1

A bit short of an hour later, the survivors of the mission gone wrong stood regrouped at the wide north-western plaza on the third layer, between the lifeless mansions of stone. Helmich had treated and bound Hrugnaw’s wounds, but the others on her team were even beyond the aid of magic. Neither did the situation allow for the bodies to be carried up to the surface to bury them. They were laid to rest in one of the houses, side by side, like kings of eld. Attempting to recover the remains of Marcus’s team was too perilous under the circumstances, and so they had to give up on the effort for now.

“So, what? Is she gonna turn into a monster now too?” Tidaal asked, nodding at the injured crulean who rested seated on ground. “I mean, more than she already is.”

“Hmph, I’ll be fine,” Hrugnaw grunted in response. “My kind cannot be subdued by curses.”

“So she says…” the mercenary remarked, not sounding terribly convinced.

“If you want to make sure, then go right ahead!” the crulean told him, rising. “Give it your best shot! And I’ll show you just how much fight there is left in me!”

“Whoa, easy there!” Tidaal quickly retreated. “I’m not the one who asked for guarantees!”

The redbearded mercenary glanced at Izumi, as he said so. Izumi refrained from commenting. She wasn’t familiar enough with the fantastic beast race of cruleans to know better, but Hrugnaw didn’t seem the type to lie out of fear. Besides, it was too early to start thinking about killing each other. As things stood, it didn't seem too likely that any of them would make it out alive.

“Either way,” Gronan told Hrugnaw, “it’s clear you’re out of the fight for now.”

“Is this even a fight anymore?” Minsk asked, despair ringing clear in his voice. “That thing beat us like we owed it money! Some of our best are now either dead, or down for the count! Let’s face it; we’re fucking finished! We’ve got to get out of here and fast, before it comes back for seconds!”

To this, Gronan said nothing. Even now, instead of healthy fear and agreement, there was only frustration and annoyance to be seen on his visage, as if he had expected his men to be harder. Leaving now meant giving up on the Precursors’ weapon, the true goal of the expedition, though he would not yet speak of it. But while Gronan still desperately sought for a way to turn things around, the lingering rational side in him had to admit how bad their chances looked. The conflict left him without a retort and he paced away, sulking in silence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Miklas announced, his rough face wet with tears. “No way! I will make that freak pay for what it did to Sip!”

“That’s right!” Ritol agreed. “If you’re too scared to fight, then you’re gonna have to leave without us! We of Helmstruck look after our own!”

“Open your freakin’ eyes, you musclebrains!” Till told them. “You ain’t got a frostwarg’s chance in Musspel! If Hrugnaw couldn’t beat that thing, then what chance do you think you have?”

“I will rather tell my ancestors I died trying,” Miklas retorted, “than that I lived long by running like a weasel!”

“Well, go and die off then! The rest of us aren’t waiting for you to come to your senses! We’re out of here, now! Isn’t that right?”

Till looked around, expecting ready agreement, but while a few nodded in vague expressions of approval, most were too ashamed of their weakness to speak at all, and the gathering drifted into a dejected silence.

Then, a lighter voice spoke up.

“We can’t leave,” Izumi told Gronan, stepping forward. “We should’ve done that the moment we opened the gate, but it’s too late now.”

“What are you talking about?” Minsk asked her. “It’s not here now, is it? This is our best chance! We can make a run for it!”

“No. We can’t risk bringing the baddie back to civilization with us,” Izumi continued. “I doubt it’s a problem you’ll want to share with your family and friends. Now that it’s come to this, we either take it down or die trying. Those are the only options we have, as I’ve told you before.”

“The woman’s got the right of it,” Miklas nodded with approval. “...Words I never thought I’d use in my life.”

“But we’re not going to win this by bashing our heads on the wall like idiots,” she added. “So enough with the Rambo thing already.”

“Then what are we supposed to do, in your opinion?” Gronan asked her.

“Well, I have an idea.”

The lady’s announcement was followed by a collection of surprised expressions.

“Technically, it’s not my own idea,” she shortly corrected herself. “I stole it from a movie. It’s kinda standard fare for when you need to kill the unkillable. Although, I’ve only ever seen it work in the Term****or 2, so it’s a bit of a gamble—but I do think it’s still worth a try.”

