CHAPTER 3 : A Boy and His Coffin

"Ugh, 'ow dull. Where is the fun, eh?!"

In an underground base in a corner of the undead kingdom (turned topsy-turvy from the invasion), his teammates sat around a fire—while Rossi deftly exhibited a one-handed handstand, grumbling all the while.

"I was against the job itself, but I thought at least we could 'ave a decent fight against Rivermoore's undead, no? Yet, the gate guard was the only shot we 'ad! After that, it was all, 'If you see a strong undead, do not fight. Just run.' 'ow am I supposed to 'ave a good time 'ere?!"

"…The emphasis is not on the search itself but on delaying the Watch's efforts," Andrews said, studiously adding tea to the pot he'd brought with him. "Reducing the undead's numbers makes their task easier, so us leaving them be is only logical."

Across from him, Albright took a big bite of fried bacon.

"Count yourself lucky we haven't been asked to directly interfere yet. Worst-case scenario would be going up against Team Horn before the finals."

"Ugh, I would absolutely boycott that."

Rossi had moved on from the handstand and was now standing on his head. He began spinning like a top.

His eyes on the leaves unfurling in the hot water, Andrews murmured, "Even if interference is our goal, we're on the back foot. I imagine there are steps being taken behind our backs. Though it's easy enough to imagine what."

Meanwhile, an upperclassman was about to enact one of the schemes Andrews had predicted.

"Haaa-ha. Here we go. Yo! You there!"

Hundreds of skelebirds wheeled overhead. Paying them no heed and giving them free rein, Khiirgi Albschuch of the old student council faction addressed the shadows the creatures cast. Not long after, a gaunt, faceless figure rose up before her, radiating hostility: the same zahhak Oliver's team had fought. Though it was poised to lunge at her, Khiirgi just waved a hand.

"Not here to fight. Connect me to Rivermoore for a minute."

There was a few seconds' silence; then an answer emerged from the zahhak—from the mage controlling it.

"What do you want, Alp?"

"Now, now, Rivermoore! Don't be such a wet blanket. I'm here to help."

Grinning wildly, Khiirgi stalked forward, her face right up against the zahhak's vortex, as if the warlock's face lay within that whorl.

"This theft of Godfrey's bone. Leo's furious—you ruined his fun! A sentiment I do not share. I mean, this gives us a huge election advantage. I'm almost grateful!"

"Then scram. I'm not inclined to waste units monitoring you."

"Haaaa-ha. So you are running short."

Khiirgi let out a peal of breathy laughter. Rivermoore clearly had his hands full dealing with all the forces here solo. Thus, her proposal.

"Good news. There's a big pawn right here. And several lively little ones, too. Why not make use of them?"

"This already? You never betray expectations."

"Now, now, you could have suggested it yourself! Our interests are aligned. You wish to use Godfrey's bone for something, and we don't want anyone getting it back. Why would we not cooperate?"

Khiirgi acted like the answer was foreordained, but Rivermoore just snorted.

"Like your interference needs my permission. You're going to fight each other either way."

"So dismissive! Even if our approach is the same, having you backing our plays will make all the difference. At the very least, remove us from your undead's hit list. Better still, work with us. Think what we could do with this lovely zahhak on our side!"

Her gaze ran across the familiar's body, soaking it in. The undead flinched, taking a step back.

"You think I want help at this stage?" Rivermoore sneered. "If you had any real intention of negotiating, you'd send the Barman. You're not worth speaking to."

"Fine, fine," Khiirgi said, throwing in the towel. She tried a new tack. "But you know full well refusing our help will change little. You're going to leave this beauty on me like glue, aren't you?"

She had never expected him to be amenable, nor did she need him to be.

"If you see our backs and the Watch's running from you, you know which to strike down first. I don't even need your promise. I trust you, Rivermoore."

"The word least suited to your character, Alp."

And with that, Rivermoore's presence faded. The zahhak sank back into the shadow…and the elf moved on to her next task.

While the two forces scraped away at each other in the labyrinth below, a new fight was getting underway on the campus above.

"…Hahhhhhhhhhhhhh…"

In one of the combat-league team rooms, Alvin Godfrey was quietly focusing his mind. With only minutes left before the fight began, footsteps echoed in the hall, and his teammates burst through the door.

"We're back!"

"How're you doing, Godfrey?"

Tim and Lesedi spoke on top of each other, and Godfrey never even glanced their way.

"Effective mana output's approximately one-twentieth my norm," he said. "Can't keep anything above a doublecant under control. Each time I cast a spell, pain shoots up from the etheric wound."

"So…?" Lesedi urged a conclusion.

Godfrey's grin was indomitable.

"I'm in peak condition. Let's go!"

""Hell yeah!""

At their rallying cry, the covering on the painting in back was torn away, revealing a forested landscape. The Watch command leaped right on in.

"Here it is, the sixth- and seventh-year combat-league main round! The fourth- and fifth-years were already well worth the price of admission, but once you hit this level, it's safe to say the contents of the matches themselves are closely guarded trade secrets! We're here for the privilege of seeing what tricks our school's biggest and baddest seniors have kept hidden up their sleeves, and what greater source of joy could there be?!"

Once again, Glenda was on announcer duties and extremely hyped up about it. Staring at the images projected from the crystals, she launched right into match commentary.

"Dulling spells applied half-strength, of course. Our first match is in the forest zone! Who are we watching here? None other than Team Godfrey! I need not tell you they would've been a strong candidate to win the whole league, were it not for that motherf—ahem, Mr. Rivermoore's surprise attack on the president, a moment that will live in infamy. Rumor has it those injuries dog him to this day, but how will they affect the outcome here?"

"I can't say, but the man himself is here to win. One look at his face will tell you that."

Eyes on the screen, Garland grinned. This observation didn't require a mastery of craft—every audience member here had the same impression. Neither Godfrey nor his companions showed the slightest hint of weakness.

"It's time I introduced our guests!" Glenda roared. "We couldn't get anyone from the third- to fifth-years, so we've brought in the ultimate in fresh faces, our second-years! What do you make of this match, Mr. Travers? Ms. Echevalria?"

"U-uh, I sure hope Godfrey wins!" Dean Travers spluttered.

They'd invited guests from the second-year teams that had made it through the prelim, but Rita and Teresa were disinclined, leaving Dean in the hot seat, and his nerves were showing.

The long-haired blond beside him snorted. Felicia Echevalria, younger sister of the previous student council's leader, Leoncio.

