"Stitch, pull, cut, sew…" between each word full of desperation, a deep breath would be taken. This was repeated like a mantra as the blue thread that was tied to the metal needle pierced the snake-skin. The blood pooling beneath Clailip from his bleeding eyes was starting to grow in size as the mannequins became harsher with their mocking gestures and exaggerated dances that seemed to showcase Clailip in all of his delusions and desperation. The wind blew harsher and the chandelier of ice grew colder and sharper. His determination to put together the perfect vessel for his pets couldn't be shaken, even when the mannequins would audibly laugh at his useless attempts to stitch together a spell strong enough to hold the vessel together.
He was too weak.
This resounded through his mind but he ignored it, he knew it was true, but he kept stitching.
He kept stitching even when his hands were pierced with the needles.
He kept stitching even when the scissors were cutting his fingers.
He kept stitching even when the blood pouring like a waterfall from his autumnal eyes would blind him.
He kept stitching,
pulling,
cutting,
And sewing.
Despite the abuse his hands went through with his careless snipping and threadwork, even when his hands shook so hard he could only pierce through his fingers and not the carabao's coat, even when he tried so hard to loop the thread through the needle but failed every single time.
He kept sewing.
His fear of losing something important to him overpowered all his logic. He was terrified of the idea that Nawa and Kabao would leave like his father and mother.
And so...
"I'll keep sewing…"
This might be a bit much, he hasn't properly bonded with his pets and yet he was going this far to revive them, to give them life. To bring them back. But this was all an adult's perspective, in the little time that Clailip played and trained with the animals, he already loved them with all his heart. He didn't have anyone to attach himself to, well, no one that was physical and tangible. So he attached himself to the cheerful Nawa and Kabao that motivated him whenever he'd successfully do magic.
Despite him having the experience, memories, and knowledge of an adult. He was a child in both body and mind now, a scared and lost child who was finally breaking down from all the stress, pressure, and trauma he was going through.
He's let the nightmares fester and the fear to stew for far too long.
[Notice: Harmless Sweetie's level too low, excess negativity will now manifest]
It started small, sniffles and swivels here and there as he struggled with the needles he'd accidentally embedded into his fingers. Then it became harsher and harsher, slowly turning into bawling, and then into desperate moans born from the agonising emotional pain that he was going through.
Clailip cried, very much unlike the few shallow tears he'd shed when his home was burnt to the ground. He cried hard, and he cried in a very ugly way. Snot came out of his nose and the blood that flowed like a waterfall turned even harsher as he screamed, as he stitched, as he sewed. Even when his vision was completely blocked out by the blood that ran down from his eyes down onto his cherubic cheeks, red from his howling sobs.
"COME BACK TO ME!!!" He yelled, his voice hoarse and demanding. It was a tone so full of despair and desperation that those who heard it would easily feel how much pain the boy was in. He begged, with a dry throat, he begged, sobbed, and yelled for the stitching—for the sewing, to work. For his beloved Nawa and Kabao to come back.
He screamed as he cried, he could taste iron and his voice was getting raspier and more damaged by the second. He coughed up blood and yet he didn't stop begging. "COME BACK!" He wailed, "DON'T LEAVE ME!" He croaked as he coughed up more blood. His voice was nearly gone but he kept screaming, coughing up blood as he did so.
If the blood that flowed from his eyes weren't a magical construct that symbolised his current despair, he would have died of blood loss already.
The mannequins laughed harder and danced with more vigor. They pranced and spun and twirled, they smiled and curtsied while killing everything that was in the zone affected by Clailip's magic.
They even started attacking Colin, fortunately he erected a barrier to keep him and the spirits safe. He massively regretted not acting any earlier and cursed himself for letting his curiosity overthrow his empathy and logic.
He was nervous, he could feel the barrier giving in just from the pressure Clailip's corrupted mana was exerting alone. He was a B-Class adventurer, and B-Class adventurers are the starting point for those that will be in legends and myths. It is also the rank of most local, country-side heroes.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
And yet with just the amount of mana that Clailip was letting out, Colin could feel the barrier cracking. With the mannequins, he doubts he could hold on for long. He had to wait it out, he had to wait until Clailip calmed down or until he ran out of mana, the wind was strong enough that it could kill him just by being exposed to it. If he had time to prepare and if he wasn't being hounded by the mannequins and holding up two mid-level barriers then he would be able to incapacitate the boy or fight against Clailip using witch-trips.
He had one other choice now, it was to use his Sandata. But he never liked using his Sandata, it reminded him of things he'd rather forget.
Colin was a Sun Bringer, the little mayflower of the Danzian tribe Kaldera. A junior-priest that was paraded and was treated more like an object than a living, breathing, being, just because of his magical trait. His Sandata, a flower crown that purified and healed anything Colin touched or was in the presence of, was, to him, a reminder that beauty always had a price. For the longest time he was treated like a doll—no, a tool, because of his trait, because of his Sandata. Only his mother would treat him like a living being.
