Swan Song [Dark Fantasy | Progression Fantasy | Slowburn]

[Volume 2 | Chapter 77: Turnabout (II)]

Alaric Ptolemy's mind was a hurricane of confusion. The door to the ritual chamber shattered against the far wall. The three sacrifices he'd so meticulously prepared were gone, their bindings cut, the circle of power disrupted beyond salvation.

And there, silhouetted against the doorway like some vengeful spirit summoned from the void, was Acacia Belmont.

In the end, the only statement that mattered tumbled from his lips.

"You. The Wallachian refugee. Pandora Kircheisen's pet."

Alaric's face twisted and contorted the more he looked at the aberration before him. Anger, grief, hatred, jealousy, and most of all, confusion.

And despite all of those feelings, the Irregular remained expressionless.

"I'd prefer 'Acacia,' but I suppose nobles aren't big on first-name basis with commoners."

He tilted his head, studying Alaric like he were some sort of neanderthal.

"You look terrible, by the way. The Modern Tome isn't treating you well, is it?"

Alaric's appearance had deteriorated significantly since their confrontation at Windsor Preparatory. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor, and a thin trickle of dried blood traced from his nostril to his upper lip.

Lastly, his blue hair that was a sign of his noble pedigree could now be compared to toilet paper with how tangled it was.

"The what...?"

He had no idea what Acacia was talking about, and that angered him.

"...You're talking about that book I found at Windsor Preparatory, correct?" he assumed, grabbing the tome from his coat. He hugged it as if it were some Bible to the Christian God. "That book has done more than just treat me. It has liberated me."

His eyes turned bloodshot, as if the very act of speaking was a struggle for him.

"It's... given me power... power to fight back against the very people who would see me crushed under their boots. It's given me the strength to stand tall, to finally rise above the muck and mire of my own mediocrity, to become... to become..."

"Insane?" Acacia interjected.

"What? I—insane?!" Alaric's face contorted further.

Acacia sighed.

"Well, let's see. You were planning on sacrificing three innocent children to gain power from some mysterious book. Does that sound normal to you, Alaric?"

The black-haired boy was unimpressed.

It irked Alaric to no end, especially coming from a foreign refugee like him.

"That's... no, it's not insane! I'm not insane! How dare you even suggest such a thing, you—you refugee, you beggar! I am a scion of the House of Ptolemy, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner!"

"Uh-huh. Right. Because I'm sure the great and noble House of Ptolemy would be proud of their heir now—kidnapping children, practicing dark magic, and looking like a strung-out drug addict. Tell me, are your parents aware that their precious son has resorted to blood magic and child sacrifice to make up for his own lack of talent?"

"Shut up! You know nothing of the pressures I face, the expectations that have been placed upon me since birth! Don't presume to lecture me on my family's legacy, you insignificant, ignorant, pitiful worm!"

Alaric's mind was crumbling. The Modern Tome had taken hold of his psyche, and it refused to let go.

"And... you just ruined everything! I needed the ritual to..." He wanted to finish his words, but his mouth wouldn't let him.

Because he knew that his time was up.

Whether it was now or whether it was by midnight.

He would die because he failed to follow the decree of the Modern Tome.

To kill three children under the conjunction of Luna-Spica to complete the «Zulumat» ritual or else he would die.

But now, thanks to that meddling refugee and his crew, his plan was foiled. The children were gone. His plan was ruined.

"It was necessary! All of it...! The book, the tome, whatever the hell this thing is! It gave me the power to finally rise above my station! No longer a weakling, a failure... no longer a disappointment to my family, to my house, to myself!"

Alaric's hands shook with rage as he clutched the Modern Tome tighter.

"Can't you see? Can't you understand? This is what I've been searching for all my life—a way out of the mediocrity that has plagued me since the day I was born! A chance to prove myself, to show the world that I am not just some pathetic heir with no future and no worth beyond my family name!"

He laughed then, a sound that was more akin to a choked sob than any expression of joy.