"She asked for predictions, not your wishes," Felicia shot back. "No disrespect to the president, but he's at a disadvantage here. Regardless of how true the rumors of his injuries are, the mere fact that they exist paints a target on his back."

Her background and beliefs both left her supporting the old council's camp, which naturally led Felicia to be rather down on Godfrey's hopes. Dean didn't miss the spite behind her words, but he merely nodded quietly.

"…Sure. It's gonna be a tough battle. I agree."

"?" Felicia frowned. She had not expected this response.

Glenda picked up the pace. "With those words of encouragement from our adorable juniors, it's time to get this match going! Get a move on, teams!"

"Hmm."

Spotting something in the brush ahead, Lesedi and her teammates all raised their athames high, casting upward. Moments later, a powerful blast of heat fell upon them, annihilating the surrounding brush and leaving them standing on scorched earth. With the view cleared, they looked up—and found three mages in a treetop.

"There you are, Godfrey."

"No hide-and-seek. We're taking you down here and now."

The match had just begun, and another team was already on their heels. Godfrey's side had hardly given away their position, but their foes were not about to be outdone on combat experience. If they knew their position and those of their allies, that experience was enough to pin down the likely positions of the remaining teams.

The seventh-year male leading the opposition glared down his athame at them, snorting.

"It pains me to see you shackled like this. Godfrey's wounds alone are a fatal blow, but with these rules in play, Linton can use barely any of his poisons. And Lesedi, are you in anything like peak condition? You and Linton just came running back up from the labyrinth depths."

"You talk a lot," Lesedi said. "What happened to 'now'?"

The trio above smirked and started running down the trunk.

"Even weakened, your mouth never stops. Let it be your last rites!"

"Whoa, we're just getting started and already Team Efler's clashing with Team Godfrey! Changing the terrain itself with a triplecant like that's normal—sure is a top-year power move! How will the Watch respond?"

"They'll be hard-pressed to do so," Felicia said. "With rumors swirling around his condition, Godfrey and his team will want to play it safe here and eke out a certain victory. This is the last thing they wanted to deal with. Facing teams in peak match condition will expose their current shortcomings and make the target on their backs all the larger."

She glanced at the boy next to her.

"The initial momentum is against them. I'm afraid your wish will not be granted, Mr. Travers."

"…I can't really argue there."

Her sarcasm rolled right off Dean. His eyes on the match ahead of him, he looked almost baffled. This threw Felicia off her stride—she'd read him as the type to take this bait.

"I dunno," he added. "I just can't quite picture them losing."

"Really?"

Unable to dismiss that out of hand, Felicia focused on the match again. The opening motions were just as she'd expected—Godfrey's side was being pressed hard by their opposition.

"Tonitrus!"

"Tenebris!"

Godfrey's spell struck the incoming magic, but outclassed, it barely managed a deflection. Anyone could tell he'd been overpowered. On any other day, this would be unthinkable, and Efler's grin grew downright evil.

"Barely able to manage an oppositional? No sign of your ridiculous output! Impetus!"

"Clypeus!"

Godfrey was on the defense for their next exchange, too. Taking full advantage of their superior might, Efler closed in, sneering.

"Buying time, waiting for your companions to save you? Go right ahead—disgrace yourself in front of everyone!"

Even as he tried to wind Godfrey up, Efler remained levelheaded. To his mind, Godfrey had two ways out of this. Enduring until help could arrive was one; alternately, he'd have to commit hard and charge into sword arts range. Efler was ready to handle either approach. He was especially on guard against a charge through the clashing spells—

"?!"

—but the reality came from below his guard range. As the oppositional spells clashed furiously in the air above, Godfrey came sliding below them, closing the gap at ground level.

"A-a Hero's Charge?! No, that's just a headfirst slide! But that low, there's nothing to hit—"

"Oh, but there is."

The sword arts master cut off Glenda's gut-based commentary and sent an order to the student operating the crystals. The view switched to a close-up of Godfrey's hands at Efler's feet—and the crowd let out a yelp. He held no athame.

"He sheathed his blade just before the dive and, with his hands free, grabbed his opponent's ankles," said Garland. "This is his game now."

Efler's ankles!

Even as the realization dawned, Godfrey used that handhold to drag himself to the back left. Efler winced. Occupying the polar-opposite direction of his dominant hand—no matter how he swung his athame, it would not reach Godfrey.

"…Gah…! Let go!"

He had to break away. Efler tried to move but instead found himself toppling sideways.

"Huh…?!"

"Stay!"

No sooner had Godfrey knocked the legs out from under him than he was alongside his foe, grappling. Efler tried to prevent it, but when he pressed down with his left hand, it sank into a patch of mud. His eyes went wide.

"Grave Soil?! Without a wand?!"

Efler tried swinging his athame—but Godfrey had a grip on his right arm. The student council president's eyes were inches from his. A shiver ran down his spine.

"H-how is he doing that?" Glenda yelped. "What kind of moves are those?!"

Two hands grabbing, pinned beneath his body, legs wrapped around him—even as she spoke, Godfrey was swiftly robbing his opponent of any and all movement options. As the crowd gaped, Garland explained.

"It's called guard passing. Ground techniques using a combo of balance control and spatial magic to counter an opponent's moves. He's reading each and every effort Mr. Efler makes, turning each mistake into a more dominant position than the last."

"B-but that doesn't make sense! Mr. Godfrey sheathed his athame before entering the grapple, and his hands remain empty! Spatial magic may not require a chant, but the vast majority can't be used without a wand in your dominant hand!"

"But he has one. Look close at his palm."

Garland zoomed in further, putting it on-screen. Godfrey's right hand had a tight grip on his foe's arm—but in his hand was a short rod, as long as his hand was wide—far too short to call a wand.

"A graspable wand or a palm wand. Short and easily hidden. Secure it to the wrist of your dominant hand and grasp it as needed. Attach it to your palm via the same principle as Sticky Edge, and you need not fear dropping it even when your fingers are extended," Garland explained. "Naturally, it's too short to cast spells with. But if you limit yourself exclusively to spatial magic control, it provides just enough. He has both hands free for grappling but still has access to spatial magic. In close-quarters combat, that's like having an entire extra arm."

This was a whole stack of techniques all too far removed from the sword arts the students knew. No one in the audience breathed a word.

"Ground fighting was one of the first components discarded as we refined the practice of sword arts. Ordinarily, we prefer to do something before we can be dragged into a grapple. Arguably, what Mr. Godfrey is doing here is not sword arts at all."

With each word he spoke, Garland marveled that this would happen in a match he supervised.

