Marhal Moved the Wind
Marhal moved the wind. The assassins hanging in midair plummeted to the ground, and Yusbal sank back onto the sofa. The killers behind him returned to their positions as well. None of it was by their own will. It was the power of the wind constricting them.
Kaban and Strekl, along with Dagon and Bayola, had merely watched the display of magic. Strekl let out a disbelieving chuckle before sheathing his sword, while Kaban wore an expression of utter inevitability. Dagon was startled for a moment but shrugged it off. He dug through the earth himself, after all—there was no need to make a fuss over Marhal merely stirring the wind a bit. Only Bayola stood frozen, eyes wide, unable to move for a long while. The power Marhal had revealed was that shocking.
Yusbal's muscles twitched across his entire body. He struggled desperately to break free from the wind, but it refused to release him.
"I'll let you speak," Marhal said.
Yusbal opened his mouth. He fired a tiny needle hidden beneath his tongue. It was so thin it was nearly invisible to the eye—a secret technique passed down only to the lords of the Black Fingers. Propelled by lung capacity honed through years of training and a special flick of the tongue, the needle flew faster than any thrown by hand. No one had ever survived it.
Until now.
The needle stopped. Marhal didn't even flinch as he eyed the projectile halted right before his eyeball. He plucked it with his fingers, examined it briefly, then set it on the table.
Yusbal felt utter wretchedness. His chest burned hot. He was on the verge of madness, desperate to spit out his rage. This technique held his entire life. Even a feigned surprise would have spared him this humiliation. The man before him had brushed aside his life's work like a fly, without a shred of interest.
"I told you to speak. Or should I ask the questions? The mage—where is he?"
"The third building to the south…."
Yusbal's voice drooped limply. His body wouldn't move. Neither could his subordinates, nor the hundred-plus needles still floating in the air. Before such an overwhelming gap in power, even the will to fight evaporated. His life had already been denied. There was nothing left for him to lose.
"Dagon. You hear that?"
Dagon bolted from beside the door. The sound of him thundering down the stairs echoed.
"Strekl, Kaban, Bay. Tie these guys up. They should have rope on them."
"Got it."
"Understood."
Strekl and Kaban searched the assassins' bodies, binding them with cords from their own persons. Bayola approached Marhal on the sofa. She tentatively touched one of the needles hovering in the air with her finger. It shifted with her pressure.
"What is this?"
"Hm. To avoid any weird misunderstandings, I'll say this—I only gained this ability recently myself. We've had a lot going on lately, right?"
Bayola mulled over Marhal's recent exploits. He'd mentioned encountering demons during the land race. When raiding Yurel's carriage, he'd cleaved clouds alongside a monster from the sky. On his trip to the duchy, demons had ambushed him. She still didn't know about Ales' rampage. But even without that, Marhal's path lately had been anything but ordinary. Given the history he'd accumulated, it wouldn't be strange if some new mystery had etched itself into his body.
Bayola helped Strekl and Kaban bind the assassins. As Strekl finished tying Yusbal last, Dagon returned.
"Why are you alone?"
"That mage bastard? Looks like he bolted."
"…Which way?"
"Uh, north, I think…."
"Call Hugo and have him deal with these guys along with the others. Check their mouths for needles too."
Marhal rose from the sofa. He left the room and descended the stairs, his steps quickening into a sprint. The mage was the root of it all. Without his narcotics, without his alchemical success, the Black Fingers never would have crossed into the West. Catching the assassins meant nothing if the mage escaped— the same nightmare could repeat anytime. Everyone else could slip away, but not him. The drugs were one thing, but gold. Gold from alchemy. Marhal raced past the mansion. His destination was Rail's house at the edge of the labor market.
Rail's home glowed with relic light. Considering his status and wealth, owning a relic or two was no surprise. Marhal pounded on the door.
"Rail! You there? Rail!"
Rail opened the door, face full of irritation. He spoke in a bored drawl.
"What is it?"
"Gimme your best horse in the city. Now."
"Looks like you've nabbed the ringleaders. Hold on."
Rail ducked back inside. He emerged tossing Marhal a small key.
"There's an isolated stall in the corner of my stable. That's the key."
"This one's solid?"
"They say it's got demon blood mixed in. True or not, it runs half a day straight without breaking a sweat."
"Thanks."
"Don't overdo the killing. People pay for their actions."
Rail didn't seem to know about history. That was just insight born of years. The ignorant would dismiss it as nonsense; those who knew would already moderate themselves. Marhal fell into the latter camp. Mere blood history couldn't demand payment from him.
Marhal headed to Rail's stable. Sure enough, one space was isolated, reinforced with iron plates over the wood. It hinted at the beast's temper and strength inside. Marhal unlocked the padlock. The door swung open, and a rear hoof lashed out. Marhal halted it with wind. Hiiing?! The horse neighed in panic.
Marhal held the hoof steady and circled to the side. Black coat gleaming with luster, no signs of special grooming. Maybe demon blood was real. Demons dissolved without corpses upon death, but breeding wasn't impossible. Marhal placed a hand on the horse's neck.
"You gonna behave?"
Hiiing…. It let out a deflated whinny. Its stiff head drooped.
"There, there. Nice not seeing any ugly sides, huh?"
Marhal lowered the hovering hoof, saddled it up with nearby gear, and fitted the bridle. Mounting, he tugged the reins.
"Let's go."
Dry straw on the stable floor exploded up to the ceiling. With that force, the black horse surged forward. It accelerated instantly, blasting out of the stable before a three-count and tearing down the central avenue where the junkies lay sprawled. Under the sharp, faint moonlight, its coat shone. Marhal crouched low. He swept the wind ahead of the horse. Its speed surged further. Faster than any mount Marhal had ever ridden.
