6 : 234 : 06 : 24 : 31

Woooow, what the hell just happened? The big hack pantsing this crap just wrote us into a corner like a chump! And on the last chapter too! Way to drop the ball on the chalk lines, buddy! I can’t believe this shit! In trying to save the day, we played the mystic MacGuffin straight into the hands of the one guy who wasn’t supposed to get it, and now he’s got full-on godmode. Oh my god. I’m so embarrassed to be part of this absolute trainwreck. Imagine sitting through a hundred-bleeding-thousand words, just for a dead end. Oh, sorry, I guess that's what you just did.

The torrent of prana settles. The cloud of dust is blown away. The core has finished recalibrating the black armor’s enchantments and all excess energy is cleanly sheared off. The suit is like a well-oiled Ferrari of magitechnical gear now, perfectly balanced in every aspect, hyper-tuned for road rage.

“Are you ready, you meddlesome insects?” Hume roars. “Shall we pick up where we left off?”

He swings the greataxe once and the sheer pressure of the move rips the ground like butter. Okay, the ground is pretty soft as it is, but it's still fairly rad.

“Get out of here!” Sephram shouts at me. “Run!”

Though he should know winning is impossible, he steps up with his little fruit knives to hold the enemy at bay.

I squat down in the fetal position and pray it’ll be over soon.

Please. Where would I run? I’ve been running around the town all day and I’m pooped.

It’s hopeless. I’m not one of those “win at all costs”-characters. If you can’t beat your enemies in sick style, then you might as well die.

But what the shit can we actually do? The bad guy’s got super strength, super speed, plus all the experience and skills of a hard-boiled warlord. Magic attacks don’t work. Physical attacks don’t work. Mental attacks? We don’t know any of those. Do I look like a bald guy in a wheelchair? So what else is there? Pass wind till he runs out of oxygen?

Come on!

Technically, Hume is still a mortal human inside the suit. Even if he went to the toilet like astronauts, sooner or later he'll have to stop to eat and sleep. Plus, he’s pretty old. If we could somehow keep him busy until he gets sleepy, or his back cramps, maybe we can still steal a win out of this. Then again, thanks to the armor, it also takes a lot less effort for him to squash us than it takes us to stay alive, so we’ll probably be the first to tap out anyway.

Aah, it’s all useless!

I don’t know!

I give up thinking and watch Sephram play desperate tag with the magical berserker.

Really, I expected him to die in a matter of seconds, but he’s not doing so bad. Or, well, okay. I’ll revise that: he’s doing pretty bad. But I guess you could do a lot worse too. Once he folds, it’ll finally be my turn. One bash from that gigantic hunk of steel, and you won’t even feel a thing. No more worries. Not such a bad way to go. There are a lot worse. Like drowning.

But it sure is taking some time.

Hume’s strength and speed have gone far past superhuman levels, but being too strong makes fine control a challenge too. He hasn’t adapted to his new powers yet, so his aim’s all over the place. Instead of trying to outrun him, Sephram sticks as close to the enemy as he can, low to the ground, and focuses on evading. None of his feeble counterattacks can get through Hume’s kinetic barriers, but he still doesn’t give up. He leaps and rolls around in the feet of the raging titan and the surrounding plaza is soon riddled with craters. The rundown fountain is blown away. The bodies of the black knights are tossed around by the pressure of Hume’s wild swings like garbage.

Oh, this is getting silly.

Sephram must be even more tired than I am, but he keeps on getting up every time he stumbles.

Why does he try so hard? Who is he trying to impress? It’s not cool, it’s embarrassing!

Humans can be so stubborn.

Finally, he's fully out of breath and dizzy. His sight clouds, reactions grow too slow. Hume catches him with a quick kick in the gut, which throws our lad across the clearing and into the wall of the nearest building. Bam. The building quality is so crappy, it’s like plunging into a chalked pillow. Sephram slowly drops down to lie on his face in the sandy rubble and takes a timeout. If this were a movie, I should probably yell his name now, or something, to add drama to his final moments. But people might actually think I'm his girlfriend, so I'll pass.

