Getting out of bed today was difficult.

And it wouldn’t be any easier tomorrow.

Saphiria’s gaze fell to her yellow slippers as they climbed the steps of the castle’s south-western tower. Although her legs struggled to uphold her, she forced them to move just as she forced herself to eat, get dressed, and attend the summit moments ago.

Little motivated her. Tending to the horses became tiring. Caring for the injured pup she found behind the cathedral took insurmountable effort. Even her passion for Amphurt’s mines vanished since she acknowledged Father’s passing. As if hauling a sack of ore Saphiria couldn’t drop, something ceaselessly weighed over her shoulders.

Few knew of Saphiria’s burden. She concealed it beneath an emotionless countenance neither mother, the maids, nor her suitors could penetrate. Vulnerability was weakness. Unfortunately, her attempts to veil the heart didn’t fool everyone.

Intermittent giggling emanated from her bosom. “C-can’t you sto-stop being so depress-depressing?”

Saphiria bit her lip. “I’ll try harder.”

“W-wait. Don’t feel g-guilty! It’s my fault, t-too.” Precious gulped, and her laughter ceased. “I’ll hold it in as best I can.”

So disgraceful that even a corrupted creature pitied her.

But Saphiria marched on.

She wouldn’t stop.

Neither shame nor malaise could keep her from fulfilling a favor to an irreplaceable friend. Dimitry was there whenever she needed to talk, and now that he needed her help, she would be there for him.

He had tasked Saphiria and the faerie hiding beneath her dress to record the names and emotional states of nobles attending the summit. Aware that revealing Church-like magic would win him enemies, Dimitry wanted to identify angered attendees before they sought retribution. A prudent maneuver. Although nobles appeared unpredictable and sly on the surface, like Saphiria’s, their emotions were easy prey to Precious. Haughty smiles and false praise couldn’t conceal their disgust.

Yet the throne room wasn’t the place to associate with a faerie. Dimitry suggested waiting until the outdoor weapon demonstration to look for potential nuisances.

Saphiria agreed with him, and she knew the best place from where to accomplish her task. Upon reaching the tower’s exposed summit, an icy breeze caressed her neck, and a thunderous crackle came from below. She peered over granite handrails.

Beneath was the wall bordering the castle district and Malten’s western forest. Dimitry stood on top. Nearby was mother, several servants, and many nobles. They all watched the court sorceress Leandra shoot a desiccated crawling devil’s corpse with an enhanced voltech rifle.

The perfect vantage point.

Saphiria dropped the satchel she carried onto a tea table. She reached inside for parchment, a small vial of ink, and one of Klaire’s obscure metal quills. Her task began.

“Wow.” Precious clambered up her shoulder. “Suddenly, you’re kind of determined and stuff.”

“Stay focused. We have a job to do.”

“I just never saw someone transition from dragging their feet to composure so fast.”

When Saphiria lived in the Amalthean Kingdom, survival required the ability to suppress extraneous doubt before an assassination. More so whenever her collar’s enchantment waned. Although her current burden outweighed any from the past, she didn’t hesitate to employ her wretched skills to mute emotion now that Dimitry relied on her.

Saphiria grabbed Klaire’s metal quill. Her brow furrowed when the object moistened her hand. Despite not loading the device, ink leaked from somewhere within. Was there an internal reservoir of some sort? She rotated the bizarre implement in front of her face. Hastily borrowing an item with mysterious functionality was a fatal mistake.

“Comon. Stop wasting time!” Precious tugged her earlobe. “You’re the one that told me to focus!”

“Wait.” Saphiria scribbled several loops along the parchment’s edge. “I figured it out.”

“Congratulations! Now, who’s our first target?”

“The highest-ranking nobles.”

Precious’s head tilted, her golden ponytail spilling over a torn white gown. “Because they’re the most powerful?”

“If they hold contempt for Dimitry, they’ll sway the opinions of the aristocracy and gentry managing their land to do so too. There’ll be more enemies.”

“Sounds complicated.”

Saphiria’s eyes landed on a woman with hazelnut hair—Countess Mira Bright. As the current sorceress guildmistress, she would decide whether Dimitry’s enhanced rifles were worth using. “Her.”

