There are countless branches within Magecraft, and I have achieved proficiency in the vast majority of them.
From the quality of an ‘Average One’—the ability to utilize all five elemental alignments (likely a byproduct of the Rinnegan’s innate aptitude for all natures)—to the art of Puppetry, where dead husks are transformed into hardened dolls using chakra-prana receivers; to the numerous magecrafts I restored or plundered with the assistance of Waver, that boy who might soon inherit the name El-Melloi; and the secret arts of the Matou family... and so on.
Of course, I rarely rely on such spells, as a simple ‘click’ of my Rinnegan yields far greater efficiency. Nevertheless, I consider myself a rather exceptional individual in my capacity as a ‘Magecraft user.’
And if I were to choose the field that qualifies as my greatest specialty among them...
“It would have to be Puppetry.”
So long as I conceal the eyes mutated by the Rinnegan, there is no way for others to discern whether these beings are alive or dead. Unless the puppet is half-destroyed, everything—from their cardiac rhythm and breath to the very complexion of their skin—appears perfectly human. Moreover, they are completed the moment a receiver is embedded into the corpse. Should they be broken, they can simply be repaired via the Naraka Path. Unless an anomaly like the Mad King appears, I have essentially perfected an immortal army of one.
Admittedly, their performance is somewhat lacking compared to the specialized puppets created by Touko Aozaki, the Grand Puppetmaster, and they possess certain inconveniences regarding the circulation of prana... But what can one do? That must be attributed to her singularity, capable of mass-producing puppets that can be said to touch the Root. Frankly, unlike the Asura Path, which cannot escape the limitations of my own physical form, her puppets can even be grafted onto others.
Regardless... my Puppetry is at a level recognized even by her—a woman whose skills rival those of the Age of Gods. Thus, trusting in that technique, I raised the corpses.
One commander, his adjutant, and a few others who seemed reasonably capable—six in total.
Unlike when I first encountered them, the rest of the soldiers had perished, leaving only six. Still, a commander is a commander. If I could facilitate their ‘return,’ I would find those who constitute the ‘main force.’ If not, then this ‘commander’s’ superior would surely appear to reprimand him... and at that point, I could simply dispose of that person and turn them into a puppet as well.
“It’s a pity I can only control six at a time.”
It would have been wonderful if there were a Phantasmal Species from the Age of Gods like a Doppelganger, but unfortunately, the Animal Path did not grant such a versatile ability. Among the Dead Apostles, there is likely one named El Nahat who can perfectly replicate an opponent... but it’s not as if I can borrow him from Narbareck. Besides, I could hardly bring a self-detonating creature here anyway.
Muttering these complaints internally, I retraced the memories extracted via the Human Path and led them toward the encampment where they were stationed. I made sure to smear them appropriately with blood and mud; since some had lost limbs while dying at my hands earlier, I would need to craft plausible excuses from here on out.
“Halt! Halt! Frog!”
“Hawk...! We have returned from judging the heretics!”
“Ah, Sir Pelliwood! My apologies... Y-You’ve been wounded!”
At that moment, a soldier presumed to be a sentry began to strike a massive bell. Judging by the fact that they didn’t level their weapons, it didn’t signal an enemy raid, but the sense of urgency was captured simultaneously by seven pairs of eyes.
Before long, an individual dressed in elaborately embroidered robes, entirely out of place for a battlefield camp, came running. He knelt and began to slowly recite a prayer.
[The Lord’s grace is deep, and His mercy is forever without end.
He satisfies the thirsty soul and fills the hungry soul with good things.
In the deep darkness, may salvation reach those shackled by suffering and iron.
A song of joy for the righteous, silence for the unworthy.
To the departing soul, may there be rest.]
A shimmer of light erupted, and the ‘puppets’’ wounds began to heal slowly.
Yes, I recognized that form. It was the Baptism Rite used by the Executors of the Holy Church—the same one used to repel the joint attack of Trambelio and Lululily on the Rail Zeppelin. It was strikingly similar... no, it was exactly the same. Though the incantation differed and the potency was weaker, it was undeniably a Baptism Rite.
“Phew...”
“F-Father... this is...”
“It is quite alright. It is used to treat the wounds sustained while purging heretics, so it is not a waste at all.”
Ahem, ahem.
The Priest spoke while rubbing his fingers together, and the sentry who had summoned him handed over a small pouch. Upon receiving the pouch, which clearly sounded as though it contained coins, the Priest quickly concealed it within his cloak, offered a brief prayer, and vanished into a tent.
“Sir... are you alright?”
“I am fine.”
Controlling him from afar, I spoke through the puppet’s mouth.
“More importantly... a mobilization must be ordered immediately. The village of the heretics was certainly put to the torch, but dangerous individuals linger in the mountains.”
“W-What of the other soldiers...”
“They... they have all perished. It was a noble sacrifice.”
While fashioning excuses in a voice this ‘commander’ would likely use, I moved toward the other officers—the subordinates of this commander who guarded this ‘settlement’—and the individual who could be considered his superior.
