Math Is Magic

Vincent, Edward and Mirac had almost reached the end of the royal garden.

On the left side of the path, but also nearing its end, majestic trees rose skyward. Their massive, gnarled trunks intertwined their branches into a canopy of leaves, as if guarding the mysteries of the dense forest.

This forest, in fact, extended far beyond its deceptive appearance, encircling the castle's entire perimeter for a kilometer and a half, much like its walls.

On the right side, however, lay a field of white roses, a surreal contrast to the dark shadows of the forest.

The petals, white and soft as angelic feathers, danced in the gentle breeze, creating the illusion that the earth itself was breathing. Each flower seemed sculpted to perfection, with blooms open like faces turned towards the setting sun, which, with its last rays, caressed them delicately, tinging them with golden and rosy hues.

In this enchanted tableau, the tall stems of the roses stood like elegant sentinels, their blossoms in full bloom, exuding a sweet, enveloping fragrance that filled the air with an almost otherworldly atmosphere.

If not for his skill, "Instant Counting," Mirac might have thought there were infinite flowers in that field of white roses. A thought that, in truth, had accompanied him throughout his entire journey in the royal garden.

"WOOOW!" exclaimed Mirac, his eyes wide with wonder.

Although he had already seen many flowers that day, none had captivated him like these.

There was something special about that expanse of pristine petals, a beauty that seemed to trap his every thought.

Edward stopped beside Vincent, pointing a finger towards the flowers.

"What do you think of these, Professor Shirkenn?" he asked, his voice full of hope.

Vincent stepped forward a few paces, observing the field before him attentively.

"These…" he began, hesitantly.

His eyes moved slowly, exploring every corner of the landscape: first to the left, then to the right, as if trying to capture every detail before offering his opinion.

After a moment of contemplative silence, his face broke into a radiant smile.

"They are magnificent!" he exclaimed enthusiastically.

Spreading his arms as if to embrace the entire expanse, Vincent finally seemed satisfied for the first time all day.

He then turned to Mirac, the smile still on his face.

"And you, young Prince, what do you think?"

Mirac, his eyes shining with wonder, responded with a sincere and excited tone:

"Yes, Professor! I think they are beautiful too! I'm sure Carmen will love them!"

Mirac then turned to Edward.

"Mr. Foss, could you help us gather some?"

Edward chuckled good-naturedly.

"Of course! It's an honor to assist you."

Without hesitation, he headed towards a small wooden shed located a bit further along the path.

After a few minutes, he returned with gardening tools, a pair of work gloves, and some sharp shears.

Donning the gloves, Edward began cutting the roses one by one, handling the tools with care to avoid damaging the delicate petals.

Vincent, fascinated by Edward's skill and calm demeanor as he handled the roses, approached with a hint of hesitation.

"Can I help you in any way?" he asked timidly, almost afraid of being a bother.

Edward looked up, a gentle smile gracing his lips, though he didn't pause in his work.

"Don't worry, there's no need, Professor Shirkenn," he replied in a reassuring tone, continuing to cut the roses with precision. "Carmen is probably already on her way back to the castle by now. I promise to be quick."

Vincent nodded but cleared his throat before responding, betraying a trace of nervousness:

"Thank you so much."

Mirac watched the scene, keenly noting the tension Vincent was unsuccessfully trying to mask. The professor kept fiddling with his tie, tightening and loosening it in a repetitive, almost compulsive gesture.

'He'll never change, will he?' thought Mirac, a faint, amused smile curving his lips.

Crouching in front of some roses, Mirac began observing them more closely.

Vincent and Edward, to his left, continued their work, immersed in silence broken only by the faint clicking of the shears.

The evening air was cool and charged with anticipation, as if the entire universe were holding its breath during this quiet moment before an inevitable declaration.

'Maybe I'll pick one for my mother as well...' thought Mirac, reaching out his right hand to pluck a rose.

But his action was abruptly interrupted.

A thorn pricked his finger, making him flinch in pain.

"AUGH!" he groaned, bringing the finger up to examine it.

