Radiance (4)

The sorcery of a demon.

Magic. The same crushing pressure as before — only this time it was not her head but her whole body, in the form of a seamless suit of full plate. Her thoughts kept snapping, one after another, because her brain was being destroyed again and again. Magic. This seamless armor that had swallowed her whole was a spell that sealed its target in and attacked from within. Not armor — an instrument of torture.

Clank, clank. Every time she regenerated — her brain waking, her ears unblocking — she heard it: the sound of thick, sharp spikes springing out from within. And every time Ceria's body healed, they ran her through. Pierce, and they sank in; heal, and the spikes surged up once more.

Yet Ceria came to realize that Laan did not wish her dead. She had lost count of how many times her thoughts broke and mended, but she was still, unmistakably, alive. As long as her divine power — this light — did not run dry, she would remain so.

"Ngh."

Her jaw would not open. The armor — no, this instrument of torture — hugged Ceria's form too tight for speech. Shk. Even that was pierced through by a surging spike.

"Ngh."

But each time she regenerated, something spilled from Ceria's mouth. Harad and Ellen had both noticed that it was no moan, no scream.

"Ngh."

Unintelligible — but unmistakably an urging. Ceria still wanted Harad to run, and wanted Ellen to protect him when he did. Because she believed Harad was an ordinary man.

"What do you want to do?"

"It doesn't sit right with me."

Even at this very moment, Ceria was nearly dying, and regenerating. Harad nodded. Ceria was indeed worthy of being called a saint. If she walked out of that thing without resenting him — then, certainly.

"People are kind... I suppose they're kind."

Ellen changed the subject, her face a tangle. That she was gauging his reaction, he realized without difficulty. People might be kind, but to Harad, Ceria was a murderer — a murderer so notorious she had earned the nickname Guillotine. Emotionally, he wished her dead; rationally, keeping her alive was the right call. Ceria was an exceptional priestess, after all.

But he had no particular expectations. Because that was how it had been in his past life. The Ceria of his past life would have lived and died as the Guillotine. Harad had never heard that name before — which meant she, too, had ultimately been of the Church, he supposed.

"We've caught an Inquisitor!" the skeleton man shouted, shoring up his allies' fighting spirit. Ceria was no Inquisitor, but she carried enough divine power to be mistaken for one, and to the Liberation Magic Tower, such a being was a threat of the gravest order. The skeleton man knew exactly how to neutralize such a priestess. A seasoned bastard, through and through.

A seamless armor. That, presumably, was the man's full hand — and while he maintained it, no other magic was possible.

So it is the 4th Circle after all.

A 4th Circle that could not yet achieve Projection. Thus the answer regarding his magic came easily.

"We've caught an Inquisitor! A demon!"

"Do be quiet. I'm thinking."

Harad cast a glance at the skeleton man. The gaze seemed icy for a heartbeat, then burned more intensely than anything — and the skeleton man stumbled back before he knew it.

"I am a man who tries not to hold prejudices. And 'Guillotine' is not a prejudice."

"……"

When Ellen had once ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blown Ceria's head apart, Harad had not been surprised. To him, Ceria was someone who could die and it would change nothing. Keeping her around all this time had been for Ellen's sake — to broaden her horizons, to stir her. The Church was something to be used. A tool can be discarded at any time. But whether to discard it or not — that choice was not Harad's to make.

"Don't watch me for cues."

Harad looked straight at Ellen. This regression had been for her.

"Just don't make anything you'll regret. That's all you need."

Without a word, the skeleton man swept his arm in a long arc. A signal. Before long, countless spells came raining down — and the wind, rather than hastening their descent, had been whetted razor-sharp and made part of them. Unlike before, there was no umbrella of Ceria's.

But there was a blade more powerful still. Jet-Black — and Ellen's aura, a shade paler than it, raged savagely through the valley. It looked less like a sword being swung than a storm passing through. So fierce was it that the jet-black scar of the blade lingered long after, refusing to fade. The enemies' spells became not magic but the husks of what had been magic, bursting apart between those scars.

And amid that savage sword-trail, the armor binding Ceria survived. Slash marks covered it from head to toe, yet it held. No — on closer look, one sliver of Ceria showed through. Her eyes. Through a thin horizontal tear in the armor, her closed eyelids were visible.

Ellen's face was full of astonishment.

"Torture — and an Origin suited to being used on a single person. It would need at least that much strength."

The armor's durability was remarkable enough to withstand Ellen's blade — because it was 4th Circle. Even without Projection, that tier was never to be taken lightly.

Shk, shk. The sound of spikes piercing Ceria inside the armor now rang only in fits — proof that the skeleton man's mana was running dry. They had not cut it down, but the effect was undeniable.

"Let me try again."

Even so, Ellen's face showed wounded pride. She seemed intent on giving it everything this time — and if she did, that armor would certainly be torn to pieces. Ellen was certain of it. So was Harad.

The armor's survival was not solely a matter of its toughness. Ellen's strikes had been swung indiscriminately, intercepting the barrage of spells as much as the armor itself.

"No. Leave it be."

Harad held her back. Inside the armor, Ceria did not move. The pair of eyes Ellen's slash had thinly exposed remained closed. Her breathing was even; her heart still beat. Regardless of Ceria's will, her divine power went on restoring her — her mind had simply flickered out, unable to endure the unrelenting agony. Divine power does not meddle with the mind. A faith that wails demon and longs for martyrdom is one's own will, never a compulsion.

"This way, it will end sooner."

Harad raised his gaze. It was day, yet the sun was nowhere in sight; the blizzards of the Great Plains were second only to the Boundary in ferocity. And now that ferocious blizzard was dying down. The murderous wind unraveled into gentleness, the countless snowflakes turned to vapor in an instant, and the view burst wide open. And in that wide-open view, something jet-black rose.

