How to Teach a Hero at the Academy

Chapter 191: The Masterless Wasteland (3)

Fwoo.

Monica let out a great breath.

She had just stripped off her armor and washed up. There had been no time for a few days' rest. Only the day before yesterday, Monica had been in Dauane. She had reached the western edge of the Empire's territory, and now she had reached the eastern edge of it. Traveling by Dimensional Door or not, the journey had been far too brutal.

'......An adventure.'

Monica sat down facing the desk of the inn.

She opened her journal and took the fountain pen in hand.

'I never want to go on an adventure like this again.'

Thinking that, she cast about for words. What to write in the journal. To put down something ordinary felt like a waste of paper. It was, after all, a gift......

"What are you up to, kid."

Just then, a voice came from the window.

It was Nizam. Nizam had somehow seated himself on the window sill.

"Writing a diary or something? You've got a cuter side than I thought."

"How did you get in?"

Monica narrowed her eyes.

After setting the fountain pen down, she stepped toward Nizam.

"It's the room right next to yours."

Nizam snorted out a laugh.

"I climbed along the outer wall."

"That's not the point — why did you come in like that."

"Oh, right. You mean you're upset I walked into a lady's room uninvited. I apologize. I was just so bored."

"No, I'm asking why you climbed in through the window like some burglar."

"Like a burglar. That's a bit much."

"......What am I supposed to do with you."

Monica folded her arms and let out a sigh.

Nizam paid no mind. Hopping down off the sill, he looked around Monica's room and opened his mouth.

"You know this well enough, but I'm a guide."

"I do. Starting tomorrow, you'll be helping us cross the wasteland."

"Exactly. But you see. I can guide you somewhere other than the wasteland too."

Don't you want to take in the sights of the city?

Nizam asked, and,

"No, don't answer."

He went on with his index finger raised.

"Just move along with my guidance. I'm planning to head out for a look around. At a very interesting event."

"......An event?"

Monica tilted her head.

"That's right, an event."

Nizam shrugged.

"Your teacher went off alone to take in an event. Isn't that a bit underhanded? Leaving us cooped up in this dreary inn while he himself goes to attend a festival."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Professor Argento went out, is that what he means?

Monica wondered, and,

"You don't need to know."

Nizam stretched out his hand.

With it wrapped around Monica's arm, he took a step forward.

"You'll come to know soon enough."

No — you'll have to know.

What it is your teacher is seeing,

You too must come to know.

***

A procession advanced.

Through the alleys that wove through Cyurio, a crowd marched.

Abel followed them. Neither the blind old woman at the head nor the vagrants trailing after her seemed to perceive Abel. They simply took step after step. Flailing their limbs, with expressions as lifeless as corpses.

'Enthralled by black magic.'

Abel furrowed his brow.

What wafted from the vagrants was not stench. The sweet fragrance particular to black magic seeped from them. Auditory and visual hallucinations, and along with them, emotional exaltation. Through black magic, one could dominate another's mind. It had to be how the Parousia Denomination had seized its believers' faith.

"He'll make him again."

Then, a whisper reached Abel from beside him.

A vagrant woman was muttering, her eyes bulging.

"He shouldn't have died like that. He shouldn't have died as some common foot-soldier. But it's all right. I can cut off my own flesh and make him again. The new god will help us."

"He'll hand down punishment."

Meanwhile, another whisper reached Abel from beside him.

A vagrant boy was muttering, his head bowed.

"He'll kill for me the parents who threw me out onto the street. Because of them my life was ruined. But it's all right. I can draw out my blood and curse them. The new god will help me."

Because he promised me.

Because he gave his word.

The woman and the boy murmured with one voice.

"I see him. The face of my love, resurrected."

"I see them. The faces of my parents, dying."

They're clinging to empty promises.

Abel thought with a sigh. Black magic stirs another's desires through hallucinations, and so makes them harbor hollow convictions. If the heart is not firm, one comes to believe. That longings one had thought impossible to realize could, through some impossible method, be made real after all.

The resurrection of a loved one, perhaps,

Or the death of those long-hated —

If a new god were to be born, all of it might be brought about.

- I want to be loved.

- I want to be forgiven.

- I want to wear good clothes.

- I don't want to go hungry anymore.

- I want to have a home of my own.

Because he promised.

Because he gave his word.

As the voices of men and women, young and old, spread like a tide, meanwhile,

'They are weak.'

Abel stepped forward.

At some point, the procession had reached the sewers.

'And because they are weak, they can turn wicked.'

The air of the sewers was fetid.

All manner of vermin were lapping at the droplet-beaded wastewater. The decrepit facilities were encrusted in rust, and the believers of the Parousia Denomination stepped into the foul runoff and began to wade through the current. Abel waded through the wastewater alongside them. The moment the dazed procession reached a basin where the runoff collected,

'Is this the place.'

Abel saw it.

At the heart of the sewers, a shrine had been set up.