“Eh, translation, please?” Waramoti requested on the audience’s behalf, looking at the circle of dumbstruck faces.

“They’ve got mines and forges and such out here, yes?” Izumi explained. “So we’ll set up the classic trap. We lure the bad guy to the industrial district and dip it in a nice hot bath of molten steel. Nothing’s gonna walk that off.”

Gronan stepped around, considered the idea for a moment, wiping his beard.

“Are the smelters still operational?” he asked Aft.

“Ah, maybe?” the engineer replied. “There’s this system they’ve used to pump up magma to heat the furnaces, and by the looks of it, the vein hasn’t cooled over the ages. It’ll take a while to get the machinery up and running again, and some muscle power—but it’s doable, I think. In theory.”

“How many hands do you need?”

Soon enough, the men were seriously discussing the plan and the necessary steps involved in making it happen. Presented with hope and the tangible means to materialize it, they eagerly set aside their fears and got to work.

Not so closely involved, the bard meanwhile felt compelled to question the mother of the idea.

“Hey, Izumi, are you quite sure about this?” he discreetly asked her. “Surely you realize this, but there’s a chance that the daemon is masquerading among us, even now, or is somewhere close by, listening. Moreover, if it’s taken one of the linkstones from the deceased, it’ll be able to hear us talk while we’re on the move. The trap will be spoiled before we can even launch it, and it’ll turn the tables on us again.”

“You’re right.” To Waramoti’s astonishment, Izumi answered his quite realistic concerns—with a broad, sinister grin. “I’m counting on it!”

The idea was suitably appealing to the men, as being burned alive was surely a most satisfactory method of revenge. Therefore, in lack of better suggestions, they decided to go along with Izumi's plan.

“Okay! Here’s how we’ll do this,” she told them. “We’ll split into small groups, three or four people each, minimum gear, and set ourselves as baits. One team will operate the furnace, while the rest will form a loose circle around the district, and wait for the villain to make contact. Once we know where it is, we’ll make a run for it. It’ll chase us like the dumb, bloodthirsty beast it is, and in so doing bump right into the trap, where the lead team will dump gallons of red hot stuff on it. And that, as they say, is that!”

Izumi wiped her hands for emphasis.

It was certainly simple, as plans went. Simple enough for even the men of Helmstruck to understand. Yet, mindful of their collective well-being, the bard thought it necessary to play the devil’s advocate.

“This setup of yours depends entirely on the assumption that the bait team which encounters the daemon will survive all the way to the furnace too,” Waramoti pointed out. “What if they don’t?”

“That’s why there are multiple teams,” Izumi answered him. “If one group bites the dust, then another will pick up from there, and keep leading it on. Our goal is to kill the bad guy, or die trying. Some casualties are to be expected. Don’t like the idea? Then you should’ve turned back and sealed that door when I told you to! It’s too late for second thoughts now.”

“And what if the daemon goes after the trap team instead of any of the baits?”

“Then all the others are safe and at distance, at least,” she replied. “We’ll call off the operation and regroup if that happens. Communication is the key. We have these handy stones, remember? So let’s make this work, guys!”

“The adventurer’s right,” Gronan spoke up. “We’ve come this far, we can see this to the end. Let’s give her a chance!”

Izumi felt the man’s benevolent support was slightly hollowed by his obvious ulterior motive in the matter, but decided to keep quiet. Since it won her the co-operation of the others.

“How shall we decide the teams?” Faalan asked.

“Oh, I’m glad you asked!” Izumi replied. “And on that note, I propose that we use special call signs for this mission!”

“Call...signs?”

“Indeed!” she nodded. “Instead of calling each other by name over the walkie-talkie, like we’ve been doing, we’ll use symbols instead. I’ll give you an example. Since he’s the boss, Gronan’s team will be the Gold Team. Mr G will then be Gold 1, and the others with him are Gold 2, Gold 3, and so on. You get the picture? Simple is good. This way, even if it’s eavesdropping on us, the enemy won’t so easily know what’s going on. Go ahead then! Make the teams. It’s okay to partner up with a buddy, this isn’t P.E. class! Just don’t leave anybody out! That’s not cool.”

