An Unwavering Bond

Shannon, unfortunately, wasn’t surprised.

It was only a matter of time, he reminded himself darkly. Remember, you don’t have the luxury of a normal life anymore.

The danger the Casulls brought to their surroundings was precisely why they had left their home and chosen a life of wandering. They were aware of the risk involved with spending a substantial time in one place, but all the traveling had exhausted them.

And as much as Shannon hated to recognize it, he’d become overconfident and let his guard down.

Shannon took a deep breath. You do that again, he warned himself, and you’ll pay for it.

“Falk should be okay,” Safir said as he reached into his pocket. “But the boy left you this.”

Pacifica leaned forward as if to say something, but Shannon shot her a look. She must have seen something sinister in his eyes, because she shrank back.

Safir handed Shannon a small piece of paper. On it was written a message in careful handwriting:

To Guardian Shannon Casull,

I’m waiting for you at Arwen Canyon.

Come alone, or else.

Christopher Armalite

Shannon didn’t look up. “Where’s Arwen Canyon?”

“Leave town from the North Gate and walk northeast for about half a Glock. It’s the Valley of Glass—the place is so dangerous that it’s forbidden to the public.” Safir licked his lips nervously. “The citizen’s patrol is rounding up all the young men in town. As soon as everything’s ready, they’ll head for—”

“That’s not a good idea.”

In stark contrast to Safir’s voice, Shannon didn’t sound the least bit tense. His words were painfully calm.

“Wh-what? Why not?”

“Sending a large group will only put Winia at risk. Besides, it’s not the kind of location that a crowd will be effective in. He’s already thought of that—that’s why he’s luring me there.”

On top of that, Shannon knew that mere numbers meant nothing to a trained specialist like Chris. The boy was a tactician: an expert in unusual combat conditions. Tacticians rarely operated in groups, and their training had taught them to set traps, snipe, and use land features to their advantage. A citizen’s patrol lacking any special training could be wiped out before ever seeing a target.

Shannon shoved the letter into his pocket. “I’m going alone.”

Safir wrung his hands. “But—”

“Please.” Shannon fixed his black eyes on Safir. “I swear I’ll bring Winia back safely.”

Safir’s argument died in his throat. He kept his gaze locked with Shannon’s for a moment, then, finally, he averted his eyes and sighed.

“Fine,” he grudgingly consented. “I’ll tell the citizen’s patrol to stay put.”

Shannon bowed lower than he had in a very long time. “Thank you,” he murmured.

The wind was cold on her cheeks.

Winia creased her brow as she felt sharp gravel pressing up against her chin. She was outdoors somewhere, on something hard and uncomfortable. She tentatively raised her heavy eyelids, then blinked a few times as she tried to adjust to the darkness.

A black wall spread as far as she could see. The wall’s vast surface was smooth like glass, and was covered with innumerous cracks that spread across it like a net.

The random crisscross of lines created a complex pattern, cutting the reflection of the moon and stars into thousands of narrow fragments. The effect was staggering.

Where… am I? Winia wondered. She shifted her head slightly and scraped her chin against the gravel. She was at the base of an area enclosed by two giant walls, with barely enough space between them for two-way wagon traffic.

Arwen Canyon, the Valley of Glass. It was what everyone called the mysterious ravine located northeast of Taurus.

The canyon’s peculiar land formations could be found all over the Dustovin Continent, but how and when the glass-like rock features had come into existence was a mystery. Legend had it that they were remnants from the Battle of Creation fought between Mauser and the Devil.

At that moment, two things simultaneously occurred to Winia: her hands and feet were tied and she had been kidnapped in the middle of town. Despite the panic that quickly rose in her heart, she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed about how weak she was. The boy hadn’t hit her hard enough to knock her unconscious, and the twine that bound her wasn’t even that strong. Unfortunately, being around Shannon had made her painfully aware of her lack of physical strength.

Maybe I should start…working out or something, she thought as she wrestled with her bonds.

“So you’re finally awake.”

Winia froze. She swallowed once to raise her courage, before slowly turning her head.

