“I plan to continue in this vein. Any objections, McFarlane? Or do you intend to silence me?”
“…Suit yourself,” Theodore said, eyes closed. “As long as you cover the required content, Kimberly allows all teachers to fill the remaining time as they see fit. Even if you choose to pad your lessons with pointless flimflam.”
At a glance, this appeared to be a neutral stance, but Oliver could tell that was his only option. If he acted to silence Farquois here, that would only be giving their arguments credence. Emphasizing that this was an inconvenient truth kept under wraps. To avoid that impression, Theodore could take no action.
Farquois knew that perfectly well, and with that answer, they turned back to their students. No one here could stop them.
“I have permission, so let’s get back to it. I called it cockamamie, but it stands to reason you all believe it. It’s a difficult point to prove. Are we inviting them, or are they coming to us? Arguably, either theory describes the same facts. In the past, this was the subject of vehement debate; at the time, the factions were referred to as the invitation theory and the proximity theory. For a variety of reasons, the former fell out of favor, and few today are inclined to revisit it. A sad history in which the truth is buried in darkness.”
Farquois hung their head despondently. A theory that had likely gone unvoiced at Kimberly for ages—but the great sage was not done yet.
“That said, I realize it’s hard to accept. The whole world trembles before the rising Gnostic threat—and this argument means it’s a part of autointoxication, a byproduct of the magical world itself, the very definition of an inconvenient truth. We’ve swelled our population heedlessly and, to feed them all, have enslaved countless demi-humans, working them to the bone, offering no assistance to those preyed upon by this society, and simply abandoning them to their fates. Those sacrifices are all viewed as fuel to the fires as we seek ever greater successes in pursuit of our spells. A society like that is bound to drive people to gnosticism. As their suffering mounts, so do their prayers, and thus, the gates from tírs grow ever larger.”
As they reached that conclusion, they drew their wand, chanting a spell. A number of graphs appeared in the air above the students’ heads. A diagonal line rising, and below it, another set of numbers rising in tandem.
“Back to the truth behind both the invitation and proximity theories. If we simply reduce them to the numbers on record, which theory is correct is as clear as the sun is bright. The number of Gnostic incidents, the number and size of gates that open—all directly proportionate to the expansion of the Union and its population. Well? Do you see which theory makes more sense now? This is far more tangible than chalking it up to the unfathomable will of the tír gods.”
Backed by the statistics, Farquois urged understanding. As the students studied the graphs, wavering, Andrews raised a hand. Faculty or sage, no Kimberly student would ever swallow something unchallenged.
“If I may, Mx. Farquois. No one here can prove you haven’t altered these figures to fit your argument. And you collected this data yourself, I assume? There are some clear discrepancies from the figures I’ve previously been familiar with.”
“Ah, well spotted, Mr. Andrews. You’ve got the prior knowledge to avoid being easily taken in. Yes, you’re right. The graphs I’ve prepared have some dramatic differences from the official figures released by the Gnostic Hunters. Naturally! They’re manipulating the figures before release. Carefully and thoroughly, to ensure nobody has a basis to revive the invitation theory.”
Farquois’s smile was rather bitter. Andrews had expected just this argument and took it in stride, but the great sage’s tongue was still wagging.
“The numbers on these graphs come from my personal information network. Specifically, they’re provided by apprentices spread throughout the Union. If you insist I can manipulate them as much as I please, I can’t refute that. But—if I don’t gather my own numbers, we’ll never have accurate data. After all, our own society does not want this to be true. No official numbers are reliable. The only numbers I can trust come from people I know—with their feet on the ground.”
“I respect the logic of that, but what basis do we have to trust it?” Andrews asked, not backing down. His question implied that no answer could convince him this man’s claim was anything but a delusion.
Seeing their student steadfast, Farquois nodded. “You clearly need more evidence. But…do the others?”
They glanced across the sea of faces. Andrews flinched, turning to get a look for himself. Farquois was one of the world’s few great reversi mages, and their speech was far more than mere words. Regardless of the content, the fact that Farquois themself was speaking carried unnatural weight.