“You’re having way too much fun with this!” Waramoti sighed.

“Not at all, it’s serious business!” she insisted.

As instructed, the expedition crew split up into teams with their respective call signs, though they weren’t quite sure if such measures were necessary.

The teams were as follows:

Gold 1: Gronan. Gold 2: Acquiescas. Gold 3: Aft. Gold 4: Miklas.

Silver 1: Faalan. Silver 2: Ren. Silver 3: Till.

Red 1: Izumi. Red 2: Waramoti. Red 3: Weller.

Blue 1: Tuberkan. Blue 2: Selver. Blue 3: Ritol.

Green 1: Gubal. Green 2: Vil. Green 3: Trod.

Gray 1: Joort. Gray 2: Tidaal. Gray 3: Hrugnaw. Gray 4: Helmich.

Gronan’s team was in charge of setting the trap. They would head alone to the industrial district to get the fire started. Meanwhile, the others were to take positions in a loose circle around the area, near the major entryways. Hrugnaw insisted she was well enough to at least run and act the role of a bait and they couldn’t well leave her alone either.

After a brief rest and drink, Gronan’s team departed first. Knowing the risks involved, the others waited until they had successfully finished their preparations, before following along. It had to have been in the early hours of the morning by now, around three o’clock or so.

“This is Gronan. We are done with our preparations. No sign of the enemy on our end.”

“Alright, it’s rock ‘n roll time!” Izumi clapped her hands and told the others. “Commence Operation Hot Spring! Good luck and try not to die!”

2

Exercising appropriate caution, the bait teams descended together down to the vault hall and passed through the main entrance to the industrial district, whereupon they went their separate ways. Izumi’s own team took position at the service tunnel entrance in the southeast corner of the area.

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Waramoti told the woman on the way. “Because to me, this plan of yours seems even more a suicide than what they tried before.”

“Relax, this my plan we’re talking about!” Izumi replied with no hint of concern. “Or, well, I can’t say it’s my plan, someone might sue me for plagiarism, but it’s a plan I imported from another world, using my privilege as the summoned champion. So it’s got to work, for sure.”

“Yes, whatever,” he replied. “How will we know where to lead the daemon, provided we actually come across it? We didn’t agree on where the trap will be set beforehand. As far as I can tell, there are several suitable furnaces out there.”

“We shouldn’t know that yet, duh,” she retorted. “Only the Gold Team will know, and they’ll have to tell us where to go when the time comes. That’s why we have the wireless.”

“But the moment they tell us, the daemon will learn this also, no? Provided it has a linkstone. It would have to be a rather stupid thing, to pursue us into a trap that it has been told is a trap.”

“Thankfully, it’s just that stupid,” Izumi grinned. “Or maybe it’s arrogance?”

“No, really, what are you thinking?” Waramoti shook his head. “You can’t possibly believe that, knowing what you know.”

Izumi wouldn't answer, but walked on, humming some unknown video game theme.

They reached the wide entrance of the tunnel network and stopped there, turning back to face the industrial quarters.

The zone could be described as a small city of its own, an enormous cavern filled with great, towering furnaces, elevated processing lines, and other complex structures of stone and steel. There were aqueducts for delivering cooling water; narrow channels, where red hot magma lazily flowed along; and narrow walk bridges going up and down, to help ancient workers navigate past all the heat, smoke, and steam.

The facilities were based largely on geothermal energy, and thanks to the planet’s abundant warmth, basic functionality had been preserved across the millennia, even in the absence of any employees. Numerous gas fires blazed in the darkness, like great candles, and the air stood warm and damp, with the ever-present smell of steel, rust, burn, and sulphur. Whether it was a pleasant scene, or one of horror straight out of perdition, was likely up to the beholder.

“This Red 1, standing by!” Izumi cheerfully announced, activating her linkstone.

Then, she turned to the bard, an expectant look on her face.

“...What?” Waramoti looked around, confused.

“You have to say it too!” she told him.

“Why?” he asked. “They already know we’re all here, since you’re here.”

“Come on! You’re ruining the whole thing if you don’t say it!” she insisted. “It’s about the pattern! The pattern!”

“I don’t want to say it, it’s embarrassing!” the bard told her. “Code names? What were you thinking? Are you twelve?”

