“Your performance, it reminded me of something I used to enjoy when I was a child. It was wonderful.” Cornifer was staring out the window, an unusually warm smile on his face.

Seeing that Nicole and Ainsworth had become conversing, Lumière decided to humour his strange behaviour.

“Do you think so?”

Cornifer nodded. “Before my father and mother forgot they were capable of love, they would often take me to carnivals. One of my favourites is a traveling group, commedia dell’arte. I think they tend to perform in the East these days, but when it was brighter in the capital, it was a wonderful event to behold. The festivals in Leiden cannot match even a fifth of its splendor…”

“I’m glad you were able to receive a feeling like that. It’s partly the reason I became a magician in the first place.”

Lumière followed Cornifer’s gaze out of the window, but it was clear he had been staring at nothing at all, lost in his thoughts.

“Why do you imagine your parents forgot to love you?” Lumière posed the question with a curious inflection.

“For Lower Noble Houses, a war over succession is inevitable. The losers will be cast out, if not killed outright, and the winner shall reign after their father dies. With two older brothers, both twins, it was clear that I would be killed off quickly. I was deposed by my parents, thinking it useless to keep me in the fight. Who would back a clear loser, a fool who can only take notes…?”

“Then, isn’t it quite possible that deposing you was out of love?”

Cornifer’s eyebrow twitched. “How can that be a possibility? Do parents often rid themselves of their children?”

“No, but from what I understand, they do tend to keep the ones they love as far away from harm as they can-“

As Lumière spoke, images and memories of his mother flashed through his mind. He adopted a hurt grin, continuing.

“So don’t you think it’s quite possible that after they saw you had no chance in a succession war, they sent you far away to make certain that you wouldn’t be caught up in the conflict?”

“Stop!” Cornifer suddenly shouted. He grimaced, turning his gaze as far away from Lumière as he could, a pouting noble. It was possible that he was overwhelmed by the possibility that he might not have grounds to hate his own parents.

This caught the attention of Nicole and Ainsworth, who turned towards them to gauge the commotion, but it had ended as soon as it had started.

“Just mull over it, Cornifer. Things aren’t always as they first seem.”

Lumière steeled his gaze, leaning on his hand. After an event such as his final performance, it was time to set forth another meeting of the Mythos Garden.

——

The carriage was stained with crimson, as if a bloodbath had occurred within. Ramses’s face was severely bruised, and several teeth had fallen to the carriage floor.

But that was no mind. Ramses knew that Midas would heal him. As always. That was just the inclination of an Alchemist. Even despite his rough and crude exterior, he was bound to his greater will.

Healing at his level, a Second-Arisen, wasn’t much a matter of renewing flesh, but rearranging it, like a very detailed reorganisation. To heal small wounds, it was just a matter of pulling skin and muscle cells from elsewhere within the body. In large quantities, to prevent issues, those cells would be pulled from all over the body, to ensure there was no visible shortage in any areas.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

It was unlike the Nameless, who renewed their flesh based on several outside factors. Human bodies weren’t capable of such grandiose things. It was only because Alchemy was in their reach that they could think to do such a thing. Usually, most Hospital Wards in main Cathedrals would have an Alchemist stationed there, but in recent times, where there was a shortage on Heaven’s Roses, it had become uncommon.

Things had calmed down between Ramses and Midas, and the two sat in silence as Midas brushed his emerald-glowing hand over Ramses’s wounds, working meticulously. That was just the effect of their reconciliation, back to being comrades once more. Unable to parse the silence, Ramses spoke out, unable to meet his comrade’s gaze.

“Where did you first gain your abilities, your powers as an alchemist?”

“War.”

“Yeah, but from where?” Ramses laughed.

“The soldier.”

Ramses’s eyes widened. There were two people that were thought to be terrors to war. They were people who had directly or indirectly influenced large battles on war, despite the orders of their superiors that may have conflicted otherwise. They were people with incredible charisma, liked by the whole of their platoons, with enough influence to sway their actions.

For Ramses, this sway was based on his innate combat prowess that he had been able to showcase time and time again. For the figure on the opposing side, it was based on his proficient use of his resources and his ability to quickly establish connections with high ranking figures. It was his innate charisma, his thinking, and his plotting that allowed him to influence his comrades and turn the tides of certain key battles.

Despite their ranks as lowly soldiers, these two rose above their stations, like players sitting on opposite ends of a chessboard. They had never met each other, but they had definitely recognised each other.

“He was like you, the symbol that the soldiers heralded when fighting. He was the Craziest Merchant of War.”

“Craziest Merchant of War… a merchant of death.” Ramses ruminated pleasantly, recalling the memories of his past. “Do you remember the battle over Levaveil?”

“It was one of your greatest losses, wasn’t it?”

Ramses shrugged. “Perhaps that was the fault of my superiors. How can I be blamed for a loss, a lowly soldier like I?” His gaze deepened, reminiscing. “Still, it was a wonderful tactic he used… after eight months of rotting in those trenches, everyone had been starved of motivation to continue… death, it seemed like a blessing.”

Midas stopped the healing process for a moment, turning his focus up towards Ramses. “And? What about it? I would rather not remember the intricate details of that battle.”

“I almost won it.”

Midas scoffed. “You were run down. How did you almost win that?"

“I had a spy in your camp.”

“And what was he meant to do? Feed you information? How did you communicate over such a large expanse of hellish terrain?” Midas was taken aback.

“No, he only had one instruction.” Ramses chuckled. “He was supposed to get close to the Captain of your company, where he would then blow himself up using a concealed explosive I fashioned.”

“So he was to kill himself alongside the Captain? Wouldn’t that have just bolstered our motivation? How is that a good plan?”

Ramses nodded. “Yes. That would have been a terrible plan. I knew the one really pulling the strings of the infantry soldiers was the Craziest Merchant, anyway. But I didn’t know who he was. No one on our side did. That was why it was a plan to further demoralise your side instead. The spy was carrying delirus mortalis.”

Delirus mortalis was a disease that had long fostered despair in the Forger Empire, a disease that would slowly spread to one’s mind and cause them to fall to madness. It was the primary reason as to why a large section of the lower borough had been cordoned off in order to establish a sterile zone, where the sick and contagious were sent to die.

Midas’s gaze shook, coming to a realisation. “I see! Your intent wasn’t just to kill the Captain, it was to kill him in a gradual crazed state, causing his image to further demoralise our infantry! The blood splatter from the proximity of your spy’s plan would have infected him, and we would be forced to slowly watch our Captain suffer from afar as to not contract the disease ourself. But why did such a plan fail?”

“It took too long.” Ramses shrugged. “If it were the case that he had a few more days before he was to succumb to the disease, it would have worked perfectly, and we would have won the battle over Levaveil. However, his increasingly detrimental state was noticed by one of your soldiers, and he was forcibly taken to your sick ward in order to keep infection from spreading. Of course, he died soon after, and the plan failed.”

“Why didn’t you try again? I’m sure you had time.”

“It takes a long time to get a spy to infiltrate successfully, comrade.” Ramses’s expression became warm once more.

“Hah, perhaps. If the spy was taken to the sick ward, where did the bomb end up?”

“Ah… I was supposed to deliver it to him. After all, shouldn’t the mastermind of a plan take charge? But since he was taken to the sick ward, the plan fell through, and I was captured.”

“You were captured?”

Ramses put a finger to his lips, grinning. “That’s a story for another time.”