Confrontation

“Hmm…”

From atop the throne of the spiral clocktower sat Madam Crowler, a glass of white wine in hand. Countless hard-light monitors surveyed the ensuing battle, with Keresaspa in particular drawing focus.

“That beast will be quite troublesome.”

A small sip, and with it, a snap. “Come.”

Ten figures, their mien as hard as steel, responded to the Headmaster’s command. They wore double-breasted tunics, straight, flexible pants, and a long blindfold in monochromatic white.

“Take care of the brutish woman, my Ten Holy Stars . The young man is of no concern to you. I shall deal with him if the opportunity arises.”

“Understood, Headmaster.”

They fled as quickly as they came, vanishing into flames to pursue their target.

Once more, the clock tower returned to its eerie silence, with Madam Crowler at its center. It had only been two weeks since the Fight for Tomorrow broadcast, and the old woman had already downed bottle after bottle, distracting herself from the obvious truth.

…I must not fail! She thought, her hand trembling with fear.

[Our image is of the utmost importance! Any victory, no matter how small, can spark these thoughts.]

Madam Crowler, no matter her level of intoxication, could not escape that horrid memory. It snapped. It snapped clean off. His shoulder was like a twig in the hands of the Supreme President, and no one could have hoped to stop him.

“That bastard…do you plan on terrorizing me for eternity!”

The wine glass shattered across the floor with a single toss.

“How dare you threaten me, the greatest mage on the planet?!”

She thrashed about, her anger having reached its boiling point, yet she knew well that her attitude meant nothing before that man’s power. It was a lamentable fate, a pitiful fate, yet one could not merely break the great wheel. Whether obedient or resistant, all would remain unchanged.

There was no other choice but to assimilate into the collective. All is one, and one is all.

———

The Ten Stars

A group of ten elite mages distinct from the Magic Association who act as Madam Crowler’s personal fixers. Though many whisper of their existence, nothing is truly known about them, for the arrival of a star is a mark of death, and none had escaped their grasp. It was rarely necessary to send more than a single star to eliminate a target.

Keresaspa’s arrival, thus, acted as an unprecedented event. For the first time in the Magic Association’s history, a target would be branded with all ten stars.

They descended upon the battlefield, launching their advance at the wicked beast.

A dagger-wielding assassin. A mace-brandishing brute. A broad-shouldered greatswordsman. Three of the Ten Stars had issued their deadly assault, aiming for Keresaspa’s vital points.

Under ordinary circumstances, she would have no issue taking the attacks head-on; that was her preferred approach to combat, yet her instinct told her that this was a blow that should not be taken lightly.

For the first time in the Urr invasion, the mighty warrior Keresaspa took a defensive position. With flesh woven like thick metal springs, she engaged the mace-wielder and the greatswordsman, blocking their respective strikes.

“Kh—!”

Emerging from the darkness was the assassin, plunging their blade deep into Keresaspa’s shoulder. Though she may have diverted the assassin’s strike to a non-lethal area, even a single cut was enough to initiate their magecraft.

“Ignition,” said the dagger-wielding assassin. The wound on Keresaspa's shoulder burst into white flames upon the utterance of the chant. She had seen these flames before, felt them.

“Go, Atreides,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “I’ll have my fill of fun here, so approach the clocktower with haste!”

Atreides shrugged before saying in a jovial manner, “Ah, well, that’s convenient. Have fun!”

The path towards the clock tower was cleared thanks to Keresaspa’s overwhelming strength. A part of him felt jealous of her power, but jealousy was rather unproductive in this situation.

“No point in dwelling on such things,” he spoke aloud. “Time for the second part of the plan.”

Atreides was no fool; he knew that someone as powerful as Madam Crowler would never occupy a public space without a barrier erected. Thus, he would need to conjure up a super-move capable of breaking through the veil. With his severed arm held tightly in his grasp, he began the sacred chant.

This was where the specialty of his discipline, Dodekatheismos , would show a fraction of its true strength.

“Ὦ Ἄρες, σοὶ τόνδε τὸν βραχίονα ἀνατίθημι ἐμπεδῶν τὴν εὐχήν· ἔκλυες γὰρ τῆς ἐμῆς βοῆς ἐν τῇ χρείᾳ καὶ ῥώμην μοι ἔδωκας· ἱστάσθω δὲ τοῦτο τὸ μνημεῖον ἐν τῷ σῷ τεμένει εἰς ἀΐδιον μαρτύριον τῆς σῆς ὑπεροχῆς.”

(O Ares, I dedicate this arm to you in fulfillment of my vow. You heard my cry in my hour of need and granted me strength. May this monument stand in your sacred space as an eternal testament to your supremacy.)

“ Votive , and now, Activate—Boost. ”

A boost talisman’s primary function was the multiplicative increase in energetic output. Its incredible power made it quite volatile to handle, yet Atreides would use this very volatility to his advantage.

The severed arm glowed with a cerulean resplendence, its form resembling a winding spiral.

“Now pierce them, Imitation: Tríaïna (τρίαινα).”

Beating thunder. Wicked Squall. The vast spring horizon was obnubilated by the heavy, blackened clouds. The imitation spear made true its mark, tearing through the clocktower barrier with ease.

Just millimeters away from its sharp edge sat Madam Crowler herself, smoking out of an opera-length cigarette holder. “You little brat. It seems I’ll need to get my hands full with you. What a bother.”

Entering through the shattered glass display, Atreides let out an unassuming smirk, recalling the imitation spear to his hand. “Haha, sorry, but I’m a tad sensitive, so please treat me kindly.”