Another Space (3)
Kashan Empire.
The cultural city of Averion was a tourist quarter where you could see the world's sights gathered in one place.
True to an empire proud of its culture, it was one of the cities that suffered little even after the war.
Human resilience is stubborn; once the demons' momentum waned, the market came back to life.
It felt like the only paradise left in a ruined world.
"Hmm."
Among the crowd, Habitz activated his Vanishing and drew his sword.
"Buy! Cheap! Royal cactus sap you can only find in Averion—just—ugh!"
Habitz beheaded the merchant and took the glass bottle the man had been showing.
Blood sprayed, but no one in the market batted an eye.
"Pretty necklaces for sale. Handcrafted with desert crystal. A gift for your wife—"
After sampling the cactus sap, Habitz extended his arm; the tip of his blade pierced the old vendor's neck.
He stared into the glass bottle, licking his lips, then drew his sword and turned.
He rammed the bottle straight into the head of a passerby.
The bottle shattered with a sick thud.
The man who collapsed to the ground bled out, bewildered by what had happened.
Habitz drove his sword into the man's abdomen and, finally, began slaughtering people at will as they passed.
Even as the market turned into a sea of blood, people kept laughing and talking.
Habitz's eyes sank into an abyss.
"This place is unpleasant."
When the demon realm opened, Habitz had tasted incredible pleasure through the frequency of the divine.
When Emotion Sickness broke out, he had lain on the wasteland for nearly half a day, trembling.
But the voices he'd gathered in Averion were nothing like what he preferred.
Cutting through the crowd with his sword, he stopped in front of a cloth stall.
A young woman with a child on her back was bent over, choosing fabric.
Habitz looked at the child.
"Au, au."
The child—barely a year old—reached out and laughed at Habitz.
Habitz offered the bloodied blade to the child and slowly moved it left and right.
"Aa. Aa."
The baby groped for the sword.
The middle-aged woman who ran the cloth stall watched the lively child and said cheerfully, "Is he yours? Such curiosity."
"Oh my, really? He's so calm at home—so different."
"Kids get livelier when they get out. Maybe the guardian of Kashan is blessing him."
The mother chuckled.
"The guardian of Kashan?"
"My grandmother used to say babies can see gods. It's different from jaded adult sight. In her day, when a baby waved at the air they'd offer a prayer: 'Please let our child grow up healthy.'"
"R-really…?"
It sounded like an old folk tale, but now that she was a mother, she found herself listening.
The shopkeeper suggested softly, "Why not try it? You've got nothing to lose."
"Uh, should I?"
Embarrassed but wanting the best for her child, the mother closed her eyes.
"O Lord—"
Habitz scratched his ear and yawned.
"Please keep my son from getting sick. And make him a fine person."
When Habitz leaned in and made a ridiculous face at the baby, the innocent laugh burst out.
"Au! Auuu!"
The mother jumped.
"Oh my, he laughed. Did you just hear that?"
A chill ran down her spine, but she knew it could easily be coincidence.
"There—you see? The gods answered. They must have blessed your baby."
Pleased either way, she handed over the two lengths of cloth she'd been deciding between.
"Give me these, please."
They were fairly expensive; the shopkeeper, happy with the sale, packed them up.
"I'm glad you liked them. Here, I'll throw in a handkerchief—use it as a bib."
"Thank you."
As the mother took the goods, Habitz held the baby's tiny hand and moved it up and down.
"There. A handshake. Shake hands."
"Au. Au."
Drooling and laughing, the baby clung back to its mother's chest when she turned away.
"Take care."
Habitz waved to the departing child and slipped back into the crowd.
"Yesterday's sandstorm was brutal. The windows—"
He slashed at a passerby; one blow cut the throat and blood spouted.
"The blade's gone blunt."
On his way to the smithy, hundreds of corpses lay soaking in blood behind him.
Wena Wizad.
Once ranked sixth among the Ivory Tower's candidate pool, he had since gone missing.
"That name sounds familiar. How old is he now?" Miro asked.
"Seven. I first heard of Wizad when Wigo joined Sion. He's dead now, though—"
"A pity."
Sky Wigo had also once been ranked ninth among the Ivory Tower candidates; a mage with a promising future.
He had been strong.
Though subdued by Shirone, his incarnation art called Dump was astonishing.
"Would the Ivory Tower really rate a four-year-old Wizad above someone like Wigo?" Shirone was growing curious.
"What kind of child is he?" she asked.
"Born-awakened. I heard he opened his Spirit Zone at three months in the womb."
"That's just after the brain forms."
"Exactly. To reach adult-level focus with an immature brain... Can you imagine what happens when a fetus perceives the world synesthetically in the womb?"
Shirone had no answer.
There are many born-awakened in human history, but none who'd entered the Spirit Zone that early.
"Where is he now?"