A drop of bright red blood rolled down and fell onto the white gravel of the path, a stark contrast to the purity of the roses.

Edward turned around suddenly, his face clouded with concern.

"Oh, heavens! Are you all right, young Prince?"

Mirac responded calmly:

"Yes, don't worry. Nothing happened."

He smiled to reassure the older man, though it didn't seem to work.

Even though it was just a tiny wound, and certainly nothing serious, Edward reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a roll of white gauze. With expert movements and without saying a word during the "treatment," he wrapped Mirac's injured finger.

He didn't skimp on the gauze, bandaging it with a care that revealed his kind and attentive nature.

"You must be more careful, young Prince," he said with a nod.

"Yes, you're right. I was foolishly reckle-"

Mirac didn't have time to reply.

He remained still, taken aback, staring half incredulously at the bandaged finger.

Perhaps because it was just a minor wound, he clearly felt the throbbing pain gradually subside until it disappeared entirely.

'Incredible!' he thought, surprised.

Edward, sensing both Mirac's amazement and confusion, hastened to explain:

"Sometimes I cut myself as well, young Prince. That's why, a few years ago, my wife gave me this roll of 'magic gauze.' To the naked eye, you can't see anything, but on the surface," he raised his hand to show Mirac the roll of gauze carefully, even though there was indeed nothing visible, "there are healing runes applied. That's why I always keep it in my pocket, just in case it's needed."

With that said, before Mirac could raise any questions about the unusual magical object, Edward cut the rose responsible for the incident. Before handing it to Mirac, he carefully removed all the thorns, making sure there were no further risks of injury.

The kindness of the gesture revealed a deep sensitivity and gentleness.

"Here you go, take it. This is the one you wanted, right?"

Mirac nodded, a slight expression of embarrassment mixed with acknowledgment of the "lesson."

"Thank you."

After an exchange of smiles, Edward returned to his work.

However, even without giving Mirac the time to observe the rose he was holding in his hands, Edward's voice broke the silence once again, filled with a sweet nostalgia:

"You know, now that I think about it, my wife loves these flowers too."

"Really?" Mirac asked, intrigued.

"Yes, young Prince. She absolutely loves these roses! However, to be honest, I've never quite understood why. But…" He paused with a laugh. "After all, who can understand women nowadays?"

He let his warm, sincere laughter fill the air before continuing:

"Every time I visit her, I bring her a bouquet of these roses. Without a doubt, they are her favorite."

Meanwhile, Mirac had brought the rose to his face, closing his eyes as its delicate fragrance enveloped his senses.

The young Prince remained silent for a moment, captivated by the scent, before speaking almost absent-mindedly:

"Where does your wife live?" he asked, his words almost lost in the wind.

"In the countryside, fortunately not too far from here. I can only see her during my vacation days, but… I miss her every day…" He paused, gazing at the sky turning golden and pink. "But it doesn't matter! In exactly one week, I'll be able to return to her. Or rather," he added, with a flash of determination in his eyes, "this was my last year of service here at the castle. After that, I'll retire and live with her."

Mirac lowered the rose from his face, his gaze filled with a veil of soft emotions.

"You're very lucky, Mr. Foss," he said with a faint smile. "Having someone who waits for you at home, someone who hugs and loves you… Yes, I suppose it's every man's dream! Isn't it, Professor?"

Vincent, who had been listening silently until then, nodded first, then replied with measured words:

"I suppose so, young Prince…"

His gaze seemed lost in an undefined point, beyond the field of roses.

A brief silence fell between them, broken only by the whisper of the wind caressing the leaves, the soft rustling of the flowers, and the steady rhythm of Edward's shears.

Suddenly, the autumn breeze grew sharper.

Mirac slowly stood up, letting the scent of the rose fill his senses once more.

Before him, a breathtaking view unfolded: the entire stretch of the royal garden they had traversed so far extended as far as the eye could see, with the white roses swaying to his left and the dense, dark forest closing in on his right.

However, his gaze shifted elsewhere, toward the horizon in front of him, where the rear of the castle loomed solemnly, bathed in the warm golden light of the sunset.

Behind him, Vincent and Edward continued their conversation.

