Chapter 12: Day 2, Daytime
Genius Was Not Built in a Day; All Magecraft Leads to Disaster
The Escardos family was a particularly old lineage, even among the mages of the Mediterranean Basin.
One rumor had it that they had operated before the formation of the Clock Tower — alongside the Magician Kischur Zelrecht Schweinorg and the mages who had been active in the centuries following the dawn of the Common Era. No one at the Clock Tower believed it, and, more importantly, neither did the Escardos heirs themselves.
After all, for as old as their line was, it had produced no worthwhile results. Even their Magic Crest had only age to recommend it — the greater part of the spells it incorporated were indecipherable even to the heirs themselves, to the point that their descendants suspected that they might only be bluffs made up to look like magecraft. Still, it did include advanced life-preservation capabilities as well, and so they managed to cling to their dignity as an old family.
The Escardos lineage maintained itself on an output of magical patents that diminished with each successive generation. Even at the Clock Tower, they were mocked as "moldering antiques."
If their Magic Circuits would only develop…, the past several centuries of Escardos family heads had fretted.
Strangely, their Magic Circuits remained few down the generations. No matter how exemplary a mage's blood they drew in or how many generations they did so, the growth of their Circuits remained barely perceptible. Still, they thought, it was better than declining.
In one sense, the fact that their Magic Crest had yet to show signs of reaching the end of its life span, despite the antiquity of the lineage, was a threat. On that point, even they were sometimes discussed as research subjects, even in the Clock Tower.
The Escardos found that preferable to their Crest reaching its limit, their Circuits gradually dying out, and being swallowed by the passage of time — disappearing as mages — as had happened to the Makiri. They worked desperately to shore up their footing as mages in order to avoid that fate. Even if other mages laughed that it was a wasted effort.
After a few centuries of that, an "abnormality" was born into the Escardos family.
His Magic Circuit count was genuinely an order of magnitude greater than the previous generation's. They were like capillaries, circulating Od through every inch of his body.
Genius skill in magical energy control, the originality to combine spells from the past into a unique new magecraft, and Magic Circuits unparalleled within his lineage — it was the birth of a truly ideal successor. A descendant with the abilities that the powerless, yet stable, Escardos family thought it had wished for, however, ended up sending them into a steep decline.
That was because, at the same time his talents began to bud, it became clear that he was entirely lacking the "mental attitude" that could be called a mage's most important attribute.
The boy had been able to see "it" since childhood.
For that reason, he had thought of "it" as perfectly ordinary and assumed that everyone else could see "it" as well. He soon realized, however, that he was mistaken.
He was not yet ten years old when he was told that he belonged to a line of special people called mages. Once he learned that, he assumed that it was because he was a mage that he could see "it." While talking with his parents and other mages they had dealings with, however, he came to understand that he was mistaken in that as well.
It seemed that his parents did not see the same world that he did.
When the boy sensed that, he felt fear.
He still had no definite way of communicating the nature of that fear to others.
When his parents first noticed their son's eccentricity, they wondered if he had been possessed by some delusion. After numerous examinations, however, they were forced to conclude that the boy seemed to be speaking the truth.
The certainty the Escardos' son possessed powerful Mystic Eyes sparked a brief commotion, but both of the boy's eyeballs turned out to be ordinary. The fact that he was clearly able to see "it" in spite of that puzzled the mages around him.
To the boy himself, it was normal. The looks he got, however, seemed almost to say, "We can't explain how, despite being human, you're breathing through gills." He gradually came to view the things he could see as unpleasant.
After all, it was because of what he could see that he had more than once nearly been murdered by his parents.
Still, it was also thanks to what he could see that he had survived, so he could not completely reject "it."
He loved magecraft and he loved humans — what would become of him if he ended up hating something that was so intimately connected to both of them? Such anxieties plagued the boy since childhood.
On his way to a certain boat party, he encountered a woman who seemed to be a mage, or something close to it. She must have noticed the boy's worries during the small talk they made when she asked him the way to the harbor.
"If you've got worries about magecraft," she remarked casually as she boarded a luxurious passenger ship, "start by studying it. If you can't count on your family, you might try the Clock Tower."
The woman mage's words lodged in the boy's heart. If he went to the Clock Tower, he thought, he might be able to understand himself. So, he had gone to consult his parents, who had just failed in their fifth assassination plot.