“Shut up and say it, or I’ll dip you into magma,” Izumi told him and the gleeful smile on her face turned quite scary.

Heavily sighing, Waramoti tapped his communicator. “This is Red 2, standing by.”

“Good boy!” Izumi chirped. “Here, headpaaaat~!”

“I’m not a kid!” Waramoti brushed away her hand, groaning.

Next, Izumi turned to Weller.

“Huh?” the dark-curled man looked up, dumbfounded, as if he hadn’t even listened.

“You’re Red 3! Take the hint!” Izumi berated him. “What’s the matter? I thought guys would love this sort of thing!”

“Ah, yes, sorry,” Weller apologized and obediently repeated the motions. “This is Red 3, standing by.”

“Well done! Did everybody catch that?” Izumi spoke to the communicator. “Excellent! Just as planned! Next team!”

One by one, each team reported in, following the established pattern.

Gold Team, in position.

Silver Team, in position.

Green. Blue. Gray.

Letting the reports flow in one ear and out the other, Waramoti started to find it highly unlikely anyone could remember who the others were supposed to be. Could even Izumi? Her memory was notoriously bad, at least for any information not related to her home world’s movies and games.

Would the daemon really be fooled as easily?

“Ku, ku, ku!” Izumi only smiled, waiting with her arms crossed, seemingly brimming with confidence. Even if it was her own idea, how could she have such faith in a plan so vague and full of unknowns, with a foe as deadly and cunning? Up until now, she had been the most pessimistic among them all. What could have brought about the change? Then again, this was how she always behaved, in stark contrast with ordinary people, as if out of a deliberate desire to be different, and who could ever guess what went through her head?

“Your little sister was getting married this summer, yes?” Izumi chatted with Weller. “Is she cute? My, I’m so jealous! I wanna get married too!”

“You gotta ask my mom, I wouldn’t know,” Weller replied and laughed.

They had been on the same team during the earlier operation too, and kept getting distracted, talking about nonsense.

“Am I the only one worried about this...?” Waramoti mumbled to himself, trying to keep an eye on both the scenery below, as well as the tunnels behind them.

Where would the daemon come from?

Would they even see it coming? Or was it already taking out the other teams, while they just stood there, ignorant and blind? His personal, ex-warrior opinion was that the best method to deal with the foe would have been to stick together on open ground, and rely on superior numbers, instead of scattering into bite-sized chunks. Shouldn’t Izumi have recognized the same?

But the bard’s confusion wasn’t about to get any better.

They had barely stood for five minutes after the last communication, when Izumi suddenly tapped her linkstone again.

“Alright, folks!” she declared. “We’ve got the fox by the tail. It’s time to reel in!”

Then, without further ado, she went skittering down the nearby stairs.

“Come on! We’ve got to move!” she beckoned the other two.

“What...?” Waramoti followed the woman with hesitation, nearly too dumbfounded to even speak. “What are you doing, Izumi? What is going on? I’m not a spy, at least tell me!”

“Sorry,” she replied. “But there’s this saying in my world—’To deceive your enemy, you must first deceive your friends.’ Hurry up. It’ll all come clear, soon enough.”

Then, reaching for her ear again, she asked,

“Is the bath tub done yet?”

“Ah, as you requested,” Aft’s voice responded. “See the big building near the middle? We’ve readied a royal reception here. All that’s missing is the customer.”

“Oh, he’ll be there. Just be ready for it.”

They descended to the ground level and headed for the larger structure towards the center of the cavern. It was like a massive candlestick, an uneven pillar of stone and metal, with numerous bridges and walkways leading in and out of it. Its shape stood vast and defined against the glow of the fires, like the dark stronghold of an evil dictator. Towards that tower, Izumi led her group, paying little heed to anything else.

There were plenty of spots for an ambush along the way, in that maze of various miscellaneous structures, machines, and furnace towers. The poor lighting made it all blend into a disorienting jumble of pipes, rails, fences, pits, and shadows. The little lamps they carried were entirely powerless to banish the dark. Waramoti’s instincts were telling him it was a suicide to ever venture into such a place without an army for backup, yet Izumi strode on with casual lightness, looking dreadfully fragile, vulnerable, and alone. It was only now that he noticed, but she had traded her ore lamp for a conventional candlelight lantern at some point. Why? It was not half as bright. Did she think it wouldn’t be seen as easily?