"Now... thanks to you, I'll never get that chance... my time is up, my life is over... I've failed—"

"STOP YOUR STUPID BABBLING!"

The thunderbolt of Acacia's bellow stopped Alaric's words in their tracks.

"You're not a victim. You're not the protagonist of some tragic novel, destined to fail due to forces beyond your control. You're a selfish, entitled brat who's willing to kill kids to get what you want. That's just who you are, Alaric Ptolemy."

Acacia's sapphire eyes burned with an intensity that belied his usual stoic demeanor.

"You've made your choice, and now you have to live with the consequences. So go ahead, keep wallowing in self-pity. Keep telling yourself that it's all for some greater good, that you're a martyr for your cause. You chose to keep reading a shady book instead of reporting it back at the Windsor Prep Library. You chose to let it teach you Strategic Class Thaumaturgy forbidden to civilians. You chose to cast [Incendio] as an attempt to kill Leila. And... all because you had to work harder than everyone else. You were jealous of everyone else's talents!"

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

He was... jealous?

Alaric never thought that. That couldn't be true. What hogwash was he sayi—

No. Why am I actually thinking about that? He's wrong! He's wrong!

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

Alaric's shout echoed in the room, but Acacia remained unfazed. His gaze was steady as he regarded the broken young man before him.

"So, just have some shame for once and turn yourself in. It's the least you can do to atone for the live you were about to destroy."

And with that, the façade that had been barely holding together shattered.

If they haven't already called the authorities, the IPA and Inquisitors will soon descend upon this place. He'd be imprisoned for life. His House's name would be forever tarnished. All their hard work over generations would come to nothing because of him. He was a disgrace to their legacy. A failure in every sense of the word.

If he wouldn't die instantly by the book's prediction, he would absolutely die by the authorities.

But…

If the Inquisitors were going to kill him anyway…

At least he could have the satisfaction of butchering the refugee who ruined everything.

It started as just a disturbance in the air. Then it became an unsightly sound. Alaric's laughter grew louder and more unhinged as the seconds passed.

"Ahahaha... ahahaha! AHAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAH!"

He couldn't stop laughing. Something had snapped inside him and all that was left was madness.

Then he had an epiphany.

"Ah... amazing! This is so amazing~" It was as if the revelation had given some sort of arousal, as he licked his lips with glee. "Now that my time is up, and that the ritual is thwarted, it doesn't matter if I use it anymore, does it?"

Acacia raised an eyebrow.

But then…

His intuition registered what "it" was.

And it was the most dangerous thing imaginable.

He's going to use [Incendio]?!

Alaric's eyes glinted, and a sinister smile twisted his face. His prana signature, usually so carefully hidden, flared to life in a chaotic, violent burst. Acacia could feel the power gathering around him, the air growing hot and charged with an energy that was both familiar and terrifying.

No, this is...

The spell was forming so fast.

[Gran Incendio]?!

If [Incendio] could potentially ignite an entire city block in a combustion of flames... then [Gran Incendio] was the equivalent of igniting an entire district in a fiery explosion of death.

He didn't have time to think. He didn't have time to plan.

The only way to move was forward!

With Alaric dead in his sights, he exploded into a sprint towards him, covering the distance between them in a fraction of a second.

Alaric didn't even blink, still laughing like a madman. His hand was raised, and it was clear he was fully intent on calculating the spell.

Besides…

What a fool! Does he not know about my ⸢Ephemeral⸥? I'll just brainwash him the moment he's about to—

Alaric's thought process shattered as Acacia's fist smashed into his face.

There was no resistance. No interference. No mental manipulation. Nothing.

Acacia's punch sent Alaric hurtling back, crashing into the chamber's wall with a sickening crunch. It was a miracle that the Modern Tomb was still holstered on his back belt. His head slammed into the stone with brutal force, causing stars to explode across his vision and blood to gush from his nose. The impact left him dazed and disoriented, unable to focus or think clearly.

"Wh... what?"