"Since the invention of the concept to our present day, sword arts have been challenged by any number of antitheses. Anti-athameism being the poster child for them. But another group argued the following—if we learned from the ordinaries and took swords in hands, then we should not limit ourselves to those. Spells, swords, punches, and grabs—use everything and anything that may bring us to victory." With that, he added, "They call it magicombat. An entirely different system from sword arts—and another way for mages to fight!"

Ground fights have an ending in mind. A minute of grappling, and Godfrey versus Efler reached that conclusion.

"…Gah…! Grrr…grargh!"

Godfrey's arms were wrapped around Efler's neck from the side, using the collar of his coat to constrict the artery. Well aware he was being choked out, Efler struggled desperately, but his athame hand was locked in place by Godfrey's right leg, leaving only his off hand—and even that was nigh helpless, pinned between Godfrey's chest and his own body. If his legs had been free, perhaps he might have had options, but the previous struggles had left his leg buried to the knee in a patch of Grave Soil. There was little he could do with only a right leg.

"…Y-you bastard…! This isn't how a mage fights…!"

"No. This is how you fight a mage. The Watch has learned how to fight you."

Godfrey tightened his arms. He'd been thrashing around on the ground quite a bit more than his foe and was covered in dirt, but that did not look at all strange. Alvin Godfrey had always claimed his victories that way.

"…Tch… Gurgh…!"

The teammate facing Tim couldn't resist turning his way—and the moment he did, his leg went numb. Flinching, he looked down…and saw a little hole in the ground and a scorpion familiar stabbing his limb. He quickly stomped it, but Tim was smirking—he'd prepped that familiar specifically to catch his foe off guard.

"Figured you'd finish him and your teammate together? I like that plan, but you really shouldn't have taken your eyes off me."

Don't let your foe look away. Lesedi was no more inclined to allow that than Tim. She could tell her foe was itching to pop a spell at Godfrey, but she kept herself too close to allow that.

"Go on, take your wand off me—if you think your skull can survive my kick."

"…Ngh…"

He'd held out, but no help came. Realizing his teammates were locked down and he was about to black out, Efler went for broke.

"Rahhhhh…!"

Grabbing together the pieces of his fading consciousness, he threw it all into one last bit of spatial magic. A burst of flames before his very eyes that scorched his cheeks and filled his nostrils with the scent of his own burning flesh—but Godfrey didn't blink. To his mind, getting his face burned off no longer counted as even a flesh wound.

"Krk—"

His last-ditch effort ended in failure, and Efler went limp. The ring around his neck kicked in, rendering him unconscious just before he was choked out, but the results were identical. Godfrey immediately let him go and turned to the remaining foes—a third of his face covered in charred flesh.

"Now it's three against two," he said. "Let's end this before any other teams arrive."

"You got it, Prez."

"Hmph. I was about to handle mine."

"Burn this into your eyes, mages. That's your student council. That's the Campus Watch!"

A student had risen to her feet in the stands, her sonorous voice echoing over the grounds. Vera Miligan, candidate for the next council president. She was here today not as an invited guest but as a member of the audience.

"President Godfrey is fighting through a severe handicap. If we simply compare their raw strength, every fighter on that field is likely stronger than him now. Yet, think of it this way—is that a first for him?" she asked the crowd. "It is not. He has been fighting against the odds since the day he enrolled at Kimberly. He was a first-year, barely able to control his own fire spells, surrounded by upperclassmen who were veritable monsters. I'm sure you all remember your first day, the fear of being thrown into a cage packed with ferocious beasts."

The witch's words brought back memories. Large or small, every student here had experienced some variation on that emotion. Especially those who knew what Kimberly had been like before Godfrey—as Miligan herself did.

"Unable to bear that state of affairs, he put together a neighborhood watch and tried to protect his fellow students. They were but a small candle held up against the winds, and from the very start, the forces arrayed against him were always stronger. The odds stacked against him, every fight a struggle, the bitter losses too many to count, yet each brush with death made him stronger and rallied more to his cause—and brought him ever more powerful opponents. Yet, his stride never once faltered!"

Her speech was carefully phrased and powerfully delivered. But Miligan knew for a fact it contained not one word of exaggeration. She had seen it with her own eyes, even helped on occasion. This witch knew full well the thorny path the Watch had walked. And if she was to sum that all up—

"Do not forget, mages. Their foes have always been stronger. Nevertheless, our Watch fought not for themselves but to protect us all!"

A jolt ran down the spine of everyone in earshot, each individual surprised to find their fists involuntarily clenched.

"…First squad in blew it?"

"Regroup. We still have numbers on our side."

Team Efler was not the only group after Team Godfrey. Like Oliver's match, their opposition had allied against them. Team Efler's job had not been to score a victory but to stay alive until the other teams could arrive. Even down a team, the core principle remained.

But as they ran to rendezvous, a wave of fire hit them from the side. They threw out an oppositional spell, glaring through the flames.

"…That ain't what we agreed on."

Like Team Efler, the students before them had agreed to cooperate until Team Godfrey was down. But their silent protests against this betrayal got them nowhere.

"Mm, yeah. We changed our minds."

"Blame the guys who messed up the opening gambit."

The students on either side were grinning, and the man in the center just shrugged.

"I mean, sure, there's schemes going on beneath it, but this is supposed to be fun. And what gets the party going like the dancer center stage?"

"Yeeeep, another bust!"

A mausoleum-like building they'd found somewhere in the kingdom of the dead. They'd made quick work of the undead around it, picked their way through endless traps, and found a back room with a significant-looking coffin placed at the center—but the seventh-year leading Oliver's squad let out a wail of anguish, bending over backward. This was Carmen Agnelli, a necromancer who'd joined the search belatedly.

"The architecture's ancient enough, so I got my hopes up, but there ain't so much as a single clue here. If you're gonna waste our time, you could at least leave us a treasure or two!"

Back arched all the way over, her upside-down eyes looked to her juniors for support. Oliver mustered an awkward smile. Carmen was far goofier than he'd expected a necromancer to be, and he wasn't quite sure how to respond. But after a futile effort, her energy was a comfort.

"Nope, nope, he's trying to piss us off. Okay, let's make the most of this time—let me give you a necromancy rundown. First, what do we already know?"

As they headed back the way they'd come, Carmen switched to lecture mode. Nanao and Yuri each looked at the other, so Oliver went with a safe answer.

"…It's a discipline adjacent to the study of curses. And one said to have been far more advanced in the past than it is now."

"Good! Especially the second part, since that takes us directly to this place. Do your friends here know why necromancy thrived in the past? And by extension, why it isn't a major discipline now?"