Did the woman actually know where the daemon was already, or was this only another part of her deception? How could she know if one of the teams had made contact without even talking to them? Or had she taken Gronan’s master stone and listened to them without their knowing? Either way, she was being unnecessarily mysterious, he felt.

Despite the minstrel’s fears, they reached the root of the imposing central complex without being attacked. Izumi climbed the stairs to the facing entrance and they went in. The door had been left open for them. They passed through a narrow, lightless lobby and headed on upstairs. And the deeper into the strange building they passed, the deeper Waramoti’s anxious confusion grew in kind.

“I thought the plan was to dump the daemon in a pit of molten iron?” he asked. “There are no smelters or furnaces in here. This building is some manner of a control hub, or a surveillance station, I think. Is this really the one Aft was talking about?”

“Nope, it’s further ahead from here,” Izumi replied. “We’re just taking a shortcut.”

“I heard nothing about that,” the bard said.

“Were you fantasizing about girls and not paying attention? Well, I do that too, so I don't have the heart to blame you.”

“No, that’s all you!”

“Where are the others?” Weller asked, following along no less restless than the bard. “Shouldn’t the Gold Team be here already? Has something happened to them?”

“Who knows?” Izumi replied. “Let’s see if they’re upstairs.”

They went through another room, climbed up a three-storied spiral staircase of steel, passed through the brief, narrow corridor that followed, and came out in a larger, round-walled chamber. There was a sizable opening in the ceiling, covered by thin grating, showing that there was some manner of a control room up above. That was likely where the others were waiting, if this indeed was the right place.

There was a slight depression near the middle of the floor, only about six inches deep and roughly eighteen feet in diameter. A simple decorative circle. Across, a distance away in the back wall, was an open doorway, with stairs visible beyond. Izumi strode on without stopping, and headed for the stairs. Following after her, Waramoti failed to see the edge of the unexpected concavity and nearly tripped there. Fixing his posture, he set his foot onto something slick and wet with an audible splat.

“Eh, what’s this?” he frowned, unable to see in the dark.

“Just crude oil,” she replied. “Not lava. It’s not even hot. Come on.”

As they neared the other side of the chamber, the Gold Team suddenly emerged from the doorway in front of them. The Grey Team and the Silver Team followed after. It seemed they had gotten here first.

Seeing them, Izumi stopped and glanced briefly back over her shoulder.

The Blue team and the Green team had come in after them and we’re crowding second entrance. Why had they all crammed into this particular room? Weren’t they supposed to meet higher up? Where was the trap? And where was the daemon? Most of the mercenaries appeared to be wondering the same, looking around in confusion. Waramoti thought his sanity would soon abandon him, unless he had some real answers.

Wearing grim faces, Gronan’s team and the others came forward, faced Izumi, and stopped.

“We’re here,” he told her.

“Great,” Izumi nodded. “Get clear.”

“Huh?” Waramoti frowned beside her, surprised.

Instead of explaining further, the woman cried out only a singular word. “Sifl!”

All the bard saw, following her senseless exclamation, was an abrupt flash of blue light. As soon as she had evoked the Rune of Displacement, Izumi kicked back with all her might—at Weller standing directly behind her.

Taking the kick square in the chest, the mercenary dropped his arbalest and was cast into the floor some eight feet behind. Immediately after, without hesitation, Izumi tossed her lantern into the concavity full of oil after him.

“Hasta la vista!”

There was a crash of breaking glass. A heartbeat after, a deafening boom sounded, as a blindingly brilliant bloom of flame filled the air in an expanding mushroom shape. The explosive heat of the ignited oil forced the onlookers to shield their faces, the light of it hurting their eyes.

The shallow pool between the mercenary parties became the foundation of an enormous, blazing pillar, which climbed steadily upward, entirely swallowing the Dharvic man named Weller, before flooding through the grating on the ceiling.

Weller he was not.