"I want to leave home and study at the Clock Tower," said the boy. He was not yet ten years old.
As a result, the boy's parents had driven him out by way of ridding themselves of a nuisance — under the pretext of unveiling their wonder child and sending him to the Clock Tower.
As a matter of fact, when they saw a boy with an abnormal number of Magic Circuits who had mastered the use of magecraft far beyond his years, many professors grew excited that a genius who would leave his name in the Clock Tower's history had appeared. But things did not proceed that smoothly. The boy did possess Magic Circuits the like of which had never been seen, as well as the talent to control them. And yet, despite his first-rate Magic Circuits and sense for magecreaft, they could never manage to correct his idiosyncratic temperament or his complete lack of a mage's mindset.
The instructors gradually began to shun him. They had a rough stone of the first water, but they could not polish it. Seeing raw stone shine more brilliantly than polished gems hurt the pride of the instructors who had tried to their own interests. They ended up chasing the boy out.
A professor called Rocco Belfaban strove patiently to reform the boy while he was being passed around like that. In the end, however, even that old professor began to be baffled by the boy's personality — and other parts.
One day, he made a proposal: an eccentric newcomer had just opened a school. Although he was one of the Clock Tower's Lords, his sensibilities were a little different from the average mage's. That man might be able to teach the boy what he wanted to learn.
And so, the boy went to meet the newly-minted Lord. He was glumly sure that he had just been kicked out again, and that his next teacher would be the same.
I might be sick. I try so hard to act like a proper mage, so why can't I do it?
I guess another professor ended up hating me. I wonder how long it'll be before the next one does too.
Even as the boy thought such thoughts, he did his best to smile. He worked magecraft on the muscles of his face, desperate to maintain a cheerful expression. Although he had never learned it, he had known how to smile since he was a young child.
In order to act like a mage, the boy poured his energy into constructing a forced smile.He worked the spell to fix his muscles in a smile over and over and over again. When his heart was about to break from the thought that he might go on doing it forever…
That man appeared before the boy.
"You're Flat Escardos? The boy they say can handle a wide range of magecraft, regardless of Mana or Od, and even without knowledge?"
A young man with a scowl and a furrowed brow greeted Flat as he entered the room. He was excessively tall and his hair was excessively long. The thing that most drew Flat's attention was that, of all the people who called themselves instructors he had met, the man had the lowest internal concentration of magical energy.
Flat stared curiously as a little shadow poked its head out from behind the man. It was a child his own age, glaring daggers at him and growling like an animal.
"Professor! Professor! He smells all messed up! Can I break him?"
"Give it a rest, Svin. He's an invited guest. For now, at least."
The mage who had been called "Professor" turned to reexamine the boy who had just entered the room. There was no insincere smile on his face as he spoke.
"Why are you doing that with your face? Are you testing me, or mocking me? Otherwise, if that's your way of getting on in the world, you'd better rethink it quick."
"What?"
"I'm telling you that children shouldn't use magecraft to force smiles."
"!"
The boy was shocked. He had been certain that he had perfectly isolated all signs of magecraft and that no outside observe would realize that he was using it to smile.
Was it possible that this person could see the same things he could? For a moment, he hoped, but he soon realized that he was mistaken.
"What is it? Do you have a question?"
"…Yes, sir. How did you know?"
"Anyone could tell at a glance. When you move your smile, your zygomaticus minor, risorius, and levator anguli oris move in an order that ignores their proper functions — proof that you're using magecraft to force your expression into place. I assume you only valued results and attempted to trace them. It appears, however, that you neglected to observe the process. An immature way of thinking that leads to handling magecraft without knowledge. I acknowledge your talent, but you'd best mend it."
The quick explanation was not what the boy had hoped for, but he did not despair. The world that the tall mage in front of him could see was different from his. Still, he had a feeling that what the mage saw was different from what the boy's parents and other mages did as well. It was only a faint presentiment at that point. Even so, the boy released the spell on his own face and bobbed his head to the mage with the first real smile he had worn in a long time.
"I'm called Flat! I look forward to attending your lectures, Professor!"
"…I refuse — or so I'd like to say, but you come with a letter of recommendation from Mr. Belfeban, so I can't turn you down out of hand."
The mage sighed, then scowled at the boy — Flat — as he continued.
