Section HE 1921 was busy in more ways than one. Historians stood around and offered to give an in-depth explanation of a particular gate. Representatives of the Alhambra Guardians had stands in place to sell commodities celebrating their Caliph. It was very effective propaganda, with children swarming the statue of the champion, dolls in hand. Dasha went waywards, towards the statue of the runner-up.
Name: Shadow Blade
Era: 1981 / 171-172 HE
Points: 23,777,977,888
One of the ten founders of the Sapphire Order and the first Spectre 3, his real name and history are unknown but accepted to be a prodigious player that in any other generation might have been a champion. Known to be one of the few to unlock the Dark Sorcerer Class as well as being a Master Swordsman, he is a rare example of talent in both magic and close-quarters combat. A Natural Born that, upon his second-place victory, elected to stay in the White Abyss rather than reincarnate.
His understanding of shadows is second to none. It is due to his unique control over them that he became the youngest Lord of the Old Magic Tower, patenting a magic circle design that summons shadows of light.
In spite of his talents, Shadow Blade is well known for having never won against the Caliph of his generation in battle. Many claim it is a one-sided rivalry that Shadow Blade persists with.
Heavy footsteps came into earshot. A high-ranking Templar knight with eyes like an eagle’s and a red fur cloak fluttering behind him. Many paused to glance at him. Dasha didn’t. He remained where he was and waited for him to stand beside him.
“I received your pigeon,” Dasha said.
Roland Blackwood’s eyes didn’t flicker, focusing on the pedestal and the information presented. Arms locked behind him, he said out loud, “Invisibility that cloaks your mana signature. A rare ability, indeed.”
Tarnkappe, the cloak that once belonged to Sigurd, was indeed cloaking his existence from the prying eyes of the media and spies alike. It was how he stole the newspaper without anyone noticing. How he managed to walk with Jack the Ripper’s mask without anyone noticing something was amiss.
“Alas, this will not shield you from the Grand Master, Jack,” Marshal Roland Blackwood said. His voice was low enough so as to prevent others from eavesdropping.
“Perhaps. You lost quite a few of your students as I understand it.”
“As you did it, you mean.”
“Did I?”
The Marshal looked up at the statue. “What? Do you mean to tell me you didn’t kill them?”
“And if I say that is the case?”
“No player could possibly kill that many of our Templar students unless they were class four. You, a reincarnate, are the only player that could fit that bill.”
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“Who said I was a reincarnate?”
Marshal Roland Blackwood stroked his chin and walked down the hall. His hands behind him, locked together, his fingers flexed and curled. “So you are not Jack. As I suspected. Why let that fool Frode believe it then?”
“Because he is a fool,” Dasha retorted.
“Fair enough. But that does not exempt you from the murders of our students. I cannot think of another player that killed them other than you.” A subtle hum enveloped him. It was like he was coaxing Dasha to explain and defend himself.
“Our contract, as we agreed, states that an investigation on a man in a white mask cannot make headway.”
“Unless you make a direct attack on us.”
“Which I did not.”
“Big words," the Marshal said. "Can you back them up?”
“The contact is still in effect.”
Such a simple observation. Such a simple statement.
“Ah. How lucky.”
Roland Blackwood stopped and pivoted over to the statue of the Templar Knight ranked fourteenth. Wholly empty, it was a sublime place to continue talking.
‘This man…’ Dasha side-eyed him. ‘He believed me too quickly. What's his game?’
“Us Templars have history with Jack,” Roland Blackwood said. “We know him well. He would never act the way you do. Therefore, as detailed in the Eternal Contract, I shall limit my investigation and ignore you.”
“Many thanks,” Dasha responded. “Tell me though, are the rumours true? That Jack the Ripper’s attacks cannot be healed?”
Curiousity coated his tone. “I cannot understand why you would care.”
The System was capable of healing the soul and thus injuries. But Jack's thick darkness interrupted that healing, rendering many to be crippled even if he did spare them. For the players that managed to return, the healers struggled to help them. It took time and understanding.
“Emma Miller,” Dasha began. “A young cheerleader from Georgia, America. One of four survivors has a clog in her lungs.”
“Impressive,” the Marshal hummed. Dasha took note of his lack of surprise. “So?”
“Here.” Opening his inventory, he took out a scroll and tossed it over to Roland who caught it before it was affected by gravity.
“What is this?”
“Modern medicine has a deep understanding of the human body," Dasha explained. "Give this to your healers. They will know what to do.”
Roland Blackwood opened the scroll and saw several schematics of the human body. Not one or two, but ten depictions of the lungs and what the potential problem could be. He didn’t look at the invisible Dasha as he asked, “Why?”
“For the Templar Order,” Dasha said.
“...for the Templar Order,” the Marshal concurred. “Am I to understand that this is a wish for a partnership of mutual benefit?”
“Who knows? I do, however, care for the results. If possible, I would like the healer to write a detailed report.”
“Hm. My understanding of science is limited, but…” The Marshal’s eyes wandered over the schematics. “These are diagrams. Focal points to assist healers. It is exceptionally detailed.”
He dabbled in artistry in his early years of university and his memory lended to his hand-eye coordination to make for an artist that didn’t make mistakes. Combined with his experience in medicine, the detailed sketches were like grade-school mathematics for him.
“Much of the studies in this world go into offensive magic,” Dasha said. “Healing, while still a field of great interest, is thrown to the wayside in comparison. You likely won’t find something as thorough as this.”
“Indeed. Commander Cedric has been very busy as of late. I am sure he would appreciate it.” The Marshal rolled up the scroll and put it in his coat. He checked the statue one last time and began to leave.
“Why did you call me, Marshal?” Dasha asked, standing still. “Using a Dove Pigeon to send me a message might raise suspicion.”
“I wanted to see what kind of man you were.” The Marshal over his shoulder, golden eyes narrowing in on him. The invisibility was wholly irrelevant and in that moment Dasha understood that no man could escape his eagle-like gaze. “Now I know.”
His steely gaze lingered for a second before he walked off. Whatever he learned, it told all that he needed to know; that it was the Marshal that came out with a better understanding of the situation, that this whole conversation, he had been playing in his hands.