“You mean the lady in that fancy red and gold robe?”

She nodded.

Precious’s wings chimed as she leaned in. “I’m sensing wariness, curiosity, and lots of excitement.”

A good outcome. Saphiria recorded the woman’s name and disposition.

The faerie’s eyes widened. “Ooh, your handwriting is so neat.”

“Thank you.” She pointed. “Baron Schwarz next.”

“You mean Baldy? Baldy is somehow thrilled and angry. What a weirdo.”

Baron Schwarz could go either way. “Now, Marquis Richter.”

“Shocked, disbelieving, and slightly relieved.”

“Viscountess Meier.”

Precious hesitated. “She’s… praying. Maybe?”

“For what?”

“Well, I can’t read thoughts, but she feels warm and rescued.” The faerie shivered. “How nasty.”

Did the viscountess believe Dimitry to be the apostle? Saphiria couldn’t fault her. She attributed the woman’s vague emotions to salvation. “Count Lukas next.”

“The short guy’s scheming.”

“Against Dimitry?”

“Dunno.” Precious perched atop Saphiria’s head. “I don’t sense maliciousness, but with some people, you never know. There are some real crazies out there.”

Their top-down spying continued. Dozens of thunderous shots rang out as people took turns firing a rifle with a concealed rainbow glow, and dozens of names appeared on the parchment. Most nobles’ reactions were mixed. Some were strictly positive. Others negative.

When Saphiria’s gaze neared the end of the line of suspects, her teeth clenched. A single person stood out. She pointed at an aged woman wearing grandmother’s tiara and a gold-threaded mantle. “Her.”

“Isn’t that the queen?” Precious blinked. “Aren’t you humans supposed to trust your parents or something?”

“Trust is earned, not owed.”

“Wow. So deep.”

Saphiria’s hand squeezed the metal quill tighter every moment she stared at mother. She was the reason her brothers never came home. Why the castle’s halls were cold and unwelcoming. Why Father died. Who was to say she didn’t scheme once more to oust her daughter and Dimitry?

“F-fine. I’m doing it. Just calm down a bit, won’t you?” The faerie leaned forward by pushing away from Saphiria’s head.

“Well?”

“I don’t know what you expected to hear, but you’ll probably be disappointed.”

“Tell me.”

“All I’m getting is anxiousness, a sliver of hope, and some guilt.”

Impossible. Mother was definitely planning something nefarious. “Check again.”

“Look, I’ve been doing this for centuries. I don’t make mistakes.”

“Just do it.”

Precious sighed. “I did. Same thing. Happy?”

The faerie’s words couldn’t have been true. There had to be another explanation. Mother was conniving, scheming, the root of every tragedy. What if she had magic capable of hiding her emotions? That would explain Precious’s folly. Or maybe mother demanded the Church warp her emotions like they did Saphiria’s, an archbishop pulling strings from somewhere unseen.

But that didn’t explain why.

Why did mother tear Saphiria from everything she knew? Why did the castle become yet another prison? Why did everyone she cherish die? Saphiria tried to pace her breathing, but her inhalations grew deep and rapid. She tried to remain seated, but her feet jumped away from the chair. What did Saphiria do to earn mother’s scorn? For what reason did she kill Father?

“Why?!”

Her fist slammed into the table.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, the side of her aching hand planted against a granite surface. Yet there she stood until a pinprick irritated her scalp.

Saphiria looked up.

Sat on her head was Precious, who nibbled on a long black strand of hair with tiny, flat teeth. “Are you asking me? You probably aren’t, but if you are, while you were stewing in your own rage, I decided I was hungry. I didn’t eat all day. Then I realized your hair smelled like berries, but I wanted to know if it tasted like them too.” She spat her mouthful. “In case you were wondering, it doesn’t.”

The realization of failure sank in: Saphiria couldn’t complete a single task without losing her composure. She collapsed into her chair.

Dimitry told her to expect bursts of anger while grieving, so how could she let her guard down so easily? And to do so in front of a friend. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“There, there.” A petite hand slapped the top of her head. “This is how people comfort people, right?”