"Fine. Class begins soon. Sit in a corner and at least get used to the atmosphere."
At that, the child beside the mage — the boy he had called Svin — stared wide-eyed from the mage to Flat.
"What?!" He shouted. "He's really going to be my junior?! This prickly smell is definitely going to make trouble for you, Professor! Better to bite before you're bitten!"
"Wow. Biting? You're almost like le chien… Still, you're kind of cool!"
"See?! He talks nonsense, but he doesn't smell like he's lying! He smells totally broken! Dangerous! Destroy his before he destroys the school!"
Seeing Svin barking like an animal somehow made Flat glad. Being the object of such straightforward emotion — even if it was bestial animosity — was a fresh experience to him. It was so different from the way the apprentices in his previous departments had looked at him — from a distance, like they were watching something uncanny.
Flat thrilled. His eyes shone. He stared at the face of the boy who gave off an animal odor that could equally be taken for wolf, tiger, or lion and began to mutter something under his breath.
"Lobo…? Beetho…? No, maybe Le Chien after all…"
"Wait a minute! Those had better not be contenders for what you're going to call me!"
Svin seemed ready to pounce at any moment. Sighing, the mage laid a restraining hand on his head.
"Pipe down. Do you want to be kicked out?"
At that point, young mages began to file in one after another.
It seemed that Flat was not the only newcomer to the class. "That's the Lord…!" Some said, eyes shining. "That's the Lord…?" Others wondered. All their eyes were on the mage.
Shortly after Flat plopped himself down in a corner of the classroom, as instructed, and the bestial boy established himself in the center of the front row, the mage gave his name to the class.
"Department of Modern Magecraft, Third-Class Instructor Waver Velvet… was my name until a short while ago."
Then, he gave the name of the man who was to change the destinies of many mages, Flat included, and go down in the history of the Clock Tower.
"Now, I'm the Second. I'm borrowing the name Lord El-Melloi II."
X X
Day 2. Noon. Main Street.
Ten years had gone by since their first meeting, and Flat's destiny had certainly changed. It had experienced such an acrobatic flip that he had gone from being slowly driven out of the world and into himself to participating in a Holy Grail War held in distant America. In exchange, Lord El-Melloi II had ended up with stomach ulcers, but that's a different story.
"Well, let's get going, Berserker."
"Yes, let's."
Flat was currently handcuffed by Jack, who had transformed into a police officer. Even Flat was not enough of a fool to come as he was; in addition to disguising himself, he had adjusted his internal circulation of magical energy and prepared his wards so that mages would not sense them. He had on a cap pulled low over his eyes, sunglasses, and a leather jacket that did not suit him.
"Hey," he said. "Let go. Let go of me. I'm innocent. I didn't kill my wife! A man with a prosthetic arm is the real culprit!"
"Yes… I think it would be better if you didn't speak."
"R-really?"
Flat had begun to shout in a perfect monotone. At a word from Jack, however, he lapsed into silence and trudged dejectedly after him.
When they were about to pass through the entrance, he looked up, wiping the expression from his face.
"…What is it?"
"There are wards, many layers thick. Maybe they were broken recently? I get the feeling they were re-cast in a hurry."
"I see... How many seconds will it take?"
"Five will be enough to fool it about your existence," Flat answered easily and crouched down on the spot.
"What's the problem?" An officer who happened to come through the entrance just then asked Jack.
"Oh, he was drunk and making a scene in broad daylight. I brought him in alright, but he says he doesn't feel so good, so I'm giving him a short rest."
"I see. Sounds rough… Don't let him puke there, OK? They're not totally finished investigating yesterday's terror attack."
"Sure. Don't worry."
As the conversation unfolded behind him, Flat quietly whispered his personal incantation.
"…Game select."
Flat remained squatting and placed a hand on the floor, inserting a new spell into the part of the ward he touched. He had begun large-scale hacking on the barrier.
He was allowing his own magical energy soak into gaps in the intricately-arranged wards, conducting "repairs" while fooling the detection functions into believing that he was their maker. He completed the spell in roughly four seconds and slipped it into the wards. It was like an automatic program that would continuously alter the wards' significance as Flat wished.
"Game over," Flat murmured with a grin, and slowly stood up.
"Thank you, Officer. I feel better now."
"I see. Let's go, then."
