Spectacle (2)
“Hoo—”
Yonas drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even though the demonstration had begun, the crowd’s murmurs didn’t die down. Enet and Beltran’s performances had left too strong an impression.
“Looks like he was nervous.”
“Can’t blame him. The acts before were overwhelming.”
“All I can think about is that ice block.”
The audience, still buzzing from Beltran’s show, seemed to have little interest in Yonas.
“Hoo—”
Yonas took another deep breath. He closed his eyes.
Mana filled the vessel. He focused on the mana flowing through his circuits. The murmurs faded one by one. He blocked out subjective sensations one after another.
And amid it all, the spirit he had contracted with—Populus—remained vividly clear.
First stage: mana condensation.
Second stage: elemental conversion.
Compression, condensation, expansion, evaporation.
Just like Beltran, an ice block formed in midair. But compared to Beltran’s, its size was pitifully small. Beltran’s had been large enough to shield his entire body, while Yonas’s could barely cover his face.
“Another glacier?”
“It’s too small.”
“Completely the wrong strategy.”
“Bad luck. He couldn’t have known the Buhitner second son would pull off such a flawless glacier.”
The scattered chatter echoed in Yonas’s ears. It was hard to concentrate.
At that moment.
♩───
A familiar melody hummed in his mind. Populus.
The spirit’s voice. Or more precisely, a resonance through mana. A melody from the soul.
It was a piece Yonas loved to play. Tristis Draco—the dragon that wept bitterly and sadly.
He vividly remembered playing it with his brother. Yonas’s tense, furrowed face relaxed into calm.
Crack-crack!
The shriek of frost filled the Great Hall. The ice block, already formed, began swelling in real time.
“Hah—”
Reihi let out a disbelieving breath. Magic alteration. Modifying a completed spell with the caster’s will. It was the third stage, something none of the previous contestants had touched.
The ice block, once the size of a candelabra, grew to rival Beltran’s creation. Unlike Beltran, Yonas’s face showed no agitation. It was serene and peaceful.
The ice block, expected to crash to the floor, instead rose toward the lofty ceiling.
Whoosh!
Suddenly, a gale swept through the Great Hall. The floating ice block was slowly shaved away, scattering into the wind.
“A wind spell after glacier...?”
The crowd fell into confusion. Some huddled against the fierce gusts, others shielded their faces with their arms. A few even cast protective spells.
Two spells at once?
Reihi blinked. Even seeing it with his own eyes, he could scarcely believe it. There were countless theories and hypotheses about dual casting, but the conclusion was always impossibility. Sequential spells were possible, but simultaneous casting was theoretically and commonsensically nonexistent.
Yet here it was, right before him. The standards he’d used for decades to divide the dullards, the mediocre, the gifted, and the geniuses shattered in that instant.
Perhaps an illusion spell. Or maybe Yonas was using some unknown relic or magitech device. As Reihi tried to rationalize it within his knowledge,
the ice block that had risen to the ceiling vanished without a trace. The whirlwind died down.
“I-is it over?”
The crowd lowered their guards and looked around warily.
“To think Goethe’s wall was this high.”
“Isn’t that child the one blessed by the eldest son?”
Some couldn’t hide their awe. Others raised questions. Even those murmurs soon sank into silence.
Reihi felt a chill on his forehead.
“...Snow?”
Large snowflakes were falling. He held out his palm, and the snow melted on his skin with a sizzle. It wasn’t an illusion. Real snow, stimulating his sense of touch.
Huge snowflakes poured from the Great Hall’s ceiling. The people stared, entranced. The surroundings grew still. The snowflakes seemed to absorb all sound.
Colored sunlight filtered through the stained glass, illuminating the interior. Snowflakes carrying that light fell—red, blue, yellow, green. Multicolored snowflakes swirled like flower petals.
Magic straight out of a fairy tale. A spectacle.
To think it would be this much.
Isaac, watching the contest, was genuinely surprised. In the original timeline, Yonas wouldn’t have awakened such talent until past forty. With no teacher or precedent, he’d have struggled alone for decades.
A rain of applause poured down. Through the gaps in the crowd, Yonas was visible—radiant golden curls, innocent face. The people cheered ecstatically.
In that cauldron of fervor, Isaac’s lips twitched. He hadn’t done it himself, yet it felt like decades of pent-up frustration had been released.
Satisfied with Yonas’s performance, Isaac slipped out of the Great Hall leisurely. There was unfinished business.
When Boatmer’s servant Emil came to, he was in a small forest clearing. A silent place devoid of any human presence.
Until moments ago, he’d been on a critical errand from the head servant, delivering a “package” to Beltran. Just an ordinary stone. The head servant hadn’t explained what it was—only that it had to be delivered.
How many steps had he taken into the Great Hall? His nape burned, his legs gave out.
“Whoa, looks like our guest isn’t feeling well.”
Someone had joked while dragging him out of the manor. He wanted to resist, but his body wouldn’t obey.
“No regrets, friend.”
Once outside the manor’s stone walls, a man with a neatly trimmed mustache spoke.
“You... what the—?”
As Emil barely moved his lips, a dull thud rocked his head. His vision went black briefly, and when he opened his eyes, he was dumped in this godforsaken place.