“You’re not upset with me?”

Precious shrugged. “Not really. I saw it coming. First, you were mopey, then you became numb, but suddenly you started getting all angry. I expected you to break down eventually. Humans do that sometimes.”

The faerie’s sentiment made Saphiria feel inexplicably light. She sniffled and mopped her eyes with a yellow dress’s sleeve. “It won’t happen again.”

“I hope so. There’s still one more person to spy on. My future is on the line too; we can hold your pity party later. Hopefully, with fent.”

Saphiria managed a smile. “I promise I’ll get you plenty.” Her gaze traveled over the tower’s handrails once more and down at her mother—the person who she blamed for everything as of late. An apology was in order. But not now. Their target was the man standing beside her. “Marquis of the South, Tylo Sauer.”

“You’re talking about the tall guy with muscles growing out of his muscles?”

Saphiria nodded.

“Marquis of the South. Isn’t that title a bit too grandiose?”

“He’s the third most powerful person in the kingdom.”

“Oh.” Precious gripped a small clump of Saphiria’s hair. “That’s pretty bad news.”

“Why?”

“Either he despises standing on tall walls, or he really, really hates Dimitry’s guts.”

Stood atop a wide wall, Malten’s wealthiest and most influential people took turns testing an enhanced voltech rifle. Thunderous cracks echoed. Iron pellets burst forth to reduce a heathen corpse laying twenty meters away into a faintly blue pile of rubble—proof of the weapon’s destructive potential.

But overwhelming power didn’t win Dimitry the response he hoped for.

A muscular man walked forward, holding the gold-sheathed rifle in outstretched arms. “This is yours.”

“I appreciate it,” Dimitry said.

Those were the only words spoken. The other nobles watched him silently. Although their haughty smiles vanished since they left the throne room, and their wary frowns dissipated with first-hand experience, all they wore now were empty gazes befitting poker players—no discernible emotion. They didn’t ask to purchase voltech rifles. Nor did they shrink in fear. Instead, they studied Dimitry as if he were an untouchable beneath their station and beyond their understanding.

Dimitry stood tall despite invisible pressure flanking him from both sides. Even as countless questions whirled through his mind, he couldn’t show unease. To do so would undermine his attempts to portray himself as the apostle.

However, beneath the facade, he wondered what the nobles were thinking. Did they see him as a rival? Fear him? Were they gauging the reactions of their neighbors before openly showing their support? Was it beneficial to continue the weapon demonstration, or would that further fuel the contempt of the kingdom’s biggest movers?

There was no way to know. Dimitry wouldn’t receive Precious and Saphiria’s report until later, and the night of repentance’s rapid advance required him to act. There was no time to waste. This was his only foreseeable opportunity to reveal sticky bombs.

He held out the rifle to the court sorceress beside him, who watched his movements like an eagle those of its prey. “Leandra, would you please?”

After a moment of hesitation, the yellow-robed woman accepted his burden. “Very well.”

“Thank you.” Dimitry knelt beside the pot of pink adhesive Angelika delivered and a cast-iron bomb. “Mira, can you assist me? The next demonstration requires two.”

“Excuse this one.” The sorceress guildmaster squeezed between two fur-cloaked men, who cautiously stepped aside. She strode forward and hovered over Dimitry with a raised eyebrow. “Lomnent? I’m afraid I’m not much of a huntress.”

“That’s fine.” He dipped the casing’s rounded bottom into powerful glue as dozens of glares pierced the back of his skull. “All I ask is that you cast ignia on the bomb when I tell you. But not too early.”

“What is its purpose? Is the magic similar to the rifle’s? I don’t see or sense an aura.”

Gripping the bomb’s gourd-like neck, Dimitry stood. “This weapon operates on chemistry.”

She straightened her red and gold cuffs. “Is that related to the biology you told me of previously?”

“Yes.”

“My interest is piqued.”

Dimitry made a brief announcement to avoid nobles falling off the wall from panic. “No matter what happens, I urge everyone to stay calm.”

The only response he received was a count silently folding his arms across his chest.