Andrews’s humbling experiences in his first year had proven the springboard to fortifying his own mind—and he had been unmoved. But not all students here had such defenses. Even in close range, Andrews could see several who had clearly been captured—and while they might not yet be Farquois’s puppets, they’d evidently taken a big step in that direction. Andrews turned back around, glaring fiercely at them, but the great sage merely shook their head, smiling.
“No need to get worked up. I’m not expecting you to believe it here and now. I merely ask that you file my claim aside in a corner of your mind. For one thing—just because I’m a proponent of the invitation theory does not mean the content of the class to come will change much. Sad to say that does not in any way mean you don’t have to fight the Gnostics.”
With that, they raised the book again. Feeling a shift in the atmosphere, the students quickly braced themselves anew.
This was no time to dwell on the sage’s words. They were already on a battlefield.
“Let’s begin. Assignment one: The Monster Rock that Fell on Geshele.”
Certain they were ready, Farquois plunged into the heart of their lesson. The scene around them shifted three times, and they found themselves in another time, in another place, on another street. The ordinaries in these ancient records were all looking up. Spotting a gate yawning above, every student blanched—and as they watched, polyhedrons rained down, each with over fifty faces.
“You can feel it, yes? Like the migration you witnessed last year, these hailed from the Uranischegar of old. Considering the great conjunction next year, this is the first type you’ll need to learn to handle. Give it your best shot.”
At Farquois’s word, the battle began. The fourth-years split into front and back lines, and the latter divided the territory, drawing magic circles on the ground, erecting barriers—matching the defenses used in last year’s migration.
The great sage smiled approvingly. “Mm, mm, excellent. Being extra cautious of the risk of corruption is never wrong. But if you’re too defensive, that’ll limit your movements. Don’t forget their first action will be to expand their territory.”
They were well aware of that. Students with faith in their damage dealing were out front, and Guy, who usually hung back, was moving aggressively with them. Dice with too many sides were rolling their way—and each time a side hit down, the ground beneath it changed. The faces they imprinted folded up, connecting swiftly into new objects.
They were copying themselves—a fact that made him shudder. Guy threw out some toolplant seeds, spreading their cursed roots. Like thorns coating the ground, snaring the polyhedrons, slowing one after another down. Between the curse’s strength and Guy’s magical interference, they could not corrupt this soil as fast as ordinary ground. And once pinned down, the other students’ spells rained down upon them.
“Heh, effective application, Mr. Greenwood. Against something this unnatural, it should be hard for you to locate an effective conduit for the curse. But if you attack with cursed toolplants, you need not change your fighting style. Not picky what they target—a reliable technique.”
Farquois was calmly evaluating things, but even as they spoke, polyhedrons were breaking through the concentrated spellfire, bearing down on the fourth-year formation. Like with the migration last year, Uranischegar’s minions proved exceptionally resilient to damage that altered their shapes. For that reason, most students resorted to other spell types…
“Gladio!”
…but Nanao’s iai spell cleaved through five polyhedrons in a single swing. The students behind her winced. Compatibility with her target be damned—this was all her exceptional mana output and the sheer sharp edge on her severing spell. Anyone could tell just how beyond the pale that was, and indeed, Farquois folded their arms, snorting.
“Nothing fazes you, Ms. Hibiya. No matter who or what you’re up against, you fight the same way. Children like you embolden those around you and diminish the fear of the unknown. A joy to have you on the front lines. Though it reminds me of someone vexing.”
The sage pursed their lips, and their phrasing nagged at Oliver’s mind. There was no time to dwell on it now, however—he was firing spells at a group that had wheeled around the pack ahead. As he did, Pete’s miniature golems were flitting about, making noise and casting lights near the enemy. These polyhedrons had no obvious sensory organs, and he was testing to see what made them respond. Surmising as much, Farquois spoke up.
“Mr. Reston, testing with golems is fine, but careful about making contact. Corruption has been known to happen through a familiar. Auto is preferrable to remote, and if any get caught, immediately cut the channel. If anyone else is using familiars, take the same precautions.”