The Artisans' Crucible
Simon and Venya traveled to the warehouse by carriage.
All it took was cracking open the window for a brief taste of fresh air, and the queasy feeling in his stomach settled with almost unnatural ease. Was his brain simply trying to bury the memory of something too horrific to hold onto? Or had it truly never been that big a deal to begin with?
In the end, only the question remained in Simon's head. What was Walter—no, Judah—planning to do with all those hearts?
He was still turning the problem over when they arrived at the warehouse. Though honestly, "warehouse" undersold it; the place was more like a full-scale factory fitted with industrial equipment.
The moment Deimos was hauled inside, the whole facility erupted.
"There it is."
"*That's* the material from the Nether Whale?"
The workers came swarming over, unable to hide their astonishment.
"Excuse me—coming through."
At the voice from behind, the workers parted left and right in unison, bowing their heads.
She must have changed into work clothes at some point, because Venya Vanilla was striding toward them carrying a set of butcher's knives.
"Alright, then. Time to butcher it."
With her hair pulled back in a tight, professional knot, she climbed up onto Deimos's carcass, knife in hand. Simon stared in surprise.
"You're doing it yourself, Senior?"
"Of course."
She adjusted her grip on the knife and began marking lines across Deimos's corpse—here, there, everywhere. Then she drew a cross in a single stroke through the air, pressed the blade's tip to its center, and declared:
"Commencing the conquest of Deimos!"
What followed made Simon's jaw drop.
There wasn't a flicker of hesitation in her hands. Every time the knife bit down with a sharp hack, the flesh split cleanly apart. It was a skill that could only come from a complete understanding of muscle structure and an exact awareness of where every bone lay.
Shloop!
As the work progressed, thick slabs of flesh dropped to the floor and pristine white bone emerged beneath. Blood spattered her work clothes, even her face, but Simon found nothing gruesome about the sight.
In the face of a woman so absorbed in her craft, there was something almost sublime.
Two hours or so later—
"There we go! All done!"
Deimos lay revealed, stripped down to a clean, bare skeleton. Simon broke into applause, and so did the workers who had been watching.
"For a juvenile, there was a lot of soft cartilage, so it gave me a bit of trouble. Still, the skeletal frame was solidly established, so we got lucky."
"Thank you. You really worked hard!"
When Simon handed her a towel, she gave her face a few brisk swipes and tossed it back. She looked exhausted, but a proud smile played across her lips.
"Right then, straight on to hardening the bones!"
Now came the turn of Vanilla's cutting-edge equipment.
The bones were soaked in green liquid, brushed over with chemicals using a work brush, run through cooling units—shuttled through one process after another.
During the waiting periods, Simon was able to pepper Venya with all manner of questions.
I'm learning so much. I may have made an enemy of the Prince of Dresden, but joining this club was absolutely the right call.
It almost felt like compensation for all the grief Andre had put him through.
In the middle of one question or another, Simon casually brought up the other thing.
"By the way, Senior? Are there necromancers who focus specifically on collecting... hearts?"
"Hearts? Where's this coming from?"
Simon described what he'd seen, scaled down a little.
"I saw a freight cart piled full of monster hearts. It was an enormous quantity."
"Hmm."
She pondered for a moment before answering.
"Honestly, I can't think of many situations that would call for that much. Hearts are used far more often by the Hemomancy side than by us, so I don't know the fine details. It could be material for some colossal dark spell, I suppose."
Simon was sinking into thought when a soft beep sounded from the freezer's magic circle.
"It's ready!"
Simon and Venya rushed over, opened the freezer, and pulled out Deimos's bones.
Even at a glance, they had transformed into something sturdy. An ordinary skeleton felt rough and dry to the touch, but Deimos's bones, having passed through all those processes, were smooth and glossy. Handling them felt like touching porcelain.
On a whim, Venya picked one up and brought it down on a thin plank of wood. Wham! The wood shattered effortlessly.
Simon asked in admiration, "Could you give ordinary skeletons this kind of durability too?"
"That depends on the monster species and the condition of the bones. Vanilla tailors bone strength to the intended use. This particular Deimos is still a juvenile with plenty of cartilage, so we hardened it to the absolute maximum. There was no other choice."