Hoping his message got through, Dimitry glanced at Mira. “Are you ready?”

She slowly reached into her robes’ interwoven pouch. “I am.”

Dimitry identified a target far from where the resulting shrapnel could reach him and the other observers. It was a fresh crawling devil corpse with a mostly preserved body—perfect for demonstrating the bomb’s efficacy.

The lomnent-coated explosive arced out of Dimitry’s hand and flew towards the heathen. Upon contacting the collapsed beast’s spherical core, the adhesive layer clung to the stone shell, slowly giving way under the cast-iron bomb’s weight.

“Now!” Dimitry said.

“Ignia.”

An explosive roar echoed across a battle-scarred field as shards of metal and fragments of an unfortunate crawling devil’s corpse erupted from a vast cloud of white smoke. The false fog lingered, expanding as it sluggishly rose into the sky.

Shrieks resounded from Malten’s south-western wall. Although not all nobles were visible, the few beside Dimitry flinched and ducked. At one end of the lineup, a court sorceress hugged the queen like a sacrificial soldier rescuing her platoon from a grenade.

As the gassy cloud lifted, blue liquid spilled from a basketball-sized gap in the heathen’s core.

The observers stood with disbelieving glares before regaining their composures and muttering extended apologies to their neighbors.

Now.

Now was Dimitry’s opportunity to market his inventions. He shot Leandra a glance. “May I have the rifle back?”

She threw it over her shoulder. “Did this ‘bomb’ come from your visions, too?”

“It did,” he half-lied.

Leandra smirked. “I see.”

Dimitry held out a hand.

“It’s yours.”

“Thank you.”

Before order could return along with nobles’ indecipherable postures, Dimitry raised his voice. “As you have all seen, these weapons are invaluable for combating heathens. They can help guarantee your territories’ safety. Would any of the prominent men and women present like to purchase enchanted voltech rifles?”

A woman in a red dress straightened her hair. “My daughters will need training before using such a device. There is too little time.”

“I only have sons,” a man with a prosthetic leg said. “We use rock hammers.”

More excuses followed.

“We don’t use magic we don’t understand.”

“It’s too early to decide.”

Excuse after excuse after excuse.

Dimitry struggled to contain his impatience. While some nobles had valid reasons for refusing his offer, most didn’t. Who wouldn’t want to wield weapons boasting power exceeding that of their predecessor several-fold? It made little sense. Did they distrust Dimitry? Fear the political repercussions of siding with someone who hinted he was Zera’s apostle? Worry about upgrading to tools of war with an unpredictable source?

He didn’t know.

Mira tightened her robes around her tall and slender waist. “Your rifle is indeed powerful. Its strength would make quick work out of any crawler, and may even damage a carapaced devil. While I do not know why your magic is so efficient, how a crude pellet could produce such force, it leads to issues I’ve encountered in my experimentation. Too much power makes bullets inaccurate. Your rifle won’t hit a flying devil over thirty strides away.”

“There’s a simple solution,” Dimitry said. “Use normal voltech rifles to shoot fliers and the enhanced ones to kill crawlers and carapaced devils. The increased strength and efficiency will save lives and money.”

Like viewers at a debate, nobles faced Mira with postulating glares.

She shook her head. “Another issue makes redundancy infeasible. Your rifles are limited by availability and manufacture. Elongated core seals like these will require new tools to mass-produce, and you’re the only one who can enchant them.”

“That’s true,” Dimitry said. “Quantities are limited now, but there’ll be dozens before the night of repentance.”

“How many seals do you currently have?”

“Around ten with Emilia making more every day.”

“Raina’s girl?” Mira looked down at the wall she stood on. “If it’s her…” She cautiously looked around, examining the gazes of the others. “I’ve said too much. Let’s speak more on this afterward.”

A potential sale, but Dimitry wouldn’t let her off that easily. “Would you also like to sample some bombs?”

“My apologies.” The sorceress guildmaster turned away. “My girls have no need for such… dangerous devices.”

Damn.

No one else looked interested either.