He doesn't look drunk to me…, the officer wondered, seeing Flat's refreshed face, but he left the pair as they were. Presumably he had his own duties to attend to.
And so, Flat and Jack stepped into the police station.
Flat could justly be called the least determined Master in this Grail War. Even so, he took a step forward. The resolution he kept in his heart was so faint that it was almost transparent, but that gave it a certain purity.
It was to confront those creeping in the shadows of these events head-on.
X X
Crystal Hill. Twenty meters below ground.
The city of Snowfield did not have a subway system. Instead, it had an immense subterranean space situated fifty meters below the city center — a space controlled by the mages and state agency that had built the city.
Between that space and the surface, twenty meters below ground, were smaller-scale controlled areas. One of these was allotted as the "workshop" of Caster — Alexandre Dumas père.
"I mean, there's a casino and a red-light district and classy restaurants right over my head, and I'm not even free to go enjoy myself? Talk about cruelty. What'd I even show up as a Heroic Spirit for?"
Dumas sighed and turned his attention to the five or so young people in front of him.
"When you make money, you'd better spend it. You get me? Money's like food; it'll go bad on you while you're busy thinking it's too good to waste."
He grumbled, but his hands never stopped moving.
"I told Bro — your boss — earlier. Back in the old days, I used most of the money I'd made and built myself a dream of a mansion. The second floor was done up with busts of all sorts of geniuses. Old Hugo, Goethe, Homer, Shakespeare, the works. And in the pride of place was a bust of me, you get me? Spent a mint getting a first-rate sculptor to make it. Amazing, right?"
"Umm… Yeah. Amazing… In more than one sense of the word."
Dumas kept on making his pen race without turning at the doubtful response that came from behind him. He was writing sentences in French on something like a scroll.
"That son of a bitch Balzac took one look at my house and said, 'Yes… One look is more than enough to see you're joking. Still, joking this well is actually refreshing.' I couldn't work out if he was complimenting or insulting me. …Oh yeah, shockingly… 'he' came as far as the front gate, although he probably went home in disgust…"
"…'He'?"
"Whoops; slip of the tongue. Just forget it," Dumas chuckled as he dipped his pen in the inkwell.
At that point, he finally turned to look behind him.
"So? Only five of you? Bro's being real careful, isn't he?" He asked with a shrug of his shoulders, then turned back to his paper.
One of the assembled people — a young man who was a member of Clan Calatin — addressed him.
"…Excuse us. Most of us were dispatched to the disturbance in the factory district, so…"
The apology came from a man somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. That said, his face looked younger than his real age. He could still easily pass for a rookie officer. He was the officer who had lost his right hand below the wrist in the recent battle with the bloodsucker. The wound was currently covered by a special cast and wrapped in bandages.
"Well, it doesn't matter. I'm just lucky you're here. So? Did you get Bro's 'permission to fight'?"
"Not yet…"
The officer clenched his left fist in frustration. The chief's word had been, "Unless you can prove you won't get in the way, I won't put you back on the front lines."
"So, what's your reason for fighting in the first place?" Dumas asked, continuing his "writing."
"What…?"
"You won a chance to drop out of a war full of mages where anybody might die any time. What're you trying to get back into it for? What's in it for you?"
The officer who had lost his right hand considered the question for a moment before answering in a clear voice.
"Because, as you say, Caster… anyone might die at any time."
"Oh?"
"I… No, none of us the Chief brought together think of ourselves as mages."
"What are you, then?" Dumas asked, still writing.
"We're police officers," the man replied.
"…"
"In a situation where anyone might die at any time, it's our job to save as many people as possible."
Dumas heard that answer, given without emotional hesitation, and, laughing delightedly, posed another question.
"Pretty words. Can they put food in your belly?"
"If you managed to build a mansion, I can manage food."
"Ha! Get a load of the mouth on you. Are my novels 'pretty words'?"
"…!"
Seeing Dumas suddenly rise to his feet, the five officers could not help breaking out in a cold sweat. It was easy to fall into the trap of thinking of Dumas as bookish because he was a novelist. In reality, however, he had a highly active side. It was said that, even as he neared his last years, he had personally gone hunting wild beasts in order to write a cookbook. The intimidating physique he had inherited from his father — a military man who had served under Napoleon — recalled the anecdote. "Even I could probably beat him in a brawl," the Chief had said. To the officers, however, the outcome of a straight exchange of fists seemed less certain.