A spot where wastewater flowed in from every corner of the city and pooled. In the broad circular chamber, the believers came to a halt. What stood at the center of the chamber looked, at a glance, like an enormous heap of refuse. But rotted branches and rags stained with mold, the way it was all woven together, seemed to be fashioned into the form of some being.

'A divine image.'

For that matter, it was glimmering.

From here and there across the idol molded out of refuse, a host of eyeballs were shining.

"──Worship."

The blind old woman came to stand facing the idol.

After groping the ground with her cane to gauge her own position,

"Worship the new god──."

She whispered, bending at the waist, and,

- Worship!

- Let there be light!

- Worship the new god!

- Let there be light for the God of the coming Parousia!

- Let there be light, let there be light, let there be light!

The throng of believers began to bow alongside her.

Abel gripped the hilt of his cherished sword. Glaring at the countless eyes that had sprouted from the idol.

The idol, too, was gazing at Abel. The outline of Abel sat on the sticky surfaces of the eyeballs. Something like interest seemed to flicker through the gazes composing the idol.

<──Offer.>

Then, a voice leaked out from the idol.

Four voices entwined, echoing.

They were voices familiar to Abel. The ringleaders of the Parousia Denomination, minus Heraclitus of the Fire. Gorgias of the Tree, Paracelsus of the Water, Kierkegaard of the Iron, Mumford of the Soil. None other than those of the former Cardinals.

<Offer blood and flesh.>

Oooh, and.

The believers murmured.

<Your blood shall make the new god stir with life.>

The believers began to rummage in the folds of their clothes.

Before long, they gripped knives. Clutching small daggers, the believers wore smiles.

<Through your flesh the new god shall stride across all the lands.>

Yes, yes, yes.

The blind old woman muttered, her face dyed with rapture.

The dagger clasped in her spasming grip. She probed her own arm with the point of its blade. Countless cuts were carved into the old woman's arm. Coated in scabs, the arm was beginning to necrose, but the old woman didn't mind.

<And so I will show you.>

I'll be able to see, I'll be able to see, I'll be able to see.

She would be able to see once more. The old woman believed so.

If only she offered blood and flesh, if only she could raise up the new god upon this land......,

<I will show you.>

That her lost eyes would be restored.

The other believers, too, believed without doubt. If they only offered blood and flesh, by the mere offering of blood and flesh, it would be realized. Every longing they yearned for would be made real.

<The providence that shall forge a new world──!>

They raised them.

Without hesitation, they raised them.

Their wound-riddled arms.

The very moment the believers leveled daggers at themselves,

"......This is absurd."

──Schwing!

Abel's cherished sword shot up from its scabbard.

It was a drawing cut. The instant the sword revealed its blade from the scabbard, Margin-White aura formed into lines and began to run through every direction of the chamber, and,

"You are all enthralled by an absurd dream."

Scatter.

The believers' daggers shattered and scattered.

Abel's aura had cut the chamber itself clean through.

"Your longings cannot be guaranteed by your belief."

The blades that had made up the daggers crumbled into iron fragments, and the believers faltered. After gazing at their wound-riddled arms, they before long raised their heads. As their unfocused gazes converged on Abel,

"They are not things you can offer."

Blood and flesh,

Are not things that can be offered.

Abel whispered to every believer, but,

"──No!"

The blind old woman shrieked.

Tearing at her own arm with her fingernails.

"No, no, no."

We have to offer, we have to offer, we have to offer.

The old woman muttered. Nails grown in any which way raked across her skin. Her eyelids, which had held eyeballs robbed of sight. Tears began to stream out from between them.

"I can offer as much as is asked. I'll offer blood and flesh, just please let me see......"

Let there be light!

Let there be light for the God of the coming Parousia!

The moment the old woman's cry rang out,

- Yes!

- I can offer them. I'll offer them......

- O new god, please, grant our longings!

- We have to hurt. We have to hurt. Only if we hurt can our longings be granted.

- Blood, more blood!

The believers moved all at once.

Men and women, young and old, were harming themselves. Some buried their heads into the stone floor; some began to strangle themselves. There were those who bit their tongues with all their might. There were those who clawed at the flesh of their own faces, but,

- Why!

- Why, why, why!

- Why doesn't it hurt? Why isn't there any blood? Whyyy, whyyy, whyyyyy!

No one was injured.

Not a single one of them was bleeding.

"──Mr. Nizam!"

No, that was wrong.

Only one person was injured.

Only one person was bleeding.

"Professor Argento, Mr. Nizam is......"

Abel turned to look behind him.

Monica and Nizam were standing there.

Monica stared at Nizam in bewilderment, meanwhile, Nizam was bleeding with a smile filling his face. Wounds that looked as if inflicted by a blade had been carved into his face.

"So that was it."

Abel nodded once.

Sheathing his cherished sword, he let out a sigh.

"I didn't realize you enjoyed dressing up as a man."

Nizam.

Nizam Hashemi Rafsanjani, and.

Abel murmured, brushing his hair back.

"......No."

Iris.

Iris René von Orléans, and.

Abel scratched the back of his neck as he called Nizam by that name.