Alaric struggled to his feet, clutching his head in agony.

"Impossible... How could...?"

No one had ever struck Alaric Ptolemy before. Not once in his sixteen years of privileged existence. The children of noble houses were sheltered, protected, and coddled. Physical violence was something that happened to other people, to commoners, to those unfortunate enough to be born without the protection of a family name and a Birthright.

Then, when he saw the approaching Acacia, it exploded in his face.

A white hot agony ripped through his skull, a sensation that transcended mere pain and became something primal, animalistic, overwhelming every sense and thought. He screamed, a high, keening howl that echoed through the chamber, but there was no one to hear it except the boy that was now his nightmare.

My ⸢Ephemeral⸥—it should have—he should have—

Why wasn't he affected by ⸢Ephemeral⸥? He should have been his slave by now! He should have been his toy!

Such anger transformed into a survival instinct. With his aggressor closing in for another attack, Alaric's training kicked in—the countless hours spent practicing defensive spells under his father's cold, critical gaze.

"[REPULSA]!"

The spell exploded outward, a concentrated burst of invisible kinetic force that caught Acacia squarely in the chest. It was his strongest [Repulsa] yet, sending the Irregular's feet parallel to the ground and his body flying like a rag doll. Acacia slammed into the opposite wall with enough force to crack the concrete, dust and debris raining down around him as he crumpled to the floor. For a terrifying moment, he didn't move.

He rose to his feet, slowly but surely, and dusted himself off as if he'd simply been knocked down by a strong gust of wind. Sure, his baseball jacket was torn, but there wasn't a hint of pain in his expression, nor any indication that he was bothered by the impact that had just sent him flying.

Almost as if he had been hit by a thousand such blows before.

Alaric couldn't help but feel a surge of frustration and confusion. He struggled up, using the wall for support, one hand pressed against his swelling cheek. Blood continued to seep from between his lips, and his breathing came in ragged, panicked gasps.

The two adversaries faced each other from opposite sides of the room, each backed against a wall, the broken ritual circle between them like a battlefield no man's land.

And for a good five seconds, neither deigned to move.

Until Alaric outstretched his hand forward.

"[Fiamma!]"

In a room filled with incendiary chemicals, Alaric's choice was reckless beyond belief.

When Acacia dodged the poorly aimed fire spell from Alaric's disorientation, it collided with a container of flammable liquid in the corner (likely a liquid necessary for the ritual), and the resulting explosion rocked the entire room. Flames roared to life, spreading with a frightening speed that threatened to engulf them both.

"Are you daft?!" Acacia roared as he ran out of the third-floor room, now dashing across the hallway in an attempt to escape the inferno.

Alaric, however, followed. His face was a twisted mask of rage, hatred, and a desperate need for validation. He couldn't believe that he, the scion of a noble house, was being challenged by a mere refugee—a commoner! A nobody!

He couldn't accept that, and so he pursued Acacia like a hound on the scent of blood.

"Just let me kill you! You don't deserve to live, you insignificant refugee!"

He cast spell after spell, hurling [Fiamma] and [Ignis] at Acacia in a relentless barrage to the point that the third floor was entirely ablaze.

Acacia was largely unscathed, save for a few welts and bruises where the edge of an explosion had caught him. But he couldn't keep dodging forever, and the heat was becoming unbearable. The air was thick with smoke, and the roar of the flames was deafening.

He had to think of something quickly. The staircase. It was his only chance.

With the hallway rapidly becoming an inferno behind him, Acacia sprinted toward the stairwell at the end of the corridor. His mind raced through the building's layout, recalling details from their earlier reconnaissance. This decrepit structure wasn't completely abandoned. If he remembered, Windsor's homeless population had repurposed parts of it for shelter during the cold months. They'd modified the plumbing infrastructure and reconnected pipes that should have been long dormant.

Unclean water. Electricity. The cylindrical weight in his pocket from Leila.

A plan crystallized in Acacia's mind even as he ran.