The boy from earlier sat behind her, his back against the wall. He raised his eyebrows at her and smiled slightly.

He was eerie, to be sure. “Who are you?” she asked evenly. She was proud of how calm she managed to sound.

“Christopher Armalite.” He crossed his legs in front of him. “But you can call me Chris.”

“Are you an assassin?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. But don’t worry—I’m not after you. As long as the Guardians don’t try anything stupid, you’ll be home before you know it.”

“Then you’re… !” Before she knew it, Winia was shouting. In the back of her mind, she knew it wasn’t a good idea to do anything that might excite a killer, but the words still came tumbling from her mouth. “You can’t… no! Leave Pacifica alone! Why are you after her, anyway?!”

Chris smiled again, although this time his action was tainted by sarcasm. “Then I guess nobody told you,” he surmised.

Winia paused. “Told me what?”

Chris sighed and crossed his arms behind his head. “Once upon a time,” he recited, “a queen gave birth to a twin boy and girl. They were the long-awaited heirs, blah blah blah, but the whole kingdom went into a panic because of one nasty little prophecy.” He leveled icy calm eyes at her. “Sound familiar now?”

Winia’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Every citizen in the kingdom knew that story, despite the fact that no one was supposed to.

Of the twin children born to the queen, kill the female. In sixteen years she will bring forth the Day of Destiny and destroy the world.

“Th-the Oracle of Saint Grendel,” Winia breathed. She knew it only as a folk tale—nobody, including those who repeated the story, associated any sort of truth to it. The legend of the princess who had been secretly slaughtered at her father’s orders without ever having been given a name was just that—a legend.

Shock gripped Winia’s heart. The Scrapped Princess… Pacifica wasn’t the Scrapped Princess, was she?

“The prophecy was fourteen years ago.” The boy smiled again, but Winia almost sensed pain behind it. “One day, by sheer chance, the palace learned that the girl they thought they’d slaughtered was still somehow alive. The royal family panicked, thinking that some grudge-bearing doom princess was going to waltz up to the palace and murder her parents before destroying the world.”

Chris shrugged. “Still, none of the higher-ups could agree on what to do. Mauser Church leaders thought assassination was a top priority, but the palace and its intelligence wanted her executed in order to maintain their authority. Then there were certain forces within the military that wanted to use the princess as leverage in their power struggle with the royal family.” Chris laughed. “So now everyone’s too busy keeping everyone else in check to do much. It’s pretty sad, actually.”

Winia’s blood curdled. A call for death from both the palace and the heads of the kingdom’s official religion was more serious than anything she’d ever heard of before. And the accuracy of the Grendel prophecies was supposed to be absolute.

But then that would mean… the boy had been sent by the royal military, if not the Church or palace itself.

And that there really was a Scrapped Princess who could destroy the world.

The image of Pacifica’s face flashed across Winia’s mind.

“It… it’s not true,” she breathed. “It can’t be.”

Pacifica, the girl who was making new friends when she wasn’t acting like a spoiled brat at home. Pacifica, who had reached out to Winia and never let go. Young Pacifica. Normal Pacifica.

She was going to destroy the world?

“It…it’s not true,” Winia whimpered. “It’s not…”

Chris watched Winia whine, his lips still curled in a smile.

Shannon pulled a suit of armor from the carriage parked behind the Big Bear Inn. He hefted each piece to test its weight.

It was light—at least reasonably so. It had been made of leather and simmered in wax to increase its hardness. It wouldn’t slow him down like sheet metal armor, and it would provide him with extra protection against an opponent.

Shannon frowned. I’d still rather fight in clothes.

“I’m going with you!’’

Shannon glanced behind him. Pacifica came barreling out of the inn, wildly waving a broom around her head as if it could kill enemies in spades.

Shannon turned away from her and started strapping on the armor. “Go back inside,” he ordered.

“No way! This is my fight, and I’ll—”

“Use your brain, would you?” Shannon pulled his hair-tie free and slid it between his teeth. “You walk in there,” he mumbled around the twine as he pulled his hair into a new ponytail, “and you’ll be handing him what he wants on a silver platter. You’re the last person who should be going anywhere near that canyon.”

