Eire's White Niggers, Part V
With things having come to this, it seemed my prey had finally grasped his situation. Declan Mackin drew a jackknife from his inner coat pocket and sneered.
"Right. Just when I thought I was finally going to have some fun, it turns out like this."
"Well... I suppose I'm not the type to just roll over and whimper in bed that easily, am I?"
"We'll have to wait and see about that, 'Orlaith.' Though I suppose even that name is highly likely to be an alias."
Trying to determine if his knife was imbued with magic at this stage was absurd. Until a spell was activated, there was no way to detect hidden magic—a law that applied equally to both of us. However, I had the advantage of prior intelligence.
"An artifact? Let me guess—one of those types that uses blood as a medium to sharpen the magic? For a mage, relying on a knife is a bit tacky, don't you think?"
Furthermore, the hilt featured an ornate design that was hard to associate with practical combat—a spiral pattern winding around the center. He tried to keep his face blank, but I had clearly hit the mark. His complexion, growing more anxious by the second, was a visual testament to my absolute upper hand.
"Your drunk act was quite a masterpiece. Tell me, bitch, who sent you?"
"..."
"I asked who sent you!"
I was terribly sorry, but the drunkenness hadn't actually been an act. Still, there was no need to tell him the truth, so I simply offered a provocative smile.
"Well, your IRA friends have certainly grown quite a bit in Londonderry lately, haven't they? With hooligans lurking everywhere, the future of the Empire looks rather bleak, wouldn't you say?"
That was more than enough of an answer. Let him jump to whatever conclusions he wanted. His rage would serve as the perfect fertilizer and nourishment for the chaos I was about to sow.
"Those Ministry pirate bastards are finally declaring war, are they! Right, I knew this day would come. Since it's come to this, I'll make you my first sacrifice!"
"What is this white nigger babbling about? I don't care if you summon Merlin or King Arthur, why don't you just come at me?"
Let him come. To the high-and-mighty English, the Irish were just "white niggers," and black people were just "deep-fried Irish." Honestly, the British Empire probably owed Hitler a few kowtows of gratitude. I adopted an indifferent stance, as if I couldn't care less whether he used magic or swung his knife. Men of his caliber were often ruled entirely by their pride. With the right provocations, I could easily maintain a crushing advantage. Though, to be fair, it would have been much easier if his dick were still ruling his brain instead of his pride.
Yet, it seemed he hadn't completely lost his mind. He shrouded his entire body in a defensive barrier, completely neutralizing any potential surprise attacks from hidden weapons. With that, the backup plan I had prepared—a long-range sniper shot from my subordinates in case of an emergency—was instantly rendered useless.
Well, I wasn't expecting much from them anyway.
Although he held a knife, slashing and stabbing wouldn't be his primary method of attack. It was merely shaped like a blade; according to the files I had received, the activation condition for that artifact was contact with blood. If he managed to get my blood on it, the magic would automatically lock onto me, which would be ideal for him. But if that proved too difficult, he could simply slit his own wrist to boost its power. While I could easily dodge the former, I had to treat the latter as a constant. From what I could tell, this man was the type to slash his own wrist without hesitation if he was backed into a corner.
First, I lightly applied a weak telekinetic force to the outer edge of his barrier. It was the most basic form of magic, translating thought into physical reality. The defense was remarkably solid. It seemed he hadn't climbed to a high rank in the IRA on his looks alone. Sensing my magic, Mackin immediately sneered.
"Ha! You talk so big, yet all you can manage is a pathetic probe? I must say, I'm rather disappointed."
Talk all you want. Since the most common form of modern magic was none other than defensive barriers, a basic probe was enough to roughly determine what kind of magical path the opponent followed.
Nothing special, then...
It was an utterly ordinary, standard defensive barrier. To be precise, an outdated standard. Since the dawn of the modern magic era, magical warfare had evolved like everything else—a constant struggle between spear and shield. Modern magic was never static; it shifted and adapted with the times. Consequently, the defensive magic of this era was practically paper-thin against the future magical knowledge that only I possessed. It was like trying to block a virus with unpatched, outdated software. Future young mages, myself included, referred to this as a "magical security vulnerability." Since a perfectly good computing term already existed, there was no need to act like a pompous old fossil clearing his throat.
The probing was over; it was time to begin the hunt. The moon had already sunk below the horizon, leaving only a faint, pathetic excuse for light. The darkness of this alley—the very gutter of society—was too deep for artificial light to reach, and the smog the British had spewed since the Industrial Revolution choked out the starlight. In the dead center of this darkness, heavy with the weight of historical sins, my magic began to flow.
Soon, a "hand" woven from pure darkness manifested. It was a colossal hand, large enough to crush a human torso. A gaping mouth was torn open across its palm, lined with jagged teeth, dripping a viscous, black fluid.
"What... in the world is...?"
"Want to guess? A true combat mage should be able to analyze a spell instantly, even if they've never seen it before. Don't you think that's how you prove your worth?"
There was no need to answer my prey's question, especially when his face was so utterly pale with shock. I certainly didn't need to tell him that this was a modified version of a primitive medieval spell, meaning it couldn't be maintained for long, nor that it left behind such heavy magical residue that it was difficult to use outside of my own secure territory.
It's my first time summoning it in this world... but it's as powerful as ever.
