These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

The lights went out. The entire amphitheater went dark. A chorus of shrieking sylphs rose over the already howling winds. Then the mercenaries started shouting too.

Blinded by what they mistook for divine judgment, the mercenaries never noticed that the bolts destroying the lighting artifacts were fired from the upper reaches of the amphitheater.

The upper parapet ran in a ring inside the highest level of the amphitheater, set apart from the audience stands below. When the amphitheater was still in use, the Argent Guard stood watch along the upper parapet.

Especially during executions.

But today, two knights—one Azure and one White—ducked low behind the stone lip of the amphitheater's parapet, the carved edge just high enough to shield a crouched form from view.

"Are… those sylphs the work of Duke eum-Creid?" Alera whispered, awestruck.

"Surely he would have told us," Kylian muttered.

A flash of white lit the dark below, followed by the sound of steel being crushed. For an instant, Sigurd was visible—outlined in light.

"This feels unwise…" Alera said anxiously. "Blame me not if my arrow is errant."

The light faded. In just a breath, both lifted their crossbows and fired into the thick of the crowd furthest from Sigurd.

It was risky. But if they couldn't break the crowd, Sigurd was as good as dead.

Without warning, they heard the sound of a bolt biting stone roughly ten meters off. It wasn't particularly close. But there was no mistake who it was meant for.

"...The enemy's realized we're here," Kylian said quietly.

The amphitheater was filled with the sounds of wind and shouting. But Sigurd moved with perfect clarity, like a man walking through the eye of a storm. So many times, the violence of the battlefield would sharpen his focus until the world seemed to slow.

This time, there was no focus—no separation. The border between him and the world had blurred.

There was only motion. Man and wind and steel became one. The intent of every soul in the amphitheater revealed itself in a glance.

A man screamed skyward toward the fae. Another fled and fell, before being trampled. A third came low, blade drawn. Sigurd let the strike pass just shy of his shoulder, hooking the man's arm and pulling him into the arc of another blade.

Arrows were falling from above—reinforcements? Who? He didn't question it. With another flash of his aura, Sigurd lit the amphitheater.

One woman stood her ground amid the disorder, laughing hoarsely as she darted in, a longsword in hand, striking at his injured right side in a flurry. She pressed in with sharp angled strikes, forcing him to twist uncomfortably around his bad shoulder.

Each slash hunted at the same answer: how close was he to breaking? Her long sword sang faster with each swing, harrying him too tightly for his blade to free.

His aura dimmed to darkness, and there was a glint of steel as the woman's offhand snapped forward with a hidden knife. But her offhand was weak, her form crude and sloppy.

The knife slipped past his temple. Sigurd stepped in, driving his knee into her ribs. Something cracked. There was a flash of white.

It wasn't his.

Through it, Sigurd caught a glimpse of the woman's gasping, bared-teeth grin. He turned—just in time to meet Gerhardt's sword.

The entire forest was Ciel's enemy. Vines reached for her limbs, branches clawed at her sleeves. Every tree leaned in like giants trying to grab her, so far forward their roots should have torn free from the earth.

A vine slithered along her calf, coiling fast. Gasping, Ciel seized it with both hands, divine light pulsing faintly from her palm. Her holy aura slowly burned through the vine—when she tugged her leg free too swiftly, a jolt of pain shot through her shin.

Roots and shadows blurred together in the pale light of her aura. Her control of it had always been weak and clumsy—like a child trying to push a string. She was close. Just a little more… The bell tower where Bea waited was beginning to peek above the trees. She just had to cut through the willows up ahead—

But then, at the farthest reach of her light, Ciel saw him: sullen and shadowless, the boy who was this forest's master.

"Puck…!" Ciel gasped out. "Ugh!"

Before she could stop it, a vine thicker than the last had wrapped around her leg.

"You shouldn't do that to your friends, Ciel," Puck said with a hurt smile. "Let alone your family."

He walked toward her slowly. With trembling hands, Ciel tried to do what had always eluded her as a child—send her blessing outward, beyond herself. Thin strips of light shot toward Puck, held his arms wide as he took them head-on.

