Vol 7, Chapter 1

◆ Center of the World, Expedition Ship, Asha's POV. ◆

The demon's creaking scream echoed through the cabin.

"You're lying. All demons lie," the captain hissed.

"Alright, fine. I'm lying, and there isn't a damned rift into oblivion right nearby! Let's say that. But we can still make a deal, can't we? We both want to get away from this non-existent rift that's right now slowly killing us all, don't we?"

"Wait, aren't you dead? I thought demons abandoned dead bodies," Asha remarked.

"Let's just say, the possessed feed us, give us strength. So as soon as they die, we return to the Abyss. After all, we devour them to replenish our own power. Why would we waste energy on controlling a corpse ourselves? But there are special cases—for example, if a demon wants revenge on a mortal, or… in my case. Believe me, I never wanted to die in your world. The region of the Abyss opposite it is not pleasant… in fact, it's downright terrible. And dying near a rift, where there's a chance your very existence could be erased? That I want even less. So please, when you finally put me to rest, take me somewhere to the edge of the world, agreed? FAR AWAY FROM THAT DAMNED THING!"

"Shut up already. I have only one question: if you were here with a living crew and wanted to escape, why didn't you?" the captain asked slowly, torn between splitting the chattering head lengthwise or crosswise.

"So should I shut up or answer?" the demon asked. Naik raised his saber again in silence.

"Got it, got it. Well… how should I put it. I boarded the ship to sail to the center of the world. I was promised there'd be a hot archmage aboard, but I was tricked. Turned out to be just these fools…"

"You've got five seconds to explain. Three are already gone.""

"WE COULDN'T!" the demon shouted. "Got it? Nothing worked. It all failed. We screwed up, alright?!"

The captain turned to Asha.

"I haven't spoken much with demons. Are they all this hysterical?"

"No, this one's twitchy. Usually they're grand and pompous. This one's just pathetic."

"That's because I'm not a demon. I'm an imp," the head confessed.

"A what?"

"What, you don't even have imps? I told you, this region of the Abyss is absolutely awful…"

"Enough whining. Tell us in detail what you were doing, what failed, and why."

"Well, the first problem was the current. It drives you into the icy shore so hard it can smash a boat… That's what finally happened to us. The ship's whole ass was torn apart!"

"Not the ass. The stern," the captain corrected.

"Same difference. The second problem was the wind. The wind never blows from shore, but there can be calms. If you take me aboard your ship, I promise I can calculate when there'll be a calm, yes, yes!"

"So that's why you added oars to the vessel? Isn't that idiotic? A ship this large can't be moved with a few oars."

"Hey, we had no time to rebuild it into a galley. And how would we sail on afterward? The third problem was the most serious: we only had one chance. The only real hope is mages—only they can give the ship enough acceleration to escape this damned trap. But if their strength runs out… the same thing happens as with us. The Circle gave all its mana to the water mage, but he failed. We managed to get three hundred and thirty-five meters before he lost consciousness, and the current threw us onto the ice. After that, they had no chance to survive, so I used their lives as best I could."

"To preserve yourself?" Asha sneered.

"Exactly." The imp grinned, showing sharp, almost sharklike teeth on his human face.

The captain sighed, removed his tricorne, and clenched it in his hand.

"Abyss… we're finished, aren't we? Without the captain we can't control the currents, we can't even repeat the steam trick. I… I can't replace him."

"Oh dear, you don't even have a water mage? Well then, looks like I'm stuck here for a long while…" the imp whistled in disappointment.

A slap rang out in the cabin. Stunned, Naik dropped the tricorne from his hand.

Asha shook her stinging palm. The self-proclaimed captain stared at her in shock. His cheek was burning. Literally—the mage-girl's slap had set his stubble alight. The smell of scorched hair stung his nostrils.

"You're all such whiners! My lord would never have given up!"

"And what would your lord have done in this situation?" he snorted, patting out his beard.

"Him? Well… mmm… I don't know, made some iron contraption to get off the island. A crane, maybe, or hurled us farther somehow. He would've come up with something!"

"Well, he's not here. Maybe not even alive, since he never returned to our sh—"

"Don't. Even. Say that." The Ashiran girl cut him off in an icy tone.

Naik choked, then waved it off.

"As you wish. We're doomed anyway… You know, we've got a whole lot of rum below and no chance of rescue. When you're ready, join the feast. Let's have one last party, uptight girl."

