Kays Translations

Chapter 20: The Fire That Pierced the Heavens

Marlon hesitated only for the briefest of moments before letting the thought go. Attending that masquerade ball—one that had promised to be unbearably dull to begin with—was never really an option. Even leaving aside the trouble of preparing a suitable costume, there was hardly any time left to track down an appropriate female companion. For a man in his position, such things were simply out of reach tonight.

He lifted his eyes toward the sky. A heavy, languid gloom spread across the heavens, the kind of dusky veil that pressed down on one’s spirit. Yet Marlon, who had long since grown accustomed to the rhythm of time in this strange world, felt no pressing regret. No, he told himself with quiet certainty, there was no need to trouble over that masquerade any further.

“So,” he murmured under his breath, his voice low but firm, “it seems the hour has come for moving house.”

Indeed, with the masquerade set aside, Marlon’s only real duty now was to help Musa Mein relocate.

Fortunately, there was little to carry. Aside from the shoddy crystal orb—transformed into a so-called “Plane Projection Fragment”—the old, decrepit shack contained almost nothing of value. What was truly precious lay within Musa Mein’s own mind, locked away like secrets in a vault. Even Marlon, no expert in such matters, could see that the man lived in constant readiness to abandon everything, prepared at any moment to flee the pursuit of enemies unseen.

Still… was this “Institute of Unified Magic” really so formidable? To Marlon’s modern, Earth-shaped thinking, it sounded like nothing more than a fantastical version of a national research institute.

From what Musa Mein had revealed, the institute certainly held importance in the Republic of Loring. Yet, despite its lofty title, it seemed in reality a clean and quiet bureau, a place where researchers busied themselves with papers and experiments, far removed from the rough currents of power.

Those who held sway over empires—men who could “rule the world by day and rest in beauty’s lap by night”—seldom had anything to do with laboratories. At most, someone like Carlos Wilkin, the current deputy director of the institute, might possess a sliver of influence in the capital. But could that influence truly extend thousands of miles away, all the way to this distant coastal city of White Sand?

Marlon could not believe it. The Republic of Loring had stood nearly a thousand years. No rational state would ever hand the reins of power to researchers of pure science or magic. The logic was simple. Just as “soldiers must not meddle in politics,” so too should scholars remain at their benches, not at the seat of command.

“Carlos Wilkin,” Musa Mein explained quietly as he tucked the shabby crystal into a leather pouch and pulled his hood once more over his head, “holds another identity—he is a Black-Robe Mage.”

A Black-Robe Mage?

Marlon froze for an instant before nodding slowly, realization dawning. Ah… once again, he had been trying to interpret this world through the lens of Earth’s logic. That mistake could no longer be allowed.

If Wilkin wore the mantle of a Black-Robe Mage, then perhaps he wielded prophecy. Perhaps he could send his spells questing across distances, sniffing out whether Musa Mein still lived and, if so, where he hid.

Yet another voice interrupted his thoughts.

“To my knowledge,” said the great Claw Druid master, his voice deep and resonant, “since the fall of the Goddess of Magic, no Black-Robe Mage has ever again displayed true foresight upon Loring’s soil.”

Marlon said nothing, for he knew little of mages’ powers. But Conchita Bowden—this druid who had walked the wild paths for decades—spoke with authority born of long experience.

“Great Druid,” Musa Mein looked up at him calmly, his expression unreadable, “let us not waste time in these probes. The chief mission of the Institute of Unified Magic is simple—to develop reconnaissance scrolls on a scale fit for war. You must know this well. A single reconnaissance scroll cannot rival prophecy, but it can still pinpoint, roughly, the hiding place of one man.”

The druid’s eyes narrowed. “And how, then, did you evade their reconnaissance?”

“That is no great difficulty.” Musa Mein lifted his mechanical hand, the one inscribed with crimson runes where blood-etched arrays glimmered faintly. The metallic fingers flexed with a quiet rasp. “Forgive me. I will not explain further. At least… not now.”

“I see,” the druid murmured at last. “So, it is much like the scarlet vanguard of Helfa—those soldiers who strike unseen, whole units vanishing and reappearing across the battlefield.”

Musa Mein did not answer, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

It was Marlon who broke the silence, his voice dry but earnest. “Well then, aren’t any of you hungry?”

He glanced around the dim room one last time, confirming there was little else worth salvaging. Turning to Musa Mein, he asked, “Anything left that must be taken?”

Musa Mein shook his head without a word. And so it was that Lukas, the massive piebald wolverine, shouldered an old ragged pack upon his broad back, ready at last to lead the way toward the villa.

By now, the deep cloak of night had unfurled its wings across the heavens, blanketing the world in shadow.

Perhaps it was for the best. Under cover of darkness, their journey back with Musa Mein would draw less attention. At least, so Marlon told himself as they slipped into the streets.

His eyes swept the surroundings. Thanks to the elven blood in his veins, his night vision pierced the gloom with ease. A quiet relief settled over him when he noticed the absence of a certain persistent figure—Nikola, the lynx-folk reporter from the White Sand Morning Post, a creature of tireless curiosity who always seemed to materialize at the worst possible moments.

Strange. Where had that meddlesome feline gone?

Now that he thought of it, Nikola had not appeared in his sight all day—not once, not even at dawn. Could it be that somewhere else in the city, a story of greater magnitude had seized the reporter’s insatiable interest?

Yes… of course. Marlon’s lips curved faintly in recognition. There was news today—great news. The arrival of Augustin von Newvently, Minister of Culture and senior member of the Republic’s Reconstruction Committee, here in the border port of White Sand… what better headline could a reporter ask for?

“Chirp—!”

The shrill call shattered the night.

“Chirp, chirp—!”

Lukas, the great wolverine, halted abruptly in mid-stride. His head rose, hackles bristling, a warning cry rasping from his throat as his gaze fixed toward the northwest.

Marlon followed his eyes—and froze.

In the distance, flames licked the sky. Not one blaze, but many. Dozens of infernos roared together, their glow staining the heavens a furious red. Even with his keen vision, the distance was too great; he could not discern the exact nature of the calamity.

But he knew the geography. The White Sand Lake, where that masquerade ball was to be held tonight… and the Oshana district, home to the city’s throngs of factories… both lay in that same northwestern quarter.

The Druid master strode swiftly to a roadside tree. Placing one gnarled hand against the trunk, he closed his eyes and sank into communion with the living wood.

Silence held them until at last, after long moments, he opened his eyes again. His voice was grave.

“Gentlemen. Ladies. I bring ill tidings. The Duriel slaves of Oshana have risen. They have launched a great rebellion.”

Even as he spoke, the air itself trembled. From the skies came a low, mounting thunder. More than ten Ankasa-class airships roared overhead, their formation sweeping out from the fortress-port of Blue Storm. Engines howled as they hurtled toward the blazing northwest.

“If none can halt them,” the Druid said softly, his gaze turning skyward before settling with deliberate weight upon Marlon, “then tonight, this city will drown in rivers of blood.”

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