The thick hunk of metal was less designed to cut people down and more to flatten them. Yet this suit of armor was carrying it one-handed.
What is this?
It made no sense.
“Back away, Detective,” Catherine said, looking grim.
“You know what this is?”
“That sword—”
But the knight moved before she could finish her sentence.
_____Damn, it’s fast.
That sword must weigh a ton, but the knight raised it above their shoulders and charged right at them. Rogue had no time to think. He kicked some rubble at it and struck the armor right in the face guard.
To no avail.
The armor kept right on charging, on him in a second, sword swung high.
The shadow loomed over him.
They were about to crush him. The rubble kick had been the wrong choice. He couldn’t dodge in time. He was about to lose an arm at best—everything at worst.
But the sword never hit him.
Instead, that heap of metal flattened Catherine.
A crack ran across the floor like lightning. “Cath—,” he began, then his eyes widened. She was flying. A last-second dodge.
“Detective! Stay put!”
One of her hands was glowing. She was casting a spell.
A focused beam of light was aimed at the armored knight, who had yet to raise their sword. The attack shot forward, and he expected their opponent to crumple. The beam would go through them before they could dodge, but the knight snapped up the blade, guarding their flank. Blocking Catherine’s spell? A witch’s spell?
“—!”
Rogue was dumbfounded.
The beam had vanished just before it struck the blade.
Catherine’s beam could vaporize anything. Armor, sheet metal, you name it—but that had been nullified merely holding up a sword in front of it.
The knight lowered the sword, ready for combat.
The tip of it was aimed squarely at the Saint. Rogue could make out the knight’s eyes through the slit in the helm. Eyes red as blood, locked on the Saint. Like they could no longer see anything else. They were no longer paying him the slightest bit of attention. Did the knight not deem me a worthy opponent? The nerve—but that also gave him a chance to act.
He took a short breath—
—and kicked the knight in the back of the knees.
Something felt off about it. It was like kicking a tree. Far too heavy an impact to be human.
Is this a monster? Magic didn’t work on it, and surprise physical attacks are ineffective—how are we supposed to take them down?
There was a thud as the knight took a step.
“Stop that.”
And the suit of armor did.
The voice came from the entrance. Rogue looked and found a woman in a dark suit standing there. She had black hair, bundled at the back. The eyes behind her glasses narrowed at the state of the exhibit. On her hip was what looked like a rapier in a scabbard. She paused only for a second before marching into the room.
“My, my, what a mess. I came to see this vaunted art museum and find it all ruined.”
Her voice echoed through the room.
Who is this lady?
His surprise wasn’t just about the way she’d stopped the knight—she, too, had a sword, albeit a different type.
The woman made a show of scanning the hall, and her eyes lit upon Catherine.
“Oh, do my eyes deceive me? Why is there a witch here? Consider me flabbergasted.”
“…Keep your distance,” Catherine said. Her back was to Rogue; he could not see her face.
“Such hostility. I can’t see the statues—”
The woman stopped there.
Catherine had her hand raised. Pointed at her.
The woman shrugged.
“No need to be so tense. If I was so inclined, I would never have spoken to you. In fact, I actually stopped the attack.”
“You people can’t be trusted.”
“Have it your way.”
The woman glanced at the armored knight and jerked her chin. They began to move again, making a beeline for the mysterious woman. They didn’t even glance at Catherine—a far cry from their earlier, relentless pursuit.
Catherine was slowly backing away, over to Rogue’s side. He’d never seen her like this.
“Who are these people?” he murmured.
“They’re from a family of witch hunters. They’ve been a part of the empire for over a thousand years. They are called the Headtaker Corps and serve the Two Great Houses; on their orders, they’ve always been on our heels.”
“Witch hunters? First I’ve heard of them.”
“Like the Sixth Precinct, they’re kept hidden from the public.”
Catherine’s tone dropped lower.
“Be careful, Detective. Nearly every witch in the prison was captured by them.”
That certainly got to him.
A whole corps acting off the radar, undetected. How had they pulled off that feat? Catherine had been fighting with her collar on. At full power, she could control volcanos. Even that armored knight would have stood no chance against her.
When they clammed up, the woman spoke again. “Done whispering?”