Guess that’s it then.

No, he still tries to get up. The absolute madman!

How? Even now he holds a firm grip on his can-openers, grits his teeth, and pushes up from the dust. He’s so rolled-up in sand you can barely see his face. There’s a bleeding cut on his temple that draws a dramatic crimson streak over his cheek. Man, it looks painful.

Hume strolls over in no hurry. He raises the axe one more time, checks the distance to Sephram’s neck. The guy’s too tired to move away, or strike back, heavily panting. Simply staying up takes all he has left. So why did you get up at all? What is the big idea? Why make it any harder on yourself than it needs to be? Are all men like that, what is the deal? No comprende.

It changes nothing. No matter how much you want or need it, you can’t just pull more power out of your ass at will. Life doesn’t work like a fucking comic book for Japanese children. We all play with the cards we’re given, and sometimes, the hurdle is simply too tall. I think it takes courage to swallow your pride and admit that. And—

Wait a minute.

What did I just say?

“More...power?”

Suddenly, the wheels start spinning in my head.

What am I doing?

Why am I only thinking about beating Hume like an actual cartoon character? We’re not comparing biceps here. If a guy can punch hard, what idiot would try to punch back harder? That's not the only way to fight. Think outside the damn box!

I scramble back up to my feet and hold out my hand.

A faint, colorless spark is lit in front of my fingertips, glowing threads hooking it to Hume’s magic armor. Its protections are designed to disrupt outside information structures and repel force above certain intensity, but a non-intrusive connection is still accepted. I knew it. If all inbound traffic was blocked, the core wouldn't be able to absorb prana either. And that's my way in.

“Hm?” Just about to behead my senior co-worker, Hume senses something’s changed and pauses to look back. “...What is that light? What are you doing?”

“Uh-uh. Not telling,” I answer. “But I’ll buy you a tart if you get it right before you die.”

“Stop...!” Sephram wheezes. “I told you to...run...!”

Yes, that’s the way. Make this look like a desperate last stand. An over-emotional heroine sacrificing herself for the dumb hero (friend). Otherwise, the bastard might still figure out the trick and how to counter it.

“Useless!” With a grunt, Hume turns around to face me.

No. He doesn’t get it. Hume’s veteran instincts tell him he’s in danger, but he can’t understand why or how. He’s not a wizard. Theory’s not his forte. The core should make him invincible—but he’ll kill me, just to be safe. That’s the right idea.

He crouches and leaps across the clearing to where I stand. In a zip, he lands right in front of me like a wrecking ball, his feet sinking through the cruddy cobbles. With a quick spin, he flings up the enormous greataxe overhead, about to drop it on my nose.

My Ice Shield is no better than an eggshell in front of his core-boosted strength. To make sure, he puts his all in the swing.

I can’t hope to avoid it. Just being brushed by that giant metal fan will rend muscles and shatter bone.

He'll reduce me to bloody mist in one strike and it'll take him no effort at all.

No effort?

Now that you thought about it, doesn't it feel a little too easy...?

“What——?”

Right as Hume’s about to bring the axe down, he finally realizes what’s going on and freezes.

“That’s a bingo, fatass!” I confirm his worst fears. “I’m not trying to steal your thunder; I’m giving you all I've got!”

But it’s too late.

I close my fist and cut the link.

The light of mana is snuffed out.

—“HYAAAAAAAAAARRRGHHHH…!”

A spontaneous howl of agony erupts from the bottom of the dark knight's lungs and makes the ghastly armor ring like a church bell.

Hume stands stiff for a beat. Then the greataxe slips from his powerless fingers and he collapses to his knees with a clatter. There he stays, not moving, propped up by the frame of his hefty suit, while milky vapor pours out through the plate seams. The thick swirl of mana leaves him and a complete silence falls over the thrashed scene.

The battle is over.

Sephram drags himself over with a deep frown.

“What...just happened?”

Oh, can I explain it now? I was about to burst, trying to hold it in.

“Okay, so, remember what the pothead said about the core? How it constantly analyzes its own performance, to make sure it has just the right output for any situation? That is, the maximum possible output relative to the amount of available prana, to be exact.”

