Chapter 149 - Towers (8)
Chapter 149 – Towers (8)
(Melody)
Poke.
Poke poke.
Poke poke poke.
Goldwynn did not react. Not even a flinch. Not even the courtesy of a sleepy grimace. If she was going to lie there like a tragic oil painting, she could at least have the decency to be interesting.
I sat on the edge of the infirmary bed, spirit body light as a thought and twice as stubborn, and stared at her face.
"Sleeping beauty," the healer had said, like calling it that made it romantic instead of alarming.
She's too fatigued, they said. Like she hadn't slept for a long time, they said. Like the body simply ran out of permission to stay awake and shut itself down by force.
I didn't like the way she looked.
Not dead. Not wrong. Not like the rot-puppet girl I'd seen through Master's eyes before.
Just… emptied.
Like someone had poured her out to make room for strength, and forgot to put the person back in.
I poked her cheek again, softer this time.
"Wake up," I muttered. "You're boring."
Goldwynn remained deeply, impressively boring.
My job was simple.
Protect the sleeping girl.
Protect the note Master left without explaining it to anyone.
Protect the weapons beside her bed, because if anyone touched them without permission, they would be missing fingers and possibly dignity.
The weapons were there like quiet threats: Melody, of course, and Gungnir laid with the kind of careful placement that said *don't make me repeat myself*. Master hadn't bothered to explain the why. He didn't need to. He explained things when it benefited him, not when it soothed other people.
Protect the infirmary itself, because the Tower's "patrons" had the moral texture of wet paper and the patience of hungry dogs.
And because Master would be angry.
Not the loud angry.
The quiet angry that made people disappear without anyone being able to explain why the last thing they ever saw was a polite smile.
I bounced my heels lightly, spirit-body style, which meant I bounced nothing at all. My legs were more suggestion than weight. It was a strange thing, being a sword spirit. Your existence was real, but only to the kinds of eyes that could see truth under all the world's polite lies.
Master could see me clearly, of course.
Spirit users could sometimes see my outline, a shimmer, a pressure in the air that made their skin prickle.
Normal people? They got nothing.
They would look right at me and see empty space, and their instincts would still scream: something is here.
It was funny.
It was also useful.
So I sat there, bored enough to start considering crimes, and watched Goldwynn's chest rise and fall.
Her mana channels were still trying to repair themselves. I could feel it, like a faint rhythm under her skin. Micro-cracks knitting, tearing, knitting, tearing.
She'd trained like she wanted to die.
She'd fought like she wanted to stop hurting by making the world hurt louder.
I knew that kind of girl.
And Master did too.
That was why he'd left me here.
Not because he "trusted the Tower."
Because he didn't.
And because he'd rather entrust a sleeping, cracked-heart Tier Five to a blade spirit with a bad attitude than to a room full of healers who might sell her pain to the highest bidder.
I sighed dramatically.
Goldwynn did not care.
"Fine," I whispered. "I'll entertain myself."
Poke.
Poke poke.
I was halfway through deciding whether poking her nose would count as "medical treatment" when the air shifted.
Not the normal shift of a door opening.
Not the mild pressure change of footsteps.
This was… wrong.
A thin ripple in the ward lines woven into the infirmary. A subtle tug like someone had brushed a spiderweb and thought the spider wouldn't notice.
I froze.
My boredom evaporated so quickly it might have been a spell.
The door to the infirmary opened.
Three figures stepped in.
Not healers. Not staff. Not apprentices.
They moved like people who expected resistance. Like people who had entered rooms to do unpleasant things before and called it necessity.
The healer on duty looked up from their desk and offered the Tower's standard "professional calm."
"Can I help you?" the healer asked, voice cautious.
The first figure didn't answer.
The second smiled politely, like a knife dressed as a gentleman. His hands were empty, and that was its own kind of weapon.
"Routine check," he said. "Patron request."
Patron request.
A phrase that meant: someone with money wants to touch something they shouldn't.
The healer's spine stiffened. "She's under recovery. No visitors."
The polite one's smile didn't change.
"Oh, my," he said softly, almost to himself. Like disappointment. Like amusement.
Then the first figure lifted a small coin between finger and thumb and flicked it.
It spun once, and the air *tightened*.
A hush ward snapped into place so cleanly it was almost elegant. The door's seams glowed faintly and sealed. The room's sound thickened, muffled, as if the world outside had been wrapped in wool.
The healer flinched and reached instinctively for the alarm bell rope mounted beside the desk.
The rope went dead under their fingers.
No tension. No connection. Like someone had cut reality at that point.
The healer's face drained of color.