Pacifica’s face fell. Her eyes trailed over her brother’s body.

“I thought you said armor slows you down,” she said quietly.

“It does.” He slid on his gloves. “But I still need it today.”

“But that’s… Father’s armor.”

Shannon slowed to a stop. He looked down at the Brigadier Model Zero set that hugged his tall frame. Yuma Nanbu Casull, Shannon’s biological father, had worn it during his fighting days.

Shannon sighed. He slowly reached out and took the broom from Pacifica’s now-limp hands.

“Look. It’s not… I’ll be fine, all right?” When she didn’t look up, Shannon averted his eyes uncomfortably. “I’ll bring Winia back, I promise.”

Pacifica curled her shoulders inward, her trembling fist coming up to rub against an eye. “Th-this is all my fault,” she murmured, her voice taking on a slightly higher lilt. “If anyone else gets hurt because of me, I just… I don’t know what I…”

She trailed off. Shannon looked down at her lowered blonde head and felt a combination of guilt, pity, and depression well up inside him. He slowly leaned the broom against the carriage.

“Just stay here with Raquel,” he muttered as he reached for his sword. “You can make dinner while I’m gone.”

Pacifica sniffed. “I… I guess.”

“But pay attention while you’re doing it. Winia’s had a long day, so don’t make her come home to crap.”

Pacifica’s head shot up. “I don’t make crap!” she snarled, her cheeks turning red. “And you’re not such a master chef yourself, jerk!”

Shannon buckled his sword belt around his waist. “I have other skills to hone, thank you.”

Raquel stepped out of the inn and waved at Shannon. He nodded at her, then checked his equipment one last time as she walked over.

“Are you ready, Shannon?”

“Yeah.” He clenched and unclenched his newly gloved hands. “Look after Pacifica while I’m gone.”

“Of course.” Raquel smiled down at her sister, then raised cautionary eyes to her brother. “And Shannon, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but don’t—”

“I know, Raquel.” He met her gaze. “Let’s do this.”

Raquel paused. Slowly, she stretched her right hand toward her brother and began a recitation.

“O, thou with whom we have entered this pact,” she called, “lend us thy great power now!”

He didn’t remember his parents. If he hadn’t known better, Chris would have sworn he’d never had any.

All tacticians in the Adamant Arrow, including Chris, were children who had been either abandoned or sold. Those who made it to the level of tactician had survived a long, brutal process of selection. The countless peers who failed the training process ended up in one place: the mass grave behind the training facility with a tombstone that read, “Here lie the fortunate losers.”

Well, Chris thought realistically, it probably is better to die. A tactician’s days were immersed in potentially fatal training activities. In order to proceed onto the next training level, he had to fight his peers, even the ones who had been kind to him. There was no one to protect him, obviously. No one to depend on. And if he died, no one would remember him.

Then again, what could one expect? Who would protect a boy if his own parents wouldn’t? Who would remember him if he killed half his teammates?

“Are you crying?”

Chris blinked. Furrowing his eyebrows, he turned to the girl beside him.

“Am I what?” he asked.

“Crying.”

The question made Chris pause, then give a short chuckle. Of course he wasn’t crying. He had long forgotten how, in order to learn more important skills.

“No,” he told her with a smile. “But sometimes, I wish I could.” He reached into a paper bag by his lap. “You must be hungry.”

The girl shrunk back from him. “No,” she said darkly.

“Really? Well, let me know when you are.” He pulled a roll the size of his fist from the bag. “I went to a bakery this afternoon and had one of these. They’re pretty good, so I bought a few extra for—”

“Stop it.”

Chris stared at her, confused. She suddenly looked extremely disturbed.

“Um… stop what?”

“This! All of this! You’re nothing but a killer!” The girl blinked tears from her eyes as she tucked her head against her chest. “You’re not a normal person,” she cried, “so stop acting like you are!”

Chris wasn’t sure what to say. Winia turned her head, and he could hear her sniff.

“You’re a murderer,” she whimpered shakily. “You came here to kill an innocent girl. So why are you… why do you look so…” She moaned weakly. “…Sad?”

