Don't Spout Nonsense. (3)

Friday's divinity lecture wrapped up without incident.

The fact that the material itself had gotten easier certainly played its part, but an even bigger factor was the professor's demeanor today — his mind seemed to have wandered off somewhere else entirely.

Whenever he taught theory, the pauses between his sentences stretched longer than usual. He would explain one thing, then stare blankly into the distance as if mulling something over, before finally moving on to the next point. At first I thought he was simply reviewing what he needed to teach, but every time he did that reviewing, he was muttering to himself under his breath ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— so that couldn't have been it.

Even once the lecture moved on to practical exercises, his condition remained much the same. He would run through a demonstration a few times and then sink into thought, and he stayed that way until a student finally worked up the nerve to ask a question.

Even when I addressed him directly—

"...I'm sorry? Did you have a question?"

—that was the kind of slightly delayed response I got.

Something about the professor struck me as off, so I naturally made my way to Professor Elia's office.

Knock knock-

I rapped on the office door.

- Yes, come on in.

Her ever-kind voice drifted through the door, and I opened it and stepped inside.

"Professor Elia, are you busy?"

"Not at all — as if I ever could be~ Welcome, Bellatrix."

Something about that answer nagged at me. A professor who's never busy? That seemed a little strange. But the thought came and went, and I sank onto the sofa without giving it another moment's consideration.

That was simply how she always was — it would have been stranger for her to say anything else.

"Professor Elia, is something the matter with Professor Niger? He looked completely out of it today."

"Hm? Well, let me think...? Maybe something did come up. Oh — would you like some tea first?"

"Ah, yes, please. I'm always in your debt."

"Think nothing of it."

Elia smiled as though it were the most natural thing in the world and poured tea into a cup.

Ever since recently — ever since we'd picked out Professor Niger's birthday present together, in fact — the two of us had taken to sharing tea whenever we found a spare moment.

"Here you are."

"Mm, thank you."

I took a sip of the tea.

The sharp, tingling note flooding my mouth told me it was apple mint today.

Ugh.

I don't much care for mint.

I was still lost in that little grievance when Elia clapped her hands together — tap, tap — as if something had just come to her.

"Oh, I think I know why Professor Niger's been so distracted! Come to think of it, he mentioned he had something to do tomorrow."

"The professor has plans on the weekend?"

I'd assumed he was the type to burrow into his home all weekend — or, failing that, make a trip to the temple.

"He said it was something for the Order... a Trial of Elohim, I believe he called it. In any case, he said he had to do it alone."

"Hm. Elohim really is a merciless god, making people work on their days off."

"Ahaha... well, Sunday is for worship, after all."

"Professor Niger doesn't strike me as one who worships, though."

"Oh, come now — surely not. He may be an Academy professor, but he's said to be an exceptionally devout priest. For all we know, he might be praying this very moment."

A devout priest, she says.

Perhaps devotion these days meant something a little different from what I understood it to be.

The dead of night.

"Elohim, you piece of..."

[Watch your language, Brother.]

Yes, yes.

I clamped my mouth shut and took a step forward.

With my silence, the empty roadside — utterly bereft of passersby — carried only the sound of a single set of footsteps.

Tap, tap-

The particular sound of a certain pair of shoes — one that might be familiar to someone out there — grinding against the hard pavement, stride after stride.

The streetlight flickered overhead. The moon hung soft and pale in the sky, and a cool breeze drifted in.

A hooded robe concealed my face, but a robe alone could not hide everything. A man's frame, and a considerably large one at that; platinum-blonde hair that caught the light each time the wind sent the robe billowing; and a pair of hands that kept fidgeting restlessly, as if gripped by some quiet unease.

Anyone watching would have found the sight deeply suspicious.

Not that a lone figure advancing down an abandoned street in the dead of night could ever be anything but suspicious. The moment a patrol caught sight of me, they'd come running and demand identification before anything else, I was sure.

The only real problem was that the human walking along in such getup happened to be me.

"...My life."

[You were not dragged off to the Imperial Audit Department, so I would say your life is still perfectly fine.]

Oh, do shut up.

My life had been hanging by a thread ever since the moment I possessed a serial killer's body — where does he get off saying things like that, honestly?

I heaved a long sigh.

It had happened.

The day of the festival had, at long last, arrived.

What festival, you ask?

The festival of dismantling criminals' skulls, naturally.

The festival of slaughter that would unfold around the back alleys of the Street of Liberty at Crescent Street No. 10 — and I, too, was to take part in it.

