The Affairs of the Lower Town
“He was a human of remarkable intuition. He grasped the Language swiftly and mastered magic. And more than that, he devised magic entirely his own. Even measured against demons, his was the kind of innate talent one might search a lifetime and never find.”
Magic of his own devising. Yurik lowered his gaze slightly to the index finger of his right hand, which he was clutching in his left palm.
“Though the exact number is unknown, the demons who died at his hand surely exceeded a hundred. He was a master of the craft of killing demons.”
It was the death of his own kind. And yet the demon's tone could not have been more placid.
“……The deaths of your own kind—do they truly mean nothing to you?”
“Demons are, after all, a race that lives in perpetual struggle. Even had they not died by human hands, they would have died by the hands of their own kin. Are humans any different? Had there been no external enemy called the demons, humanity would have stabbed at one another until it destroyed itself. Behold. Even in this mere two-hundred-odd years of peace, mankind has waged no small number of wars.”
Yurik could say nothing. The heat in his index finger had long since faded, but he could not make himself release the hand wrapped around it.
“In any case, that is all I know of Tithon. The time he and I spent together amounted to barely ten years. In the decades after he left, I saw him only a handful of times.”
“…I see. Forgive me. I had no right to ask such useless questions of one as exalted as yourself.”
“No—it was pleasant. It has been a long while.”
Only then did Yurik loosen the grip of his left hand. The right index finger that had been burning moments before looked as if nothing had ever been wrong with it.
“We have strayed from the matter at hand…. I received the letter you sent. Truthfully, reports delivered in this manner are exceedingly rare. Including yours, there have been precisely three such cases to date. As the Court Archmage of Rehinburg, allow me to convey my gratitude.”
“Please, no. Those heroes sacrificed themselves for the sake of humanity. This is not something I could ever deserve thanks for.”
“Then give the details regarding the dungeon to the Court Mage waiting outside.”
“I will.”
When the Court Archmage rose, Yurik rose hastily from the sofa as well. The demon studied him for a long moment, then gave his name.
“I am Wigrad. I thank you for bringing me news of Tithon.”
“I hope we may meet again under better circumstances.”
Yurik bowed his head with deep formality. The demon Wigrad gave a light wave of his hand, as if to say that this audience was over.
Upon leaving the Court Archmage's chamber, Yurik gave the Court Mage on duty a full and detailed account of the dungeon. No doubt the count's castle would make thorough preparations before venturing to the dungeon's mausoleum once more.
With his business concluded, Yurik left the count's castle and walked along the beautiful riverbank.
— He grasped the Language swiftly and mastered magic. And more than that, he devised magic entirely his own.
He turned Wigrad's words over in his mind—the words of the demon who was also the Court Archmage.
The era in which the mage Tithon had flourished was a transitional age, where ancient magic and modern magic crossed paths.
Yurik suspected that the reason Tithon had bothered to inscribe his magic upon his index finger probably lay in that very fact.
'He used the finger in place of the spoken Language. It wouldn't have been as versatile as Language Magic, but it must have been far more efficient.'
First and foremost, Yurik decided, he needed to figure out how this index finger was meant to be used. He did not want this stroke of fortune to end as nothing more than a stroke of fortune.
It was the legacy of a hero who had willingly offered his whole being to his era. However the legacy had come into his hands, it had to be understood that along with the legacy came its responsibility as well.
He went to the market and bought good-quality paper and ink, and a generous supply of things to chew on. Then he strolled leisurely down the antique quarter, browsing the curiosities displayed in shop windows.
Lots that failed to sell twice at the Rehinburg auction house generally made their way to the shops of this antique quarter. If the Rehinburg auction house was the domain of wealthy collectors, then this street was the domain of collectors without money.
Yurik, who planned to leave the city the next day, sat down by the river and drew the city cradled in the river's embrace—on new paper, with new ink.
And back in his room at the inn, he read spellbooks until late in the night before drifting off to sleep.
At dawn the next day, Yurik passed through the bustling streets, made his way to the depot at the south gate, and caught a carriage bound south. And there he spotted a familiar face.
“Master Haral?”
“Well now—if it isn't the young wizard.”
It was old Haral, who had entered the dungeon with him not long ago. A coincidence, in the truest sense of the word.
“I thought you'd be working here a while longer.”
“I've earned a fair bit for my old age, so it's back south for me.”
“Is there some particular reason you're set on going south?”
“There are a few reasons…, but curiosity as a wizard is the biggest one. I hear the south, unlike the other regions, developed its own magic. Plenty of historical records there, too.”
“…That alone? Hah, I'll never understand the way you wizards think.”
Haral chuckled softly.
“And where are you headed, old man? If it's work you're after, there's plenty of it here, isn't there?”
“Me? I….”
The old man, his hair gone white at the temples, gazed at the sky beyond the carriage with distant eyes.
“My hometown's that way. Must be because my time's drawing near—what with word of the demons running wild, I find myself thinking of home.”
“…I see.”