The Outlands.

In heaven, one does not hide one's Origin — for the Origin is both talent and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠class. No matter how base one's birth... no. There is no base birth in heaven. Conversely, the nobler the Origin, the greater the nobility recognized in the magician who bears it. That is what makes it heaven.

The continent is hell. In hell, one must not bear an Origin. It must be hidden, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and the only ones with whom it may be shared are the compatriots born into the same hell. Even with those compatriots, lines had now and then to be drawn — to keep the damage from spreading, for the death of one compatriot ever invites the death of another.

The Church. The master of that hell pries one compatriot's Origin out of another. Knowledge of an Origin is deadlier than one would think, and so that precious secret had to be guarded at all costs.

Yet there are moments when so precious, so dangerous an Origin stands revealed before all creation. Manifestation — that sublime realm was one such moment. A great magician knows how to unveil his Origin to the world: a pride beyond all envying, a wonder forever out of reach in hell and unfolded even in heaven only by the exalted few.

But that wonder announces itself long before. Projection — that realm, which casts the shadow of one's Origin onto the world, hints at the Origin itself. And at times, that hint is unmistakable. The nobler the Origin, the more extraordinary its shadow cannot help but be.

The shadow of an Origin.

The skeleton man's pupils blew wide as he looked up at it. It was utterly black, and vast — a sphere larger than the valley itself, its rim streaming with an uncanny light. His bare face stung, dry and cracked; one touch and it seemed it would crumble like grains of sand. His eyes were so parched they felt frozen solid — or perhaps they were melting. But the skeleton man could not tear his gaze away.

Between the rays, scarlet flame flicked its tongue. That flame was laughing at his compatriots — at least, so it seemed to him. Because every compatriot but him... had melted away.

Does a person melt, drawing near the sun? A meaningless question; no one had ever come so close. As he thought it, the skeleton man's face hardened. His intuition — the intuition of a magician — had defined that thing as the sun. The shadow of the sun was falling upon the world.

It was a shock like being flung into the middle of an ocean — and that boundless ocean was the size of that Origin. The sun. The skeleton man could not presume to fathom such immensity. But... he could get out. For the shadow of the sun was bearing down upon him, and upon his compatriots.

"Why...!"

His withered throat split; the skeleton man's voice spattered blood. The vessel of that Origin, the sun, was Harad. Harad was a magician. That fact meant nothing at all now.

"Why the demon!"

Just as the Church called them demons, so the magicians called the Church the same — for the continent was hell, and the Church had made it so. Tears of blood ran from the skeleton man's eyes as he glared at Harad. The grief of a man born into hell through no choice of his own.

"I understand. And I respect it."

Harad understood that grief. But he did not share it. Elaine of his past life came to mind. She had not killed three apostles, an Inquisitor, and no small number of priests and paladins out of hatred for the Church — nor because Harad hated it. It was because they had laid hands on the North.

"We simply differ."

That Elaine existed no more. The regressed Harad had to speak in her stead — to unfold the creed of the Elaine of the future, beginning from the past. And at the heart of that creed stood the North: the North that Ceria never touched, and that the Rebel Faction of the Liberation Magic Tower did.

"Why would a magician strike down a fellow magician...!"

"A person against a person, rather."

In the North, better people had to live.

The shadow of the sun dripped crimson fire. The light, grown fiercer still, poured down over the Great Plains.

"O Laan..."

Beneath that light, Ceria murmured as if talking in her sleep.

"...please, withdraw not Your Radiance..."

"Regrettably, it wasn't the Radiance that saved you."

"...?"

At the voice that came from nowhere, Ceria's eyes flew wide open. Harad was sitting nearby — on the snow. Her face was cold, and it stung; the snowy wind was lashing at her, harder than before. The same blizzard she had weathered crossing the Great ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Plains.

"Awake sooner than I expected. Is that your divine power's doing? Or your deficient faith?"

"...What happened?"

Ceria asked, her tone stiff. Her memory was pitch-black — she had been sealed inside that darkness called armor. But the end of it, surely—

"There's nothing much to tell."

Harad turned his gaze. At the end of it stood Ellen. She was kicking at something; a massive chunk of ice shattered, as though she found it mildly annoying. That was why the valley was gone, and why the blizzard had picked up.

"Ellen finished the rest, and as you can see, she's tidying up. The Great Plains are Serzilla's front yard, after all."

A man-made valley rather ruins the landscaping, and Ellen was the sort who could not bear to see the North defaced.

"...Ellen, all by herself?"

"All by herself. For Serzilla, that much is more than enough — branch of the family or not."

It was no empty boast. There was a reason the continent spoke of the North as a thing apart. Serzilla was that kind of name: nominally placed beneath the throne, yet never truly brought to heel by the imperial family; the sun and the moon might shine upon the whole continent, but even they could not drive out the North's brutal cold.

"And besides, who else but Ellen?"

Harad shrugged. He was, after all, an ordinary man.

"Sixteen-odd demons — easy work for Ellen. Much like cracking your skull open again and again."

Ceria looked around. All that met her eyes was snow and the icy wreckage Ellen had left behind.

"Corpses don't last long on the Great Plains. Food is that scarce here."

The magicians had become feed for the beasts.

"If you're that suspicious, dig through the snow — you'll find the bloodstains Ellen left behind."

"...I don't doubt it. She saved my life, after all."

She wanted to mean it — but Ceria could not. That was her duty.

"You know what's proper, I see."

Harad laughed, low. Ceria stared straight at him.

"What are you doing?"

All the while, until Ellen came back.

"Ceria's lost herself in my face."

"You really are something else, Harad."

"Why does it turn out that way?"

"You held me in your arms earlier, remember?"