Chris watched her turn away and said nothing. There was some strange feeling emanating from her, something in her hunched shoulders and shaking voice. He wasn’t quite sure what it was.

Is that…empathy? he wondered in disbelief. Is this girl actually feeling some connection to me?

It had been awhile since Chris had felt anyone direct such a feeling at him, so he wasn’t sure he was reading her right. After all, empathy coming from a hostage didn’t make any sense.

No. He was wrong—he had to be. She was just losing her nerve or babbling in a panic; either possibility was something he could handle.

Chris smiled wryly and returned the roll to its bag. “You’re something else,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

A long silence passed between them. After a minute, Chris could hear the girl take a long breath.

“When I was ten,” she began, her words slow and trembling, “I had a fight… with a very close friend.”

He raised an eyebrow skeptically. “You what?” he asked.

“He was a sick boy with a very kind heart. We played together all the time.” She paused. “I have some… gypsy blood in me, so I was bullied a lot as a child. He wasn’t healthy enough to play with the other boys, so he didn’t mind making friends with a girl with mixed blood.”

Gypsies. Vagrants. Chris knew them well—a >wandering people, largely made up of foreigners who migrated from the south, criminals, outcasts, and anyone else forced out of their hometown. To make a living, vagrants often took jobs that were generally considered “filthy.”

A few decades earlier, vagrants had finally been recognized as members of society. The long-standing discrimination they had always suffered still existed, but not as overtly as it once had. The only people who didn’t discriminate against vagrants were mercenaries, who had similar backgrounds.

“He was the son of a wealthy merchant, and his father and mother treated me like their own daughter. But then, one day…” She took another breath. “One day, I heard him say what he really felt about me.”

Chris said nothing. He wanted to let her continue.

“He was being teased by the other boys, the ones from Sunday school. They accused him of having a crush on me since the two of us held hands.” The girl dragged her knees along the gravel so she could tuck them nearer to her chest. “He said… he said he could never love a mutt. He was probably just saying it because he was embarrassed, but I was too young to know and too hurt to care. I stopped going to see him, and when he came with his butler to see me at my inn a few days later, I just threw dishes at him until he went away.”

The girl hiccupped. “I trusted him, even though it was hard. He was the only real friend I’d ever had. So hearing him call me a mutt… I just couldn’t forgive him.” She pushed her forehead against the gravel. “He wrote me a letter every day after that, but I threw them all into the fire. I couldn’t even bear to open them.”

An oppressive silence filled the space between Chris and the girl. He waited a moment, but when she said nothing, he tried to prompt her.

“Well?” he asked. “What’s the point of all this? What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know,” the girl hiccupped again. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It’s just… seeing that sad look in your eyes, I almost think…” She sniffed. “You look the way that boy made me feel.”

Chris, in a rare moment, could find no reason to smile. He let his eyes drop to the rocky canyon floor.

“Um…” He paused. “What, uh… happened after that?”

Winia turned, confused. “What did you just say?” 

“What happened after that?” Chris made sure not to meet her eyes. “I’m just… curious.”

She hesitated a moment. “We never made up,” she said softly at last, her tone heavy with guilt. “He died from some sickness shortly after.”

“Oh.” Chris finally found himself able to craft his trademark smile. It was a small smile maybe, but he could manage it nonetheless. “Okay.”

The girl stared at him in disbelief. “ ‘Okay’?” she repeated.

Chris suddenly sensed a presence and got to his feet, happy that he didn’t have to answer her.

“It looks like your knight in shining armor’s here.” Chris winked at her and picked up his axe. “No matter who wins, you’ll be home before you know it.”

Chris turned to see a solitary figure stepping into the Valley of Glass. The mosaic of reflected moonlight painted him with shards of white.

“Let me rephrase that.” Chris glanced back at the girl and smiled. “Your knight in leather armor.”

Pacifica clenched her fists so hard her knuckles turned white. Hunched in her chair, she squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth.

They can’t die, she thought. They can’t.