Carmen clearly wanted everyone contributing. Nanao and Yuri mulled over the question and gave their best answers.

"…If the dead are returning as monsters," said Nanao, "they were given inadequate rites."

"And there used to be a lot more dead who met that description, I guess?" Yuri ventured. "Famine, wars, etcetera?"

Clearly their best guesses—and Carmen snapped the fingers on each hand.

"Good! Indeed, the dead do need to be put to rest. Necromancy is all about finding practical uses for souls that failed to pass on, whatever the cause."

As she spoke, she pointed a wand at the skull of an undead they'd stomped on their way in, causing it to levitate and making the jaws flap in time with her exposition. While Oliver tried to figure out if this was in bad taste, Carmen cheerily yammered on.

"Even dead, they can still work. Plain and simple, ancient necromancy was all about acquisition of labor. Before the magic industrial revolution, that alone was huge. These days, we use demi-humans, but back then, the dead did what goblins and trolls do now. At the peak of the age of necromancy, a nation's power was determined by both the living population—and the dead."

She explained it so well, all paid rapt attention. Each of them imagined what life in those days must have been like.

"Naturally, necrocivilizations had their downsides. The undead are tough to handle at the best of times. Most of the time, they're kept here by negative emotions and, left unchecked, are a threat to the living. That means the necromancer has to settle them down and keep them well and truly bamboozled," Carmen said. "But the longer they're in operation, the harder that gets. Time from death makes the undead unstable and increases the curse energy within. Vengeful spirits become like starving beasts, and if specialized mages don't look after them with care, they'll break free and rampage. And if their minds have frayed enough, they'll soon merge with the undead around them. Do you know what happens when that's left unchecked?"

An answer floated across his mind, so Oliver whispered, "A maelstrom…"

"Exactly. The vast majority of the ancient necrocivilizations reached a certain scale and succumbed to that fate. Like the nation itself was consumed by the spell. Your classic autotoxemia. Logically speaking, if you keep consolation balanced with the population increase, you should be able to keep it under control, but what I've explained here is hardly the only obstacle preventing that, and modern views hold that the risks of using undead labor outweigh the benefits. That's why there's barely any necromancers in the Union."

At that point, she paused to look smug. The fact that she was allowed to study the subject at all proved how talented she was. Then she turned her gaze back to the present, allowing herself a little sarcasm.

"Although, our current system of demi-human labor is not without risks of its own. Heh-heh-heh, a thousand years from now, we may just be listed as yet another historical failure. Let's hope not!"

Yuri gave the ceiling a puzzled frown. "So…the kingdom that used to be here perished in a maelstrom?"

"That is the question. I'd go with no—this feels more like an evacuation point, where they came to escape the catastrophe. You can smell it: the desperate struggle to avoid inevitable doom."

That was a loaded statement. As Carmen wrapped up, they reached the exit and stepped out onto a plain bathed in pale light. She put her hands on her hips, thinking.

"You know…that story about Rivermoore assembling a whole human skeleton surprised me. We're both from necromancer clans, so I've gleaned bits and pieces of what he's working on from one source or another. One of those said he was going around to mage families, collecting the bodies of their unborn babies."

Oliver's breath stopped. That phrase cut him to the quick.

"…Unborn…babies?"

"Yep. Aborted or miscarried, any fetuses that didn't make it to birth. That takes on a pretty unique meaning in necromancy circles. In simple biological terms, they're obviously dead, but in terms of the world order, the souls are classified as living. Within the mother, they are not yet alive, so if they perish there, they are not numbered among the dead. I assumed Rivermoore was using them for something…"

Carmen shook her head like it didn't add up. But a few seconds later, she abandoned the thought and turned back to her juniors.

"Still, that's enough lecturing for one day. The other squads might have found more of Rivermoore's bones, so let's swing by the base and—"

Pleasant music interrupted her. They looked around but saw no performers. This was a sound on a broader scale, echoing across the entire kingdom.

"…A piano?"

"Oh, a consolation concert," said Carmen. "Haven't heard this in a while."

She closed her eyes, savoring the performance. The others followed suit, lending their ears.

Elsewhere, Katie was in the base, monitoring their surroundings through her familiars. She, too, heard the concert.

"…What a lovely melody," she said.

"Yes…it is."

This comment startled Katie, who'd been lost in the music. She turned and found Shannon smiling at her. Shannon placed a hand on the curly-haired girl's shoulder, leaning in.

"There are many ways…to console the dead… But music…is one of the best."

"Er, um…then this is Rivermoore playing?"

"Yes. It doesn't work…with recordings. You can't just…play well. You must…put your heart into it. Or the hearts of the dead…will never be comforted."

Katie fell silent, listening intently. There was a delicacy to the tone that made it hard to believe that a terrifying warlock could be involved. It was a deeply sad song. In more peaceful circumstances, she'd have closed her eyes and given herself up to the experience.

"..."

She glanced over and found Shannon's profile, looking extra fragile. When Shannon had put her arms around Oliver, her face had lit up like a flower in bloom. That always sent ripples through Katie's heart. A past she did not know, the weight of time, an inescapable reminder of the deep bond that had given them.

"…Um…"

"Mm?"

Sounds meant to soothe the dead had eased the tension between them, and Katie took that opportunity to pry.

"A-are you and Oliver…always like that?"

Even as the words left her lips, her throat felt parched. She was in no position to be asking this, and she desperately wanted to communicate that she wasn't merely asking out of curiosity. But it was not a question she could keep buried much longer. It had been eating away at her since her first year here.

Whether that urgency came across or not, Shannon never once hesitated. She just returned a sunny smile.

"Yes. He's my…precious cousin. My darling little brother… The apple of my eye."

"...!"

All that answer gave her was the weight of history unknown. The festering inside Katie grew stronger still, but she knew too much shame to let those emotions turn this into an interrogation. Cursing her own careless act, she sought a new topic, ready for an escape.

"But I've…not been a good sister."

"…Huh?"

Shannon's next words, however, were laden with such regret and self-flagellation that Katie couldn't miss them—until that, too, gave way to a smile.

"What makes you…love Noll, Katie?"

"Eaugh?!"

This time, it was Katie who was rattled by the intrusive question. She half rose from her chair, spluttering.

"W-we're friends! Um, like, just…"

She struggled to find the right words. Katie had probed first, so she had to answer. Her mind flooded with Oliver's expressions and gestures, and she found the answer faster than she'd thought possible. It all came down to one thing.