He groaned, but didn't resist. He accepted the pain, eyes wincing as he stood right before her, head craned up. His hand rose to touch her cheek.

Ciel seized it, and without hesitation, surged her aura as violently as she could. He recoiled. His form flickered tenuously. But he didn't let go.

"Family hurts each other sometimes too," Puck whispered. His grip tightened, fingers pressing into her face as if to lay claim. "We'll get past this."

He was still smiling. His eyes were jet black. A split-second of lightheadedness was all it took for her to realize what was happening.

She shut her eyes. But a moment later both of his hands cupped her face, his thumbs pressed to her lids to hold them open.

"Leave me and my daughter alone, Puck!" Ciel screamed—not in fear, but in fury—pouring every last ounce of light she had into her palm.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"It won't work, Ciel," Puck said. "Stop hurting yourself."

His voice warped as much as his body unraveled. His entire existence seemed to be fraying at the seams, yet that only made his grip on Ciel more desperate.

Her mind was getting foggy.

She was losing.

But just as the haze threatened to overtake her, Ciel heard Puck scream. There was a humming sound. And… there was a sword piercing his side.

"He… he looks like a child!" Camille shouted, the hilt trembling in her hands.

"Children aren't made of miasma! " Ailn shouted back. He turned to Ciel. "Get to Bea!"

She didn't hesitate. Just a quick, grateful glance to both of her saviors. Then she took off. A flicker of dismay crossed Puck's face as he reached out weakly toward the passing Ciel, as if to catch her.

But she brushed his hand aside without a word. Then, running through the sunken willows, she manifested her divine blessing, slicing through branches she didn't trust to remain inert.

The trees thinned, and Ciel finally burst past the willows' last veil. And for a breath… it felt as if the forest let out a sigh, one of the soft branches trembling as it tried to stir.

"Always the eum-Creids…" Puck gasped. "You have your happy family. Why do you always take away mine…?"

For a moment, it seemed the battle had been one before it even started. His head dropped, and his body broke apart into thin strands of black mist.

He snarled, clutching Camille's sword with both hands and ripping it from his chest as his darkness swallowed her light.

The forest stirred from its drowsy lull, branches thrashing, vines grasping once more. The willows which Ciel had passed through earlier heaved their way out of the soil, roots and all, dragging their masses across earth.

Then, as Ailn and Camille stood gaping—Puck darted into the shadows.

"...I have a feeling I may know who our foe is," Alera murmured.

A bolt whistled past Kylian and Alera, closer than ever. It struck the inner wall of the parapet just behind them, having missed Alera's shoulder by a mere handspan.

"Whoever it is," Kylian said, voice low, "there's no need to meet them on their terms. That last bolt came from across the way. We can flank from both sides."

Alera nodded and slipped off to the left while Kylian circled the opposite way around the parapet's curve. Both kept to a crouch.

Near the first exposed bend, Kylian cocked his crossbow. Catching the faintest motion in the dark, he fired—then ducked back.

No sound except an arrow hitting stone. A bolt flew his way, clattering against the inner wall. A shadow rushed him. Kylian dropped the crossbow, drawing his sword just in time to catch a slash aimed for his throat.

But the figure leapt back as soon as Alera was upon him from the other side.

"Ah, swords make for a worthier contest by far! Both of you honor me," the man said. "Some might cry two-to-one foul odds, but I once dueled twenty men with only a chipped blade and a fever! I can only commend you two for your tremendous courage."

He let the words hang a moment, then continued, voice low and almost amused, "Though I'm at a loss for what praise to offer Dame Alera's charming charade of loyalty."

"Voltus," Kylian muttered. "I thought you a mere braggart."

"Do you call it chivalry, abducting a child, Voltus?" Alera asked coldly.

"I merely escorted the young miss where she asked to go," Voltus said. This close, his genial smile was finally visible, yet it somehow seemed to glower in the dark. "Is it now a crime to bring a girl to her homeland? To place her in the arms of kin and the care of her many loyal servants? Why, one day, Lady Bea may even be my liege!"