She wanted to pray, but she couldn’t. If God really was Mauser, Pacifica wasn’t in any position to have her prayers answered. So she just hoped; she hoped with every fiber of her being that her friend and her brother would come home alive.

Yet again, Pacifica was painfully aware of her own powerlessness. She couldn’t fight, she couldn’t use magic, and running or hiding only worked to a certain point. She was useless and she was helpless, and everyone she loved was in danger because of her.

She couldn’t do anything. Anything. Anything except…

Pacifica jerked her head up and turned to a nearby bookshelf. A candlestick rested on top of it, its stub of a candle melted nearly to the base. The sharp blade that held the candle in place rose from the melted lumps like a sword piercing through flesh.

Pacifica swallowed and started to shake.

She was afraid to die—the mere thought of it made her quake with fear. But sometimes it seemed like an excellent solution, the fastest and most selfless way for her to end everyone’s troubles. Whenever she was alone, Pacifica did her best not to look at any sharp objects. She didn’t know if there would come a day when her fear of risking her family would override her fear of dying.

“Pacifica?”

Pacifica’s eyes fell on the door beside the bookshelf. It opened with a mild creak, and Raquel’s head appeared.

“Were you going to help me with dinner?” Raquel asked mildly.

“Right,” Pacifica murmured, lurching to her feet. “I… I promised I would.”

“Make dinner?” Raquel clarified.

“Make dinner,” Pacifica agreed.

Raquel smiled and opened the door wider in invitation.

Pacifica sighed. So she had to do what she always did, didn’t she? Just wait around and have faith.

She sometimes wondered if dying could be as hard as having faith.

As Pacifica passed through the doorway, Raquel leaned farther into the room. Pacifica barely heard the sound of Raquel pushing the candlestick to the farther end of the bookshelf.

Chris was like a shadow puppet in the night, impossibly light and strangely beautiful. The glass-like surface of the canyon’s walls had weathered over the years, and thus shattered at the slightest impact; fragments flew into the air, decorating the night with moonlit jewels.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Shannon ducked under Chris’ axe, then thrust his own blade. The two weapons met with a crash, deflected off each other, and continued in opposite directions. Chris followed the weight of his axe in a roundhouse attack, but Shannon arced up his sword in time to deflect.

Shannon barely had time to think. The blows he and Chris exchanged were powerful enough to kill a second or third-rate fighter, but neither of them could land a fatal slice. Shannon was equipped with attack magic, but Chris had greater flexibility and surprisingly superior physical strength. Both Shannon and his opponent were too afraid to try a bigger attack for fear of leaving themselves open for a counterstrike. They were getting nowhere fast.

“It’s your fault for not finishing me off,” Chris retorted as he sliced from below. Shannon slid his sword over the axe’s blade, then twisted hard to drag the axe up in a wide, harmless semicircle. When the weapons hit the top apex of the crescent, the two young men slammed against each other.

Chris smiled at Shannon over their grinding, locked weapons. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, Shannon Casull.”

Shannon scowled. “You’re right,” he replied irritably. “I’m starting to regret it.”

Chris chuckled. He pushed harder against his axe, and Shannon felt his hands shake.

“I-I spared your life,” Shannon said through gritted teeth. “Couldn’t you at least use it for a worthier cause?”

“Are you kidding? What’s worthier than saving the world from destruction?” Chris still smiled, but his cold eyes darkened. “I don’t understand you people. And all your hypocrisy is starting to piss me off.”

Shannon furrowed his eyebrows. “Hypocrisy?”

“Don’t you see it? You’re protecting someone who’s supposed to end the world, but you’ll risk your life to save a kidnapped acquaintance. Why bother when your princess is going to end her life anyway?”

Shannon didn’t answer, and his silence seemed to bother Chris.

“What the hell are you trying to accomplish? You don’t have the guts to kill anybody, and you won’t let anyone die, but you’ll protect the Scrapped Princess? And I don’t believe that crap about you killing her if you have to. You don’t have the courage for that, Shannon, and you know it.” Chris sneered uncharacteristically. “Is this just one giant exercise in self-gratification? You want to play the heroic big brother, no matter the cost!”

