Poxxon (4)
Magic, at its core, was nothing more than a discipline devoted to realizing phenomena and illusions.
The White Magic Tower's magic was no different. Where possible, it was far more efficient to simply control a wind already blowing than to conjure one from nothing.
"So all that scurrying around like a rat was just you priming the wind."
"Don't be too scared. All that running around worked up a bit of a sweat—I'm just fanning myself."
The sixty-four fans installed throughout the Purification Zone existed for one purpose alone: purifying the air. When Moira Maine spread his poisonous mist and the contamination of the space spiked, they sprang to life.
Hoooooong!
The wind they generated was strong enough to whip clothing and hair into a frenzy and send violent ripples surging across the surface of the standing water. And to the current Oscar, that wind was a sturdier ally than a few dozen seasoned mercenaries.
"Kgh!"
Realizing too late what his own actions had wrought, Moira Maine burst into a hollow laugh. Even so, he considered himself merely inconvenienced, not seriously disadvantaged.
So the magic that boy wields has gotten a bit stronger... it's not as though I've grown any weaker, is it?
There was also a great deal of water here—which meant this was a stage where a Blue Tower mage and a White Tower mage could each showcase their own strengths in full.
If the surrounding environment aids us equally, then...
There was no way the Blue Tower's magic could lose to the White Tower's. A Level 5 mage did not lose to a Level 3 mage. By the most sensible, self-evident logic imaginable, he was at no particular disadvantage against that boy.
Having settled on that judgment, Moira murmured low and quiet.
"Rise."
Skraaaaa!
Four tentacles slowly lifted their heads from the massive pool of wastewater in the Purification Zone. Sprouting up like beanstalks, they swelled to the thickness of an adult's torso and towered five meters tall each. Tentacles that looked for all the world like the legs of a jellyfish swayed gently on every side of Oscar.
"Whip of the Sea God."
Among the dozens of intermediate spells the Blue Tower boasted, this one ranked within the top five for raw destructive power. And Moira Maine could control not one but four of these tentacles simultaneously.
"These tentacles can smash apart an ordinary building. Now, what do you suppose happens when a person's pathetic body takes the hit?"
"..."
"The answer is: they burst. Like a water balloon dropped on the floor, they explode and splatter everything inside them in every direction."
Oscar, who had been listening to this rather detailed explanation, murmured, "Very thorough. Almost as if you've seen it happen many times."
"Kgh—thanks to a certain someone, I spent months on cleanup duty."
He had spent the past several months playing janitor to the magic tower, subjected to every filthy spectacle imaginable. But now, that miserable existence was over.
"Once you're dead, the White Tower's potion business won't be expanding into this region again anytime soon."
"I can hardly argue with that."
"And so I'll kill you here today, then march straight to the Tower Master of the Blue Tower and demand my reinstatement with my head held high."
"...Idiot."
Even if Oscar died here and now, and even if Moira went straight to the Tower Master, reinstatement would never come. Instead, the man would rush to smooth things over, bury this whole incident, and erase Moira's very existence along with it.
He used to be quick enough at reading a situation. But reinstatement has blinded him.
It was only natural. When a man's eyes roll back, he sees only what he wants to see. The thorns scattered along the path might as well be invisible.
"We've talked long enough."
At Moira's gesture, the four tentacles began to stretch like rubber. They reared back toward the ceiling, poised and ready to come crashing down on Oscar's head at any moment.
"Die. For the sake of my better future."
Chaaaak!
The moment the four fully-extended tentacles plunged down toward him, Oscar slowly lifted his head to look up at them—without moving a single finger. He only let a soft smile spread across his lips, the way a senior mage might watch his youngest apprentice show off a trick.
"Steel Whip!"
Screeeeeech!
Steel that had broken the sound barrier tore the air apart. The four tentacles caught in the horizontal arc of the whip burst apart with a bang!, scattering into mere droplets of water.
"Hah, hah. Hey, you lunatic! Why the hell didn't you dodge that?!"
Franc appeared along the corridor on the opposite side of the Purification Zone, panting and seething. Oscar glanced at him and gave a single shrug.
"I knew it would turn out that way."
"And what if I'd slipped up?"
"What could you do about it? You'd just live the rest of your life with one more trauma."
How could a man make even a single sentence so infuriating? Suppressing the urge to smack him over the crown of the head, Franc turned his glare on Moira.
"That's the guy? The one who pulled his little stunt with our potion?"
"That's him."
"...Hoo."
Moira ran a hand back through his hair, then looked between the two of them with a weary air.
"Are there more reinforcements still on the way? If so, crawl out all at once."
"This is the end of it. Run, and you'll find mercenaries waiting outside."
"How convenient. Not that it will come to that."
All that had changed was that the number of people he needed to kill had grown from one to two. Raising his four tentacles once more, Moira flicked his gaze toward Franc.
Revising the plan. I'll kill that irritating one first.
It stung his pride to admit it, but he hadn't even seen the man's attack. He had done nothing but hear the sound after his own magic crumbled into nothing.
But that magic was severed along a single trajectory.
In other words, his opponent's attack was a swung weapon—a blade or a whip. Which made the countermeasure simple enough.
"Envelop them."
The four tentacles moved in flawless unison and came surging toward Franc. Each traced a different attack trajectory, each timed with a deliberate stagger.
"Wha—?!"
Sure enough, Franc froze up badly the moment the attack closed in. There was no way he could erase all of them with a single crack of the whip, not like before.
"He's still got a long way to go."
Oscar arrived at his side and murmured, "Swing."