"He has…a gentle heart," Katie managed, head down, face red.

"Hee-hee-hee. Then we're the same," Shannon said, as if she'd known the answer all along.

Her hand stroked the girl's curly hair. Katie let out a moan of little meaning.

Guy and Pete were not far off, ears perked so as not to miss a word—and the outcome was a huge relief.

"…My hands are sweating," Guy said. "Katie doesn't know the meaning of half measures."

"Ms. Sherwood's nature salvaged things. I bet she knew we were listening."

Even as Pete spoke, Shannon smiled toward them. Guy winced and sighed.

"Utter defeat. Maybe you'd better go pry a bit yourself."

"No need. Whatever lies between her and Oliver doesn't bother me."

Pete went back to tuning up his scout golem, dismantling it at absurd speeds, inspecting the parts within.

"I'll make him see me. No matter who else he has, that's all that matters."

"Y-yeah?"

Guy blinked at him. Pete finished the inspection and put the golem back together. It sprang to life and landed on his friend's shoulder.

"Yo, we're back," Tim announced. "If you died while we were out, show your hands."

Oliver's team had returned to base that afternoon. That evening, Tim and Lesedi got back from their matchup on campus. The Toxic Gasser's greeting earned a grimace from Chela.

"That's hardly a joke under these circumstances… But I take it you won?"

"'Course. We're the Kimberly Campus Watch." Tim, still in his cute little dress, crossed his arms and snorted haughtily.

"Anything come up while we were gone?" Lesedi asked.

"Five more bone fragments. And Rivermoore himself performed a consolation concert."

Gwyn, too, was using the enchanted music from his viola to soothe everyone's fatigue.

Lesedi nodded. "Our actions have been stirring up the undead. That's a good sign. The more time he's gotta spend managing them, the more wiggle room that gives us."

Her gaze fell on the table before her. Five new bone fragments were placed in front of Gwyn, evenly spaced on a red cloth. All of them had been recovered while she was away.

"Let's see what these tell us. You up for it, Shannon?" she asked.

"Mm."

Shannon nodded and rose to her feet. She moved over to the table and pointed her wand at the bones. Everyone gathered close. Like the others, Oliver placed his wand over his cousin's.

"Necromancy was just everywhere back then."

The girl's voice spoke of the distant past. It was one of the few times her relentless cheer subsided.

"For instance, sometimes a family member will die in an accident or from a sudden illness. Those left behind grieve for them. But if they're undead, then you can be with them awhile longer. A lot of factors went into the creation of necrocivilizations, but I think that basic human urge was at the root of that culture."

Fau's coffin on his back, Rivermoore was working through a pile of ritual bones. She'd told him all this before, but he never let it go in one ear and out the other.

"…Did you have anyone like that?" he asked her.

"Mm. A brother and a grandmother. They weren't exposed skeletons or anything! At the time, there were lots of ways to make them look lifelike. At a glance, you couldn't even tell they were dead! Grandma asked to be made prettier than she ever was in life—oh, that was a secret. You didn't hear it from me, Cyrus."

Rivermoore chuckled.

"If you spoke to them, though, you'd know they weren't the same," Fau said. "My brother and grandma were the nicest people, and they were our family whether they were alive or dead. I'll admit, a lot of that was down to where I was born. Mage families often got excused from postmortem labor."

"Postmortem labor?"

"What it sounds like. Once you were dead, they'd put you to work. Can't have a necrocivilization without that idea. One effective means of operating your undead was to place them under contract while they were still alive. That way, you could smoothly put them under control once they'd died," Fau explained. "Basically, all ordinaries had to do that. The length of their labor depended on their contributions to society or criminal records. If you wanted to relax with your family after death or just pass on right away, you'd better work hard in life. Harsh, right?"

The coffin heaved a sigh. Rivermoore lined polished bones up to one side.

"There's no end of flaws or problems with it, but…it wasn't nearly as dystopian as the name makes it sound. There were good things and bad, smiles and tears. That hasn't changed, has it?" Fau asked.

Rivermoore nodded. It occurred to him that if she knew what passed for normal in those societies, part of her life must have been when things were still going well. But if her world had stayed that way, she wouldn't be like this now.

"…Did it crumble overnight?"

"Pretty much. Not literally overnight, like in those stories the ordinaries tell. But I sure won't ever forget that maelstrom. It swallowed up three towns, and we burned another five to stop the spread. Tens of thousands must have died—my mother among them."

The girl's voice spoke of her downfall without emotion. She'd likely told the tale countless times, to Rivermoore's great-grandfather and to whoever had carried her before him.

"From there, it was like rolling down a hill. Distrust for necromancy had gone through the roof. Mages betrayed one another at every turn. And the result of all that backstabbing? An anti-necromancy faction seized control. No idea what happened to them after that. By then, we'd already fled to the labyrinth."

"The one beneath Kimberly?"

"Right you are! That's where your ancestors dug me up. I was shocked when I first heard about it! When did they put a school on top of me? But I knew the labyrinth had changed hands several times already, so we'd expected someone to take over after us. We'd hoped it would be our own kids and grandkids, not…this weirdness."

"Why didn't the evacuees make it?"

"It was more like they never even meant to. The place was always designed to be a city of the dead. Necromancers at the time had serious issues trusting the living. They change too fast, turn on you—once exiled from your own homes, it's hard to argue with that sort of grumbling."

"…Did you try to leave anything behind? If survival was no longer the goal—"

Rivermoore knew the answer to his question but asked anyway. Fau giggled.

"You know already, silly. Sorcery! We were buried there to bring the necromancy secrets we'd invented to the distant future—to you. Along with thousands of guardians, their souls under contract."

"Are you one of those?"

"No. I'm one of the secrets."

She was quite insistent on that. He could picture her arms folded, chest puffed out.

"You know magic isn't always something you can just write down in a book. No matter how hard we try to describe it, if the bloodline in question dies out, so many spells can never be re-created. The higher the spell level, the more likely that is. In really extreme cases, a super-hard spell can only be left behind if the caster comes with it."

That was one reason mages formed clans. But sometimes, they had to take a step, well aware it would end their bloodline for good. If, for instance, the society they hailed from had collapsed.

"Like I said, necromancers then had no faith in the living. That's why they tried to solve the problem without passing it down through their blood. The zahhak is one failed attempt. They're dead, so they can no longer chant—but they can use some unusual spells, right? That's magic they knew in life, left in their bodies as function, not technique. Arguably, that has successfully preserved those spells, but they failed to achieve the real goal—passing them on. The specs were too much, and the zahhaks' minds frayed far faster than ordinary undead do. No zahhak there retains any trace of the character they had in life."