“I remember. More or less.”

“The core won’t draw any more juice from the air than is safe for the environment, right? The ultimate green tech. But what if it suddenly had more energy to play with than what’s out there? Like, what if somebody were to feed pure mana—which is far more potent than natural prana—directly into the core while it’s running?”

Sephram shrugs. “I confess, I have no idea.”

“Well, that’s easy! The same as in the beginning; the core would judge its performance sub-optimal and again adjust the enchantments on the armor to make the most of the extra energy. Letting valuable resources go to waste would be bad! That’s not how gods do things!”

My friend’s confusion isn’t getting better. “Wait. So you mean, you weren’t casting any attack magic back then, but you were making him stronger?”

“Yeah.”

“But…why?”

You wouldn’t think about giving your enemy a lift in a fight, would you? It goes against common sense. That’s why it took me so long to figure it out.

But it was the only real solution.

“Think about it,” I tell him. “We saw the core doesn’t work in an instant. It takes a moment for it to assess the situation and determine the best measures to take. It may be a supercomputer, but there are a lot of variables and complex calculations involved. Now, what would happen if the person pouring mana into the core were to suddenly cut the feed?”

Sephram looks at the overheating knight. “Nothing good by the looks of it.”

“Understatement of the week. The enchantments rely primarily on the guy in the suit to keep them in business. So when the bonus fuel vanished and the core failed to keep up, the burden of the difference fell all on Hume. Who's just an average guy and not a wizard. In the time before the ball could rewrite the rituals again, he was left stuck inside a supercharged magic engine exerting far heavier performance than he had the vim for. The armor instantly sucked him dry of vitality and fried his nerves before the spells’ safety kicked in and killed the boosters. And here we are. One serving of canned scum, cooked through.”

“I’m not sure I understood half of that,” Sephram says, “but good thinking.”

He goes on to pull off Hume’s helmet, revealing the old man’s red, scarred, exhausted head, wet with sweat. The knight doesn't have the strength left to lift a thumb, the iron man outfit converted into a man-sized prison to trap him. Steam pours from inside, like out of a pressure cooker.

“Well, Marshal, looks like this is the end of your ambitions,” Sephram tells him. “You'd best start thinking what to tell the jury in Alberion. I’m sure they’re dying to hear it. The King in particular.”

“Khhh...” Hume would laugh, if the pain allowed him. “You’d treat me like a common bandit, after I gave my all for my people?”

“And how many of our people we would've lost to see your vision of tomorrow come true? How many do you think died only today, for this power that should never have seen the light of day?”

“Aah, enough!” the old soldier cries. “You know nothing! About the Pillars and their purpose! About what I tried to do! Did you even see the ship!? They might as well be gods to us! Cruleans, elves, dwarves, ptoleans, goti, ibyrians! They are keeping us like goats in the pasture! But for how long? All I wanted was insurance! A way to fight back! A sodding chance!”

“The other races aren’t all warmongering fools like we are,” Sephram says. “Maybe you could’ve seen that, Marshal, if only you could set aside your fear of them for one moment.”

Hume shakes his head. “And this is why I call you fool, Mansoix. Have you ever thought I might have a good reason to be afraid of them? Because I’ve seen up close what their lot thinks of us in their heart of hearts!”

“What do you mean by that?”

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

“No matter. This is as far as I go. Using the core to humanity’s benefit was my own pet project, but I had another job too.”

Sephram and I exchange frowns. “Another job…? For who?”

Hume chuckles and it’s hard to tell if he’s laughing or crying.

“Huhuhu...Do you think the cruleans lent me their guns for sport? That they’d take orders from a dog? Hahaha! No. They were sent here for the same reason I was: to carry out Yaoldabath’s bidding. And if I can’t hold onto the core—then I am to see it destroyed. Those were my orders. And I will complete my mission! One way, or the other.”

“Sure, I’d like to see you try,” I tell him. “That thing may not be unbreakable, but it’s pretty damn close.”