A hair-raising shriek overwhelmed even the noise of the flames, coming from the very heart of the conflagration. That terrible sound couldn’t have possible been produced by human organs, ringing metallic and hollow, and became shortly appended by low growling and irate roars, as if a pack of tigers had been trapped in the fire. Amid the bright inferno could be seen flailing an enormous, inhuman shadow, seeking in vain escape from the blaze.

“Wait...it was him?” Waramoti gasped, stunned, staring at that horrifying view. “But when did he…?”

“Who knows?” Izumi replied.

It was impossible to tell in retrospect when exactly the change had taken place.

At some point or another during the preceding break, Weller had to have left the sight of others, or had been suitably removed from their attention. That was all it took for the stalking monster to eliminate and replace him.

“But, how could you tell it was him, if you didn't know when they traded places?” the bard asked the woman.

“Easily,” she answered.

There was one thing about daemons that Izumi hadn’t told anyone else. Something Miragrave had once said. Mostly because she forgot to, and not because she deliberately omitted the information. It wasn’t a particularly important detail, but, recalling the matter again afterwards, she saw a way to make use of her minor error.

Daemons weren’t able to use human magic, they repelled it.

In other words, even if the daemon had obtained an enchanted linkstone and could hear what the others were saying, it couldn’t join the conversation, or feed them false information. That was why Izumi had made everyone check in at the beginning of the operation.

Through this basic process, the imposter was identified.

Had they used their real names instead of call signs, anyone would have been able to tell who was left out, and question why they weren’t speaking. Then the daemon would’ve realized its cover was exposed, and the trap would have failed from the start. But, as expected, impersonal numbers and colors didn’t have the same effect. The listeners would soon stop paying attention to this seemingly meaningless information. They each needed only to be mindful of their own code, to know when they would be called to move.

But Izumi paid attention.

“What’s the matter? I thought guys would love this sort of thing!”

“Ah, yes, sorry. This is Red 3, standing by.”

“Well done! Did everybody catch that?”

—“Red team, one and two. Weller was with you, yes? We heard you.”

“Excellent! Just as planned!”

The seemingly casual exchange had greater significance than had first seemed.

Izumi heard all the other reports through her receiver, except Red 3. When Weller spoke, the linkstone had been completely quiet. Confirming that the fault wasn’t with her own stone or hearing, she identified Weller as the likeliest suspect. Then, she went on to check the answer.

Your little sister was getting married this summer, yes?

Too occupied by the intense hunt, Waramoti had failed to pay attention to this, but she had already asked the same question of the real Weller before, when he had been telling her about his family.

Is your little sister married yet?

—Gosh no, she’s twelve! It’s too soon for her!

But the daemon had showed no reaction to the repeated question. As convincingly as it could imitate Weller’s behavior, his looks, his voice, and other mannerisms, it couldn’t know the next thing about his family, but only produced a generic response, proving that he was a changed man.

“And when was the plan switched?” Waramoti asked. “How did the Gold Team know to prepare an oil trap instead of the molten steel one?”

“The plan never changed,” Izumi answered him. “This was the trap from the start. I just didn’t tell everyone. It’s nice to have radio, but if you really want to keep a secret, then good old word of mouth is still best. So I told Aftie how to make the trap in private, and had him inform the boss. That’s all.”

“I give up!” The bard shrugged in resignation. “There’s no winning against your schemes!”

“Well done!” Gronan said, stepping forward. “We have it now.”

Everyone stood in silence, witnessing the dying struggle of their nemesis. The daemon was caught all around by fire, its only significant weakness. Its preternatural senses overwhelmed by the heat and pain, blinded to all else, it slowly succumbed.

The nightmare was over.

They were free to return home, with all the wealth of Eylia.

It was over.

Had to be.

And yet…

For some reason, Izumi couldn’t bring herself to relax.

Everything had gone according to the plan, but she didn’t feel the least bit victorious or relieved for it. The inexplicable unrest she had pushed to the back of her mind returned now, stronger, though it had no visible cause.

What is it? What am I not seeing here?

Perhaps on some subliminal, unconscious level, she did have a connection to this monster, a wordless understanding, a peculiar sort of an insight into the other’s character. But this obscure linkage was neither severed here, nor would it convey to her the finality of death, the despair of a defeated foe. Instead, she felt only the disturbing sense of balancing on a precipice, where everything might yet fall apart.