So a highly tuned undead? This adjusted Rivermoore's perceptions of the zahhak, and he made a mental note to examine one himself and figure out their secrets.

"They tried this and that but without any real success. But some things they tried aren't exactly total failures, either. Specifically, me. I'm essentially a time capsule. This coffin was designed to ward off the wear and tear on the mage's etheric body. That's why I can still talk to you. I'm like a freshly deceased undead, all shiny and new. Impressed yet?"

"You've convinced me. That's why you never let your mouth rest in peace."

This was a routine dig, a running gag, and it made her laugh out loud.

"You know it! Only problem is—this alone doesn't accomplish anything. A blabbermouth undead is no better than a dusty old book. If I can't wave a wand and chant a spell, I've got no way of passing necromantic secrets to you. Can't do a thing unless I get a body and get out of this coffin."

A tinge of desperation had crept into her voice. Rivermoore was right there with her. She was like this for a reason, as yet unfulfilled. That alone had remained unchanged for more than a thousand years, more than enough time to make any ghost fret.

"That's the crux of it! This coffin may keep my ether from fraying but only temporarily. Once that lid pops open, all of that'll catch up with me at once. In a matter of minutes, every trace of me will be gone. I won't have time to teach you anything. And solving that problem—"

"Requires a new vessel. A new body for you, constructed from the bones on up."

Rivermoore put his duty into words. He could sense her solemn nod.

"Yes. That is the task that lies before you. There was a second, but Douglas solved that after years of labor. And you have the talent the task demands. My hopes are with you, Cyrus."

"I'll do what I can. Only way I can ever put this loudmouth ghost down."

He fended off the weight of her expectations with his usual banter, knowing full well that would earn him far more trust than any dramatic proclamation. And he was equally sure that she saw right through his efforts.

"That's the spirit! But there's no need to rush. Take your time and prepare well, Cyrus."

"I'd rather rush. Gotta let you see the ocean with your own eyes and stop hauling you around. I'll promise you this—I'm not making you wait another forty years."

Rivermoore spoke with the utmost confidence. And the girl in the coffin responded with a peal of laughter.

"Fwahhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The old man pursed his lips and blew. Innumerable candles studding the giant three-layer cake like a hedgehog's needles were blown away—along with the cream, the fruit, and the top layer of sponge cake. The sugary debris traced an arc through the air, splattering against the boy and the coffin seated across the table.

"Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! See? I blew out all two hundred! All that chanting really hones a mage's lungs!"

"…Happy birthday, Great-Grandpa. I see turning two hundred hasn't slowed you down. If anything, you're even more powerful."

The cream-covered boy said the right things, repressing the urge to wish dotage and death upon his elder. Laughing heartily, the old man said a spell, cleaning all the cake off the boy and his coffin.

"Buck up, Cyrus. You know perfectly well I only play these games out of love!"

"I am aware. You've played them enough."

While the boy wiped down his face, Douglas pulled over the remnants of his cake, tearing off a chunk barehanded. He stuffed it in his mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, his lips instantly covered in cream. The boy snorted—was that any way for a bicentenarian to act?

"And I have a question for my beloved great-grandson."

"Ask away."

"Can you get further than I did?" he asked, polishing off the last of the cake.

His tone never once changed. But this question contained no trace of humor. The boy straightened up. The old man had always been like this—no barriers between grim and goofy.

"As the inheritor of our great bloodline, it is my life's sworn duty to do so."

"I ain't looking for rehearsed answers. I'm asking your gut feeling, Cyrus. Your premonition, even."

The query cut deep. Caught in the light of his eyes, the boy wavered a moment, then let himself breathe.

"…The honest truth?"

"Mm."

"Forty years at most, thirty if I'm quick. When they mention the mage named Rivermoore, they'll no longer mean you."

The boy had crossed his arms, eyes boring into the old man—the portrait of arrogance. The old-timer threw back his head, laughing, spraying bits of cake across the entire room.

"Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That's the spirit, boy! Excellent, excellent! Then I'll just have to snatch the name back in year forty-one!"

With another explosive burst of laughter, Douglas vaulted to his feet and walked away. He paused once by the boy's side and mussed his hair.

"You made my birthday a grand one! My thanks, Cyrus."

"A message from her," the boy said, sensing the time for conversation was over. The coffin on his back spoke through him to her former bearer. "'Congrats on two hundred years. But don't go putting on airs. You've got more wrinkles, and your hair's gone white, but you're still that same kid inside. I'd suggest living at least another century if you ever want to grow up.'"

The old man weighed each word from the chatterbox ghost and then smirked.

"I do miss how she talks. Just like when I carried her."

With that, he walked on. The boy rose to his feet and turned to watch the old man go. Shoulders so broad it was hard to believe he could ever surpass them—a moment of weakness that he soon forced aside.

"…Cyrus, feel like an all-nighter?" the coffin suggested.

"Sure," the boy said.

He'd never intended to sleep that night. Not until he saw his great-grandfather in the light of dawn, his two-century passage complete.

Douglas Rivermoore left the manor with the boy's parents before sundown. The night ahead would be a long one for any mage. As he whiled away the hours, listening to the extra-chatty coffin, the boy lost track of how many times he checked the clock on the wall.

"Come, Cyrus. Your great-grandfather returns."

A knock on his door at dawn's first light, the outcome already clear. If it was good news, word would not have reached them yet.

"The battle started at six last night and lasted until two this morning. It was a sight to behold."

Shouldering the coffin, the boy followed his mother to the entrance hall, where the body lay in repose. No visible injuries. He looked just as he did when he was stuffing his face with cake. Like his eyes would snap open at any moment and make a jest of it all.

"…Good night, Doug. You fought well," Fau whispered.

The boy still couldn't believe this was real.

The departure of an esteemed predecessor did not halt sorcery's progress. It simply meant the burden his great-grandfather had carried now rested fully on the boy's young shoulders.

After orientation, his life at Kimberly began. In his first year, he made rapid progress delving through the labyrinth, and when his skills were enough to clear the third layer in style, Rivermoore made his way to his destination.

"This is the labyrinth city where you were buried? Hmph. It's in shambles," he said, eyeing the faded remnants of the dead as they shuffled through the ruins.

"Mm, it's really bad," Fau agreed from the coffin on his back. "The buildings and the dead were never meant to last this long. I'd love to free them all, but in this state, I can't do a thing."

"I'll handle them. I could use some pawns."