Dumas, cloaked in that air of intimidation, took the arm of the officer who had lost his right hand, and…
"They are," he shrugged, and made to fit something over the officer's right wrist.
"I like other things too, but… heroes who talk a lot of high-sounding ideas and see 'em through to the end sell like mad in newspapers and on the stage. There."
At last, there was a satisfying clang. The officer felt a light pressure and the proper weight on his right wrist.
"This is…"
Attached to the officer's right arm was a perfectly fitted prosthetic hand.
"It's got a special gimmick; I'll tell you all about it later."
"No, but… The Chief still hasn't…"
The officer stared at the hand in confusion.
"John Wingard," Caster addressed him, returning to his writing. "Twenty-eight. Born in New York. Blood type AB. Second son of a family of mages. Didn't inherit the Magic Crest."
"Wha…?"
The officer stared at Dumas in shock at hearing his name and a litany of personal information. Dumas grinned broadly as he continued.
"Sorry, but I did my homework on all of you. You lost your mother as a kid, and that's why he became a police officer. That right, John? Didn't want anyone else to share your sorrow?"
"…I wasn't thinking anything so noble. I just wanted revenge…"
"Oh, no need to affirm it. You've got to allow me my pretty words. Revenge will do."
Grinning, Dumas re-dipped his pen in the inkwell to record a new "story."
"When I was serializing Monte Cristo in the paper, everybody from town peddlers to ministers of state wanted to know how the avenger was going to end up. You'll be getting a lot of chatter too… You're going to use that hand — that legend — I cooked up, after all. It'll be a lie if you don't make a splash.
"You tell Bro, John: 'You prove you won't get in the way'!"
X X
The police station. The Chief's office.
"…It doesn't make sense."
The Chief read over the report on the morning's incident in the factory district with confusion. It seemed as though Francesca and her Servant had done something — he had no idea what — to put a stop to that disaster that had threatened to spread to the entire city. Bazdilot and Haruri had gone their separate ways. Both had slipped through the police surveillance net. The same was true of the Einzbern homunculus, and it was unknown why she had been cooperating with Haruri. That, however, was not what weighed on the Chief's mind.
Members of Clan Calatin had combined large-scale wards with physical evacuation orders in an attempt to clear the factory district of curious onlookers. Before they had a chance to put their plan into practice, however, a mass-evacuation of residents had been observed. The movement of more than a hundred thousand people living in and around the factory district to the city center and residential areas had been reported as appearing to be a protest march. On top of that, there had been no sightings of rioting or destructive acts by the worse-behaved elements; they had done nothing except "evacuate."
"Did Francesca do something…? No… That old bitch would be happier to see the masses panic…"
She had forced an end to the situation to avoid scrapping the city just yet, but Francesca was essentially someone who fanned the flames of conflict, not extinguished them.
The evacuees still seem to be loitering around the city center and the residential districts… but there's no trace of wide-area magecraft. All that's left is to investigate whether individuals are under the influence of hypnosis or…
A knock on the office door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in."
The familiar face of one of his subordinates appeared through the opened door. It was the woman who assisted the Chief by performing the roll of his secretary.
"Chief, I have an urgent matter to report."
"…What is it?"
"Flat Escardos is in the lobby."
"…What?"
At his subordinate's words, the Chief turned his attention, not to the normal surveillance system, but to the special surveillance monitor installed in his office. There, through the eyes of a familiar, was the boy from the reports. He was, for some reason, handcuffed and scrutinizing his surrounding in a way that made him look highly suspicious.
The chief narrowed his eyes at the sight of the police officer accompanying the boy. It was not a member of Clan Calatin, but a normal officer who was supposed to be off duty that day.
"There was a report that, when he first summoned his Heroic Spirit in the park, something that appeared to be that Heroic Spirit took the form of a police officer, correct?"
"Yes, sir. We believe he has infiltrated the station in the company of his Heroic Spirit. The wards haven't reacted, so they may be completely isolating their magical energy."
"I see… One other question."
"What, sir?" The female officer who acted as his secretary asked expressionlessly.
The Chief appeared to waver for a moment. The next, the blade of a Japanese sword was at her throat.
"Who are you?"
Originally Posted by Hawkeye
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