“……Yeah.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Auroch of the Headtaker Corps—serving the Ligton family. A pleasure to meet you.”
She bowed floridly, then waved at the knight.
“My assistant has no name, so call him whatever you please. James, Rick, anything you like. He’s a loyal servant, handling everything from toilet cleaning to walking the dog.”
Her attitude was haughty, and she gave them a phony smile. She made no attempt to earn their trust.
“I’m Rogue Macabesta of the Sixth Precinct,” he said. “Your knight there nearly killed my witch. Any defense?”
The woman shook her head.
“My assistant despises witches. The mere sight of their collars makes him lash out. When we split up, it did not occur to me that a witch might be here. And the result was this tragic accident.”
Cracks in the floor, holes in the walls—that was far beyond “lashing out.”
“Any proof you’re not lying?”
“About?”
“I hear you hunt witches. Were you not literally trying to hunt Catherine?”
“That is an unfortunate misunderstanding. On the honor of my family, I swear we were not. You may have my head if you care for it.”
She was being theatrical, and completely unserious. Rogue was left massaging the crease in his brow.
“……We’ve got a case to work. If you’re not here for a fight, then let’s not have one. Stay out of our way.”
“Don’t be like that. I believe we can cooperate. Let us tackle this difficult case together!”
She’d called it “difficult.”
_____She had been briefed on the case before she stuck her nose in.
One eye on Catherine, Rogue said, “All we’re doing is probing a suicide bomber’s motives. Don’t need your help for that.”
“My, my, his motives?”
The woman’s voice sang. She gave him a look of amusement.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, never mind, I’m getting ahead of myself. Forget I said anything.”
She put a hand over her lips, clearly hiding a smirk.
“I could not be more ashamed. My mistake! For you to still be at that stage.”
“What’s your point?”
“I do apologize, but I can say no more. There are things we’re not at liberty to share. But I suppose that means we genuinely are in the way. Though, I suspect our paths will cross again as the investigation proceeds.”
With that, she turned on her heel. The knight followed her without a word.
“Wait, where you are going?”
“Outside. My work here is done.”
She didn’t even pause and just went straight for the exit. Rogue could only gape.
At the border between the exhibit and the hall, she said, “Oh, as for the damages done here—we’ll take care of that. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
And with that, they vanished completely.
Leaving only shattered statues and clouds of dust behind.
A complete circus.
“……Those clowns actually catch witches?”
Catherine turned toward him. “Hundreds of years ago, yes. Honestly, I’m not sure if the current Headtaker Corps are up to the task. The ancient ones I knew did all sorts of vile human experiments and calling them ‘arcane techniques.’ Eliminating the capacity to feel pain so that their injuries might not slow them down. Implanting assassination tools in their arms and legs. But their greatest success may well be the magic swords.”
“The magic…swords?” Rogue echoed.
“There are seventy-two of those enchanted weapons. Nobody knows how they did it, but they worked to meld a spell with a sword. Spells powerful enough to harm witches—and all imbued inside their respective blades. There were witches who perished from an unwary strike from one of these.”
There were? His head swam. A mere human actually killed a witch?
“You fought the Headtaker Corps?”
“I did.”
He looked at the heap of rubble.
It’d been literally smashed to bits. With force like that, even a witch might not survive a direct hit.
“They care nothing for the sanctity of human life. Best to stay clear of them,” Catherine growled.
Rogue had gotten that much from their brief exchange. That woman was totally the kind of person who saw everyone else as a disposable tool. Was she born like that, or had she become like that in service of the Two Great Houses? Either way, he’d rather not get involved.
He looked at the clock, and it was almost time to meet the curator. The mess with the armored knight had almost made them late.
“……C’mon, the curator’s waiting.”
In the corner of the back office was a seat surrounded by monitors. Normally, a security guard would be stationed here, but at the moment, the Stolaleid Museum’s curator was in that seat, in charge of what the screens were displaying.
His name was Tom Diaz. He’d been appointed curator five years ago, and in hindsight, Rogue remembered seeing his face in the papers. He was well-built for his age, and Tom had already admitted to spending his days off at the gym. Yet his face was rather pale.
“I never imagined this could happen,” he said.