“Hm. Chilly spot.”
Pallichi muttered, eyeing a rock at one side of the clearing. A flat slab with a groove artificially carved into it—likely for fixing a condemned prisoner’s neck. The surrounding stone was discolored, oxidized by blood.
“H-hey! Do you know who I am!?”
Emil, still disoriented, struggled and finally found his voice. His arms were bound behind his back, ankles tied.
“That’s why we’re doing this, isn’t it?”
Thud!
Pallichi thrust his sword blade under Emil’s nose and stabbed it into the dirt.
“Wh-why are you doing this? I-I’m Emil von Brauger. Servant to Viscount Boatmer...”
“Won’t matter what you say to me.”
Pallichi pulled dried jerky from his pocket and chewed noisily. He tapped his foot, staring down the path into the clearing.
“Money? I-I’ll give it all. I’ve got a good stash of gold coins. Just let me go...”
“Useless.”
“A grudge against Boatmer? You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m nothing, really nothing. Just a manor servant!”
Emil thrashed desperately.
“Sorry. Not my call. Hey, young master!”
Pallichi waved. Isaac walked in along the path, a wooden box under his arm.
“...Young master?”
Emil twisted his head toward the direction Pallichi waved. A stranger. “Young master” implied his father was at least a count. But no noble son matching that description among the key figures Emil knew.
Ash-gray hair, sharp gaze, blue eyes, a sharp yet shadowed impression. Sturdy build. But his face was youthful. Too tall for a newly adult boy, too small for a full-grown man. The aura screamed knightly lineage, but he’d never heard of anyone like that at this age.
“Kept you waiting.”
“Had to watch it all. It’s my little brother’s contest.”
“I’m hungry. Wrap it up quick.”
Pallichi swaggered like a back-alley gangster, utterly indifferent to Emil’s life.
“W-wait. P-please, sirs. Have mercy and tell me what I’ve done wrong? We’re both faithful to the same god. I beg you, earnestly.”
“Faithful?”
Pallichi snorted.
“If you knew what you were about to do, you wouldn’t beg for mercy.”
“Wh-what?”
“What’ll it be, young master? Give him the polite explanation?”
“No time. Boatmer’s head servant’s waiting for his report. If no word comes on time, they might try something else.”
“Want me to handle it?”
“S-sirs?”
Emil’s eyes shook.
“I’ll do it. Needs to be known that way.”
Isaac set down the box and drew the longsword Pallichi had stabbed into the ground.
“Drag him to the rock?”
“No. That’s for official Goethe executions. I don’t have the authority.”
Isaac shook his head.
“Can you behead him in one without the groove? Even executioners struggle.”
“A-anything! I’ll say anything, do anything! Please, please!”
Emil writhed.
“Hey, hold still. Or I can’t do it clean. Might take several swings. Hurt like hell.”
Pallichi chewed the last of his jerky, pinned Emil’s body, and fixed his head to the ground.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Hold him like that.”
“Don’t cut me too.”
“Don’t worry.”
Isaac gripped the longsword.
“I’m innocent, really! Killing me won’t—”
Slash!
Isaac severed Emil’s head cleanly. Blood sprayed everywhere.
“Neat.”
Pallichi wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve. He was still chewing tough jerky.
“Strong stomach.”
“This? Want one?”
At Isaac’s words, Pallichi grinned and pulled out another piece.
“Pass. Pack it nice and deliver it. Tell them it’s a gift from Isaac von Goethe.”
Isaac pointed to the box.
On a side road far from the manor, a lone carriage stood. It was Boatmer’s head servant, Gutrurt.
“No one coming?”
“No, sir.”
The attendant outside the carriage answered Gutrurt’s question.
“He should’ve been back ages ago.”
He muttered to himself, easing his anxiety. The servant who should’ve reported back long ago was overdue.
“Just hand over a stone—why’s it taking so long?”
Had something gone wrong? Or had an enraged spirit swept him away? The latter would be fortunate; the former spelled disaster.
Knock knock!
“Head servant.”
Suddenly, someone knocked on the carriage door.
“Is that Emil?”
“No, sir. Stranger.”
“Stranger?”
Gutrurt lifted the curtain and peered out. A man in leather armor approached with a wooden box. He looked like a street mercenary, but the trimmed mustache and slicked-back hair were out of place.
“Who are you?”
The armed attendant gripped his sword hilt.
“Got a delivery.”
The man ignored the guard’s wariness. His eyes spoke of seasoned combat.
“Who are you, and what’s this delivery?”
Gutrurt scowled at him. Those greenish eyes marked him no kingdom man.
“Gift from Young Master Isaac. No fight—just leave it and go.”
The man slowly set the box down, raised his hands, and walked away from the carriage.
“...Check it.”
At Gutrurt’s order, the attendant flung open the lid.
“S-head servant...”
The attendant’s face hardened.
“What is it?”
“See for yourself.”
The attendant handed the box to Gutrurt.
“Hah—”
Gutrurt gasped. His face drained of color.
Inside was the servant he’d been waiting for—Emil’s severed head.
Boatmer’s plan had failed.
“That guy just now...”
Gutrurt glanced in the direction the man had vanished. He was long gone.