"Dream on. Come on, head." The girl scooped up the possessed head, then picked up the tricorne and placed it atop her hood. "Men! Gather everything here and haul it back to our ship."

"Yes, my lady… Captain?"

She wanted a drink. She wanted one badly. But now she had to do not what she wanted, but what was needed. Alcohol would only harm.

She needed to think hard and dig deep into her memory.

************************************************

◆ Capital of the Kingdom of Steel, King Dastan's POV. ◆

Coronation.

So dreary. The pompous trumpets blared out of tune, flower petals littered the throne hall, and the courtiers all wore the same obsequious smile. Like copies from a mold.

After an unbearably long delay, the court finally acknowledged the mutilated corpse that had been presented to them as the body of the Queen Mother, and nothing now stood in the way of crowning. The First Prince's faction had been crushed and exiled; the Second Prince's had fled even earlier, straight to the Second Duchy, the moment they realized their rebellion had failed.

The court was nearly empty. Of the once vast House of Klaus, only a few branches remained at court, those who had never been tied to the old king or to plots with the Second Duke. The Duke himself was absent—he was not such a fool as to appear at the ceremony.

Although… perhaps King Dastan the First would have spared him.

Or perhaps not. Ha-ha-ha.

The seat of the Third Duke was also empty. Unlike the Second, who concocted lies of illness, this one truly could no longer attend ceremonies. Only the seat of the Fourth Duke was filled. The bald, energetic old man sat watching with an unfathomably sour face. Beside him sat his immense daughter, seemingly determined to replace all the absent lords with the equivalent of her weight alone.

The First Duke was absent too, and that was troubling, breeding rumors. He had declared full support for the new king, yet sent only his new wife to the coronation. An insult, considering how often he discarded them like gloves.

This was what worried Dastan most. The Duke should not have acted so, not according to his analysis. Spies lurking in Short's former lands also reported nothing useful. Supply trains of Condor passed toward the front, but no trace of the Duke's army—neither seen nor heard. As if they stood facing each other, without battle.

Could they have reached an agreement?

Someone would have to be sent to find out…

The trumpets fell silent.

Into the hall was borne the royal crown. An artifact of soulmetal, miraculously preserved since the time of the Empire.

By tradition, it was to be placed upon his brow together by the Commonwealth's envoy and the Theocracy's High Priest.

Yet to his surprise, only the envoy was present. Amusing—he had thought only the High Priest would dare take part. In the end, it was the opposite. The Commonwealth brazenly ignored the assassination attempt, the rebellion, even the direct attack with beasts—and sent its envoy the moment it heard the Theocracy would refuse to recognize him as king.

And these call themselves heirs of his own Empire?

Two-faced, pitiful bastards. The Second Duke must be tearing his hair out.

No matter. He had no intention of letting them crown him anyway. Too much like vassalage.

He would crown himself.

Defying procedure, Dastan rose and seized the artifact from its silk cushion.

"With the support of the noble houses gathered here, I proclaim myself king. From this moment, I am Dastan the First," he declared, and set the crown upon his brow.

This would hurt.

A swarm of voices struck his ears.

"Traitor!" rang the cries of his ancestors.

"Murderer!" echoed the voice of his blood father.

Blissfully smiling, Dastan spread his arms.

"Submit!" the King offered the spirits.

"Never!" they thundered back in chorus.

"Very well." He snorted and invoked the common magic."

The crown blazed, imitating recognition.

The entire court sank to its knees. Fanfare thundered.

"Charlatan! Usurper!" the spirits raved.

"No wonder I cut you from my will!" howled the body's father.

"A will? Hm." The new King paused in thought.

"No, it isn't here… not here. You'll never find it!" the father hissed with spite.

"We see your depraved thoughts," the spirits chorused.

"Tsk. So that's how the King discovered my plans. I always wondered where I slipped... Shouldn't have tried on the crown where he couldn't see…" Dastan shook his head slightly. "But it doesn't matter now. Watch."

He turned his mind to all he planned to do, and all he was already doing.

The chorus of spirits faltered, stunned into silence.

"Madman," some voices whispered.

"It is the only way. Now you know it too."

The cacophony in his skull swelled anew, but now the spirits did not revile him. They argued among themselves. That suited him well enough. He could calmly sit through the rest of the ceremony, then cast aside this hateful thing.

The feast began. Waiting until all were drunk enough, Dastan the First rose from the table and descended into the palace dungeons.