There was no reason, no explanation for this sentiment.

The daemon was clearly defeated, fierce flames hungrily veiling it all over. If it tried anything, they would beat it down together in this spacious room. Slowly bending, the creature sank to its knees, bested by the intolerable heat. Izumi had won. So why? Why did she still feel like having a noose tightened around her own neck instead?

Then, all of a sudden, Izumi realized she was looking at herself.

In the middle of the bright golden flames knelt another Izumi. A painfully heartbroken expression on her face, the woman looked up at them, wringing her hands against her chest.

“I’m sorry!” the other Izumi cried. “I’m so sorry! I’ve failed you all! It’s all my fault!”

The real Izumi felt her pulse grow painfully quick and heavy in her bosom. She shuddered, tense all over.

What was it talking about?

Did the daemon know something it shouldn’t have?

What if it was connected to her the same way she to it, and could sense even the thoughts she desperately wanted to keep hidden from the others? Or was this only random mimicry, a senseless, desperate taunt, hitting close to the mark only by pure accident?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…!”

Everyone stood shocked and petrified, staring at the burning woman as she fell down on her face and was swallowed by the fire. Unable to keep looking at her own dying image, Izumi averted her eyes, gritting her teeth.

“…?”

As she looked down, Izumi noticed something glitter on the floor close to her boot, reflecting the light of the flames. Looking closer, she thought her heart was going to stop. As incredible as the observation was, the item on the floor was a ring.

How could such a thing be there?

Had one of the mercenaries dropped it? No.

It can’t be…! Not with such wretched timing…!

It was hers. Not the ring from the vault that Gronan had given her, but the other one, the golden ring, with the black stone embedded. The one she had stuffed in her pocket all those weeks ago and forgotten.

How? Izumi felt her pocket. It was empty. She wriggled her hand inside and found a hole at the bottom, two fingers wide. Worn by friction, no doubt. The ring had to have then slid down into her boot over time, whence it fell out during her earlier acrobatics. What rotten luck!

There was no choice. She couldn’t let anyone else spot it. Trying to make it seem as natural as possible, Izumi crouched and scooped the ring quickly into her fist, gripping it tightly, praying no one else noticed.

Alas, in the brightly lit room full of people, this hope had been empty from the start.

As she stood back up again, Gronan Arkentahl was suddenly beside her.

“What was that?” the man asked her, his dark eyes flashing. Now everyone turned their way. What was going on?

“N-nothing,” she reflexively lied. She lied, even knowing how bad she was at lying. All she achieved by doing so was confirm that it certainly was not “nothing”.

“Show it to me,” he demanded.

“I...I can’t,” she stammered.

Gronan wouldn’t hear it.

“Open your hand and show it to me!” he roared, raising his voice, now trembling with open rage. “You show it to me, BECAUSE IT WAS NOT THE IMPERIAL EMBLEM I JUST SAW IN YOUR HAND—!”

Gronan fell suddenly quiet and looked down. Faalan’s hand had appeared on his chest, holding the man back.

“Please calm down,” the half-elven warrior told him.

Gronan answered him with a look of utter disbelief and disgust.

“You,” he mouthed, as if the words themselves were vile to him. “You’re with her. You’ve been with her all along, conspiring against me. This is how you repay my faith? The instant your imperial masters come calling, you run back to them, wagging your tail, loyal as a dog...!?”

Seeing his hurt and stunned face, Izumi understood. Gronan had never truly doubted either of them before. All instances where the man had appeared to have tested them, or tried to keep them apart, were all a coincidence and her imagination. They had introduced themselves as friends and he had taken them as such. Because Gronan Arkentahl was never a criminal mastermind, an evil overlord, or a cunning manipulator, but a simple man of the north, a warrior of his people.

The realization slashed Izumi’s conscience with unbearable guilt and shame.

“I can’t let you take the Precursors’ weapon,” Faalan told the man. “I don’t want you to go to war, Gronan.”

“I thought of you as a brother—!” Gronan shouted at him. “And you stab me in the back! How dare you!”

Right as the mood was about to turn violent, an unexpected interruption arrived.