I held it in my hand, so I know. It's not made of steel. The core’s internal architecture may make it slightly more fragile than a solid block of the same dough would be, but I can’t even imagine the power it would take to put a scratch on it. I’m pretty sure you could toss the thing into Mt Doom and it’d be fine.

“No,” Hume refutes me. “I may not be able to crush it with my hands, but I’ve been told there are other ways to unmake it. The gods intended for it to keep working as long as the tower is there, but not further. The core is still bonded to me through the suit; if I die now, the thing will assume the world to have ended, and close down, forever.”

“Oh, you’re not going to die,” Sephram says and takes a step to pick him up. “I happen to know an excellent healer in town. And once we’ve peeled you and the core out of that wreck, we’re going to have a nice, long chat regarding these non-human helpers of yours. And then we hand you over to the Kingdom. Come on.”

But Hume only snorts.

“Unlikely. I’m most certainly going to die, right here—and I’ll have that witch kill me.”

The knight points at me with his chin. Sephram looks at me. I look back and shrug.

“The hell are you on about?” I ask and glare at Hume. “I never got your fucking brand, remember? I’m not your slave! And I’m sure not helping you escape your just deserts!”

The old dude only licks his bloodied lips, looking obnoxiously smug.

“I won’t need magic. How long do you think I’ve been doing this? Since you’re with this naive do-gooder, I assume you likewise hold human lives dear to you. And your kind is always easy to handle. All you need is a good story.”

“A story?” What?

“Yes. For example, a story—about what happened in a village called Buckinworth.”

At the mention of that name, everything stops.

“...What was that?”

“Now that’s a much better look!” Hume mocks me.

“How the fuck do you know about Buckinworth!?” I yell at him. “Are you really some all-knowing god, or what the fuck?”

“I wish!” he replies. “I know that worthless dungpile simply because it was reported to me. I am Marshal of Alberion, remember? Really, you haven’t heard this? Your new friends haven’t told you? Aww, how could that be? You don’t suppose you’ve been lied to?”

“Told me what?” I whisper, trembling. I look at Sephram. “What is he talking about?”

“Hey,” Sephram answers me, his face unusually tense. “Listen to me. This isn't the way. We can talk about this later. For now, I want you to stay calm and—”

“—WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?”

Why are you giving me the stay calm-speech? What are you hiding!?

“Three years ago,” Hume drones on, “I received a report from the fort of Pelgen, asking what to do with a witch they’d apprehended in Felorn. ‘An albino sorceress with a beast’s ears,’ the message said. Can you imagine my surprise then? Didn’t I see a freak just like that on Duskshoal Island? Though I was assured she was dead. Now how could that be?”

“Hume, that’s enough,” Sephram interrupts him in a low tone, and takes a step forward to restrain the knight.

“No.” I hold out my arm to stop him. “Let him talk. I want to hear this.”

“Zero. You shouldn’t—not like this…”

“—'Zero'?” Hume bursts into laughter, spewing blood and spit everywhere. “Bahaha! Did you pick that one yourself? How ironic of you to adopt our naming sense! That’s right! Why would you ever give a human name to a disposable tool? A number is good enough!”

I point my finger at his slimy forehead, dizzy and feverish, my heart beating like a train.

“Get on with you, you old goosefucker! What do you know about Buckinworth?”

“Why, I’m sure you have a hunch already,” he replies. “I arrived in Pelgen regrettably late. You were already gone, the day before. What’s worse, you left a slew of loose ends behind you. What if Yaoldabath learned you were still alive and I’d let you slip away? He’d never forgive a blunder like that, oh no. I had to clean it all up. So I told the Jarl of Pelgen your vile arts had corrupted the souls of the villagers, and ordered them all put to the sword, their shitty shacks burned to the ground. Sparing none.”

“Huh?”

The village wasn’t abandoned?

They didn’t simply move away?

No, wouldn’t they have left long ago, if only they could?

The place was torched? Every house? Everyone was killed? The Rheymars' family, everybody—the people who had nothing to do with me, who didn't even want me there, who had their hands full with just trying to live another day? Dead? Simply because I was there for one summer? And even...Even...