"Mr. Foss," Vincent began, his voice surprisingly calm, free from his usual uncertainty, as he untied his tie for the umpteenth time, "do you prefer white roses or red ones?"

Mirac didn't turn around, but he clearly heard the shears stop and Edward rise with a slight sigh.

"Heh, good question," the gardener replied with a soft laugh. "Red roses have a majestic elegance, that's for sure. And maybe I was simply influenced by my wife, but I would say that I also have a strong preference for white roses, for their purity and simplicity."

Edward paused for a moment, looking at the bunch of flowers he had gathered.

"Anyway, I've cut about twenty roses. I think that should be enough. And it's fortunate that there's all the necessary material in the shed to make a nice bouquet."

Then, tilting his head with a sly smile, Edward added:

"But, Professor Shirkenn, I see you're struggling with that tie… Would you like some help?"

Vincent chuckled lightly, a rare moment of lightness that managed to break the heavy atmosphere of his thoughts.

Meanwhile, Mirac had remained standing still.

He felt as if he was immersed in a vortex of indefinite thoughts, a tangle of reflections that couldn't take shape, and for which all he could do was stay motionless and focus, hoping his mind would unravel.

He remained this way for several moments, suspended in a sort of mental calm.

It was only when a butterfly with sky-blue wings crossed his field of vision that his gaze broke away from the distant castle. He followed it with his eyes as it fluttered among the white petals, floating lightly and unaware of the world around it.

And when it least expected it, its flight was soon interrupted...

The blue wings became entangled in a thin spider's web.

And, as expected, a black spider, with its eerie body and long, slender legs, began to slowly move towards its prey, ready to weave its fate around the butterfly.

Mirac watched the scene with a strange unease, unable to tear his gaze away.

For some strange reason, that small drama between predator and prey awakened a distant memory in him.

He found himself recalling about a year earlier, during his first sword training.

However, what came to his mind more strongly wasn't so much the training itself, but Leonard's words: a phrase that had struck him deeply that day, and which now echoed in his mind.

"Remember, young Prince... If you want to survive, do as you did today: always trust your instincts!"

Those words, vibrating like thunder, seemed to shake every fiber of his being.

A tingling sensation coursed through him from head to toe, leaving him still motionless in his place, with his mouth slightly open, almost unaware of his surroundings.

His gaze shifted back to the castle in the distance, as the image of the trapped butterfly merged with the vivid memory of the training.

Time seemed to stop for a moment, with the details of the present and the past intertwining in that unconscious state.

Vincent and Edward were still talking behind him, but Mirac could no longer hear them clearly. Everything seemed muffled, as though he were submerged underwater.

But even if he could have heard their voices, Mirac was too focused on that mental flashback to listen, or even question what was happening.

'Trust your instincts!…'

The words rang incessantly in his mind, first as a whisper, then as a distant echo, growing louder and louder!

'Trust your instincts… Trust your instincts… Trust your instincts… Trust your instincts… Trust your instincts… Your instincts… Your… INSTINCTS!'

And then, without his mind fully understanding why, his body reacted.

In an instant, Mirac threw himself to the side.

He didn't even have time to realize what was happening when a fierce, tearing pain exploded suddenly in his left arm.

He was still mid-air, barely a heartbeat after the jump, when the devastating pain hit him with such intensity it almost made him lose consciousness.

The impact with the ground was brutal: he fell heavily on his right side, his body already shaken by pain and adrenaline as he rolled a little further ahead.

"AAAAAAAAAGH!!!"

A heart-wrenching scream escaped his lips, shattering the uneasy silence of the garden.

Frightened by the cry, some crows perched on the twisted branches of the nearby forest took flight, emitting harsh calls, while the air around him seemed to vibrate with fear.

"Fuck, that hurts!" Mirac groaned through clenched teeth, his breath broken by the pain.

When he looked down at his arm, his heart skipped a beat.

"W-What the...?!"

His left arm… was gone!

At the elbow, the torn flesh gaped in a gruesome sight.

The fracture was right between the distal end of the humerus and the bones of the ulna and radius, where the joint had been brutally shattered.