“—Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” Acquiescas wedged himself between the arguing warriors, displaying unusual bravery. “I do think this is neither the time nor the place for this sort of thing!”

So passionate was his appeal that the men ceased their quarrel and listened to the scholar, like sons berated by their father.

“Who did what, to whom, and for what reason—we can all discuss such things at our leisure, as soon as we quit this terrible place and return home!” he told them. “Yes? Affairs like these should be resolved over ale and games, like civilized people, and not over fire and brimstone and bloodshed! The way I see it, neither side here is strictly evil, but only acting for what they believe is right. Is this not so? Then, if only we talk things through and come to view both sides in equal measure, we are sure to also see the all-around pointlessness and futility of your conflict. Because that’s what all conflicts are, deep down! Mistakes! Perversions of earnest intent and distortions of noble dreams! You see, no man is truly evil, gentlemen. If he were, then he would be no man at all, but a monster! And…”

The professor abruptly interrupted himself and looked down.

Not knowing why, the others naturally followed his example, and saw something that defied natural explanations.

An impossibly long arm extended out of the fire, gripping the scholar’s ankle.

“By all Lords…!” Acquiescas mouthed, looking like he was going to faint.

Then, with a quick tug, his balance was stolen and he fell.

Before anyone could move a muscle to stop it, the archaeologist from Cotlann was pulled into the burning oil pit. Even as his clothes caught fire and flames licked his scalp, he struggled to get back up and flee, but Izumi’s fiery figure gently pulled him back down with her. She kept rolling him around, bathing him in the boiling oil as a mother would her child, while the others could only stand and watch their odious play. By the time he finally got away and crawled out to the edge of the pool, there was naught left of Acquiescas Van Hortz but a charred, blind, unfeeling carcass, from which the last, faint echo of life departed with a whisper, surely not a moment too soon.

For a few muted heartbeats, everyone stood a prisoner to this haunting vision, forgetting even to breathe, staggered and shaken to the core.

“...The oil is not hot enough,” Faalan then grimly remarked.

Remaking its form, the daemon stood up tall from the already fading flames, spread its arms wide apart and let out a terrible, raucous ululation, which grated the hearts of all the listeners with ineluctable horror.

“EÄ! EÄ! EÄ! EÄ! EÄ! EÄ! EÄ!”

Even as the others cowered, all their strength stolen by mortal fear of crushing dimensions, Miklas raised a desperate battle cry and lifted his hammer. Either he counted on his armoring to protect him, or else he just didn’t care, but he jumped into the pool of boiling hot oil without hesitation and struck hard at the menace.

“AAAAAAAHHHH—!”

Alas, while the very image of manly bravery, he was also that of futility. The mercenary’s hammer sliced through a veil of black smoke, smiting only flames. His enemy had already shifted outside his reach, behind him. The monster stuck its fingers through the weaker back plate, gripping around the warrior’s backbone, tearing out a fistful of ligaments and flesh. Making no sound, like a mountain of iron, Miklas toppled, falling on his face into the oil.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Ritol couldn’t let his old clansman and friend pass without revenge.

Brandishing his mace, he charged straight at the terrible foe and smote it with a force that would have felled a large bull. But Ritol was not any closer to the level of his enemy than his friend had been, and he was much too slow in the effort. Turning around, the daemon dived under the frenzied swing, and reached out, smashing Ritol’s head between its palms, as though catching a fly. With a pang, the warrior's skull was shattered, and the fluid contents of it burst out in a wide arc, splattering the spectators.

The sacrifice of these two proud warriors helped shake the rest from their daze.

“FUCK IT, WE CAN’T BEAT IT!” Someone yelled. It might’ve been Minsk.

“RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN!”

Panic and chaos were unleashed.

Everyone scrambled for the two exits as fast as they possibly could. Some tried to buy their companions time, pulling swords or firing their crossbows, although not all were so clear on where the target was anymore. There appeared to be black smoke, swirling claws, and blood spilled everywhere around.

Izumi got separated from Faalan and Waramoti in the mayhem, but found Gronan instead. Seizing him by the shoulders, she ended up dragging the man away, towards the north exit, and so they made their escape.

But even those who did make it out of that terrible furnace alive no longer held onto any hope in their hearts.