Well, not only his mother, but a certain someone too.
'Your Sandata is the manifestation of your kindness. Of your willingness to help and protect. Please don't stunt your growth and bloom.' The words of a certain boy rang through his head.
He sighed, defeated, "I can't believe I'm doing this." He groaned, as he made the barrier he erected around himself explode, making the mannequins that tried to break through it fly through the air and break into tiny pieces. They shattered like porcelain, and their fragments turned into nothing more than sustenance for the plants turned evil from Clailip's vicious mana.
Colin breathed out, a crown of thorns formed on his head. In a few seconds flowers bloomed, it was beautiful, a mixture of viridian leaves and periwinkle petals with orange centers. Blood trickled down Colin's head, his Sandata, as he was a witch, had a certain darkness to it. In exchange for the power to heal and purify he was subjected to the pain of the thorns digging into his skin, making him bleed.
A two meter circular zone around him was instantly purified as soon as the flowers grew. The wind was still and calm inside the zone, but the damage done to the once-green grass that he stood on was irreversible, it was charcoal black and was so dry that a single step was all it took to turn it into ash. Colin stared at the mannequins that danced toward him, laughing maniacally, curiously though their laughs were starting to sound like strangled cries. As if they were on the verge of breaking down into tears.
Colin improvised a magical array on the spot, he didn't have time to flip through the pages of his valuable notebook. He drew three circles using his mana as ink and the space in front of him as the paper, he added three of his personal sigils inside each one, then connected them with a line using a V-pattern.
'I'll have to lowball the amount of mana.' He thought. Pouring in too much mana would break the array and waste his mana and too little would cause it to be so weak that it would still be a waste.
Colin jumped off the ground and let a flowery vine propel him upwards by making it hit the soles of his feet with considerable power. It broke his ankle but he didn't mind, his Sandata immediately healed the shattered bone anyway.
"Magical Array, Unnamed Spell." He chanted, one had to invoke the name of an array for it to activate, improvised arrays were no different, so one must specify that the spell they're intending to cast is unnamed still. He aimed the array at his enemies and let it activate. He hoped that he had put in enough mana to at least mildly injure the mannequins.
A hurricane of pretty periwinkle petals burst forth from the circle, but it only lasted a few seconds and didn't have much of an effect. It did help cushion his fall. So after clicking his tongue after the failed attempt, he swiftly dodged the attacks of the mannequins below him and prepared the same array. This time increasing the amount of mana.
"Magical Array, Unnamed Spell." He muttered as he dodged the attacks of the mannequins, he aimed the array at the closest enemy, then made up the plan to use the remainder of the petal hurricane to kill the other ball-jointed bastards.
Unfortunately it shattered, so he focused on dodging once again, he couldn't use his staff to attack as he was already using his Sandata. Only dedicated magicians with superior control in magic could use two mediums at once, and Colin was but a humble scholar, well a battle-scholar, but a scholar nonetheless.
He tried one more time, he created an array and chanted its name. This time pouring in the mid-point between his low-ball and high-ball mana amounts.
Thankfully, he didn't have to worry about wasting any more mana. Although it definitely still lacked, it was still powerful enough to produce a hurricane of periwinkle petals sharp enough to leave marks on stones. He spun and let the flowers massacre the mannequins.
"Lots of power, but too fragile. Their strength is in numbers and their ability to draw out moisture. Said moisture can then be used by I'm assuming either the mannequins, the chandelier, or Clailip himself." Colin noted as the sound of breaking porcelain resounded throughout the fields. The darkened sky seemed to get even darker with each mannequin dead.
Colin then watched as the chandelier shot big icicles at him, he dodged, he had two close calls that would have cost him his life but he was experienced enough to work through it and come out unscathed.
He looked like he was doing a dance as he stepped through the battlefield, he skipped and swayed, dodging the big icicles and using vines and his newly created spell to take down the creepy mannequins that laughed and conversed even in their deaths.
He listened for a moment, wanting to satiate his budding curiosity.
"They'll never be back."
"You must be insane, trying to bring back the dead."
"Useless child."
"An orphaned prince fit for a fallen monarchy."
"Have you seen his magic? What a disappointment."
He shuddered, 'The boy must really hate himself if the manifestations are this ruthless.' He thought. A Witch Factor grows alongside their owners, and mostly symbolises what their inner self was feeling and their own self-perception. Though this is not always the case, it is a general consensus that a Witch Factor that hates or harms its own owner would signify some sort of self-loathing in the Witch that possessed it.
Colin kept going and kept breaking the mannequins, slowly getting closer to Clailip. With his Sandata he could cut off the corrupted mana at its source so he would only have to purify the corrupted mana. The best way to do this would be to use a witch-trip to gather the unclean mana in one place then using it all at once. Witches are natural filters of corrupted mana; once they use a spell with corrupted mana, it would return to normal mana after serving its purpose.
"Witch Trip, Black Rose."
And so the fight for control over the corrupted mana begins.