Shannon panted a moment, his fists trembling with the effort of keeping his sword locked. “Maybe,” he murmured at last.

Chris’ expression stiffened as he shoved against his battleaxe. The force of the blow knocked Shannon out of the weapon lock. He staggered back a few steps.

“I can’t stand your hypocrisy!” Chris cried as he swung his axe at Shannon. Shannon barely pulled out of the way, letting the axe graze his armor.

“You don’t have a plan, and you don’t have a moral high ground! It’s all crap and it makes me sick!” Chris raised his axe over his head, priming himself for a killing blow.

Shannon tightened his grip on his sword.

Winia was hallucinating. She had to be. The clashing of weapons filled her ears, but she couldn’t watch the battle. Her eyes were already locked on the something else.

An infant lay on the ground, curled and hugging its knees. It made no attempt to move out of the shadows that swallowed it—why would it, when it had been betrayed by the people it trusted the most? The child could believe nothing, trust no one, and feel no affection. Only a desperate loneliness remained in its heart.

“N-no,” Winia croaked. “You can’t… you can’t come here. You have to go.”

But the child didn’t move. It had no desire to, just as it felt only a weak desire to breathe.

Winia began to shake. She glimpsed the child’s face from time to time… sometimes it looked like Chris, and sometimes it looked like her. She squirmed against her bonds.

“You have to go,” she implored weakly. “Please, get up!”

The child only raised its head. Its dry eyes focused on the glittering canyon lights. The child’s heart had grown used to sadness and resignation; the infant was too afraid to reach for the light.

Winia was certain she was hallucinating—there was no other explanation for what she saw. But as she stared at that child, her wrists writhing against her bonds, all she could think of was what that child needed.

You just… She quickly shut her eyes. You just need someone, don’t you? Just one human being!

Tears squeezed out from under Winia’s eyelids. She needed to trust someone. She needed a bond with someone that transcended common sense. Someone who would stand by her in the darkness, regardless of the reason; someone who would defend her even if the world turned against her.

Someone.

She opened her teary eyes. The child had vanished, but Chris was shouting at Shannon. Chris raised his , battleaxe over his head.

STOP IT! Winia’s mind begged. THIS ISN’T THE ANSWER!

Chris didn’t hate Shannon and his sisters. He just thought he did.

“You’re just… just jealous of Pacifica!” Winia screamed before she could even think the words.

At that moment, as her cry rang through the Valley of Glass, Christopher Armalite paused.

Shannon took the opportunity.

“Valkyrie,” he hissed, “grant your blessing!”

Shannon saw Chris’ eyes widen, but he couldn’t dwell on it as the repeating spell overtook him. Shannon gritted his teeth as other consciousnesses within his own mind opened up.

Do it.

Do it!

It’s almost…

Raquel had magically created an emulator within Shannon—another personality that controlled Shannon’s ’ untapped magical capacity. It was a very dangerous technique, one that ran the risk of driving Shannon mad, but it allowed him to use magic without being a sorcerer. Raquel had been hesitant. Shannon didn’t blame her.

The fact that the spell was a high-speed repeating spell only made matters worse. Since such a spell was like multitasking several spells at once and required pre-registering, it had formed another emulator. Shannon was holding three personalities in his head.

Almost…

Don’t lose it!

DON’T LOSE HIM!

He saw confidence in Chris’ eyes. Although a repeating spell could be activated with a quick, short mantra, it still had to be aimed accurately. It was the reason attack magic wasn’t suited for close combat. At their distance, the axe was a quicker blow.

Chris wielded his weapon, its blade glinting in the moonlight. Shannon grunted and arced up his sword to defend.

CLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLANG!

The terrible sound of tearing metal echoed through the canyon. Shannon watched as his father’s sword sliced through the younger boy’s axe.

Chris’ shock slowed him, and the weapon jerked out of his hands. Shannon took the opportunity to flip his blade over and slam the blunt edge into Chris’ stomach.

Chris choked. The force of the blow knocked him back a step and forced him to his knees. He gripped his stomach, panting, before collapsing onto the floor.