“—Oh, not all of them,” Hume resumes all of a sudden. “There was one more person, now that I recall. For some reason, Sergeant Aderman had taken this other villager into custody, a woman. Someone he said had sheltered you in the woods. She was kept separate from you, which I suppose is why you missed her. Bung-something. I forget the name…”

“Selia—!” I gasp.

“Aah, that was it! Selia Bengholm!” Hume says. “Such needless meddling. More witnesses was the last thing I needed! What was I to do with her? Then I had a bright idea. They said you were a witch. So I had the troops test if young Ms Bengholm wasn’t a witch too. Alas, I had no choice but to declare her innocent in the end. No sorcerous powers helped her swim up from the castle moat—NOT WHEN CHAINED TO A ROCK! BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

My mind goes blank. All sounds die down.

There we are.

You can pinpoint in slow-motion the exact moment where I messed it up. My finger’s already pointed between his eyes. Everything’s lined up nice and steady. The temptation’s simply too great to bear. Before Sephram can stop me, the bolt is already on its way. The casting time has narrowed pretty close down to zero. It’s become second nature to me now. As easy as breathing.

The sharp surge of pressure passes through the old man’s soft, unprotected head with no perceivable resistance. Hume’s split skull breaks apart like a rotten melon, gooey cerebral fluids, blood, and pinkish chunks spraying out in a round, sunny pattern, like we’re out on the beach together, happily playing suikawari. I really surpassed myself this time. Everything from the neck up is obliterated in one go. Like Humpty Dumpty, Hume’s done, and not even a necromancer is going to put the guy back together again.

Then I regain my sense of self and the regrets mount.

“Sonofabitch.”

I resume breathing and gasp for air, staring at another headless corpse of a fallen knight. He wasn’t making it up. I can sense the core’s activity fade together with Hume’s vitals. The mechanism inside goes to eternal sleep, convinced of the world’s end, its long job wrapped up. Maybe the maker of the thing could still boot it up again, but we’ve lost the address of that guy. It's all over.

Sephram stares at the scene of murder, a look of helplessness and remorse on his face.

“What have you done…?”

6 : 194 : 14 : 00 : 05

April 4. The day that goes down in history when the temporary government of Nikéa declares the country's unconditional surrender to the Royal Army of Alberion. The day is made into a national holiday everywhere in the Kingdom for years to come. Schools are closed and flags are waved and there’s a big parade held in the capital too.

They wouldn’t be celebrating if they saw the bills.

Alberion wins their war on opium deep in the red. Mobilizing seven divisions of men and keeping them fed and armed isn’t cheap, and there’s not much to loot in a dirt-poor city starved by years of trade blockade and criminality. The Sultan’s fabled treasures lie buried deep under a mountain of rubble that was once the beautiful royal district. It’s going to take years of steady shoveling before that fortune sees daylight again—if there are any willing takers, that is. Not many eager diggers among the Kingdom’s troops, not in the heat of summer. Many of them get hooked on opiates instead.

Marshal Erwin Hume, the architect of the disaster, is buried a war hero in the fatherland. Though I’m not sure if it’s so heroic to end up listed among the handful of casualties from Alberion’s expensive field trip. If anything, it makes you look phenomenally unlucky. Or just very clumsy. That guy sure won't be remembered for his ingenious tactics.

Hume’s butt-buddy, Mahoen Tyuan-Hé, doesn’t become the next Sultan. What happened to him, anyway? Nobody knows. In all likelihood, an ambitious underling, or a rival gang member, seized the chance to scratch his back with a dagger. People in his line of business typically don’t live old. Professional hazards.

Very few documented war accounts mention the “cloud of storm” that threw “lightning” at the enemies and paved the way for the Kingdom's speedy victory. Clearly it was a sign that Divine justice was on Alberion's side and the outcome the will of the spirits. Nobody considers the idea that the ones responsible might have been flesh-and-blood beings living on the same planet, breathing the same air, as we do. The story goes in the X-files.

All of this I learn only much later.

