Chapter 19

For the briefest of moments, your katana crosses paths with her spear as if they were about to exchange a kiss. Female Warrior passes by you, her face startlingly close, and you can see her skin stippled with small scars that make it look as if she’s wearing rouge. It’s the result of tiny shards of blade flying off during fights and lodging themselves in her face. An occupational hazard of being a warrior. As you pass by each other, you see the slightest of smiles on Female Warrior’s face. Your own face softens. Your own scars tingle. And then each of your weapons, now well apart, drives forward with the force of a loaded spring. You hold tight to your katana, which has accelerated like a shooting star, while you draw the dagger at your hip with your left hand and whisper three words: Sagitta…quelta…raedius. “Hngh?!” “Eeyagh!” At the same instant as the dagger, released from your hand, pierces the lord, your sword slashes the sand-bandit girl, reaching farther than she ever expected. The feeling of cutting a woman’s flesh, notwithstanding her defensive equipment, is a disturbing one. The blood that flies back at you is slightly sweet. Meanwhile, behind you… “Gurgh…?!” “G-got him!” Female Warrior’s spear tip has been smashed to pieces by the red sword, but nonetheless, it’s made contact with the young magic knight’s forehead. Blood spews out of it, as the boy struggles to process what just happened. The switch. Half-Elf Scout and Myrmidon Monk—and you and Female Warrior. You all simply changed places. The other party, though, never expected it. How did two of them each fight us at once? That’s what they’re wondering. You saw it, during the battle. How their leader, the magic knight, never gave a single instruction. How each of the other adventurers was fixated only on their own opponent, their own objective. There was no unity, no cohesion. Yes, they might be powerful. You have no idea how much training they’ve done against those undead. One-on-one, their levels might be higher than yours. But they weren’t a party. They didn’t fight as a party. They’ve only ever faced limitless, squirming masses of undead. They weren’t adventuring—they were doing work. You’re sure they never thought about it. They just wanted to be stronger than the enemy in front of them, stronger than anyone. So maybe they’ve never needed to fight together. Maybe it had always been enough simply to bring down the opponent in front of them. In other words, that was all they had done to save the world. How did that make them any different from the monsters that wandered the dungeon? They were powerful monsters, yes, but nothing more, just six or seven of them waiting in a chamber. Once you realize this, you see they aren’t even worth being afraid of. “But how…?!” the priest on their back row—now their front row—exclaims. The only response is a word from Female Bishop: “Ventus!” She holds high the sword and scales, a terrible whirlwind forming in her hand. It screeches, a magical maelstrom not of this world, like the howling of some beast. Your cousin, recognizing the spell Female Bishop is intoning, opens her mouth but can’t produce a sound. “…! Lord of judgment, sword-prince, scale-bearer—” “Lumen!!” The other party’s priest begins to intone a spell, but she’s a step behind; the second powerful word is already out of Female Bishop’s mouth. This is the difference in speed between one girl who was unable to see an opportunity to use a spell in the chaos of combat, and one who was prepared to do so. An uncanny pale light shines around the chamber, floating through the dark heart of the maze. Everyone sees it: those looking for their next opponents, those laid out on the floor and trying to get to their feet. It’s the overwhelming, primeval power of the nether realm, exerted by the Demon Core. It’s too much for a single young woman to control, but Female Bishop brings it to heel with Overcast. Her fingertips are singed black, and she bites her lip against the pain, so hard it bleeds.