The Door of Calamity
A shadow fell over Marhal's head.
Tap, tap.
With two sharp sounds, Rebella and Bayola descended underground.
"Still here?"
Rebella frowned.
'Did they hear us?'
It wasn't likely their conversation had carried, but a mercenary who'd made it this far in the land race might have some hidden skills up his sleeve.
"Just came down myself. Impressive for a knight. Even after over ten years of training, I wouldn't dream of jumping from that height."
"That's why you become a knight. Over ten years?"
Rebella scanned Marhal's body. Even being generous, he didn't look a day over his mid-twenties. Ten years of training? The very fact that he'd undergone formal training marked him as far from common stock.
"I'm from the West. When the demons invaded, I fled and got lucky—ended up as a knight's squire. That's when I learned how to build my body."
"Must've been poor talent. Or that knight didn't teach you properly."
"Probably the latter. The guy had a rotten personality."
What good came from becoming a superhuman? It wasn't just one or two things. Even something mundane like farming or hauling cargo—you could till several times more land or carry several times more weight than ordinary folk. And earn several times the coin. Boys and girls dreaming of knighthood lined up to become squires. Knights picked the promising ones and worked them to the bone. But once you actually became a knight, you got formally invested and served under a lord, so they never taught you the real path to power. You'd waste the most precious years of your life fetching and carrying for someone else.
'Knowing the method doesn't mean anyone can become a knight.'
Some kids did luck out, finding a proper knight who passed down true training methods. But without talent, you'd never make it anyway. Either way, time wasted.
Rebella looked at Marhal again. A mind fluent in two languages, and from what she'd seen earlier, a decent physical foundation too. Under a real knight's tutelage, he might've become quite the fighter…
Her wariness softened into pity. In a looser tone, she asked,
"Haven't even asked your name yet. What's yours?"
"Marhal. Mercenary."
"Lead the way. You weren't planning to trail behind nobility, were you?"
"Empire nobles nitpick everything… Got it. I'll take point."
Marhal picked up a nearby stick and touched his finger to it.
"Let there be light."
Whoosh.
Flame erupted along the stick. The spellborn torch pushed back the secret passage's darkness, carving a path ahead.
"M-mage? A commoner mage? Mage commoner?"
"You're a mage?"
Bayola and Rebella's eyes went wide.
"It just kinda happened without me realizing. Asked a mercenary mage about it—he said everyone awakening to magic starts that way."
"When exactly did it begin?"
"Sometime after fleeing my hometown during the demon invasion… I think."
"…That tracks. People who survive massive events sometimes awaken special abilities. Plenty of famous mercenaries got their start that way."
"A mage commoner. Can you use other magic too?"
Bayola's eyes sparkled with curiosity. Even in the Muet Empire's imperial court, mages were a rare sight. They were unpredictable eccentrics, and with her hemophobia, she kept her distance. The story of a mage stabbing his own gut with a knife to demonstrate "mage training" was infamous even in the Muet court. The culprit? The grand mage who led the palace wizards. No wonder she avoided them.
But this commoner mage before her was fascinating. A bit odd, sure, but not a total weirdo—and he actually conversed normally.
"Answer me, mage commoner!"
Not just a commoner, but a 'mage commoner'? What's that supposed to mean? Mages ranked with knights, so if you had to classify, they were quasi-nobility. Did this princess even realize what she was saying? And if she wanted to play haughty noble lady, she should at least hide that excited grin first.
Grumbling inwardly, Marhal gave a vague reply.
"I can manage a few minor spells. Useful for daily life, but nothing to brag about."
"How many spells? No thoughts of defecting to the Empire? I'd grant you a baronetcy and funding for magic research."
"Hate being tied down. But if you need miscellaneous mages, I could introduce a few."
"Pass."
Ordinary folk turning mage usually stemmed from some "massive event." Most who awakened that way were off-kilter. The majority who gained magic like Marhal? Raving lunatics who couldn't hold a conversation. Who knew what madness lurked inside him. Still, rational talk was exceptionally rare.
Guided by the torch, the three ventured deeper into the underground passage. Up ahead, knights bearing torches came into view. Empire knights and duchy knights kept their distance from each other as they pressed on.
Marhal knew what lay at this path's end. Tracing a secret escape route upward led to one place: the administrative building where officials handled records. No relics should be there. It made him wonder what could prompt rumors of a Bachea Empire relic here.
