Victor shook off the rainwater dripping from the tip of his machete and burst into a snickering laugh.
He'd only meant to catch one old mage, but he never dreamed a buy-one-get-one deal would unfold here.
If the extra mage had been a skilled one, Victor would have had no choice but to flee.
But the presence he sensed from the second floor was unmistakably that of a young girl. That meant there was a high chance she was either a half-wit who couldn't even use proper magic, or a fool who hadn't yet learned magic at all.
"Lucky me."
Inexperienced mages are nothing special. Most of the time, if you just pour firepower on them, they turn into honeycombs on their own. The rest of the time, they get drunk on their own magic, act arrogant, and self-destruct.
The point is, whether killing or capturing alive, any seasoned mercenary can do it.
And Victor was a veteran mercenary who had lived by the blade for over twenty years. He could fillet a young mage not even half his age like a fish. If he could just deal with Erik, knocking out one little girl and taking her away would be trivial.
"Kill or capture? I'll leave it to your judgment, Victor."
The woman spoke. Victor twisted the corner of his mouth upward.
"Capture her for now. After that, we follow Lady Laura's orders. If she's a mage, we'll probably extract her heart while she's alive. If not, I imagine we'll sell her at the slave market. Either way, no loss for us."
"Good. By the way, Victor, is that one a girl or a boy?"
"Judging by the milky smell, probably a girl. Early to mid-teens, I'd say."
"Mmm, sounds delicious. I'll have just one bite of her forearm, if that's alright."
The woman grinned. Victor shook his head.
"If you must eat, just one bite. Picheo. And avoid the aorta."
"I'll try."
"Honestly, you're like a crazy human flesh sommelier."
Victor said this and gestured to the mercenaries. They heaved the lower half of a sprawled corpse and flung it onto the stone path in the yard.
Crack!
Thin strands of cloth shot up from the gaps in the stone path, binding and crushing the corpse's lower half. Victor stepped over the mangled remains, taking another stride forward.
"So many traps. As expected of the Owl's Gatekeeper—looks like the Clock Tower supplied him well."
"They were probably given as tools, not scrolls. As far as I know, scrolls are too volatile to use as traps like this—"
Srak!
A wind blade shot up from below, cutting off Picheo's voice. The blade, spinning like a saw, precisely severed her left forearm.
But Picheo paid no mind. She picked up the fallen arm and pressed it to the stump.
"Hmm, as I was saying. Scrolls are difficult to use as traps. However, they can be used by opening them directly, so let's be careful once we enter the house."
Tssss.
With a sound like searing flesh, the severed arm adhered to the stump. After confirming the arm functioned normally, Picheo drew a pistol from her waist. Victor wiped the blood from his face and directed the mercenaries.
One step.
Two mercenaries' legs were caught in a swirling water channel and ground away. Blood and flesh scattered, and Picheo put bullets into their heads.
One step.
One mercenary's movements halted abruptly. She babbled something about seeing ghosts, then slit her own throat with a dagger. Her head rolled across the yard with a thud.
One step.
Whoosh!
Flames erupted, burning three mercenaries alive. Since death by shock couldn't be restored, Victor smashed their heads with his machete.
The last step.
Nothing happened. But Victor didn't let his guard down. He took a bomb from his pocket and set it on the door handle.
A special bomb used for handling mages.
Its range, sound, and power were all very weak, but it had the property of neutralizing magic placed on doors, so it was essential when entering a mage's residence. Victor stepped back and detonated the bomb with his cell phone.
Poom.
With a light sound, the bomb and door handle shattered. The door swung open by itself, revealing the corridor beyond.
And then.
Bang!!
A sharp gunshot rang out as Erik, standing in the corridor, pulled the trigger. The lead bullet pierced Picheo's shoulder precisely. Even as she staggered back, Picheo murmured without a hint of change in her expression.
"That's him. Kill him."
"Oooooh!!"
Victor roared and charged forward. Having traded his sense of smell for enhanced leg strength, he rushed at Erik with explosive speed. Erik predicted the future two seconds ahead through the flow of air, throwing himself aside. The magic circle engraved on the back of his hand flared.
Boom!!
Unable to slow down, Victor crashed into the sink, then twisted his head and swung his machete. Erik dodged preemptively, driving his elbow hard into Victor's solar plexus.
"Guh!"
The blow landed squarely on the vital point, crumpling Victor's face. Without hesitation, Erik stabbed his dagger into Victor's thigh and sliced downward. Blood sprayed; cloth and flesh tore.
"Haah!"
Not even registering the blood that had splashed into his mouth, Erik rolled aside. Bullets rained down onto where he had stood. Erik glanced briefly at the holes and debris on the floor, then glared at the mercenary squad now fully inside the house. At the front, Picheo plucked the bullet from her shoulder with her fingers and tilted her head.
"Impressive. You're nearly seventy, and you still engage in hand-to-hand combat?"
Erik didn't answer. He silently studied the state of the mercenaries. The back of his hand burned as if on fire from the continuous magic use, but he ignored it and spoke.
"...Black suits. No fear of death. The audacity to charge through traps with your bodies."
"Hmm."