The intermediate work was done. Now it was time for the most critical step of all—inscribing the summoning circle for the skeleton.
"They're here!"
Venya whirled around, calling out.
Simon turned to follow her gaze and saw three men walking in through the door. A sudden tension crept over him.
Wh-who are these people?
The aura each of them gave off was no joke.
"It's a first, being asked for a favor by the young miss."
That came from a rugged, hard-bitten man with a close-cropped beard. His bearing and voice alone radiated the gravity of a man who had seen it all.
"I know you're all busy, so thank you for coming right away."
She spread her arms and introduced Simon to the three.
Soldier! These are the undead artisan necromancers who'll be inscribing the summoning circle for us by hand. Sir Diego, Sir Marco, and Sir Rodrion. They're here to help us."
Simon gaped at Venya in disbelief.
Undead artisans? Was it really all right to bring in heavyweights like these?
"And this is my club junior, a first-year at Kizen—Simon Polentia."
"It's an honor to meet you all!"
Simon bowed with textbook precision. The bearded man—Diego, apparently—stepped forward and extended a hand.
"Diego. Necromancer with the Vanilla Group. Pleasure's all mine."
His voice was oddly cold, but Simon didn't let it show as he clasped the offered hand.
"The honor is mine. I look forward to working with you!"
He greeted the other two as well. After exchanging a few brief words of catching-up with Venya, they stripped off their robes and began preparing for the work ahead.
"Soldier. This is a special undead fabrication, unlike anything standard, so I'll need your cooperation."
"Yes, ma'am! I'll give it everything I've got!"
Skeletons purchased from the necromancer shop only required finishing touches on an already-installed magic circle to be complete.
That, of course, was only possible because those were mass-producible entities built on proven summon formulas. A completely new undead, like the one they were making from Deimos's bones, had to be developed from the ground up right here, through trial and error.
Which was exactly why Venya had brought in artisan necromancers capable of such work.
"Hey."
While Venya and the artisans were talking, Diego quietly sidled up to Simon alone.
"Yes, sir! You called?"
"Not so loud. You'll have the young miss thinking I'm lecturing you."
"Ah—sorry, sir."
His eyes flashed dangerously.
"I'll be watching you, so do it right. If you drag down the work by tripping us up, I won't let it slide."
Diego thumped Simon on the shoulder, stalked away, and grumbled under his breath.
"Dead busy as it is, and this is what I get. Why on earth do I have to play schoolyard chaperone at my level?"
Simon scratched the side of his head, at a loss. That was when Pier's voice rang out, thick with menace.
[Has that man gone mad and decided he wants to die?]
It's fine, really. I'm the one who caused this, and I'm the one who asked for help. I can't exactly blame him for feeling the way he does.
If he'd been doing his job well and then got summoned on the spot because the chairman's granddaughter called, Simon figured he wouldn't be in the best mood either.
He resolved to finish the work as quickly as possible, if only for those men's sake.
Before long, the three artisan necromancers took their positions in front of Deimos.
All traces of the easygoing uncles who'd been trading jokes with Venya vanished; faces grave, they drew their focus inward. Each ran through his own ritual—closing his eyes, murmuring to himself.
Wow. Professionals really are on another level.
"You there. Get over here too."
"Yes, sir!"
The real work began.
Diego, the leader, drew a magic circle on the skull. Then he raised his arm straight up, and the circle expanded and floated up into the air.
A circle nearly two meters across. Its interior was completely empty.
Diego manipulated his Jet-Black and sketched the rune-script underlay at its center.
"Commit this to memory."
His voice was ice.
"The moment work starts, there's no 'young miss's friend' and no 'junior.' I'll treat you as an equal necromancer, and I won't cut you a single shred of slack. Keep your head straight."
"Understood, sir!"
"Hand on the rune script."
Simon placed his hand on the underlay. Diego spoke again.
"Jet-Black."
Simon released his Jet-Black into the underlay, and the other two men seized it instantly and began shaping it into runes.
It was an unbelievable sight. Controlling *another person's* Jet-Black to inscribe runes on *another person's* magic circle! How was that even possible?
"Lay the chains."
"Yes, si— sorry, what?"
Diego exploded.