Just then one more mercenary climbed aboard. There were still a couple of empty seats, but it was nearly time to depart, and the driver stowed the mounting block he'd kept by the step into the luggage compartment.
With a lurch, the carriage began to move. It soon left the depot behind and cut across the open fields.
Yurik looked back at Rehinburg—cradle of civilization, city of heroes.
The river, the city, the heroes, the dungeon, and….
His gaze dropped abruptly and came to rest on his right index finger.
He had gained a great deal in this place.
Having left Rehinburg behind, the handsome wizard and old man Haral passed through three villages over a fortnight before finally arriving at the Gode Citadel.
A fortress city raised between towering gorges. To travel any further south, one had to either pass through this citadel or cross the treacherous Beryl Mountains. Of course, unless a person had lost their mind entirely, no one crossed that hellish range.
The citadel city was not large, but it was prosperous. It was nearly the sole passage linking the south to the center, and the tolls it collected alone were staggering.
Fortunately, the toll was levied according to the number of travelers and the volume of their goods, so what an individual had to pay was not especially steep.
Having come this far together anyway, Yurik decided to continue on with Haral. There was little to do and little to see in the Gode Citadel in any case, so they stayed only a couple of days before passing straight through the fortress.
— The lower town's been rather loud lately. Best keep your wits about you.
The gate guard had kindly offered the warning even as they passed through the checkpoint. When Yurik asked what that was supposed to mean, Haral tilted his head too.
“Hard to say. It's been thirty years since I last came through here myself. Some trouble must've sprung up on the southern front—bound to be why the peace has gone bad.”
“I suppose so. We'd best be careful, then.”
The handsome wizard and the veteran mercenary used their credentials to secure places among the merchant caravans and mercenary companies traveling the gorge road and the forest path.
Yurik asked one of the mercenaries sharing their carriage just how bad the lower town's lawlessness had become.
“Hell if I know, but things have gotten bloody vicious down there, hasn't it? Word is a whole pack of infamous bandit crews have sprung up. They take the toll, all right—and then they slaughter everyone to the last man half the time. Our rates have gone up on account of it, mind, but you still have to be careful. One wrong move and you'll be chasing a few extra coins straight down the road to the afterlife.”
Hearing this, Yurik sank into deep thought. Wigrad's words echoed in his ears.
— Are humans any different? Had there been no external enemy called the demons, humanity would have stabbed at one another until it destroyed itself. Behold. Even in this mere two-hundred-odd years of peace, mankind has waged no small number of wars.
Even now, in the midst of a crisis as the demons' offensive intensified, greedy humans were tormenting their fellow human beings instead.
Did such people have any humanity left in them? Was it right to extend humanity even to people who wrought nothing but harm like this?
Lost in heavy deliberation, Yurik emerged from the gorge road without ever reaching an answer, and entered the forest path.
Evening came before long, and the company made camp in a clearing. Rumors being what they were these days, tension was plain on every face. The mercenary captain reassured his men, telling them that so long as they weren't caught by surprise, there was nothing to worry about.
“We'll post the night watch in threes this time. Let's just get through tonight in one piece!”
Yurik, unlucky as ever, drew the fourth watch. Old Haral drew the third. My luck's always been a cursed thing—I knew this would happen, the old man roared with laughter.
Night fell swiftly upon the forest.
Before lying down, Yurik spread a barrier spell around the camp. It wouldn't reach very far, but it could detect anything within a radius of about fifty meters. He would have to burn through the entire mana of one of the two mana orbs he carried, but somehow, tonight felt like a night to do it.
After setting the spell, he lay down on top of his bedroll rather than climbing inside it and pulled a blanket over himself. If anything unexpected happened, he wanted to be able to react at once.
Yurik closed his eyes and listened to the chirring of the crickets.
Along with the insect song, his mind, wandering the forest, slowly sank into darkness.
'……?!'
Yurik's eyes flew open at the sudden surge of heat. His index finger was burning hot.
'Why all of a sudden…?'
The feverishly heated finger began to move of its own accord. Yurik's body was drawn along by its motion.
The sentries watched Yurik bolt upright and assumed he needed to relieve himself. Then they saw him pointing in a certain direction with his index finger, and realized something was wrong.
It was not Yurik's will, of course. It was the will of the finger.
A moment later, Yurik felt something register against his barrier spell.
Not one. Two, three, four…!
Before he could cry out, something came hurtling toward them.
—!
Arrows, loosed at Yurik and the night watch.
Yurik could protect himself—but not the sentries as well.
And yet.
At that moment, the finger moved.
This, too, was not Yurik's will. It was the will of the finger.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The arrows that had come streaking in like fish through water stopped dead in midair, as though they had never been moving at all.
And the index finger traced a slow circle.
Four arrows turned about.
The instant the finger thrust hard against the empty air, the arrows went whistling off into the darkness.
Ugh—!
And then, screams bursting from the depths of the forest.
The whole sequence of events had taken no longer than the blink of an eye.
“E-enemies—!”
The moment the sentry shouted, a horde came charging out of the woods.
Bandits had attacked the camp.