A few secret passages, and he could begin his work. Apron, gloves. The useless scrap-crown tossed into the trash. Just remember to fetch it later…

"Well then, my darlings, have you grown?" he asked the rows of vials.

Project Beast. A good name. Imposing. Any lord would imagine a colossal monster. A chimera, vast and mighty enough to lay waste to a continent!

And yes, it was a chimera. And yes, it could lay waste to a continent.

With only one small nuance.

​

"Dastan the First? What kind of ridiculous title is that?" came a voice from behind.

The laboratory door was shut, but it was hard to hide from this guest.

"I thought Dastan the Last sounded too provocative. So now I am the First. The First and the Last. Why are you here? I'm not going to sleep with you—I always feel strangely empty afterward, sorry."

"Funny, funny." The assassin smiled, stepping out of the shadows. "Did you fix the heart-cage? I liked changing shape."

"No time," he deflected.

In truth, he had no desire. Who knew what might pop into the head of this mad priestess of the old gods? He did not wish to suspect every passerby of being a shapeshifter. That they worked together did not mean they could not become enemies at any moment.

"If you swear to repair it and hand it to me this month, I'll tell you something very important. Very, very important." She licked her lips.

"Then wait five minutes. Rushing could end with the catastrophe starting somewhere I didn't plan," Dastan snapped, uncorking a vial.

Dastan was no scholar. The only art he truly mastered was the sword. Yet knowing something was possible was half the battle, especially when the level of technology had fallen so low that even simple magic seemed like the work of an archmagister.

Mages had always adored chimeras. What better proof of the divine nature of magic than to fashion new species? Mounts, beasts of burden, flying creatures. Skilled chimerologists wove flesh together, striving to make beings tougher, stronger, bigger.

But there was another path.

Dastan lowered a syringe into a vial and drew in millions upon millions of chimeras. Tiny, warped by magic, parasitic creatures that fed on their host's mana until it killed them.

Their one drawback was that they still needed to reach the blood to act.

He opened a chamber, approached an unconscious woman, and injected another test batch. As with chimeras, the tactic was simple: "spiders in a jar."

Those who survived would be the best.

Some might call it unethical to use the biological mother of his current body as a test subject. Dastan did not care. Was it his fault the mages here had degenerated so far that not even a pitiful archmage could be found?

And he needed a strong mage for his experiments…

At least he had put her into sleep, so she would not suffer.

After a few minutes he drew blood and moved to the magoscope to examine the chimeras. Lenses of glass essence stretched and shifted under the tug of a magical field.

He dropped blood onto the slide and bent over the device.

Strange. No chimeras in the blood.

Dastan frowned and switched the sample.

Still nothing. Very strange.

"Your Majesty, five minutes are up," the assassin sang.

"Quiet. Shut up." He wiped his sweating brow. He was shivering. Strange. Strange.

His body trembled. Spots swam before his eyes. Strength drained from him as if he… were sick.

What if…?

He swept the samples off the device and raked his nail across his own skin, spilling blood onto the slide and staring unblinking.

Yes. He saw them. He saw! Tiny insectlike filth wriggling between red blood cells. Slower and slower.

Having drained the mana from the spilled blood, the chimeras clumped together.

A moment later, they vanished. In their place hung only a trace of violet smoke.

He looked up. From his blood rose a clearly visible violet haze.

Teleportation.

"Seems the propagation problem is finally solved. I'll need to determine distance, causes, and conditions…" he muttered, staggering to a vial. He carefully sealed it into an isolating case, then opened the casket on the table.

The relic of the Theocracy never failed. The Blessed Hunger drained all magic nearby. Weak chimeras, too dependent on magic, perished instantly. The King wiped his brow; he felt better by the moment.

"I suppose I'll need to surround the lab with an anti-teleportation barrier, just in case," he noted to himself, then turned to the assassin. "So what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"My sources say the new Pontiff is calling a Crusade. Against you. You have a couple of weeks to prepare."

"Hmm. Unpleasant, unpleasant." He shook his head.

Fighting void adepts without special weapons would not be easy. Time to pay the Commonwealth a visit, reclaim his sword, and leave them a gift. If a disease broke out there that just happened to be curable only by the power of the One—then even those old hypocrites would be forced into open war against the Theocracy.

Oh yes, time to ready the ship.

"My little ones, it seems your laboratory trials will take place in the field," the King said with a sinister smile.