Rivermoore didn't bat an eye—to a necromancer, doing upkeep on fallow undead was just instinctive. When he started cracking his knuckles, Fau giggled.

"Bold!" she said. "Proclaiming yourself their new ruler? Then I know just the place. Let me show you to the throne room."

"The throne room?"

"Go where all the mausoleums look alike. The core of this place lies beneath. That should save you a little time setting up your workshop."

"Ngh…"

The lengthy memories gave way to acute dizziness, leaving Oliver staggering. The views his cousin had gifted them were far too vivid, and though he knew full well it was all in the past, his mind still struggled to keep sight of that.

As everyone pored over the intel gleaned, Lesedi said, "I think we've got the critical piece. If his workshop's in the original headquarters, then he won't have moved. The place where all the mausoleums look the same—that's where we'll find Rivermoore."

That was obviously the most important piece of information. What she was saying made that clear—their search was drawing to a close.

"Get ready for the final rush. The next consolation concert will be our cue to charge."

"I don't like the way the wind's blowing," Khiirgi commented, slipping back into the base without warning. She joined her juniors around the campfire. Rossi was stubbornly pretending to be asleep, but Andrews started prepping a cup of tea for her.

"Oh?" he started. "I thought you were in no rush to recover the bone."

"Haaa-ha. You don't mince words, Mr. Andrews. You're not wrong, but that's based on the assumption that the Watch won't recover the bone themselves."

She broke off to take a big bite of the dried meat toasting on the fire. Elves generally didn't eat meat, but Khiirgi loved it.

"So they're making headway?" Albright asked.

"Feels like it. I'm not sensing urgency in their movements. If they were still clueless on Rivermoore's location, Lesedi would be taking action. She never could abide being patient."

She spoke like they were intimate. Her smile faded as she stared into the fire—the fire in her eyes not all a reflection.

"In which case, we're the ones in trouble. Time we acted like it."

A glimmer of a grin crept across her face. Andrews paused, on the verge of pouring water over the tea leaves.

"…We headed out?" he asked.

"No, I'll go alone. This one won't be nice."

She let that last word hang in the air. Andrews bowed as she left, wondering why she'd only just decided this.

"…The way the muscles move. The way. The muscles. Move."

Outwardly, their search was carrying on just as before—but in fact, the Watch search teams were prepping for the final assault. As each squad busied themselves, Rosé Mistral was facing his current quandary.

"Still fixated on that, Mistral?"

"This the thing Ms. Aalto said yesterday?"

"How can I not be?! My fighting style depends on no one being able to tell us apart!"

Mistral's voice was getting a bit loud. The night before, Katie Aalto had told him how she could distinguish him and his splinters, and he hadn't believed her. Then she'd demonstrated and nailed it every time, leaving him rather rattled.

"Gotta pinpoint the problem first. Splinter construction? Or operation? Go through everything unnatural, see if operating only one at a time improves things. Would love to check that against Aalto's eyes, but then she'd just get even better at spotting them…"

Even as Mistral muttered, he was running his splinters through their paces. Not just trying to solve his problems—he had his splinters far away from the base, searching as he experimented. They were past the initial intel sweep stage, but their instructions were to search like always. Best not to let the enemy know your plans.

"Mm? What's that hole…?"

There was a weird round hole in the side of a ruined wall, and he sent his splinter to investigate. There might be an enemy hiding within, but even if there was, the splinter would soak the reprisal. Mistral figured it was better to check than play it safe. He peered inside—

"Boo!"

—and a pale elven face filled his vision.

"!"

Their eyes met. Before he could even make a sound, his muscles froze. A spell was forced through his vision, corrupting his mind.

The splinters he operated were highly precise. That applied not only to appearances and movements; their sensory organs were every bit as accurate as a real human's. And that hurt him now. If a familiar operating in real time had superlative senses, then spells that took advantage of those senses—like this charm—could also be cast through a familiar. Well aware of his unique familiars, Khiirgi had always planned to use him against their search efforts.

"Mm?"

"What's up, Mistral?"

His teammates sensed something off and called out—but by this point, the charm had taken effect. He waved them off.

"Nothing. An undead almost caught me. Made me jump."

"Be careful, man."

"Not like you can readily make more of your little clones."

"I know, I know…"

Mistral turned his back on his teammates. Even he couldn't tell that he was no longer thinking straight.

Another day passed. By the kingdom's throne, Rivermoore was buried in his work.

"…I know this is a race to the finish, but you could use a break, Cyrus," the coffin said.

"Only the final adjustments remain. Make like the dead and stay still."

He was adjusting the finer points of a magic circle with his wand. This circle filled half the broad stone room, containing ring after ring of letters and diagrams. At the center of it was a cloth-covered body: all the bones Rivermoore had stolen—Godfrey's included—assembled into a human skeleton.

"Even the dead need comfort. Same for the living," Fau told him. "You've been alone too long."

"I've got company. A dead girl who talks more than most of the living."

A remark he allowed himself only because the goal was in sight. Well aware of the stress he kept hidden, Fau sighed.

"This whole domineering act is really settling in. But I guess that's my fault, too. I'm feeling some pangs of guilt right now, you know!"

"Spare me your delusions of grandeur. I can't keep up."

Checking the next section of the circle, Rivermoore paused his hands.

"…The dead grow restless again. These grave robbers insist on distracting me."

He snorted and turned to the far corner, where a piano stood. Performances here reached the entirety of the kingdom.

"Ooh, a consolation concert? Can I make a request?"

"Go ahead. I'm in no mood to be picky."

Rivermoore sat down before the keys. Fau named a tune, and he began to play. She listened closely.

"…Good tone. You've improved, Cyrus."

"I'm glad you have no ear for it. Compared to Hymn and Spellstrings, I sound like a child practicing."

"Perhaps on the technical merits alone, sure. But I like your performances best. They echo in my heart."

Rivermoore snorted and kept playing. A few minutes later, however, his fingers halted.

"…? What's wrong, Cyrus?"

""

A long pause followed. He was syncing his vision up to the familiars on patrol, observing the movements of the forces within his kingdom. There was disjointed movement from every direction, all closing in on one location.

"They know where I am."

He left the piano, his thoughts of soothing the dead abandoned then and there.

"Hurry! Don't give him any time!"

Her juniors in tow, Lesedi shot forward on her broom. The consolation concert had been the starting pistol, and their assault began in earnest. She knew Rivermoore would have spotted them by now, but their success hinged on how little time he had to consider his options.

"We're first in! Don't get cocky! There'll be undead waiting for us!"

