Where the Devil Passed (2)
“Bill~ Bill~ stupid fucking Bill~ coward Bill~ spineless Bill~!”
“Ah, of all people, that bastard……”
Bill grimaced at the off-key singing drifting in from outside.
“You know him?”
“Red Tooth’s right-hand man, the one your guys killed. Guess he’s the boss now.”
“Doesn’t look like you two get along.”
“Fucking hate the prick. Was planning to slit his throat myself once this was over.”
“What’d he do?”
“Spread rumors that the ale at my inn tastes like pig piss. That’s a real son of a bitch.”
“……”
Pallichi shot him a look of utter disbelief.
“Nothing to sell~ so pig piss~ disguised as ale and sold~!”
“Perfect, just perfect! Gonna roast ‘em all up as bar snacks! Plenty of meat on a plump Bill!”
The taunts and raucous laughter bounced back and forth outside.
“Come out, Bill! Don’t you feel ashamed using your minions as meat shields!? If those dead lackeys knew you hooked up with the murder ghosts, they’d flip in their graves and rise up!”
“That’s why you latched onto those pirate bitches who look down on us!? Die licking old men’s asses your whole life!”
Bill shouted back without backing down.
“Form groups of five. Eight windows total on the first and second floors. On my signal, everyone hits the assigned windows at once and attacks. Check the second-floor windows, roof, and blind spots. Archers are priority targets.”
In the meantime, Pallichi had grabbed Bill and issued his orders.
“The Lord is with us.”
“The Lord is with us.”
As if they’d never been drunk, the Baismen muttered the phrase in perfect unison, their faces taut with discipline.
“What the hell are these guys……”
Bill felt overwhelmed by the sudden shift in atmosphere. His anger and excitement settled like lead.
A cold, razor-sharp air hung over them. The Baismen scattered with mechanical precision.
“You’re with me.”
“Why the hell should I……”
Bill wanted to protest Pallichi’s commanding tone, but this wasn’t the time, so he trailed off.
“Where to?”
“Front door.”
“You’re gimpy as fuck—crazy? Archers are bound to be waiting.”
Bill sneered, eyeing Pallichi up and down. He wasn’t wrong. Pallichi held a sword in one hand but leaned on a crutch with the other.
“Legs might be fucked, but my aura’s fine.”
Suddenly, Pallichi propped his crutch against the wall and stood on both feet.
“Shit, is that aura thing some kinda miracle cure? Teach me too?”
“You’d have to become my disciple first.”
“Y’know, I’ve done just fine without that crap.”
“I’ll blow the whistle. We charge together.”
Pallichi smirked, pulling a whistle from inside his collar and putting it to his lips.
Piiiieek!
With the shrill blast, the Baismen hurled themselves out the windows.
Pallichi hadn’t explained, but it was a plan that anticipated casualties. The moment they fled the inn through the entrance, chased by flames, a hail of bolts was inevitable. Grouping up dispersed them to avoid a massacre.
But sacrifices couldn’t be avoided entirely. Someone had to take the bolts.
Yet.
“What the hell is this?”
“Who did this?”
Stepping out the front door, Bill and Pallichi were speechless at the silent scene outside the inn.
“This side’s wiped out!”
“All dead here too!”
Shouts confirming the enemies’ annihilation came from the other Baismen one after another.
“Kuhk—gahk—gahk—!”
A few foes weren’t quite dead yet. But the blood gushing endlessly from one’s throat and his ragged, faltering breaths didn’t last long.
“Hey.”
Pallichi addressed an enemy sprawled on the ground, his face a mask of confusion. But the man croaked not a single word before expiring.
“Hell of a sight. Any guesses?”
Bill asked.
“None. Not a clue. Feels like the damn devil himself passed through. You got any idea about this?”
“Fuck, you think a gang boss like me knows heavy hitters like that?”
Bill grumbled. And then they fell silent.
It wasn’t just to speculate on the perpetrator of this unbelievable slaughter. A chill crept over them as they recalled a certain someone’s abilities.
Fear. That’s what they felt.
In truth, each had a suspect in mind.
Pallichi was certain it was Violet. Only a spirit could strike vital points so precisely and simultaneously with wind blades. Magic winds or aura had limits; such exquisite control was impossible.
But he had no explanation for the other wounds. Corpses pierced cleanly through brows, temples, throats, hearts—like divine judgment, not magic. Dozens of vitals perforated in an instant.
Meanwhile, Bill was sure it was Isaac. No projectile traces, just fatal wounds. That’s how Baris died, and Neers before him.
But whoever sliced only vitals—he had no idea. What sword skill could fell dozens simultaneously with such precision? Unimaginable.