"You don't know chains? The circuits the Jet-Black flows through! Circuits! Do I have to spell out even the basics for you?"
"I'm sorry, sir!"
Simon snapped to attention and began threading the Jet-Black circuits. The other two artisans drew equations radiating outward from his circuits.
"Who told you to lay chains in curves! Can't you lay them any cleaner than that?"
"Sorry, sir! Fixing it right now!"
"Sir Simon. The Jet-Black is thinning here. Redo it, please."
"Yes, sir! On it!"
"Friend, you're nervous. I can see your Jet-Black trembling."
The instant the work began, the artisans bombarded Simon from every direction. The other two at least had the tone of correction; Diego showed no such mercy.
"Lay it again! What on earth did they teach you at Kizen?"
"I'm sorry, sir!"
"If this is how you're going to do it, quit right now!"
"Redoing it, sir!"
Diego was merciless in the extreme, and Simon worked drenched in sweat. It felt, subjectively, like being dressed down roughly once a minute.
"What in the world is this transformation equation? Who did this?"
"I did, sir!"
"Unbelievable. Marco, cover it."
"Got it."
Marco wiped away Simon's equation entirely and laboriously re-laid it from scratch.
Simon could do nothing but watch from behind.
"I've told you twice now. Keep your head straight."
Sparks flew in Diego's eyes.
"Every time you screw up, it's everyone else who bleeds for it. Right now you're not even dead weight—you're a negative."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry!"
"Set a Circling in the corner."
Finally, something he knew. A technique he'd learned while studying the Skeleton Archer.
Simon immediately spun up a vortex of circulating Jet-Black above his palm and sank it into the designated spot.
"Circling set, sir!"
"Next. I won't show you twice, so watch carefully."
Diego constructed a simplified practice circle and gently rolled liquefied Jet-Black across its surface; the shape gradually took form and hardened.
"Canting work. Do it."
"Yes, sir!"
Simon's eyes went wide as he liquefied his Jet-Black and rolled it back and forth.
Diego, glancing at something else for a moment, turned his head back.
"Hey, if you can't even manage one—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his face coloring with bewilderment.
"I'm sorry, sir! Did something go wrong?"
"...No. Keep going."
He'd pulled off that notoriously finicky canting in a single attempt. Wasn't this kid supposed to be a first-year?
Diego tilted his head, then refocused on his own portion of the work.
"Lay the chain to the side."
"Yes, sir."
"The binding equation goes there! There's no room!"
"Sorry, sir! Redoing it!"
"Sir Simon. This equation needs redoing as well, please."
"Yes, sir!"
Simon was wedged squarely between no fewer than three artisans, but he silently kept his nose down and focused on his own tasks.
An hour passed in the blink of an eye.
This kid...
Diego was looking at Simon with wide, disbelieving eyes.
He's not cowed. Not even a little.
Graduates of necromancer schools—especially greenhorns fresh on the job, working their first magic circle—spent their first day bawling their eyes out.
Because circle fabrication carried the enormous risk of *explosion*, the seniors kept discipline brutally strict. Plenty of newcomers quit within a month or two, unable to endure it.
But Simon was nothing like those rookies.
A kid who hadn't even graduated from the academy yet, and he wasn't cowed or shrinking on the work floor.
He wasn't afraid of getting chewed out, and because he freely admitted what he didn't know, he asked questions without a moment's hesitation.
Even after a major mistake, he clung on like a man gripping his own trouser cuffs, stubbornly refusing to let go until he'd fixed it.
"Can't you lay a chain straight?!"
"Sorry, sir!"
At Diego's bellow, Simon apologized at once—then stubbornly corrected the work and carried on.
What a strange one.
That was Diego's first thought.
...But he's fun!
The truth was, Simon was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Why am I only finding out now that this could be this much fun?
The pleasure of mastery.
The joy of the challenge.
He couldn't afford to waste time cowering under the seniors' scolding. Working alongside these artisans was a godsend of an opportunity; wasting emotion was a luxury he couldn't afford. Every second spent moping was a second he should be spending learning one more thing.
He wanted them to teach him more.
More new things—harder, more complex things.
Seized by an exhilarating high, Simon laid out an entire row of Jet-Black circuits without a flicker of doubt, shouting as he went.