"Patron privacy clause," the polite one murmured, still smiling. "Nothing personal. We're simply… preventing misunderstandings."
The third figure stepped forward, eyes fixed on the bed. Not on the healer. Not on the wards. On Goldwynn.
"Take her," he said, impatient. "Before she wakes."
So there it was.
Not "visit." Not "check."
Collect.
The healer swallowed. "She's a patient."
"She's an asset," the third replied. His gaze dropped to the faint outline of the Crystal Heart's prize dais through the window beyond, then back to the sleeping girl. "The Heart isn't useful without a compatible vessel."
Compatible vessel.
What a nice way to say: we want to put something inside her and call it research.
The first figure, the quiet one, shifted their stance and pulled something from inside their sleeve.
Not a knife.
A thin strip of paper marked with tight, disciplined script, the kind that looked "holy" if you didn't know better. The ink shimmered faintly with a divine-clean scent that was almost convincing.
Almost.
I felt it again. That residue.
Not the green ward's visible boost.
Something adjacent. Something oily, tucked under mana's normal scent like rot under perfume. A trained corruption. A disciplined wrongness.
You couldn't see it with ordinary sight.
You couldn't even see it with most mage-sight, because the whole point of people like this was that they learned how to look clean.
But I was not clean.
I was a spirit blade born in violence and bound to a man who collected ugly truths like trophies.
So I slid off the bed.
And reached for my other form.
The shift from spirit-body to blade was a quiet, cold thing. A thought collapsing into edge.
To most people, nothing would happen.
Maybe a prickle on the back of the neck.
Maybe a sudden sense that the room had teeth.
To the healer, there was a visible reaction. Not of sight, but of instinct. Their eyes widened as if they'd just realized they were not alone.
To the intruders… it depended.
The quiet one's gaze flicked to empty space near the bed.
The polite one's smile faltered for the first time.
The third one didn't notice. He was already moving toward Goldwynn like she was a package waiting for pickup.
I unfolded into blade-form.
Not physical metal. Not a mundane sword you could pick up and swing.
A spirit blade, visible only as a shimmer to most, an outline to the sensitive, and absolute clarity to Master.
I activated my arc.
Reinforce.
Mono-edge.
No vibration. No spectacle. This room didn't need drama. It needed finality.
The air sharpened.
The healer's breath caught.
The polite one exhaled softly. "Spirit sword."
The third figure scoffed. "I don't see anything."
"Good for you," I thought. "You can die confused."
He reached for Goldwynn's blanket.
I moved.
A slash through the air so clean it didn't make sound, it made absence.
His hand jerked back as blood beaded along his wrist in a line so precise it looked like ink.
He stared at it, shocked.
Because he hadn't seen the blade.
He'd only felt the consequence.
The healer stumbled back, hand flying to their mouth.
The polite one raised his hands slowly, palms outward.
"Easy," he said, voice controlled. "We're not here to fight a relic."
Relic.
That word was flattering. Also annoying.
The quiet one didn't retreat. They flicked the paper strip out, and it unfolded midair into a small lattice, a probing spell meant to outline hidden spirits, tag their anchor points, and pin them to a location.
It was competent.
It was also rude.
The lattice brushed the air near me like a net thrown in the dark.
And I cut it.
Not by casting.
By being what I was.
Mono-edge slid through the forming spell like a blade through wet paper. The lattice collapsed, and the recoil slapped the quiet one's fingers hard enough to make them hiss.
Real anger flared in their eyes.
Ah.
Now you feel it.
The third figure tried again, more careful, circling wide toward the bed. He thought I was anchored to one angle like a normal guard.
I was a spirit.
I was where I decided to be.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and metallic. A charm, maybe. A ward-cancel tag. The kind patrons loved because it let them pretend they were brave.
He tossed it toward the bed.
The charm spun once and tried to bite into the ward lines around Goldwynn, seeking an anchor.
I flickered to the other side of the bed, faster than ordinary perception, and my edge kissed the charm mid-flight.
It split cleanly in two.
The halves dropped to the floor like dead insects.
The third figure's eyes widened. His body froze on instinct, because even people who couldn't see spirits could understand *consequences*.
The polite one's gaze snapped to the weapons beside the bed, to the note, to the careful placement.
"Milton left her guarded," he said quietly, more to his companions than to the healer.
The healer found their voice again, shaking but furious. "Get out," they snapped. "This is an infirmary."
The polite one looked at them, and for a moment the smile returned. Not kind. Not amused.
"Of course," he said, as if the healer was a child asking for a bedtime story. "We're leaving."
Then, softly, to the quiet one: "Not here."
To the third: "Not with witnesses."
Witnesses.
He meant the healer.
He meant the ward logs.