For a duchy high knight and a Muet Empire princess to come personally, the informant wasn't some nobody…
Questions mounting, the lead torches halted. Marhal approached the knights slowly. They stood before a door none of them had seen before.
A stone door… Carved from relocated rock, it bore incomprehensible runes, with massive letters at its center.
Strekl was locked in a staring contest with it. If the door had eyes, it'd have looked away in fright.
"Interpreter, relay this. Ask if she knows ancient imperial tongue."
Marhal passed the words verbatim to Bayola trailing behind.
"Ancient imperial? I studied it."
"She says she studied it."
"Then translate this."
"Translate it, she says."
Marhal served as empty conduit between them. The knights parted, and Bayola peered at the inscription on the stone door. Strekl observed her closely.
'A Muet high noble fluent in ancient imperial…'
He'd pegged her as high nobility on sight. Her escorts were all top-tier, and after racing horseback through the land race to get here, her hygiene was still impeccable. A noble come west for Bachea relics—maybe succession issues, or some personal quirk. That was Strekl's read on Bayola.
Ancient imperial was different. He knew a secret most of the world didn't.
—Those who possess history grow strong.
Some called it "accumulation." Reclusive ascetic orders used the term karma. What made knights superhumans was the history they inherited. Not mere training methods. Ways to forge the body, layered with history. Decades or centuries of it. Inheriting that vaulted humans beyond mortal limits into superhumans.
Ancient imperial was the Bachea imperial family's tongue. No one knew its true origins. Ancient because old. Imperial because the Bacheas used it. Thus, ancient imperial.
The Bacheas turned it into an exclusive royal language. To converse with royalty, you needed it. It became a symbol of power. The Bacheas piled history atop an already ancient tongue. One reason they prospered over five centuries, known to those in the know.
Not just Bachea nobles studied it. Neighboring states learned for diplomacy. Even after Bachea's fall, its prestige endured. History made you strong—a secret to insiders. Rulers didn't want a power-laden language spreading. No one taught it; most who knew were dead. Ancient imperial became the world's most noble, inaccessible tongue.
And this woman before him was reading it—haltingly, but comprehending.
'Lowball it: Muet imperial kin. Maybe…'
Empire princess. Strekl's mind raced. High knight of the duchy, war hero against demons. Muet Empire: potential foe. An enemy princess here? Kill or capture.
Pre-war Strekl would've drawn without hesitation. But his situation held him back.
'I'm a discarded knight.'
The duchy's elite—even the king—shunned him. Ventures with his savings? Sabotaged from all sides, bankrupt. Politically isolated, he'd chosen the West. A Bachea relic could win land in the race, a fresh start.
Now, a new option: Empire princess. Unknown rank—maybe a fallen contender. Didn't matter. Leap the noble wall straight into Empire society. Once in, his status opened doors.
Bayola finished translating ancient imperial.
"Only those prepared to face calamity may recite the incantation to open this door. Triumph over the trial, and reward awaits."
Below it, the door-opening incantation in ancient imperial.
Knights from duchy and empire alike bristled with zeal. "Calamity" fell on deaf ears. Reward. Only reward mattered.
They kept stern faces, but Bayola's stomach twisted. Hurt.
'Shouldn't have read it!'
Ancient imperial was tough. Hard languages had reasons. Bachea royals twisted it over centuries with scholars' help. She couldn't read silently—sounded it out like always.
Who knew it'd ignite every knight's bloodlust regardless of side? A mage's warning, sealing calamity behind stone. She didn't want to open it. Didn't want to see blood.
But her escorts would obey orders. The duchy knights? Never back down.
Bayola shot Rebella a pleading glance from an unseen angle. Desperate eyes met hers.
Rebella shook her head faintly—just for Bayola. Wrong move.
"Recite the incantation. We enter no matter what. That's the order."
Marhal relayed Strekl's words. She knew without being told.
Bayola chanted the incantation.
"Aisil, pa, ragar."
The solid stone door ground open slowly. Black, ominous mist seeped from the gap, sinking downward.
This was just an escape passage. No stone doors. Certainly no magical seals.
Hauling stone underground, carving seals—massive undertakings. Who'd do that beneath a ruined city's rubble?
Marhal knew someone who could. One who wielded forbidden miracles and spoke ancient imperial fluently.
'That woman really…'
Mar Silanatiell, mage of the Hero Party. In a world calling torch-spells "mage," she summoned lightning, rains of fire, earth-sundering rifts—beyond superhuman, into the inhuman.
The seal retrofitting this emergency exit? Her handiwork.