This was the very magic I had recalled while researching Charm in my Belfast hotel room. The primitive magic that served as its foundation was locally known as Schattenmaiden or some such nonsense, but since pronouncing the whole thing was a chore, I usually just called it the "Hand." If I weren't in a position where I had to hide my identity from the Ministry, I would have used it far more often. Once I brought Britain to its knees, however, I wouldn't have to hold back anymore.
Dragging this out any longer would only be a hassle. First, I had to dispose of my prey. I commanded the shadow-woven hand to creep toward Mackin.
"Whether you run or fight, you'd better think carefully."
From the perspective of an Irish patriot, the best choice in this situation was to somehow break through and run as far as possible. He didn't know the full extent of my power yet, and if he screamed loud enough to wake all of Londonderry, he might gather his comrades and find a way to survive. However, I was blocking the only exit of the alley. If he wanted to escape, he had to go through me. And in the mind of a grown, healthy man, a slender woman seemed like a much easier opponent to handle than a grotesque, unidentified shadow hand. Thus, Declan Mackin ignored the fanged hand slowly creeping toward him and charged straight at me.
Hmm. Is he an idiot? He finally regained his composure only to throw away his best chance of survival. Granted, anyone would be terrified seeing a hand with a mouth for the first time. In fact, if you got caught in its vicious bite, it could easily tear through human flesh and bone. But if he had used his brain even a little to consider who was controlling it, he would have realized which path offered a higher chance of survival. How pitiful.
I targeted the security vulnerability in Mackin's defensive barrier and shattered the spell "from the inside out." Barriers breaking during combat was a common occurrence—usually due to a single, unbearable impact or the accumulation of sustained damage. However, a barrier shattering from the inside was exceedingly rare. Consequently, my prey failed to realize the sudden change and swung his magic-infused blade, riding the momentum of his charge.
"Die—!"
The blade stopped harmlessly right in front of my chest. The magic imbued in the steel erupted into a roaring flame, but I remained completely unscathed, both physically and magically. The newly ignited flames illuminated my prey's face perfectly. That expression—a volatile cocktail of terror and desperation—was truly my favorite kind.
"Well... it was a novel attempt, I'll give you that."
Did he really think I wouldn't be wearing a barrier of my own? Unlike the outdated standard Mackin used, mine was a newer model with patched security vulnerabilities. Realizing his initial strike had failed, Mackin steeled himself and channeled his magic again, hacking wildly at my defense. Yet, the blade repeatedly slid off without so much as grazing my clothes, only deepening his despair with every futile strike. Now, he was actually slitting his own wrist in a desperate bid to boost his magic. A thick stream of blood sprayed onto the filthy, uneven ground of the alley, exposing the raw, ugly reality of his desperation.
Leaving him to his useless struggles, I summoned back the hand I had let loose in the alley. Come here, I've pinned down your prey. Meanwhile, I repeatedly locked eyes with Mackin, activating Charm. It was definitely far more effective now that his mind was beginning to fracture.
In the next instant, the hand of liquid shadow coiled around the unfortunate man, tightening its grip from the bottom up to pin him in place. The strength drained from his limbs, and his knife fell to the ground with a sharp clatter. I directed a verbally refined thread of Charm at my struggling prey.
"Don't move, Declan."
I had already confirmed during the tunnel ambush that invoking a target's name made Charm vastly more effective. While my victim was being completely subdued, I took a closer look at the knife rolling on the ground, now heavily empowered by the blood it had absorbed.
Looks quite useful, doesn't it?
There didn't seem to be any particular restrictions on it either. If I combined it with the artifacts I already carried, I might even be able to boost my overall power. It was an unexpected harvest that the files alone could never have revealed.
Since I hadn't ordered it to devour him yet, the magical beast holding Mackin merely dripped saliva, waiting for my command. It was black and viscous, but since it flowed from a mouth, it was saliva nonetheless. Deciding to hear his last words, I commanded the shadow hand to release its grip on his mouth. Of course, if he tried to scream, I fully intended to snap his neck on the spot.
But once freed, he didn't seem to have the strength left to scream anyway. It made sense; the shadow hand's grip was incredibly powerful, so his bones were likely shattered, with the fragments piercing his vital organs. If the bone fragment puncturing his lung had been any larger, he wouldn't have even had the breath to squeeze out a word or two. Mackin spoke in a dying whisper.
"Who... the hell are you...? Those pirate bastards wouldn't go through all this trouble..."
Perhaps he was experiencing a brief flash of clarity in his final moments. Or perhaps, having given up on resisting, he finally had the luxury to reflect on the anomalies. Indeed, my methods were vastly different from how the Ministry hunted down unregistered mages. Since he was already a dead man walking, I pondered for a moment before deciding to grant him a half-truth. But first...
"Declan, if you're thinking of doing something foolish, you'd better stop right now."
I couldn't afford to let my guard down, not even at the very end. As I invoked his name and activated Charm, the tension drained from my prey's eyes, and a saliva-coated capsule slipped from his mouth. It was roughly the size of a tooth. Watching the liquid poison spill onto the ground as it shattered, I couldn't help but think he was utterly insane. Of course, I wouldn't deny that I was out of my mind too, just in a different way.
Amidst the faint, sickening crunch of limbs and spine being crushed, I murmured softly.
"I'm nothing that special. Just a witch."