“Really got no clue?”
“Told ya, no. What about you? You look like you know something.”
“Nope.”
Pallichi and Bill glanced at each other, then let out shallow sighs. The relief of surviving unscathed felt hollow, tainted by unease.
“Gonna take all night just to clean up these bodies.”
Bill scratched his head. Suddenly, he craved the fine ale from Randolf’s inn.
On the rooftop.
“It really…… went just as you said, young master.”
Violet said, a cigarette between her lips. Her long hair and face were slick with sweat. The fingers pinching it trembled intermittently—a spirit power backlash.
“Why would a spirit mage of that caliber side with the marquis?”
“Count Goethe is one of the kingdom’s top mages. So why rely on the royal shield tax and lose your territory’s independence?”
Violet countered Isaac’s question with one of her own.
Some things couldn’t be handled by personal skill alone. History, politics, money—tangled complexities.
“I see.”
It was a deep night under a crescent moon. The square’s chaos of over a hundred people, torches, and armed retainers from great houses and gangs had vanished like a lie. The city-shaking uproar was gone; those forces now cooled as meat chunks.
Soldiers’ torches darted busily through the streets, quelling the aftermath.
“You okay?”
Isaac asked, eyeing Violet’s trembling form.
“Still hasn’t settled…… Let’s rest here a bit.”
“That bad? Must be one hell of a spirit contract.”
“Way above my station. Means I need drugs every time I borrow its power.”
“So that’s dope.”
“Yeah. Numbs the pain, relaxes the overstimulated body. Best part of working for the marquis was easy access.”
Violet sat on the slate roof’s edge, hugging her knees.
“You’re totally fine, young master?”
“You mean killing people?”
“No, I’ve killed countless.”
“Then what?”
“Wielding magic like that.”
“Oh, that.”
Isaac caught on late. She meant using magic that claimed dozens of lives without batting an eye.
“Funny question.”
“Hoo— what’s funny about it?”
Violet exhaled smoke like a sigh. Moonlight made her face paler.
“Sounds like lethality defines high-level magic.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Not flashy magic. Killing power and mage realm are unrelated.”
“……Most alien thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah?”
“Why people fear knights and mages, nobles and royals. Isn’t it because they hold power over life and death? That’s strength. Magic’s one path to it.”
Violet shivered lightly. The cigarette eased pain and tension, but not chills.
“At least the magic I know is different. Very different.”
Suddenly, a layer of warm fabric draped over her robe. Isaac had given her his wool coat.
“No need.”
Violet spoke as if his kindness unsettled her. They were strategic allies, nothing more.
“Makes me uncomfortable seeing you like that. Nice cool breeze tonight anyway.”
“The more I see, the weirder you are.”
“Hear that a lot.”
As a child, Isaac got that reaction whenever he showed servants kindness. Just accept it—yet they found him odd, chalked it to youth, worried how he’d be the North’s shield, or whispered of cunning motives.
Of course, Violet meant something else.
Offering Bill’s gang a shot at redemption drew out the great houses’ retainers and gangs. Isaac had orchestrated it all—luring their remnants with greed before they infested the city like vermin, wiping them in one go.
Gathering the Baismen was bait too. The others saw it as Baisman scheming; eliminate them, obstacles gone. Isaac and Violet swept the clustered fools.
No hesitation—hundreds of planned corpses at planned spots. No hunting required.
Now, Violet feared Isaac. Not his genius magic, rare on the continent. It was the boy’s mask over ruthless, ice-cold judgment—marquis-level, even.
Such a noble offering a coat felt alien.
“Ever killed this many?”
“No. First time.”
“How are you so calm?”
“If they live, my people die. No ideology like you or the Baismen. Only criterion’s Goethe. That’s it.”
“Really, you’re weird.”
Violet muttered. She’d seen many prodigies, none matching Isaac. Young, yet wielding such magic demanded insights aplenty.
Yet he spoke like nothing mattered beyond his house—like old church zealots rejecting magic.
But no time for musing.
“Now, tell me.”
“What?”
“You upheld our contract. That was your and the Baismen’s part. Your turn. The item you want back from the marquis. What is it?”
Violet drew deep on her nearly spent cigarette, exhaling with a troubled voice.
“A spirit stone. My parents’ legacy…… But the marquis doesn’t have it.”
“Spirit stone? You don’t mean……”
Isaac recalled her family: Violet de la Plour.
Plour. Right, that house.
He remembered a footnote in History of Spirits. Plour, famed spirit lineage in the republic. Their heirloom spirit stone? Only one fit.