In moments, he escaped the city into the wasteland. Marhal closed his eyes. Sensations caught movements to the north. But no riders. Just bugs or beasts newly migrating from the east. Few tracks led north. Hardly anyone from this city had business there. Amid them, Marhal isolated a few fresh hoofprints. All headed north anyway. Just follow.
A day's ride north brought other villages. But the land between wasn't all Marhal's or the village owners'. Even claimed territories had idle patches or abandoned ones. The West lacked people. Resources too. You couldn't plop down villages anywhere like in the East.
The horse carrying Marhal raced on, swift as a gale. The moon in the sky narrowed its gaze down at the earth. Was it watching Marhal? The fleeing mage? Or just pretending, indifferent to worldly affairs?
"Damn, shoulda asked when he bolted," Marhal grumbled.
Still, it couldn't have been more than a day. Missing a key figure's escape for a full day didn't add up. At most a few hours. Half a day tops. The village north was beyond Marhal's reach. Killing in foreign turf as a known figure like him was bad news.
"Hyah!"
Marhal whipped the reins. The black horse accelerated as if waiting. Assuming half a day head start and a night rest, Marhal had a day to catch up. Not easy. But this beast could do it before dawn.
The black horse ran untiring. Marhal kept his grip tight on the reins. The moon sank below the wasteland. Dawn broke with dim light. The morning air hung humid. Marhal still clutched the reins. The black horse showed no fatigue. His eyes glued to the horizon, unblinking. He pursued one shape alone.
There—one person far off. Horse abandoned, crouched eating. Marhal tensed his legs. Sensing it, the black horse sped up a notch. Distance to the mage closed rapidly. The mage's head snapped up mid-bite. Spotting the charging Marhal, he called his horse and fled.
The wasteland was sparse on plants and beasts but not arid. Head north, and the world's finest farmland awaited. This stretch was decent for crops too. Dawn mist hazed the view. Two horses pierced it, thundering across the plain. The mage rode a brown steed, bulkier than average—a fine breed. He'd ridden before; he hugged low, urging speed. But Marhal's black horse was faster. Gap narrowing.
The anxious mage glanced back several times. Marhal was drenched in sweat. The horse burned hot as fire. No wind for either. Marhal allowed not even the slightest breeze to hinder the chase. No chance to cool off—they'd run through the night. Sweat stung his eyes. Marhal didn't blink. One goal, no pause till seized.
The mage frantically rummaged his pouch, tossing something back. Caltrop. Marhal gave no order. He trusted the horse. It responded, accelerating and leaping powerfully. Marhal eyed the fleeing mount ahead. Close enough. The leather cord binding his torso snapped free. It whipped from his sleeve, tangling the mage's horse's legs. The mage flew forward; the horse somersaulted briefly before crashing.
The black horse halted upon landing, glancing at Marhal. Only then, with obstructing winds cleared, did it snort once. Marhal dismounted and approached the fallen mage. A fall to cripple a knight. Yet the mage, groaning on the ground, seemed otherwise fine—some spell at work.
Marhal extended a hand; the cord binding the horse's legs returned. He stepped on the mage's chest. The mage clutched Marhal's ankle, pleading.
"W-wait! I don't know what you heard, but kill me and you'll regret it. You will regret it!"
"Why'd you run?"
"A mage appeared. Far stronger than me."
"That's it?"
"Non-mages don't get mage turf wars."
He knew. Marhal probably knew second-best in the world. First was the greatest mage, naturally. The "mighty mage" was likely Marhal himself. Scouting the whole city like that, any sharp mage would notice. Marhal's mistake.
"Know how many died or went mad from your drugs?"
"Tragic. But it advances civilization a step. See? Can't grasp how huge this is?"
The mage released one hand from Marhal's ankle, grabbing dirt. Sand poured out as placer gold.
"Infinite gold. A new drug the world never saw! My magic can change it all. Petty sacrifices by comparison."
Marhal pressed harder on the chest. The mage sped up.
"Gold! Gold! Eternal wealth, ultimate magic reagent! Everyone wants it! I can make it on demand! Think! A few thousand, million lives? Worthless next to my value!"
"Sure."
The mage's face lit up. But stronger pressure crushed down. Ribs cracked audibly.
"Doesn't add up?! Think! You primitives! Killing me loses the world something irreplaceable. Think!"
The mage lambasted Marhal's ignorance. Marhal didn't budge, just pressed harder. Death neared. Even this superhuman mage heard his life flickering out. He begged.
"Spare me. Please. Anything. Gold and drugs aside, I can do lots."
"One thing. Just one spell, and maybe I let you live."
"What?"
"The Westerners who died by your hand. Can you revive them?"
The mage couldn't answer. Resurrection. Realm of saints or beyond. Inhuman, divine territory.
"Infinite gold, but can't restore one lost life, huh?"
"That's…."
"That's why you die."
Marhal twisted his foot. One life crumbled beneath it. The paulownia crown settled in Marhal's hand. This was the West, once under Bachea Empire's sway. Kings sometimes deferred tough criminal judgments to the Bachea Emperor.
"Alchemy. Impressive feat. Tempting. But alchemy that feeds on people? Wouldn't take it if offered."
Thus, the empire's last heir erased that history. Wind devoured the mage's corpse, slicing flesh to sand bit by bit. No body to find, no alchemical clues left. The mage vanished from the world.
Marhal nudged the dead horse with his foot, then grabbed the black horse's reins as it idled. He mounted.
"Let's go."
It snorted briefly and turned south. Dawn passed; sun rose. One horse and rider crossed the morning wasteland. Behind them, only the lone dead horse remained.