He meant Natharion's attention.
He meant the Tower's fragile reputation.
He meant: this was a test, and the cost had just risen.
The quiet one didn't like it. I could see it in their posture, in the tense set of their shoulders. They wanted to force the issue.
Pride is a common disease in men who think they're in control.
So I helped.
I moved again.
A controlled strike. Not lethal. Not mercy, either.
My edge carved a line across the quiet one's forearm, deeper than the wrist cut, enough to make their hand jerk and the paper charms inside their sleeve crinkle in panic.
They bit back a shout.
Blood ran.
And I let my presence spike for half a heartbeat, just enough that the polite one's skin went tight and the healer's breath stopped.
A reminder.
This room had teeth.
The polite one's eyes narrowed.
Then he nodded once, like he'd just confirmed a theory.
"Withdraw," he said, voice suddenly flat. "Report. And seal the records."
The third figure backed away, breathing quick.
The quiet one hesitated, pride fighting survival.
I tilted my invisible edge slightly, letting the pressure sharpen near their throat without touching.
Their swallow bobbed.
They left.
The door shut behind them.
The hush ward remained for a breath longer, like a patron's hand lingering on someone else's property.
Then it snapped off.
Sound returned in a rush: distant footsteps, muffled shouts from elsewhere in the Tower, the faint hum of ward lines under strain.
The healer stood frozen, staring at the space near Goldwynn's bed as if expecting the air to speak.
It didn't.
I shifted back into my spirit body, hopping up onto the bed like an irritated cat reclaiming territory.
The healer blinked, clearly feeling that the "something" had moved, but unable to confirm it.
"What… was that?" they whispered.
Goldwynn slept, unmoved.
I leaned close to her ear and poked her cheek again.
"Wake up," I muttered. "Your life is attracting competent idiots now, and that's worse."
Goldwynn remained stubbornly asleep.
I sighed, then sat back, arms crossed, glare fixed on the door.
"Fine," I told the room. "Try again. See what happens."
And because I couldn't help myself, because boredom and affection are cousins in my bloodless heart, I poked Goldwynn one more time.
Poke.
"Sleeping beauty," I said quietly. "If you drool on Master's note, I'll haunt you."
Goldwynn didn't wake.
But somewhere out there, behind the walls, the Tower creaked with the sound of plans being revised.
And I stayed on the bed, sword spirit and watchdog, waiting for the next set of hands that thought money meant permission.
***
(Erynd)
The courtyard had become a sickness.
Not the slow rot of politics, where people died smiling and called it tradition.
The fast rot.
The kind where you blink and the man beside you stops being a man.
Green wards pulsed underfoot, veins carved into stone. The crowd that had been cheering hours ago now moved like a herd sensing a predator. Some were screaming. Some were praying. Some were doing the noble thing: pretending nothing was wrong until it bit them personally.
I saw another mage stumble, clutching their chest, eyes wide, mouth opening to scream.
Then the scream twisted.
Their jaw shifted.
Their fingers elongated, then snapped back, then elongated again like the body was arguing with itself about what shape it deserved.
The residue I'd seen with Qlippothic sight wasn't passive anymore.
It was awake.
It threaded into cores and pulled.
Like a seed finally deciding to bloom.
My stomach tightened with cold anger.
"Nyxa," I said.
She looked up at me, ring glinting on her finger, expression bright and calm in the way only monsters and children were calm in disasters.
"Find more," I ordered. "Anyone who used the ward boosts. Anyone whose mana pattern is slipping. Anyone who looks wrong."
Nyxa nodded once.
Then she ran, vanishing into the crowd like a shadow that had learned how to sprint.
Natharion was already moving too.
He wasn't a host anymore. Not a smiling Tower master shepherding guests through polite ceremonies.
He was an archmage in crisis mode, and the only thing he feared more than death was paperwork.
I watched him seize a half-deformed mage mid-cast, slam a containment array into the stone, and bind the creature's output into a tight sphere before it could explode outward.
The creature thrashed, mouth foaming, spell-lattice tearing and reforming like a heart trying to beat in wrong rhythm.
Natharion's face didn't change.
He spoke a single word, sharp and final, and the mana core inside the creature collapsed in on itself.
The creature dropped, twitching, alive but emptied.
It was triage by brutality.
I couldn't blame him.
If these things were going to bloom fully, if they were going to explode, if they were going to become something that would crawl into the city and breed in basements… then delay was cruelty with a pretty face.
I moved too.
Vector in short pulses, disrupting unstable lattices before they could expand into fields.
Qi driving my legs through the chaos, sprint speed snapping up when I needed it, body pushing through panicked nobles and sobbing apprentices alike.
