerless and beaten.

At Kimberly, students were perpetually locked in combat. It was hardly the first or last time a student arrived where he had. Unable to find their own strength, unable to overcome their inadequacies—they found their feet leading them to the door.

Whalley was on the verge of this, and that made Leoncio's eyes narrow.

"Are you testing me? Though you dismiss your own potential?"

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━!"

Whalley bit his lip, saying nothing. Leoncio rose from the couch.

"Who put these thoughts in your head? They're in your year, I'm sure. Name names."

"…I…"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I'm not offering tawdry retribution. I will be investigating their abilities and then providing you with a strategy to defeat them yourself. To prove your earlier claim wrong."

He took a firm grip on the boy's shoulders as if dragging his heart back into the fight. His lips quivered with anger, the heat audible in his tone.

"You are my successor, Percy. I saw the potential in you and chose you for the role," Leoncio told him. "Why does that not earn your faith? Why succumb to negativity, when you should take pride in that fact?!"

"How dare you give up!"

Leoncio's roar shook the arena. He spun around, raking the stunned crowd with his glare, allowing the fury to erupt from him.

"Such arrogance! What do you humdrums know? You have no value?! You've crested the peak, and it's all downhill from here? The prattling of fools! None of you even know what you're worth to begin with, so why do you think you're capable of deciding you have none?!"

This had rankled him. Ever since he was too young to put the anger into words, Leoncio Echevalria had let this fury fester deep within. The words he'd wanted to shout at every soul who left him.

"Know that you know nothing! Trust me, instead! I shall decide if you are worthy! I shall find a place for every one of you, find a way to make the most of your talents! Enough with your misplaced disappointment! Stop with the casual self-harm! You are all just getting started!"

As he roared, a witch's face crossed his mind.

Diana Ashbury. The world's fastest broomrider, the mage who'd sped through life swifter than anyone.

She'd undoubtedly completed her path, and not one student alive doubted her greatness. But—while she still lived, Leoncio had been waiting. Waiting for the day she tried and failed. So that when she crumpled, he might take her hand and guide her life in a new direction. Show her the life that lay beyond.

If she failed to set a new record, then her life would be a failure. Ashbury may not have said that in so many words, but he could tell that was how she thought, and Leoncio could not abide it. He'd been seething below the surface. It made no sense.

Why do you insist on limiting yourself? Why do you not get that you can be anything? Whether you break the record, even if you abandon the broom altogether—you are a human possessed of infinite fascination.

There is always a next time. If one path closes on you—as long as you live, another will open.

"And if that fails, if you still cannot find meaning in your life?" Leoncio demanded. "Then I shall send you off. In a ball of beautiful golden fire!"

His voice pained, Leoncio raised his burning wand before his eyes. Like a funeral rite. With that one gesture, he lamented all lives lost before him.

"So know this to be true. With time, meaning will come! Your lives or deaths, within me!"

A solemn declaration. The students watching were silenced, beyond words. Aware he spoke not just to those who had died, but to every single one of them.

The old council leader had never before exposed his heart like this. His words spun from the heart within. A side of his rival Godfrey had never seen—and that came as a relief.

"…For the first time," he said, smiling, "I wouldn't mind if you won, Leoncio."

He raised his athame again, back bolt upright, pushing aside his fatigue, rousing himself.

Only then could he face this man. To fight a man this powerful, he had to be his own self.

"So the rest—is just me being stubborn."

What could be better? Leoncio grinned. They forgot about spells, both plunging straight in, blades slammed together, feet locked to the floor as they pushed against each other. No magic, let alone swordplay. A contest akin to a children's squabble—and thus, the resolve was also free of technique.

""Rahhhhhhh!!!""

Overlapping howls. Fingers balled, their left hands swung in, punching each other's cheeks. The impact forced them apart, but they closed the gap in the blink of an eye, once again punching their opponent's face with all the might they had. No trace of thought. Blows faster than meaning, blows so hard they knocked meaning away. This felt unbearably right, and they couldn't get enough of it—dragging their minds back to consciousness again and again.

Teeth broke, blood spurted, cheekbones cracked. Their faces became increasingly wrecked, yet both were flashing identical smiles. As if they'd just now realized this was what they'd always wanted to do. And—rather than apologize for taking so long, they let their fists speak for them.

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━"

"…This isn't exactly…"

Watching, stunned, the Sword Roses knew—this was no longer myth. Both men had leaped from those heights, engaging in mortal loggerheads.

And yet, that made sense. These mages existed in mythical realms—which was exactly why they needed this. Leaving all logic and meaning behind, seeking only to be as they were wont to be. That was permitted—perhaps here and only here.

Oliver believed in the unconditional value of this enterprise. And so he watched, not allowing himself the luxury of blinking, searing it all into his eyes. Soaking in the light he would not forget, no matter where his spell took him.

"…Ahhh…"

Before that same sight, Nanao couldn't help but smile. Much the same as the smile she'd worn watching Oliver and Andrews fight. Admiration—and envy.

"That's what I call a brawl…," she whispered.

He'd no clue how many punches Godfrey had thrown. But when this one bounced off his cheek, Leoncio's vision went black.

"Oh…"

The ground vanished; his knees buckled. All his senses floated away.

"Don't go down! Is that all you've got, Leoncio?!"

A voice from the stands. Light came rushing back, and Leoncio's eyes darted toward it: Percival Whalley, standing proud and tall, a far cry from when they'd first met.

"…Of course not, Percy," he said with a chuckle. His legs moved; he caught a thrust on his athame and grabbed Godfrey's collar. Their foreheads collided, eyes locked inches apart.

"…I'm here…to win, Godfrey. You heard him…right? I've got…a fine successor…"

"…Yeah…"

Godfrey's free hand went to the back of Leoncio's head. His palm grabbed tight, holding him still. His eyes, too, were on a junior—his teammate in the passage leading out, surrounded by the students he'd saved, all working to heal him. Something he'd never imagined happening to Tim Linton.

"…True for us both."

That gave Godfrey one last reserve of strength. His opponent pushed, so he worked with that, a one-armed headlock pulling down on his torso. Their blades locked in between—and this led Godfrey's tip to Leoncio's chest, burying it deep.

"Kah…"

A breath escaped Leoncio's lips. His hands went limp, and the athame slipped from his fingers.

"...You bastard…"

Spitting words and blood, he started to crumple—supported only by the hand locked on Godfrey's collar. Fingers shaking, he touched Godfrey's cheek, looking him in the eye.

"Promise…me this. Don't…let anyone best you."

Godfrey didn't hesitate. He just nodded. A dazzling response. Leoncio's eyes wavered and then his lids closed, hiding that look.

"…I never made you mine…my beloved…Purgatory."

With that, the last of his strength left him. He crumpled, but his body never reached the ground. Godfrey dropped his athame and put both arms around Leoncio instead.

That settled things. Everyone knew it was over, concluded.

No matches followed. Any reason to hold them was gone. No one wished to sully this with meaningless fights—all teams but Godfrey's voluntarily dropped out.

And the festivities ended. A sight to remember, carved into the minds of many a student—and curtains descended on the passion and fury of the Kimberly combat league.