"No one knows. We managed to get the candidate list when the world war broke out and manpower became critical—"
It was the last list; no additions had been made since Shirone entered the Ivory Tower.
"All traced back as dead. But getting on that list isn't trivial paperwork. Some people are probably truly dead, but Wizad should at least be alive."
"How can you be sure?"
"You can't kill him. It sounds paradoxical, but there are no absolutes in battle, right? Still, considering Wizad's traits I investigated—"
"Absolute?"
Miro nodded uneasily.
"When a human is born they learn the world and gain the ability to conquer it. Wizad isn't like that. He belonged to the world from the fetal stage. Frankly, I find it more puzzling how he could die."
She pointed at Shirone.
"For example, if you attacked me I'd consider every variable in an instant and choose the best option. I think and calculate. But Wizad—"
"He just knows?"
"Probably. That's what I heard."
"Hmm."
Shirone fell into thought.
"All mages use foresight. At its peak, that's you, Shirone. Wizad is different from the outset. If I had to put it into words…maybe he's a seer."
"A seer."
"Yeah. He doesn't calculate or think—he just responds, like nature. And because of that—"
Shirone said, "He's pure."
She could sense Habitz.
"Yes. He's only seven. As he grows, the limits of perception may develop and that seership could atrophy. That's why it has to be now."
"But isn't that too cruel? If he's truly pure, facing Habitz—"
"There's no choice. You or I, even Nanezo, cannot kill Habitz."
"Because collision is impossible."
"Right. The event of Habitz dying simply does not occur. The moment we run calculations, the Law ejects everything beyond its collision boundary. No matter how close we try to get, we fail. But Wizad can."
"Because he doesn't calculate." Miro nodded.
"Habitz's chaos multiplies like an amoeba fed by desire. It's violent and you can't predict where its tendrils will reach. Yet strangely—so strangely—"
According to her insight, "Purity. If you refuse to define Habitz, it becomes eerily calm, as if the chaos is asleep."
A thought pierced Shirone's mind.
"Idea and Chaos. The Law's two principles. If you don't define Chaos, Chaos itself cannot exist."
"We must find Wizad."
Miro's voice hardened. "Habitz can hear the waves of the heart. We're at the point where even lies can't help. There's no way except a born-awakened."
Shirone understood.
"I'll go with Amy. With Rampa's help we can find him."
Tess was nearly in tears.
"What do we do—"
She was smearing living Rian with that black oil; could she be expected to keep her wits?
He would be in pain.
Even if someone told her to hold her hand to a campfire for three seconds, she wouldn't be able to bear it.
"This is wrong." Her head spun; rational thought unraveled.
"Shirone, wait a moment. No matter—"
Something heavy landed on her shoulder and Tess turned.
"Huh—?!"
It was Rian's grandfather, Klump.
Shirone, who had turned at Tess's cry, saw him and stepped forward.
"Hello."
"All right."
Klump fixed his gaze on Rian, who sat cross-legged twenty meters away.
"How's the preparation?"
"Ready, yes. I'm sorry."
They'd already told Rian's family in Creas, but seeing it in person was another matter.
"Grandfather, do we really have to do this? How can you set fire to someone who's alive? If he can't stand it—" Tess pleaded. The moment Rian's Idea vanished, his body would turn to ash.
"Of course not—no one will set my precious grandson on fire," Klump said, his eyes kind as he continued, "so long as that fool doesn't do it with his own hands."
"Grandpa—"
"Come. Hold your chest high. At least honor Rian's courage."
Tess took Klump's arm and, with a heavy step, moved closer to Rian.
The smell of oil stung the air.
"How does it feel to be dragged into Hell?" Klump asked.
Rian, deep in meditation, opened one eye.
"I don't know if I can. I'm hopeless at this sort of thing. It might take a long time."
"That's not what I mean!" Tess shouted. "I mean—how do you feel? Can you stand it? If you can't, rest a bit."
She hadn't meant to tell him to give up, but the words sounded cruel.
"It'll hurt."
Klump finally grew serious. "You won't want to endure it. But that will be the key to going to Hell. If you want, I'll step away."
Who would want to show their family themselves screaming in pain?
Rian didn't answer. He stared toward the distant castle wall.
A black-haired swordsman stood there.
'Rai.'
His brother hadn't come to see Rian even once since the battle at Bashka.
"Let's begin, Shirone."
When Shirone stepped forward, Klump and Tess stepped back, eyes fixed on Rian.
Tess was anxious. 'Should I go back to the castle? Should I stay? If I stay, will I make Rian suffer more—'
"Tess."
Tess, pale and trembling, looked up; Rian closed one eye and smiled.
"Watch closely. See how splendidly I do this."
Tess clenched her teeth and nodded repeatedly, fighting back the tears. Shirone raised her hand.
"See you in Hell, Rian."
A small flame burned in her palm.