I won’t bore you with the details of my riveting seven-week cart drive back to the west and civilization with Sephram. We played a lot of tic-tac-toe and didn’t have a great time. No. Let’s skip straight to the conclusion.

Me. The door. Deep breaths.

It could've been easier to skip town without a ceremony and mail my letter of resignation from Honolulu, but I suppose there’s a sliver of something like a sense of responsibility in me, after all. Who would’ve thought?

It may not even begin to make up for my mistakes, but I should at least report back properly in person. Then I could say I did at least one thing right. And I’d really, really like somebody to slap me a little. I did ask Sephram to punch me on the way back, and he abstained, and it hurt a lot more.

Okay.

Let’s do this.

I push the door open and enter the regal office.

“—Zero!”

No slappings today.

As soon as she sees me, Irifan hops off her chair, hurries across the room, and throws her arms around my neck, pulling me into a tight squeeze.

“Thank goodness...” she whispers close to my ear, her face buried deep in my hair, her voice loaded with emotion to the point of breaking. “Thank goodness you’re alive! I was so worried!”

Boobs are touching, boobs are touching!

Irifan’s earnest relief makes my duty that much more difficult. Shouldn’t she already know how it went down? How nothing about the result is worth a celebration, or even a smile. How can she still act like me standing here is somehow a good thing? Like it wouldn't have been better if I was buried under the ruins of Nikéa? Is it denial?

I should remind her of the hard facts, in case she's forgotten.

“Irifan…” I mouth her name and cordially distance myself.

The direct gaze of her big, glistening eyes takes apart my mental barriers and fortitude with ease no magic spell could match.

I can’t ever lie to those eyes. I can’t even imagine trying to pretty it up and taking refuge in her endless good will.

“I—I’m fine,” I assure her, swallowing the lump stuck in my throat. “We’re fine.”

But dying or not dying, that’s not the problem. I mean, it’d be a pretty big personal problem, but not the most pressing concern right now.

The people actually dying out there today are fortunately strangers to us. Only so much statistics. Lines on paper.

But the fact of the matter is that people are dying.

No core, no culprit, no evidence, no deals. You could try to tell the Kingdom their revered martyr was actually the criminal mastermind responsible for the whole disaster, but you’d have a hard time finding subscribers for your newsletter.

The gears of war couldn’t be stopped. The Sultanate was conquered and innocent civilians are paying the price. They’re having a field day hanging gangsters there, and people suspected of being gangsters, and just about anyone who looks a little fishy, and they're not asking for much in terms of evidence or due process. There’s probably also a lot of that stuff called rape going on that everybody loves.

In the already barren land, any found flower fields are set on fire, whether they’re poppies or buttercups. Soldiers aren’t herbalists or alchemists, only few can tell the difference. The same way go cotton fields, and grain fields, so the eastern lands are looking at a shortage of food and clothes in the nearby future. An omelette of all time.

Thanks to yours truly. My first big mission.

“Irifan, I——I failed.”

That’s all I can say.

But even now, the Duchess won't admonish me.

I see nothing but overflowing compassion in her eyes. She gently pulls me back into her embrace.

“Zero, my dear Zero,” Irifan tells me, caressing my hair. “No one person can claim responsibility for a calamity such as war! They are the result to years of consistent failures by many, many people. You couldn't overturn the mistakes of thousands before you—that's not a failure! You are kind, to try to bear such burdens alone, but you have to forgive yourself. Take pride in knowing you tried. You did the best you could! That's plenty. No more could anyone ask of you. We were simply too late this time. But don't lose heart. As long as you live and stand firm, you will always have the chance to try again. And thank goodness, you live! Welcome home, my Warrior of Light. Don’t be afraid. This is not the end!”

And I cry against Irifan’s shoulder.

Cry like a little bitch. Like I’ve never shed tears before.

But that’s that.

No rain lasts forever. We may have taken a hit this time, but every nightmare ends in the morning. Before long, these tears will dry and a new day’s sun comes around.

You heard the lady.

This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

And I won't rest until every last one of the assholes who got this started get what’s coming to them.

That’s a promise.

END OF EPISODE I