"You're Florence. The Swiss zombie corps. A bunch of brats suckling under that crazy bitch Laura's skirt."
"You see clearly. A pleasure, Erik Xavier. I greet the old mage of the Xavier family."
Picheo bowed her head. Erik endured the blatant killing intent pouring toward him and straightened up.
A brief lull settled, but Erik did not let his guard down, keeping his finger on the trigger of his pistol. Picheo smiled sweetly at him.
"I don't know exactly how you fared at the Clock Tower. That information is impossible to uncover, no matter how hard we try. It's an institution that records information with magic rather than documents, so it can't be helped. But I did learn that your reputation was quite good."
"..."
"They say you were the best among the Clock Tower students of your generation in combat support. Indeed, I see it now. A near-instinctive, short-range future sight. Using magic continuously without incantations through the circle on your hand must be taxing, but I suppose it's not unbearable."
As Picheo finished speaking, Erik jerked his head to the right. A bullet grazed his cheek and embedded itself in the wall.
"Hmm, you dodged that too."
Picheo murmured, pressing her palm over the hole in her abdomen. The mercenary who had pulled the trigger from behind her tilted her head in wonder.
Erik grimaced.
"...Crazy bastards. Using your bodies so freely. How are you any different from whores who throw their bodies around recklessly?"
"Not much different, really. Whores sell their bodies for money, and we mercenaries do the same. You've hit the nail on the head—you seem to have excellent insight."
Picheo said this and plopped down into a chair. At the same time, a jet of water shot up from the chair like a spike, piercing her thigh. Regardless, Picheo crossed her legs and stared at Erik.
"Further conversation is meaningless, isn't it? Shall we stop wasting words? You know why we've come."
"...The Twilight Hour."
"We should enjoy the festival. All of us here."
One corner of Picheo's mouth curled up crookedly.
"Of course, that includes the young lady on the second floor."
Clomp, clomp.
As her murmur ended, two mercenaries started climbing the stairs. Erik's face contorted like a demon's as he pulled the trigger. The mercenaries immediately retaliated.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat!
A deafening volley of gunshots rang out. But Erik didn't dodge. Instead, he reached into his pocket and activated a pentacle. A thin blue membrane enveloped his body, shielding him from the bullets' impact.
"Urk!"
It couldn't be completely ignored.
Bruises bloomed where bullets struck, and in places where multiple rounds hit, the barrier itself shattered outright. Another bullet slipped through and pierced his forearm.
He ignored it. Erik rolled aside and kicked over a table laden with flasks.
Crash!
The flasks fell and shattered as the table flipped. The shards, carried by a wind Erik summoned, flew at the mercenaries and slashed their faces.
"Arghh!"
"M-my eyes...!"
The glass fragments, precisely aimed at their faces, inflicted agony.
That didn't mean the bullets stopped. Even blinded, they continued to pour gunfire. Erik grimaced at their utter disregard for their own teammates' safety.
Clomp, clomp.
Even so, the mercenaries heading for the second floor didn't stop. Erik slid across the floor, dashing toward the stairs to catch them.
"No you don't."
Victor blocked his path. Blood dripping from his thigh, he held his machete in a reverse grip and smirked.
"You've still got plenty of magic and traps left, mage. Use them all. Otherwise, you die, and the brat upstairs gets used as a mage-breeding factory until she dies."
"...You son of a bitch."
Forgetting even the searing pain on his hand, Erik glared. Victor flicked his tongue and charged at him.
Srak!
The swung blade came down on Erik's shoulder like a guillotine. Erik gritted his teeth and triggered a trap in the living room.
Boooom!!
Flames erupted. Fire shot up from the corner of the living room, streaking diagonally at Victor. Feeling his entire body burn, Victor burst into maniacal laughter.
"Hahaha! That hurts, you bastard!!!"
Thunk!
The descending blade sank deep enough to reach Erik's shoulder blade. Due to excessive magic use, his foresight had already dropped to less than a second.
"Gruh!"
Erik grimaced and kicked Victor's body away.
The burning body was pushed back. Bullets took its place. Breathing heavily, Erik activated pentacle magic repeatedly.
"Huff... huff...!"
A bloody scent mingled with his ragged breaths.
Picheo watched him blankly, then scooped up some of Erik's blood from the floor and drank a mouthful. She then called over a mercenary.
"Your wrist. Give it here."
"Yes."
The woman rolled up her sleeve, revealing her pale wrist. Picheo stroked the skin with her fingers, then opened her mouth and slowly began to eat the wrist.
"...Urk."
The woman winced at the horrifying pain, but she didn't pull her hand away. She closed her eyes, endured, and meekly offered her wrist to Picheo.
By the time some flesh was completely torn away and bone began to show, the same wound started appearing on Picheo's right wrist.
And soon, it transferred to Erik.
"...!"
The wrist of his right hand, where the magic circle was engraved, was eaten away in real time. The artery was crushed between molars and severed, and blood gushed out.
"...Gruuuuh."
Agonizing pain seared through his brain. The layered pentacles of Jupiter wavered violently, proportional to his unstable concentration.
Crunch.