The emulators left Shannon’s consciousness so fast he nearly fainted. He closed his eyes and sucked in deep breaths, taking the moment to reassert his own personality.

Thanks, Raquel.

Shannon heard his young opponent groan; he opened his eyes to see the boy twisted on the ground. Shannon walked over to Chris and pushed the sharp edge against the tactician’s neck.

“You lose,” he said flatly.

Chris’ eyes locked with Shannon’s. “I can see that,” he retorted.

Shannon scowled. The fight had been too close, and he knew his success was only because of the Blessed Blade, Raquel’s modified version of a rarely used combat support spell. Originally developed by sorcerers who feared close combat, the spell increased the speed of a sword and created an invisible, rapidly vibrating simulated blade that could cut through steel. It did little to help a fighter who couldn’t properly use a sword, but in Shannon’s hands, it was a godsend.

Even a well-forged battleaxe was doomed against a Blessed Blade. Thick steel armor and castle walls split like butter to its power.

“G-get on with it,” Chris ordered, breathing heavily. “This is it, isn’t it? You have to kill me this time.”

Shannon stared at the tactician glittered with gravel shards.

After a long moment, Shannon let out a breath. “Believe me,” he muttered. “I’m really sick of fighting you. And the only reason I’m alive is because of my sister’s new spell. But…” He slowly pulled his blade from Chris’ neck. He paused a moment, then tiredly returned the weapon to its sheath.

“I can’t kill you. Killing someone to protect Pacifica would make her the walking doom the prophecy says she is.” He shook his head. “She’d blame herself. And we’re not going down that road.”

Chris stared at Shannon, which made him so uncomfortable he had to avert his eyes.

“We decided not to kill anyone. And we won’t let anyone kill. Call it stupid or hypocritical or whatever you think it is, but that’s the way we’re doing it.” He sighed. “So you live another day, you infuriating little creep.”

Having said his piece, Shannon headed for Winia. He half-expected Chris to attack him from behind, but the attack never came.

“You beat me,” Chris said, his voice very quiet. “Honestly this time. I swear to God, I lose.”

Shannon furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance. “Then I hope that means I never see you again,” he grumbled.

Several human figures lay sprawled and bleeding in the darkness. All were men of strong physique, short hair and plain gray overcoats. They looked oddly humble for warriors, yet no other trait stood out save for one thing: their chilling uniformity.

The Purgers. The sixth and publicly-denied external affairs agency of the Mauser faith headquarters. But despite their power, they had been crushed. In addition to any injuries they had sustained in battle, each and every one of them had had their kneecaps shattered.

“You were defeated?”

The men slowly looked up. Their brazen faces ordinarily showed no emotion, yet now they were clearly exhausted and afraid.

A beautiful shadow stood in a blazing light. Slowly, deliberately, the shadow turned its head toward the fallen Purgers.

The Purgers trembled. As those who carried out divine punishment, they were not permitted to lose. A loss by the servants of Mauser shook the absoluteness of God. The men had given up everything in exchange for their strength—a loss denied the very reason for their existence.

More than any wound, the defeat tore at them.

“The Guardians are stronger than I expected.” The silhouette paused. “I didn’t plan to intervene directly, but now I have no choice. The military doesn’t seem to understand what must be done.”

The obscurity calmly looked up at the sky. “In addition,” it went on, “a loathsome foreign entity from the old world is waking. If it gets involved in this matter, things will be significantly complicated.”

The veiled creature stretched out its right hand. “I will grant you real power, Purgers. By the power of our Lord Mauser, the creator of all things, you will now become one.”

Its voice changed slightly in tone, almost as if it were singing. “I am a servant to Mauser,” it chanted. “In the name of the fourth Peacemaker, Galil, I grant thee a miracle. Rejoice! You will now shed the shell of your human existence.”

The dim entity grabbed the face of one of the Purgers and sunk its fingers deep into his flesh. With a flick of tiny movement, those fingers reached the brain.

“Rejoice, rejoice! This is your second birth!”

The Purger’s eyes went white. His face was overwhelmed with the look of the rapture.

A few moments later, the cry of a newborn filled the night air.