The muscle fibers, like torn ropes, hung disordered around the white, shattered bone protruding from the wound.

Warm blood pulsed in irregular bursts, pouring out with terrifying ferocity and staining the white gravel of the path. The red drops mixed with the dust, forming dark streams that flowed like small, bloody rivers.

Mirac couldn't tear his eyes away from the wound, as pure terror mixed with horror and disbelief.

"M-Motherfucker!!! Damn, that hurts!!!" he screamed again, his breath broken and gasping as he struggled to maintain some semblance of clarity.

The pain was overwhelming, a merciless wave threatening to drown him.

In that moment, the formalities and impeccable language expected of a false child from his high social status were the last thing on his mind.

"W-What the fuck happened?!" he shouted, instinctively pressing his severed arm in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding.

The stump pulsed under the desperate pressure of his fingers, but the blood gushed in torrents, a hot and viscous river.

Despite the chaos in his mind and the paralyzing pain, Mirac knew he couldn't afford to lie there and despair for even another second!

It was clear that whatever had attacked him, and severed his left arm, was still nearby, ready to strike again.

He needed to locate the assailant immediately and, if necessary, brace himself to dodge their next attack.

With this in mind, Mirac fought with all his strength to get back on his feet, stumbling as he tried to rise. His body trembled spasmodically, each movement a battle against the pain and fear.

Breathing heavily and with his heart pounding, he began nervously scanning the surrounding area.

The first thing he noticed out of the corner of his eye, to his left, from the spot where he had jumped, was his severed arm lying on the ground, blood still dripping from the stump.

Then, despite the pain gripping his mind, his gaze was involuntarily drawn back behind him, to the spot where Edward and Vincent had been talking just moments before.

A growing anxiety pushed him to check, to see if something had happened to the two of them.

But as soon as he turned, he instantly regretted it…

"W-What…"

The sight that greeted him took his breath away, and blood seemed to freeze in his veins.

On the ground lay Edward…

Or rather, what was left of him…

His body, in fact, was sliced in two perfect halves!

His legs, pelvis, chest, and head were divided along the sagittal plane, as if a blade had performed its work with incredible precision.

Even his face, that face that had been so alive and vibrant just moments before, was now split in two: an expression of pure horror eternally etched in his wide, empty eyes.

Both halves lay motionless, the entrails exposed in a macabre pool of blood and tissue.

The gardener's right hand, still half open, clutched the shears with which he had been cutting the roses, while his other hand held what would have been the bouquet of flowers for Carmen.

The white roses beside him, once pure and perfect, were now stained with blood, soaked in their tragic fate.

"MR. FOSS!!!" Mirac screamed, his voice torn with panic and despair.

With his right hand, he continued to press against the wound, trying to stem the blood that flowed relentlessly, but the sight of Edward's butchered body made him falter.

A wave of nausea surged in his throat, almost making him vomit, and the world seemed to lose its stability.

It was then, before Edward's mutilated body, that his eyes caught a familiar figure...

"P-Professor Shirkenn?" Mirac whispered.

Vincent was standing there, unharmed, but he appeared almost indifferent to the carnage around him.

The tie, which he had nervously fidgeted with all day, hung loosely from his right hand, stained with blood, while with his left hand he unbuttoned the collar of his black shirt, also stained with red, letting the cool air caress his skin.

His black trousers, once immaculate, now bore dark bloodstains that spread along the knees and sides.

His face, usually gentle and awkward, was now cold and impassive, streaked with splashes of blood, adding an unsettling touch to his expression.

Vincent's eyes, which had always betrayed anxious nervousness, were now devoid of emotion, fixed on Edward's corpse with a chilling calmness.

"I also love white roses, Mr. Foss," Vincent said, his voice low and ominous, filled with a silent threat that sent a shiver through Mirac's core.

Any trace of his usual stammer or shyness was gone.

Slowly, Vincent lifted his gaze towards Mirac, and his cold eyes met those of the young Prince.

"But then," Vincent concluded, with a sinister smile, "I prefer to dye them with blood..."