Could Dimitry assemble a militia to use bombs? Not in time for the night of repentance. Ignia took years of magic training to use well, and fuses required extensive safety drills. The shrapnel from a single incident could wipe an entire battalion. Such an error would tarnish his and his weapons’ reputation.

A man missing a pinky stepped forward. It was the spymaster, Lukas. “It seems few place trust in your bomb. Unfortunate, yet understandable. I may be interested if you’re willing to part with them for a reasonable price.”

Dimitry got played.

That was the realization he came to after reading Precious and Saphiria’s report. Although among the nobles at the weapon demonstration were a handful who trusted him, perhaps thought him Malten’s savior, not one offered to purchase bombs.

And now he knew why.

Lukas.

The spymaster likely schemed to get them from the start and pulled strings beforehand to make that a possibility. But how? How did a single man dissuade the other attendees, some more powerful than himself, from purchasing revolutionary explosives that could change combat forever? And why? Despite Lukas’s promise to use most of them against heathens, what other purpose did he intend them to serve?

Concerning yet pointless questions.

It was too late for Dimitry to undo his mistake. Instead, he learned an invaluable lesson: never trust an intelligent and seemingly benign noble to act predictably. Still, while not everything went as planned, he accomplished his primary goals of distributing anti-heathen weaponry and familiarizing Malten’s most influential people with Church-like magic without them murdering him for heresy.

Or so he hoped. Among those on Saphiria’s report was a baroness, two counts, and a marquis that ‘hated Dimitry’s guts’. Their emotions only intensified after the sticky bomb reveal. Would they attempt an assassination with daggers and magic? Rout him out politically? Use a different, unknown method?

Dimitry didn’t know.

But he did know that, like any noble, he needed magic retardant clothing and his own army. One that could keep him safe, wield his inventions in place of a third party, and guard his property. The small fortune Dimitry earned from weapon sales would go towards that end, and tonight, he took the first step.

An icy gale blew past his hair and whistled as it traversed a maze of oak stumps and withering grass. While most open fields’ foliage would rustle with the wind, the patchy and barren field before him bore the scars of war. Four fresh flying devil corpses with shattered waists. Nearly a dozen crawling devils, each with six sharp legs boasting a cottage’s height, lay scattered.

The silhouette of a lantern wielding sorceress patrolled Malten’s looming western wall. At its base stood four men. Aside from the giant Milk, their nervous gazes shifted from heathen to heathen beneath open-visored, second-hand iron helmets. They were Dimitry’s security, his ambulance in training, and the seed from which his militia would grow.

Although the queen had sent a detachment from her private guard to defend the hospital and chemistry lab while Dimitry’s men and Angelika were here, he couldn’t help but worry. He preferred not to rely on outsiders more than necessary. Especially after Lukas’s interference. However, if the queen herself sought to undermine him, she wouldn’t need to resort to underhanded measures.

Besides, Dimitry had a more urgent problem—his frightened guards.

Milk not included, three men scanned the horizon for oncoming monsters. And rightfully so. Until now, they handled human disputes. Not those with heathens. Training couldn’t begin or succeed if fear at their surroundings sapped what little morale they had. It was an issue needing correction.

Shoulders back as if everything was under his control, Dimitry stepped forward. “First, allow me to thank you all for showing. Your bravery is commendable.”

A former crossbowman flashed a frantic smile, but his gaze darted back to the dark green horizon before long.

“I won’t mince words—your jobs will be dangerous. Rescuing wounded warriors during battle is not without personal risk. However, it is your very courage to undertake that challenge that will keep your friends and families in Malten safe. Every life you save is another soldier that can return to the battlefield. After your training, you will become the source of hope for every knight, sorceress, and citizen in this city. Angelika believes so, too. That’s why she volunteered to watch over you during your drills.”

Using her upright rifle’s butt as an armrest, the curly-haired girl beside Dimitry waved. “Hey. I appreciate what you guys are doing. Leave any heathens to me.”

The former hunter bowed. “I-it’s my pleasure, mad’m sorceress.”

“Will she be with us on the night of repentance?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dimitry said. “She’ll be defending the field hospital within the gatehouse.”