"Acknowledged!" Nanao replied.

Oliver's squad had been closer than the others, so they were the first on the scene. Compared to the fakes they'd inspected, this looked like another bit of the wasteland, nothing to distinguish it from the surroundings. But Shannon's powers had already confirmed it was the spot. Only one problem:

"Welcome!"

An elf stood before them on the empty land. Spotting her, the team swiftly let down their brooms, landing a safe distance away. Lesedi took the lead, glaring at Khiirgi where she stood.

"I see you got ahead of us. You been working with Rivermoore?"

"No. This just finally got him on board."

Nanao, Yuri, and Oliver drew their blades. The old council faction and Rivermoore's interests were aligned, so Lesedi's group had planned for this eventuality. Thus far, they'd avoided outright conflict, but at this stage, that could go out the window.

"I'm sure you'd love to proceed, but I'm the guard here," Khiirgi said. "Can you get past me?"

"Have it your way."

Lesedi dashed forward. But as her trajectory crossed Khiirgi's shadow—it reared up.

"Lesedi!" Nanao cried.

"!"

She took a quick step sideways, just as countless spikes shot upward. A moment later, they were followed by something Oliver had never expected to come out of Khiirgi's shadow: the zahhak they'd fought a few days prior.

"Oh, right, I forgot to tell you. I'm not the only guard. I have a partner."

"You're a good match," Lesedi spat. She retreated, giving her juniors orders. "Take the zahhak for me. I'll handle Khiirgi."

"Got it. Fight plan?" Oliver asked, figuring this wouldn't be like before.

Lesedi considered this a moment.

"Go for the win," she said. "Buying time won't do a lick of good. The other squads are in similar straits."

Oliver's team may have flown in, but not all squads took that approach. Even on brooms, if their team was mostly ground fighters, they kept their flight paths low. Lack of personnel left Tim running both Mistral's and Ames's teams.

"Whoa…!"

"Eh?"

But a burst of fire blocked their trajectory. Tim veered left to avoid it, and both teams followed suit. Twenty yards hence, the mages firing antiair spells emerged—all familiar third-year faces.

"…Team Andrews? I figured you sided with Leoncio. Trying to stop us?" Tim asked.

"That's the gist of it," Andrews said grimly. Rossi and Albright silently drew their athames.

Tim looked them over and snorted. "Obligations have you here, but you don't wanna be. Cool, come at me. We'll free you up real quick."

His athame went up, while his left hand reached for his pouch. Figuring he should put them under gently, he hesitated over the selection—

"Tonitrus!"

—and a bolt from behind struck his right arm.

"Ahhh?!"

The athame fell from Tim's hand, and he rolled to the side. A vial from his pouch held between three fingers, he shot a glare at his assailant: Rosé Mistral, athame at the ready—eyes oddly hollow.

"Yo—"

"What the—?"

"Pardon me."

The moment Mistral's teammates yelped, Ames was running in from the side. Her palm hit Mistral's cheek, every ounce of muscle in the blow. Mistral went flying sideways—and light returned to his eyes.

"…? …?! O-owwww!"

"Are you back with us, Mr. Mistral?"

Ames had her athame aimed at Team Andrews, pressing them back and making sure the spell was broken. Mistral was clutching his throbbing cheek.

"Looks like you were under a charm. I wasn't sure of the specific type, so I thought a slap to the cheek would be the swiftest resolution. Was this your doing?" she asked Team Andrews.

Andrews and Rossi glanced at each other.

"…Most likely—"

"Ah, by 'not nice,' she meant this, eh?"

That was enough for Ames to surmise they had not been informed. She glanced briefly away from them, checking the state of the Toxic Gasser's injuries.

"Please step back, Mr. Linton. No time for healing here. Your poisons are far too intense to use without a wand. If that vial shatters, no one here can contain it."

"…Tch…!"

The toxicity of his poisons and his need to protect his juniors were turned against him: exactly what Ames and the others needed to keep the Toxic Gasser sidelined. Ames stepped forward, laying on the pressure, and Mistral—now back in his right mind—joined her with one very red cheek.

"Don't be concerned, Mr. Linton. This is our job."

"Agreed. You did me real dirty there. Left my molars chattering, too!"

Mistral let out an angry howl, and his teammates flanked him. But Albright looked them down with an icy calm.

"You nobodies sure can howl. But I don't imagine six-on-three gives you an advantage."

"That is the question," Ames said. "At the very least, I believe I can handle you one-on-one."

"Ha! All right. I'll take that bait."

Albright stepped forward, facing Ames. She flashed a hand sign to her flunkies, waving them off. While she kept a skilled foe busy, the others could press the numbers advantage. No one else here could handle anyone on Team Andrews solo.

Their plan was obvious to everyone.

"We get the other five," Andrews said. "Who do you want, Rossi?"

"The big man took the cutie, so I 'ave no interest." Rossi shrugged. "Whoever comes for me."

The Team Ames duo fired spells his way—and for the first time since the search began, third-years were fighting each other.

Meanwhile, Team Cornwallis and the Sherwood siblings also found their paths blocked by familiar faces.

"Oh, if it isn't Team Bowles. I got all tense for nothing."

"Hey, hey, hey! That's no way to say hello, Cornwallis. We ain't good enough for ya?"

The first foe to bark was a male third-year, Spencer Howell.

"Is that a surprise?" Stacy asked. "I saw your match. It was such an embarrassment, I thought I was watching a magical comedy show."

"Gah…!"

Marcus Bowles clutched his chest, staggering back. He'd clearly taken plenty of damage before the fight even began, but Gwyn and Shannon had never so much as glanced his way. While Khiirgi may have left Team Andrews to their own devices, Team Bowles came with a proper supervisor.

"We'll handle their chaperone. Your classmates are all yours," Gwyn said.

Nodding to the opposition's upperclassman, they moved away from their juniors.

Chela watched them go with one eye and stepped up to Stacy's side.

"I'm sorry Stace was so harsh, but we are in a hurry. If you try to stop us, we won't be holding back."

"Don't gripe if I bite off a leg or two," Fay said, flashing his fangs.

At that, the sole silent member of Team Bowles—Rodney Quark—held up his hands.

"…If I might offer an excuse—these two don't get along. One's dead serious; the other's a hedonist. If I'm not there to mediate, the team falls apart. And then I got downed first in the league fight."

Rodney made a face like he'd bitten a lemon. Then he fixed Team Cornwallis with a glare, as if all the frustrations of that fight were driving him here.

"If you wanna underestimate us, go ahead. We'll use that against you!"