"B-But along which trajectory?"
"I'll handle that part. Don't worry about it—just swing."
It was a preternaturally calm voice, utterly mismatched to the desperate situation. But that was precisely why it inspired such trust. After all, those words had come from Oscar.
If it's him, he'll make good on his word no matter what it takes.
Hadn't it always been that way? And so this time would be no different. In a word, all Franc had to do now was trust what Oscar had said and do his own part.
"...Dance of Steel."
Once again, the whip of steel let out a mighty roar. At the same instant, Oscar's mana gently guided the whip's trajectory.
"…!"
Franc's eyes flew wide open. In the span of a heartbeat, the whip shifted its course three times in midair—and intercepted all four tentacles with pinpoint precision.
"No—how?"
"Swinging the whip isn't the end. It's only the beginning. Use the wind and your mana to forge a path for it."
Give the whip a road to run, and it could rampage exactly as wildly as it had just now.
"Kgh! Veil of Water!"
With every tentacle burst, a flustered Moira Maine hastily threw up a spell—but the whip smashed straight through the veil and slammed into him all the same.
"Guwaaaagh!"
Moira Maine was hurled backward by the blow and crashed into the wall. Collapsing onto the foul floor of the sewer, he vomited up dead blood.
Wh-where am I... everything's spinning.
His vision swam. He had spread the Veil of Water as thick as he possibly could, bleeding off most of the impact—and even so, this was the destructive power that remained. A thought drifted, unbidden, through his head: this place might yet become his grave.
Damn it all...
A Level 5 mage—a Blue Tower mage, no less—defeated by the White Tower? Impossible. It was unthinkable.
His eyes glistening with murderous ferocity, Moira rummaged through his clothes and produced a small wooden box. When he lifted the lid, a single pill lay inside, releasing a delicate, fragrant scent.
Neil Brion sent it, he said.
The medicine had been handed to him by that man's subordinate—the one who had first proposed this whole scheme. If you're wounded in battle, take this without fail.
Newtech's latest creation.
It would rapidly heal all internal injuries and wounds, they claimed, and even temporarily boost his mana. Honestly, he didn't believe a word of it outright—but if even half of it were true, it would be an enormous help in this fight.
Gulp. The pill went down his throat, and Moira Maine slowly pushed himself upright.
"Hoh?"
At the same time, a pleasant gasp escaped him. The moment the medicine slid down his esophagus, he could feel the organs torn apart by the earlier attack knitting themselves back together.
And that wasn't all.
My whole body is overflowing with vitality.
Every nerve and every sense had been honed razor-sharp. In this state, he felt he could push his mana control to its very limit.
Lance of Water.
The spell completed itself the instant the thought formed in his mind. It felt like opening his eyes to an entirely new world—so much so that he half-believed he had awakened mid-battle and transcended into a high-tier mage.
Those Newtech bastards... what on earth did they manage to create?
The moment this affair was over, he resolved, he would absolutely see the exclusive deal with Newtech through to completion. This pill was bound to make them a fortune.
"...Huh?"
It was only a little later that he sensed something was wrong. His vitality was surging and his senses sharpened—and still that wasn't enough. It had begun to exceed all reasonable bounds.
"Aah, aaagh, ah!"
His senses, sharp beyond all reason, careened toward the extreme. Every time the wind brushed against his skin, it felt as though someone were carving into him with a knife.
"Ngh, khaaagh!"
At the same time, his vision flooded red. And inside his head, a voice began to speak.
-Kill.
Kill, kill, kill the mages. Kill all mages.
The last thing 'Moira Maine' would ever remember was the sound of that voice.
"...Hey, he's not looking too good."
After the Veil of Water had dispersed, Franc stared at Moira Maine, who stood rooted in place, and muttered under his breath. And true to his word, the man's condition was more than a little strange.
"Hm."
How to put it—it was faintly grotesque. He stood balanced on his toes with his heels raised, spine ramrod straight, shoulders hunched high. But his head hung low, sunk deep toward his chest, so that he resembled a corpse dangling from somewhere unseen.
"..."
The instincts that had been honed across countless lines between life and death on battlefields screamed at him: that man is not in a normal state right now.
What on earth happened in the space of a moment?
Oscar had glimpsed him swallowing something—some kind of drug, most likely. Could that possibly be connected? A sour unease spreading through his chest, Oscar spoke.
"Franc. Attack."
"That'll be my third swing, you know. My arm's already shaking as it is."
"I know. Attack anyway."
Franc gave a nod, and the final flourish of his dance began.
Screeeeeech!
The whip of wind, breaking the sound barrier, flew true—aimed squarely at Moira's throat.
"...!"
But a heartbeat before the whip could pierce his neck, the water around it moved as though alive—and caught it.
"Damn it, is he really a Level 5 mage even on death's door?"
"...No."
Hearing Franc's mutter, Oscar slowly shook his head. He had said it time and again—the Dance of Steel Franc wielded carried speed and destructive power enough to threaten even a standard Level 5 mage. Hadn't Moira just moments ago taken a direct hit from that whip and coughed up blood?
"..."
Oscar slowly raised his eyes and met Moira's gaze as the man lifted his head.
Red.
Moira's brown eyes had been stained a crimson like fresh blood. Like a demon-kind who had manifested his demonic nature.
"I honestly can't tell what's going on this time."
The energy prickling against his skin like a thousand needles turned Oscar's expression to ice. He had experienced this countless times in his past life—there was no mistaking it. The energy radiating from Moira Maine was, unmistakably, the same kind that demons carried.
Demonic energy.