Although Milk wore his usual bouncer-like expression, his three fidgeting coworkers looked at Angelika with eyes that begged for a savior.

“Celeste guide us,” mumbled the hunter.

Dimitry sympathized with them. If American and European paramedics regularly encountered danger in relatively safe societies, an analogous profession in this twisted world would be perilous. Especially on a battlefield. Few had the gall to tend to wounds while heathens roamed nearby. That was unless they felt safe.

“Your concern is not without merit. If this was a month ago, I would never have asked you to put your lives on the line. It was too dangerous.” Dimitry smiled. “But fortunately, things have changed.”

“What?” uttered a man who once fought for Zera. “There’re more devils than ever.”

Dimitry glanced at Angelika. “Show them.”

The sorceress aimed her gold-veiled rifle at a nearby stump. “Propelia.”

Witnessing an iron pellet burst through rotting wood with a resounding pop, the crossbowman’s mouth widened. “I’ve h-heard the rumors, but for Zera’s Thunder to truly exist…”

“Celeste guide us,” mumbled the hunter once more.

Dimitry’s brow furrowed. Zera’s thunder? Was that how people referred to the gunfire echoing from Malten’s south-western wall this afternoon? Uneasy with God taking full credit for his invention, he corrected the employee. “This weapon is one I’ve developed with guidance from a vision. Soon, all of Malten’s sorceresses will wield a similar rifle. They’re why heathens are no longer as big a threat.”

The former Zeran soldier’s eyes shot open. “A vision?”

Although Milk remained unfazed, the others engaged in stunted chatter.

“Could Zera’s Thunder really be…”

The crossbowman massaged his exposed forehead. “It kinda makes sense if you think about the cathedral.”

“There’s also the church.”

Angelika rested an arm on Dimitry’s shoulder. She leaned close to whisper. “Must have been one hell of a vision, huh? To make a weapon this cool? It’s almost like my sisters and I were there to help.”

“I might be twisting the truth a bit, but I’m doing it for everyone’s benefit.”

“I know.” She smirked. “A selfish Church freak wouldn’t hide faeries in his desk drawer or cure plagues. I just wanted to see if I can tease a blush from the magnanimous Jade Surgeon himself.”

He looked into the sorceress’s playful, orange eyes. “Did it work?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.”

“There’s always next time.” Angelika stepped back and mockingly curtsied. “This one humbly apologizes for keeping the amazing, wonderful apostle from his work.”

A chuckle escaped Dimitry. “You are forgiven as long as you recognize the error of your ways.” He turned away from her sarcastic gesture to face his men.

Determination overrode their fearful expressions. They were ready. It seemed a goddess’s manufactured approval sufficed to encourage them.

Taking advantage of their newfound morale, Dimitry held up a finger. “Assume you find a wounded knight. After stripping away their damaged armor, who can recall the first step for treating them?”

“Remove heathen feathers and anythin’ else that can be easily removed!” the hunter said.

“That’s correct. Never force anything out or waste too much time fiddling around. I’ll handle the deeper punctures and debris.” Dimitry pointed to the crossbowman. “And then?”

“Flush heathen’s blood out with water, right?”

Dimitry nodded. “The longer you leave heathen’s blood to fester, the more difficult the injury is to treat. It’s important that you keep your canteens full of distilled water at all times. There’ll be replacements at the gatehouse whenever you need them. What next?”

The former Zeran infantryman held up some cotton strips. “Stop the bleeding with bandages and keep the injury elevated.”

“Good. Just remember to wrap the wound tightly, but not so tight that it prevents blood flow.” Dimitry motioned to ask Milk a question but stopped midway. The giant probably wouldn’t answer. “And the last step is to use the stretchers by your feet to bring the patient to me. Does anyone have questions before your first real drill?”

There was no response. Instead, his men looked on, their rusted iron armor rattling as they fidgeted or loosened their joints.

“No? In that case, partner up and begin rescuing the dummies I’ve planted around the field. The team that performs best will earn a bonus.”

The ambulances in training scattered.

Dimitry watched, hoping their simplified instructions would prepare them for the fast-approaching night of repentance.