The earthy scent of grinding beans lingers on the afternoon breeze, winding through District 20's cobblestone lanes. Sitting at a cozy sidewalk cafe was Atreides, sipping his cup of black tea.
“My, what a lovely planet. A shame they were born shura—I would have loved to vacation here on my off days.”
Glancing at the large projector above, a particular sight caught his eye.
“Oh…?”
[I shall ravage your homes, tear through your weaponry, and seize the head of your king! Now come, mighty warriors, let us do battle!]
He smiled a faint smile. “I see Keresaspa is having her fill; good for her.”
Of course, he had no intention of rushing this mission or anything. It didn’t really matter to him, after all. His allegiance to Wisteria could be best described as tentative —a relationship devoid of loyalty or higher purpose, yet forged through momentary convenience.
“Hm…should I get going now?” he wondered, stroking his chin in contemplation. “Delaying this mission any further will likely impact our chance of victory, but more importantly, the Lieutenant will likely scold me again. I prefer to avoid such an outcome.”
He stretched left, then right, then back, then forward. As leisurely as an old man on his evening stroll. “In that case, I suppose it's best that I kill that Madam Crowler now.”
Despite his casual tone, something was incredibly strange about this situation.
“I wonder, why aren’t all of you attacking me right now? Can’t you tell I’m a human?”
From the moment he landed in District 20, not a single shura has laid so much as a hand on him. They did not speak with him; they only glared with a disturbed, no, a disgusted expression.
Even the barista who served him his drink did not speak. He merely took the order, prepared the drink, and left Atreides to his devices.
“Am I really that ugly? I apologize for neglecting my appearance, everyone. Please give me a moment to do my makeup,” he said in a half-mocking manner.
He made his way to the Magical School of Advanced Learning, in which his target, Madam Crowler, resided. Little resistance was made.
“Knock, knock.” Atreides gently tapped on the academy doors, yet was only met with silence.
“Okay…this isn’t very time-efficient. Maybe I should kill a few civilians to draw out a reaction?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“...?”
A familiar, feminine voice erupted from the flat screens littering the dense, baroque-styled environment.
“Oh, so you were watching, Madam Crowler.”
“Of course I was, you degenerate human. How could a civilized society keep its eyes off infectious bugs?”
“Really? Most people tend to avoid the sight of revolting creatures. May I perhaps presume that you are used to living in filth as shura?”
“The same could be said of you humans, though I have no intention of arguing with you.”
“What might you mean, dear magician?”
“I’m putting you up for bounty.”
With the snap of a finger, countless electronic displays popped into existence, giving every single shura in the district a single objective.
[Task: Kill the invading human]
[Reward: Immediate promotion to elite mage]
[Time limit: 24 hours]
[Punishment: Immediate demotion]
“Ah, but let me add another reward for you, my fellow students.” Madam Crowler adjusted her comically large hat and obnoxious star-shaped shades. “Whoever brings me the boy’s head shall be given the position of Grand Magician’s Assistant, my right-hand man. Now then…”
Snap
“Get to work.”
In an instant, the countless shura surrounding Atreides, largely consisting of college-aged students of the Magical School of Advanced Learning, charged forward to attack.
The Magical School of Advanced Learning was one of the most prestigious institutions on Urr, where economic mobility was granted to the finest magicians in the world. For many, it was a gateway out of the lower class, where hard work would allow them to succeed in life. Countless celebrities and citizens of the upper class could be traced back to this institution. Thus, it was only common sense that a promotion would be a matter of life or death.
“So that’s why none of you attacked me. You were waiting for the mark. If that’s the case…” Atreides pulled out a bottle of olive oil and poured it on the ground. “I’ll be taking my leave.”
The magical ritual was activated, sending him back to the scenic patio.
Spondai : A ritual involving the pouring of a liquid offering, such as wine, milk, olive oil, or honey, over a "holy artifice" to request a blessing from the gods. The effectiveness and scale of the blessing depended on the volume of liquid used, as well as the artifice used for the request. In the Atreides case, the patchwork ritual was rather weak, only granting him short-term relocation for a single use.
Damn. Nothing here can be considered holy under Spondai magecraft, and I didn’t bring much liquid with me today. It seems I’ll need to get creative .
Atreides leaped into the air, sticking to the side of the building with Mang Control, and dashed towards the nearest river. The man had little to no talent in Mang. He did not possess a Uniqueness, and he could not use any advanced Mang techniques. Hell, even the absolute basics of Mang control, such as [Flow] , were nearly beyond his ability. At most, he could run on water and defy gravity to a limited extent.
The students were in hot pursuit, with many of them specializing in enhancement magecraft. He could likely take on one or two at a time, but a dozen was simply beyond Atreides’ ability. Thus, he chose to take an extreme method.
CRIK-
With a sudden jutting movement, he tore off the pinky and ring finger on his left hand, before offering his prayer.
“Ὦ Ἄρες, σοὶ τούσδε τοὺς δακτύλους ἀνατίθημι ἐμπεδῶν τὴν εὐχήν· ἔκλυες γὰρ τῆς ἐμῆς βοῆς ἐν τῇ χρείᾳ καὶ σωτηρίαν μοι ἔδωκας· ἱστάσθω δὲ τοῦτο τὸ μνημεῖον ἐν τῷ σῷ τεμένει εἰς ἀΐδιον μαρτύριον τῆς σῆς ἐπιεικείας.”
(O Ares, I dedicate these fingers to you in fulfillment of my vow. You heard my cry in my hour of need and granted me safety. May this monument stand in your sacred space as an eternal testament to your mercy.)
[Votive]
Like the weaving of tapestry, his severed fingers unraveled, transforming into a medium-sized rapier. In exchange for a valuable sacrifice, Atreides would receive a boon depending on his god of choice. Not every magician could perform this technique. Each discipline of magecraft required incredibly specific steps and magic circuits, usually limiting one’s compatibility to one form. Though this rule was not absolute, as many a famous mage had specialized in two, even three disciplines, Atreides was not so lucky to be blessed with such overwhelming talent.
He could only use Dodekatheismos (Δωδεκαθεϊσμός), a discipline specializing in ritualistic sacrifice. It was considered a low-class form of magecraft, though Atreides lacked the shame to care for such preconceived notions. All he needed was the minimum strength necessary.
“Here I come.”
Atreides pierced through the disciples in his path with ease, the lightweight construction of the rapier allowing for quick, piercing movements, while maintaining as much momentum as possible. A sword’s arc is far too slow, and a club’s center of gravity is unwieldy when on the run.
4, 7, 10 strikes, all within rapid succession. He continued to skewer the incoming students, yet their numbers were too great to deal with efficiently. Not to mention the added restriction inflicted upon him by the long-range magicians.
Gravity control, muscle control, hypnotic suggestion: they were but a few forms of magecraft used to dull his movements, preventing him from gaining adequate distance.
“I suppose my own ability is insufficient for this task. It’s a tad embarrassing, but I’ll be needing your strength, Adra.”