Toward the Front Lines - 1
In the pale hours of dawn, the Emperor turned his steps toward the master of the Empire’s tallest tower—the man with whom his own father had once sealed a contract.
He had come to request a return to the front lines.
Once, that man had held half the Empire’s front alone. Yet on the day the sky itself shattered—the day the first Saintess and the fallen star rose back into the heavens—he had withdrawn into the uppermost floor of the Magic Tower, barricading himself inside his office, and vanished from the world.
Two comrades with whom he had traveled for long years, against whom he had stood side by side against countless foes, had disappeared overnight. It was not difficult to understand the wound that left. The sight of a mage who had reached the stars and commanded a vast power reduced to such an unsightly retreat was ugly, yet the Emperor knew nothing of the distant past that had shaped it, and so he would not dare rebuke him lightly.
In the end, the man’s strength was real.
Better to keep good relations, was it not?
That was the Emperor’s thought. And more than that—this man had been his teacher in ages long past. One did not repay grace with enmity. After so many years, with nothing left of himself but bare bone, the Tower Master was one of the few beings he could still call a friend.
A fleeting wonder crossed his mind—Just how old is he, really?—but if the man ever caught wind of such a thought, the Emperor’s already fragile body would not survive the consequences. He set the notion aside.
Threads laden with starlight and bones that had touched the stars creaked as he moved, puppeting himself like a figure in a marionette play, until his feet touched the ground. He had never wished for a body such as this, yet extending his life had left him no choice. The Empire desired a strong ruler; he merely gave the people what they asked for.
In his human days he had never become a Superhuman. So he had become a skeleton instead, devouring every scrap of magic he could find until at last he reached that height and the stars themselves bestowed upon him the name Bone Star. How many long years that had taken.
Sometimes he envied his old master and the other young geniuses of talent. The Saintess who had become a Superhuman simply because the gods loved her. The Hero who, merely by taking up a sword, was guaranteed to become one in the future. Even the Holy Knight who had stood beside them had looked gifted enough. At his age, the ugly little spark of jealousy still flared, and he hated it.
How he had loathed the nobles’ endless coaxing that he ought to show his face at least once.
Enough. He had long since decided to stop wallowing in nostalgia for his human days. The Emperor lifted his empty gaze to the tower that rose grotesquely before him.
Save for the topmost floor, it looked much like any ordinary Magic Tower. That uppermost level alone had swollen to monstrous size, ruining both balance and beauty. The center of gravity was wildly wrong, yet something unseen held the whole structure in precarious place.
The Tower Master’s handiwork, no doubt.
And he would have to break through that top floor.
A workshop crafted by a mage at the absolute peak, left to steep for years—it was nothing less than a small fortress fixed in place. He would need to steel himself.
It had been a very long time since he last moved his body in earnest, yet he had once flown through the skies in his youth. Remembering those days, the Emperor rose into the air.
Threads and magic carried him upward, his robe embroidered with glittering golden thread streaming behind him as he climbed toward the summit. He searched the vast top floor—the Tower Master’s office—for one of its few windows, found it almost at once, and began to chant.
He meant to shatter the glass.
Shatter
A single light chant reduced the pane to glittering shards. Light body and heavy heart, he stepped inside.
Entering had been far easier than expected. Perhaps the master of the workshop had allowed it.
Within waited a man with deep dark circles under his eyes, black hair and black eyes—features the common folk regarded as omens of misfortune and so often scorned—holding a wand at the ready. The distinctive wand that marked him, its blade making it look more like a dagger at first glance, still rested in its accustomed place.
His entire bearing said he had known the Emperor was coming.
“What business brings Your Majesty all the way here?”
The Emperor answered at once.
“You are older than I am. Drop the formal speech.”
Akan replied without missing a beat.
“How could I fail to elevate the Emperor who rules the Empire?”
Outwardly the Tower Master looked the younger of the two—a youthful man beside an undead-like skeleton—yet in truth Akan was the elder. The exchange was nothing more than a childish contest of nerves: Shouldn’t I be the one speaking politely to you?