"...Go and help His Grace Sigurd, Sir Kylian," Alera said. "For Voltus, my sword will be enough. If the former duke dies, then everything we've done tonight will be for naught."

Kylian met her eyes.

"Very well," he said, and turned on his heel. He dashed along the parapet, before finding the stairway down and vanishing into the chaos below.

That left only two figures atop the parapet. Their battle began silently, with movements that were almost excruciatingly subtle.

Alera feinted high with the barest shift of her wrist. Voltus didn't bite—his blade stayed proactively still. Then his own wrist gave a sudden twitch, testing her.

She didn't flinch.

There was no clash. There was a minimum of footwork.

Deliberately wrong-footed, Alera lunged forward a half-step, just enough to invite a counter-thrust. Voltus's flinch was exaggerated, as if he were facing down a bull.

She didn't blink.

Like proper fencers, both of them were lying with their swords. It was the type of swordplay that the White Knights excelled at—the type that won duels. And Alera and Voltus were the very best.

To outsiders, it was baffling and boring. To those who'd experienced the battlefield, it was a complete farce. But both knights knew: only a fool disrespects a lying blade.

They both moved at once.

Voltus committed first, a thrust aimed precisely at the gap beneath her arm. Alera sidestepped and countered in the same breath, her blade cutting upward toward his throat.

She was just a heartbeat faster. A lesser swordsman would have lost right there, but Voltus jerked back at the last instant, Alera's blade cutting a thin line across his jaw instead of finding his throat.

"Well! All those years of politely avoiding the dueling circle with you have been thoroughly vindicated!" Voltus cried. "Truly, the most brilliant strategy I never dared admit. They say Sir Voltus ducks the sharpest blades; I say, a fine lunatic it is who stands still as it flies toward his face!"

"The next strike will find its mark," Alera said. "You don't deserve mercy, Voltus. But I'll grant you a chance to yield, all the same. Toss that absurd orichalcum blade of yours."

Voltus went quiet, eyes dropping to his sword as if truly weighing her words.

He stood too far to catch her by surprise, but Alera kept her gaze locked on him all the same. Sir Voltus was clever. She had no doubt he could conjure a hidden knife, or trigger a planted trap.

All she had to do was watch his hands.

So when he moved—suddenly, sharply—what she felt wasn't fear. It was relief. At least it was honest.

Or was it?

Alera read blades faster than anyone else. And all she could see was a straightforward thrust. An inch off could mean the difference between life and death in a duel. Yet the tip of his sword would fall at least two feet short.

For a second, she had the absurd thought that his blade might extend—

She felt a cold pulse of dread and twisted her neck away on pure instinct. A silvery thread of light flashed just past her face.

"You—" Alera gasped, swiveling left to avoid another thread of light. "The divine blessing?!"

Alera took a step back, certain she was beyond Voltus's range—

His sword released another flash, farther than the last. Had she not leapt back at the last second, it would have pierced through her eye.

"How?! Who even bestowed it?!" Alera shouted, backpedaling fast—she had to sprint for cover unless she wanted to be skewered a dozen times over. "Don't tell me—don't you dare tell me all those stupid lies were true!"

If Voltus truly were a Blanc or a eum-Creid, then she was done—utterly done—with both families.

Was it Astrid? No…

"Therèze?!" Alera gasped, jumping behind the parapet's curve.

"The duel is won before the combatants meet in the circle, Alera," Voltus lectured, his voice cheery.

He was right. So she acted accordingly. Her gaze flicked to the object lying nearby.

As Alera dealt with Voltus above, Kylian was handling the mercenaries below, giving no quarter as he worked to shatter the last of their morale. Mercy here would be neither wise, nor deserved. His blade extended with a gleam, right through a fleeing foe's leather gambeson.

He steadied his breath as his holy aura dispersed. More would come. And he needed to be ready. But in the darkness of the amphitheater, Kylian's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the clash of light below.

The battle down there was nearing its end.

Gerhardt was being dispatched by Sigurd with effortless precision.