A man in embroidered robes grabbed my sleeve.
"Do you know who I am?" he hissed, eyes wild.
I looked at him.
Then I shoved him aside without answering.
He hit the ground hard, dignity scattering.
Good.
He could pick it up later if he survived.
A corrupted mage surged toward a cluster of civilians, arms raised, mana flaring like a bonfire about to become a forest fire.
I cast Vector hard.
Their spell collapsed mid-formation. The backlash cracked their ribs. They screamed, then laughed, then screamed again.
I stepped in and struck the side of their jaw with my palm, Qi-backed.
They dropped.
Not dead. Not yet.
But unconscious.
Containment.
Always containment if possible.
Because this was not a battlefield where enemies wore uniforms.
This was a courtyard full of people who might have been victims two minutes ago.
Natharion slammed another mage to the ground, breath ragged now, mana sweat shining on his forehead.
He looked at me across the chaos.
"Milton!" he shouted, voice raw.
I reached him in three strides.
His eyes were bloodshot with fury and exhaustion. "This event was forced through," he spat. "Patrons. Funding. Pressure. I told them the wards weren't ready."
"And they didn't care," I replied.
Natharion's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Of course they didn't. They never do. They wanted results. They wanted spectacle. They wanted… whatever the fuck this is."
A scream cut across the courtyard, followed by the wet crack of someone hitting stone.
I glanced.
A deformed mage had tried to fly and failed, body twisting mid-air as the ward residue dragged their channels in two directions at once.
Natharion's jaw clenched.
"I will kill every last one of them if I have to," he said, and the sentence wasn't a threat. It was an oath.
"Do it," I said.
Natharion blinked, startled.
"I'm not here to moralize at you," I added. "I'm here to stop the bloom."
His expression tightened, then he nodded once, sharp.
We moved together after that. Not as friends. Not as allies. As two men with overlapping objectives and no time for diplomacy.
Natharion cast like a surgeon. Contain, sever, drop, move.
I cast like a knife. Disrupt, break, knock out, move.
Between us, the courtyard began to stabilize.
Not safe.
But less immediately doomed.
Nyxa returned, breathless, blood on her sleeve that wasn't hers.
"Father," she said quickly, "there are more. They're hiding them. Some are below."
Of course.
Of course they were.
Natharion's gaze snapped toward the Tower's interior.
"The courtyard is the surface," he said, voice tight. "If they planted this here, there's a deeper node. A ward anchor. A ritual site. Something."
My hands clenched.
The Crystal Heart of Zotal sat behind its ward cage on the dais, still gleaming like innocence. Like bait.
Natharion made a decision so fast I felt it in the air.
He strode toward the dais, ignored the protesting officials, and tore the ward cage open with a master override that made the sigils scream.
He grabbed the artifact.
Then he shoved it into my hands.
"I'm giving it to you," he said. "Now. Because if I keep it here, they'll use it as justification to keep this disaster running."
I closed my fingers around the Heart.
It hummed, steady and calm, an absurdly gentle thing in a day of deforming bodies.
Natharion's eyes burned.
"This is not all I will give," he said, voice grim. "But you need to go. Find the source. Stop it before the Tower itself becomes a breeding pit."
"What else will you give," I asked, already moving.
Natharion's mouth twitched. "Access. Names. Records. Anything you need to bury the patrons who pushed for this."
Good.
I could work with that.
Nyxa tugged my sleeve. "Father, hurry. The wrongness is thicker inside."
I nodded once.
No speeches.
No gratitude.
Not yet.
I turned and sprinted toward the Tower's elevator shaft, pushing through bodies, ignoring shouts, ignoring the distant sobs of people realizing the world had teeth.
Behind me, Natharion was still moving, still dropping corrupted mages, still cursing softly about how much paperwork death created.
The elevator platform waited like a mouth.
I hit the lever.
Stone groaned. Chains tightened. The platform began to descend.
As the courtyard light vanished above me and the Tower walls closed around my shoulders, the Heart thumped faintly in my palm like a second heartbeat.
Nyxa stood beside me on the platform, ring glinting in the dim light, face strangely pleased.
"This is fun," she said.
I stared at her.
"It's not fun," I replied.
Nyxa shrugged. "It's interesting. And you're alive. That's the same thing."
The platform dropped deeper.
The Tower air grew colder.
Somewhere below, wards pulsed like veins, and the wrongness Nyxa had smelled earlier thickened into something undeniable.
Not wind.
Not imagination.
A planned infection.
A harvest.
I exhaled once, slow and steady, and let my mind sharpen.
Because whatever was waiting inside the Tower…
It had just made the mistake of forcing my hand.