When the Emperor stared blankly through the empty sockets of his skull, Akan raised both hands in mock surrender, as if deciding the game had gone far enough.
“Fine. So what brings you here?”
“That you actually lifted that heavy—no, these days light—rear of yours out of the chair.”
The Emperor hesitated a moment, then spoke.
“Return to the front lines.”
“I know the disappearance of the first Saintess struck you hard, but you still—”
Akan cut him off as though the rest was not worth hearing.
“Enough. We finished that conversation last time.”
“I dislike repeating myself.”
With thoroughly weary eyes, Akan lifted his wand to drive the visitor out. The Emperor shouted in haste.
“This new Saintess cannot speak!”
Akan looked briefly startled, then opened his mouth with clear reluctance.
“I’ll hear you out.”
Outside the tower, a man of enormous build with a gleaming bald head leaned against the wall as though waiting for something. The moment a figure emerged from the tower, he called out.
“Do you have any idea how shocked I was when I heard you were coming?”
“The lower mages nearly had heart attacks when they heard the Emperor himself was visiting.”
“Would it have killed you to send word a few days ahead?”
The Emperor gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“You are hardly a lower mage, Deputy Tower Master Lloyd.”
Lloyd hesitated, then answered.
“Might as well be, for all practical purposes.”
“You know how few orthodox mages actually acknowledge battle-mages.”
The Emperor countered at once.
“With talent like yours, you could have achieved a great deal even in that orthodox magic you speak of.”
“Don’t tell me you actually enjoy being insulted?”
“And every time I see you, it hurts my eyes. Grow some hair.”
Lloyd went blank for a second, then fired back.
“I’d rather train my body than turn into one of those perverts who get aroused by pretty circuits, perfect formulas, and numbers and rules.”
“And I’m not some pervert who enjoys being insulted either.”
“Hair isn’t something I cut. It just… doesn’t grow…”
A brief silence.
“Wait. You already knew that and asked on purpose, didn’t you?”
The Emperor smiled.
“I did.”
Lloyd scowled as though he had walked straight into a trap and changed the subject.
“So? Any results from this secret outing of yours?”
“I went to see my old master, didn’t I?”
“Has he finally decided to peel that heavy rear of his off the chair?”
“Or is he still going to keep living like some child of darkness, holed up in that enormous office as a hermit?”
The Emperor parted his jaw in a faint smile, but with nothing left but bone, Lloyd failed to recognize it as one. While he watched the Emperor with a puzzled expression, he realized too late that another figure stood behind him.
“Who’s a child of darkness and a hermit?”
Lloyd’s instincts were sharp; the instant his master Akan spoke those words, he bolted in the opposite direction. The escape proved futile. He was caught almost at once.
“You’re coming with me.”
Lloyd took comfort in the knowledge that his master would not actually kill him, turned slowly, and asked,
“Where to?”
Akan answered.
“The front lines.”
Inside a rattling carriage, three men sat in awkward silence. They knew one another well—could even call themselves close—yet Akan and Lloyd both suffered from severe carriage sickness.
“Urgh—”
“Damn it, stop dry-heaving. You’re turning my stomach.”
“Because of you I’m going to—ugh—”
The Emperor watched their ridiculous display with open enjoyment and urged the carriage even faster. Midway, one of the threads linked to him began to vibrate.
The Threads of Tuning were the lifelines that kept his body from collapsing, and also the communication lines he had planted in a handful of trustworthy people.
One vibration. One thread.
Emergency.
Urgency seized the Emperor’s heart. He began to worry what might have happened in the Imperial Capital while he was away. He needed more speed.
“Stick your heads outside.”
Akan and Lloyd exchanged puzzled looks but obeyed. The Emperor pushed the carriage to its absolute limit. It streaked toward the capital, leaving a long afterimage—and the sound of someone vomiting—in its wake.