Picheo crushed the wrist joint she had been chewing as if with a hammer. The woman screamed in pain, and Erik's face twisted as well. Blood streamed steadily from the mangled wrists of all three.
If left as is, his wrist would eventually be severed. Then he could no longer use nature-sensing magic. Giving up foresight and fighting was practically suicide.
‘It can’t be helped.’
Eric forced himself to endure the severe pain and pulled out a golden pentacle with his left hand.
The Pentacle of Mars. A talisman containing a destructive magic recorded to have been used by Solomon in war.
If used, the ether would explode like a cannonball, exerting physical force, but the recoil would surely bring the house down.
But if he stayed still, he would die anyway. It was far better to cause as much commotion as possible to force the Management Bureau’s intervention and even rescue Amelia.
Eric finished his thought and gripped the talisman tightly.
At that moment.
“Kyaa, kyaaaaaaaaaah!!”
Amelia’s tearing scream came from the second floor. Eric’s thoughts halted momentarily, and smiles spread across Pitcher’s and Victor’s lips.
“Hmm, looks like she’s already been caught, Eric. Now, shall we see what kind of girl she is?”
Pitcher licked the blood from her lips with her tongue and looked back at the stairs.
Thud, thud.
A sound like something rolling down came from the top of the stairs. Pitcher listened with a faint smile, then frowned, sensing something strange.
“……This isn’t the sound of footsteps—”
Before she could finish.
With a thump, a severed mercenary’s head fell from the stairs to the floor. Their expressions, dead without even closing their eyes, were clearly etched into everyone’s sight.
“……Ah?”
“……Huh.”
Pitcher and Eric reacted simultaneously to the completely unexpected event.
And at the same time, a floating black notebook descended from the second floor. Amelia appeared behind it.
“A-Archive! Listen to me! Y-you’re my grimoire! Grandpa said absolutely don’t go down, don’t……!”
Amelia’s glance turned and took in the sight of Eric and the mercenaries.
The smell of the burning house, the foul stench of Victor’s burning flesh, and the thick scent of blood made her mind stop.
“Ah, aah…….”
Her trembling pupils and limbs openly displayed the instinctive fear she was feeling. Pitcher blinked at the sight, which seemed not just weak but even immature.
“……That child killed two people?”
It was absurd by common sense. A girl who didn’t even seem capable of proper combat—how on earth?
“……Amelia. You, that…….”
Eric was just as shocked. He stared blankly at the black notebook floating beside Amelia.
He couldn’t not know. As a wizard, he couldn’t not know.
“……A grimoire?”
Rustle!
As Eric murmured, the grimoire’s cover opened. Then it flipped through the pages on its own, reminding Amelia once again of the content it had shown her a few minutes ago.
[This grimoire, the ‘Archive of Knowledge,’ was written by my proud father, ‘He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken Carelessly,’ and contains a portion of all types of general magic and their applications.]
[This grimoire can grasp the owner’s current situation and activate the magic written on its pages on its own. Even if the owner has not yet become a wizard, the corresponding signature magic can be activated, and all costs must be paid by the owner after the situation concludes.]
Kiiing.
A black light flickered from the grimoire’s cover. It soon became an intangible wave that pressed down on the air.
[When this grimoire acts autonomously: when the owner’s life is in danger, when it detects a danger the owner has not perceived, when the owner desperately wishes for something.]
The light spreading into the air drew a magic circle on the ceiling.
One of the common spells written in the Book of Contracts.
A spell created by an unnamed wizard of Damascus, but forgotten and buried. That spell, transcribed by the Outer God directly for Ian, was activated through the Archive of Knowledge.
[And when combat occurs within a certain radius of the owner and begins to directly affect the owner.]
A defensive spell that Ian had little need to use.
A spell far less effective than the defensive magic personally created by the Outer God, and even weaker than the magic of the Deep Sea Chronicles, making it practically useless to Ian. Yet, activated by the Archive of Knowledge, it emitted a sharp noise.
[In order to eliminate such situations, the spell is used.]
Grrrk.
From the magic circle engraved on the ceiling, a slender, formless something descended.
A shape that was not human, but gathered like a simple stick.
[……Grrrk.]
Its entire body dyed black, it calmly surveyed the surroundings, then extended its arm into the air. Then the arm, which had no hand, turned sharp like a sword.
A Damascus sword. A blade distinctive of Damascus steel, characterized by its wavy pattern.
The black form stared at its own arm, now transformed into a sword, for a moment, then let out a shriek and rushed toward the mercenaries.
[Graaaaaah!!!]
A scream that seemed to tear the ears. Pitcher twisted her face and commanded the mercenaries.
“Kill them. That thing and the young wizard over there, all of them.”
It was an open declaration to abandon capture, but no one objected. The mercenaries immediately gripped their weapons and pulled the triggers toward the charging black form.
And the summoned creature deflected all those attacks. A clear ‘ting, ting’ sound rang out.
“What?”
At the absurd sight, one mercenary muttered that, and in that instant, the summoned creature swung its arm down.
……Riiip.
The vertically sliced mercenary split apart to both sides and collapsed.
Blood and entrails soaked the floor.
+
This is an illustration of Amelia.