"Hyaah~! This one's tough!"
"That's it, that's it! A summoning circle is built on momentum, always has been! Right, my friend!"
The two seniors besides Diego delighted in Simon's audacity, and Simon rode the surging momentum even harder.
"Hey! Eyes on me!"
Diego demonstrated a new technique using Jet-Black.
"This is called the Flop. Think you can do it?"
"Yes, sir!"
He failed once—but succeeded on the very next try, his second.
Diego, who had been winding up to snap at him, found the corners of his mouth twitching upward without his permission.
What the hell is this kid?
Taught one thing, he understood ten.
Err on one thing, and he learned twenty.
And he stood bright and unbroken even in front of master artisans.
"All done, sir! Were there any mistakes?"
"No."
Diego was a necromancer too. Granted, being dragged here while swamped with work had been irritating.
"...Good work. Keep it up just like that."
For in this world, no necromancer alive hates a man who does his job well.
"Sir Simon! Give me a hand over here!"
"Yes, sir!"
After several more hours, even the artisans had come to depend on Simon. Whenever they drew a long stretch of runes, he handled the overflow—tucking in every stray wisp of Jet-Black that bled past the lines.
"Oh—my canting on this line! Who finished this whole section for me?"
"I did, sir!"
"Ah, thank you, Simon. You saved me a load of time!"
"Friend! Help me with the canting on my right!"
"Already done, sir!"
"What, seriously? An ace. He's our ace!"
Two hours had passed since the circle work began.
In barely two hours, the artisans had gone from strangers to accepting Simon as a fighting asset they could actually put to use.
"Now watch closely, my friend."
Rodrion ruffled Simon's hair, raised Jet-Black at his fingertips, and pressed against one spot on the circle.
"What we're building is the undead's brain. There's no other logic to it. What we make is everything the undead is. You understand, friend?"
"Yes, sir. Understood!"
"When I press here and activate it—"
As Rodrion pressed a point on the circle, the bones of the tail fin twitched and flapped.
"See? This section is connected to the tail fin's nerves."
"Got it, sir!"
"But right now the movement's far too stiff, isn't it."
Rodrion gently loosened a 'Circling' embedded in the circle with his fingertip. The flapping widened slightly.
"See? You adjust the balance by turning the Circling, friend. Loosen it too much and the movement goes slack; tighten it too much and it goes rigid."
"Understood, sir!"
The work was going superbly. The circle being built by the three artisans and Simon was hurtling toward completion at a pace that made the difference obvious to anyone.
Then Diego, who had finished tuning the head's movement in total silence, moved the tail fin to test it.
"......!!"
The moment he saw the tail fin move, his eyes went wide.
It swayed with an organic, flowing grace—not bare bone, but as though living flesh and muscle truly clung to it. It looked for all the world like a Deimos alive, cutting through the deep sea.
I've never seen movement this smooth at the tuning stage!
Diego jerked his head up.
"Hey! Hey! Wait a second! Who tuned this tail?!"
Simon raised his hand, his expression tightening slightly.
"I did, sir! If something needs correcting—"
Crackle. Crackle.
Currents of electricity coursed through Diego's body as he stared down at Simon. A colossal shudder swept him head to toe, and his blood boiled hot behind his eyes.
Khhhh!
This kid, honestly.
"BWAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Diego slapped Simon on the crown of the head and roared with laughter.
"You absolute maniac! You did one hell of a job! SIMON!!"
It was the first time Diego had called him by name. Simon's face lit up along with it. He bowed his head, grinning ear to ear.
"Thank you, sir! It's all thanks to your teaching!"
Even the wit to deflect the credit to his seniors, humble as anything.
Thanks to Simon's exploits, the mood on the work floor had climbed to its absolute peak.
All three artisans had cast off every vestige of authority, laughing loud and wide as they built the circle. It had been years since work had been this much fun.
Venya, who had watched the whole thing in silence—through every scolding and every word of praise—wore a deeply satisfied smile.
"...Honestly."
If she told the people back at headquarters, they'd never believe it.
That granite-hard Diego, arm slung familiarly around Simon's shoulder, eyes blazing—desperate to teach him something he didn't already know.
"Told you the boy's something special."