On personal grounds, I had desperately wanted to bow out, but Niger's logic had stripped me bare and left me no choice but to keep walking.

"Teacher, I'm saying this again now that we're here, but couldn't I just go home and sleep?"

[And why do you keep carrying on like this? We agreed to do this together. Have you forgotten the promise we made?]

"Don't act all wistful about it."

Back in the day, this man had spoken in nothing but flat, bone-dry monotone — yet lately, whenever we talked, he kept trotting out these useless little flourishes he'd apparently picked up somewhere.

And I had no idea when the two of us had supposedly become so close that he could invoke "the promise we made" like that. Niger and I were nothing more than a business arrangement with a clearly defined senior and subordinate.

Ah.

Well — Niger was the senior, obviously.

I had too much to lose to act carelessly, whereas the murderer living in my head would, if things went sideways, simply resolve to kill everyone involved. Which meant I was the one who had to come crawling and groveling on my own initiative.

The fact that I was trudging toward a murder scene right this moment could be chalked up to exactly that.

[Let me say it once more: you must grow accustomed to this.]

"Ah... yes."

There was no winning an argument against him with words, after all.

I moved my feet.

Crescent Street No. 18.

Where Elia lived. The moon hung high in the deep hours of the night, so she would surely be asleep, but we had walked this stretch together more times than I could count, and the scenery was comfortably familiar.

Crescent Street No. 15.

The park Elia and I had strolled through on the weekend — which weekend exactly, I could no longer quite recall. I remembered the parfait we'd eaten there being quite delicious.

Crescent Street No. 13.

From here on, it was territory I had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never visited before. But since the same street ran unbroken ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠through the district, the buildings wore the same familiar shapes, and even though every light was dark at this hour, I could make out quite charming cafés and restaurants along the way.

I found myself thinking it would be nice to come back here with Elia sometime.

No. 12.

And No. 11.

In the heavy silence, I made my way down the street. The few people I passed — one here, one there — flinched at the sight of my hooded form. Their eyes, brimming with suspicion and fear, would steal a glance at me before they hurriedly crossed to the far side of the road.

Well.

Fair enough.

For starters, I was a big man, and the glint I cast people now and then was colder than that of most wild beasts. Walking along in this state while wearing a smile would have made me look like too much of a lunatic, so I kept my expression blank — which only made things worse, I imagine.

I passed such people by swiftly.

Following the unbroken chain of streetlights, I walked until at last the Street of Liberty, No. 10, came into view.

It was my first time seeing it with my own eyes, yet I knew the scenery rather well already.

After all, I had once described it in writing.

At this late hour there were no people, and the fountain's water had been shut off.

The terraces before the cafés had all been cleared away for the night, and the flowers were too dark to make out properly.

Still, it was enough for the scenery I had only ever rendered in words to take shape before me.

It was beautiful.

The back alleys of this street would run red with blood tonight — yet the view spread out before me now was, even in its darkness, quite lovely.

[Brother — that's the alley.]

"...Yes, I see it."

I nodded at Niger's words and left the street behind, stepping into the alley.

Without a single streetlight, the alley was pitch black, as if boasting of its night.

[Begin with enhanced vision.]

At Niger's prompt, divinity flowed from me, smooth and unbidden.

My vision brightened.

It was as though I'd donned a pair of night-vision goggles — every shadowed corner of the dim alley sprang into sharp, detailed relief.

I recited another sacred incantation.

My quickened breath settled into stillness, and my heart — which had been pounding without pause — quieted, if only a little.

[Well done.]

"..."

Niger's voice reached me, but I gave no answer.

I simply took another step.

Tap, tap-

Footsteps utterly out of place in this grimy alley, where a faint stench crept in on the air.

The polished tread of a gentleman — nothing like the dregs who made their living in back alleys, nothing like those criminals.

A frigid gleam in my eyes, hidden by the robe yet glimpsed anew each time the wind ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠caught its hem and billowed it aside.

And before I knew it, a mace stained faintly red, resting in my right hand.

As my appearance shifted from one self to the other, a scent of blood seemed to drift up beneath my nose.

Perhaps it was the blood dried onto the mace.

And in the very instant that thought crossed my mind—

Rustle-

A small sound from up ahead turned my head.

A figure.

My gaze swept over him — clothes thrown on carelessly, a face that hadn't seen soap in days.

Bloodstains on his sleeve, a dagger in his left hand, and a scowl deepening the moment his eyes found me.

At the sight of him, something stirred in me.

A flush of exhilaration.

Emotions that were not mine churned through my skull.

Before I even realized it—

I was smiling.