Jeanne awoke once more from her dreams. She tucked the blanket around Viola, who was nestled in her arms, then changed into her day clothes and quietly walked past the giant dolls that lined the hallway, their expressionless faces following her with lifeless gazes. She made her way down to the entrance hall that led directly to the street.
The sky outside was still a murky gray, and everything on the street looked blurred and softened: the road, fuzzy and matted like a carpet of black mold; the aged walls, warped and bulging with lumps and pits; and the grotesquely shaped trees that looked like clusters of human limbs impaled on stakes—disgusting as ever.
In the past few days, she had little to do besides supervising Sassel's infusions of magical energy in the basement. As for teaching Viola how to read—Jeanne never did unnecessary things like that. Besides, thanks to "Miss Eve's" loose lips, she'd quickly learned that this "miss" was actually named Astolfo—a man, fond of dressing as a woman, and someone Jeanne had once asked for directions at the foot of Mount Kalaskai. As for Shaya and Preyne, they were far more discreet; to this day, Sassel still believed the two were just an ordinary mage couple.
Then again, according to Sassel, any mage who married a thirteen-year-old girl wasn't exactly ordinary.
But that was just Sassel talking.
Apparently, in some parts of the Lethsell continent, that kind of culture didn't exist. At least Astolfo didn't seem to react at all to the matter.
As for her—well, a Black Goat spawn is still a Black Goat spawn, no matter what disguise it wears. She just hadn't found the right moment to strike. But when the opportunity came, she would purify that vile thing without hesitation.
Pale gray light filtered in through the open front door, dimly illuminating the hallway. Without spirit-vision, the place looked remarkably clean—like a mansion belonging to a high noble. And in truth, there was nothing left in this house. Nothing to be wary of, nothing to fear.
The witch's soul was sealed in a gem. Who would care about a few invisible bloody handprints?
Sassel was in the room directly across from the entrance.
It was a rectangular hall. The walls were painted white and bare, the floor tiles as dull gray as the sky outside. The air carried a humid warmth, the aroma of meat, and an unsettling trace of magical energy. Inside the door, a small dining table stood against the corner wall—clearly moved there temporarily for meals and rest. Benches flanked both sides, also clearly relocated for convenience.
The silence was complete. Even the faint clack of Jeanne's boots on the tiles echoed.
At the center of the hall, a scroll floated in midair, surrounded by a nearly tangible halo of white light, spinning like the arc lamp atop the lighthouse in her dream.
The scroll was inscribed with strange symbols, written in both the ancient language of the Temas and the Church's common tongue—neither of which she could read.
Jeanne set down the food she had brought on the wooden table.
"You made this?" asked Sassel, reclining on a bench as he opened the wooden basket.
How did he know I made it today?
Sassel glanced up at her and seemed to quickly understand what she was thinking. "I did serve the Senate for a long time, you know what that means, right?"
Was that a jab at how my cooking compares to that transparent undead cook? Not good—she suddenly felt the urge to run him through with a sword.
"I killed that translucent chef with one strike. Its pantry full of human corpses pissed me off."
"Fits your personality," Sassel said, pulling out a piece of bread stuffed with cooked meat and lettuce and taking a few big bites. "Tastes fine. Pretty much what you'd expect from a village girl."
"I don't want your review."
"Because your feelings are delicate?"
Damn black sorcerer. I'm going to kill you.
"You've wasted this much time—have you even made progress toward contacting a single Temas?" Jeanne asked, her expression twitching with irritation.
"Come on, I can't just dump outer-god Pathway magic straight into it, right?" Sassel pulled out another piece of bread, bit into it, and walked toward the hovering scroll. "Purifying this stuff is a pain. Especially purifying it to a level acceptable to your token from the First Throne. That takes a ludicrous amount of magic."
He said it so casually.
"How many days do you have left to finish this?"
Sassel looked at her for a moment.
"One or two hours."
"Should I take that as a challenge?"
"Are you always this emotionally fragile?" Sassel lowered his head and studied the scroll carefully. "I'm not in the mood to bicker. Go sit on the bench and wait. It'll be done soon."
Silence. Though Jeanne was clearly displeased, she still returned to the bench to wait quietly for him to finish the ritual.
"Done yet?" Jeanne asked two hours later.
"In theory, yes," Sassel exhaled shallowly, scanning the floor and walls. "But—this is it? Then what? What happens now?"
"I've never performed a Temas summoning ritual before," Jeanne said truthfully.
"You've got to be—"
Sassel didn't finish. He suddenly cursed.
White flame erupted around him, surging upward in tiers, weaving into a robe of blazing halos. "Tlanimass!" he roared, drawing his black-red longsword. "Nolimetangere!" White light blazed from his eyes and mouth. His feet lifted off the ground as the sword in his hand ignited along with his body—the blade shrieked like an explosion of fire. The air groaned under the heat, wailing in agony.
Blinding light lit every corner of the room.
From Jeanne's position, she could see Sassel gathering power toward the gray haze thick in the air.
Before she could react, distorted magic surged forward like a blade through mist. Like burning coals through snow, it pierced walls and vaporized entire trees, roads, and bricks within a radius of more than ten meters—reduced to white ash and then to swirling clouds by the repeated shockwaves.
And then—from the expanding dust of exploded walls and floor—an ossified hand suddenly formed, reached through the flames, and grabbed the black sorcerer's ankle. The sound of breaking bone rang out, and Sassel cursed again. White light flowed from his mouth like water, forming into a solid white blaze, brilliant and searing.
The twisted beam of light carved an arc beneath the gray sky, crashing into the ground below his feet.
A massive mass of ash and dust was slammed into the floor. The light flailed madly—no longer flame or light, but a giant white serpent wreathed in incandescent scales, writhing and rolling. It looked like a massively magnified version of the one Sassel had once used to threaten Jeanne.
Its gaping maw—wide as a cathedral gate—glowed with flame-forged fangs, its forked tongue like iron chains twisted into a thick noose, spewing white fire that turned everything it touched into ash. It thrashed furiously, turning the burning floor into a churning chaos.
Jeanne could see the serpent's glassy scales glittering beneath the flames. Its eyes were six blood-red spheres arranged in a row.
Then—a sword appeared.
A rough, stone-hewn longsword sliced down along the serpent's head. Like a branding iron through ice, it tore through the floor, split the fire, and lifted half the serpent's illusory body into the air, as though it had weight and flesh.
That stone sword—its eerie power brought an end to the spell-formed creature, reducing it to a burst of shapeless flame that dissolved into the air.
The wide flint blade was held in a shriveled hand wrapped in decaying fur. In the next moment, it stabbed upward from underground, cutting through the sorcerer's protective wards like butter and colliding with the black-red longsword in Sassel's hand.
A shriek of metal rang out, and a cascade of brilliant sparks exploded from the clash.
"I didn't summon you here to kill the black sorcerer, Temas!" Jeanne shouted.
Sassel had already gathered another mass of white flame, preparing to hurl it at his feet.