I instructed the other five puppets to scatter appropriately, but this commander unit, embedded with the abilities of the Deva Path, was critical in many ways. While kidnapping others to implant prana receivers wouldn’t be difficult, there was no telling how many opportunities I would have to capture a commander-class entity so easily.
‘At any rate, it was a stroke of luck. This damn “commander” was enough of a madman to personally come out to burn the mountain dwellers' village... If he had only sent subordinates, reaching this point would have been quite a headache.’
At that moment, the sentry who had rung the bell to call the priest approached and shouted.
“Excuse me, Sir? His Excellency the Commander-in-Chief summons you!”
“...His Excellency?”
“Yes! He has ordered a detailed report on the events that transpired during the subjugation of the village!”
“Lead the way. I must speak with him personally.”
“Understood!”
*
Naturally, one could not enter the Commander-in-Chief's tent while armed.
Leather clothing and helmets were tolerated, but weapons like armor and swords had to be surrendered. Naturally, the commander puppet handed over his cuirass and blade to the guards before stepping inside the tent.
‘...Phew, good thing they didn't ask to take off the helmet.’
The prana receivers were embedded in five locations: the crown of the head covered by the helmet, the palms covered by gloves, and near the heart covered by leather garments, as well as the soles of both feet.
I had placed them where they would be hidden to avoid detection, but since these piercings were essentially no different from tattoos that could lead to being branded a heretic, caution was the best policy.
“Ah, Captain. I have received the report regarding the mountain village.”
“...I have no excuse, Your Excellency.”
“Is it not said that victory and defeat are routine for a soldier? The power capable of burning an entire village and massacring armed soldiers... it is undoubtedly the work of that heretical force occupying the ‘Sacred City.’ It is not your fault.”
“Is that so...”
The man called the ‘Commander-in-Chief’ was skillfully consoling the captain who had led the infantry—the man who was now a corpse-puppet.
With grayish skin, green eyes... and even glasses. Though a title like Commander-in-Chief doesn’t factor in appearance, he was undeniably handsome. He wore a tight-fitting hood with a cross emblazoned on the chest.
‘Besides that, nearly forty people died, and he’s just letting it slide? No matter how much the infantry might be at the level of peasant conscripts... this is practically a total annihilation.’
Regardless of my thoughts, the ‘Commander-in-Chief,’ wearing a hood that looked stiflingly hot, began to issue instructions to the officers standing nearby.
“Currently, there are three forces total that have emerged from the ‘Sacred City’ to wage guerrilla warfare. In the case of the knight who identified themselves as ‘Mordred,’ they utilize slashes infused with red lightning. Do you have any knowledge of this?”
“No, I do not, Commander.”
“Then it is not Mordred. The second is a red-haired knight who uses a bow. Is there a connection to that?”
“That does not seem to be the case either.”
“The last of the knights who venture outside the walls is... the King of the Sacred City herself. Surely the Heretical King who seized Jerusalem has not personally emerged?”
“I swear, I did not see her!”
The puppet cried out.
At that, not only the Commander-in-Chief but the others as well began to wear expressions of deep thought.
‘Yes, they must be confused. If the Commander’s words are correct, the Lion King should be focused on defense while raining down divine punishment as usual. Occasionally, Mordred, capable of Noble Phantasm bombardments, or Tristan, capable of long-range attacks, come out for diversionary operations.’
Relying solely on the castle walls for defense is a poor strategy.
The important thing is to exhaust the enemy and reduce their numbers. Furthermore, the main strength of the Sacred City lies in the Knights of the Round Table—that is to say, Servants. They are individuals who can retreat whenever they wish, and knowing the personalities of Mordred and Tristan...
‘Perhaps the fact that those two are roaming as guerrilla units... has something to do with them being summoned back in the Fourth Singularity, London.’
But that isn’t what’s important right now.
I stared at the Commander-in-Chief—who wore a checkered hood like a knight from a movie, with a cross motif on his chest—while spinning a tale. A knight presumed to be of the Round Table, wielding a massive spear with gray hair, but whose true power seemed to be something akin to Witchcraft.
Though his appearance was similar to ‘Percival’ from the knowledge I obtained from the Root, the magecraft used had virtually no connection to anyone on the Round Table. If there were a link, it would be Morgan at most.
As I fabricated a plausible story, the Commander-in-Chief and the surrounding generals began to exchange various opinions with grimaces.
Arguments ranged from the need for immediate subjugation to the claim that a frontal confrontation with the ‘Round Table’ was meaningless and they should withdraw the army.
It was then that the Commander-in-Chief rose from his seat and spoke.
“Enough. While it appears true that the Round Table, or a force equivalent to it, has appeared, we do not know if they have retreated or are still lurking, waiting for an opportunity.”
“But Your Excellency! If the Round Table is in the mountains, then for now, retreating is...!”
“Indeed, your words are perfectly logical. However, if we retreat, they will surely return to strike at the rear of our orderly withdrawal. Rather than a disorganized flight, it is more important to face the enemy in an orderly fashion. And...”
He tapped his shield with his sword and declared.
“So long as I, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, Jacques de Molay, am here... I shall protect your lives.”
...Wait, weren't you a girl?
Comments (0)
Please log in to leave a comment. Login or Register