These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

They were not ill-prepared. But they had simply not prepared enough.

The swiftness of the encroachment and its intensity exceeded Sigurd's expectations. They had around four dozen knights on hand, yet there were hundreds of shadow beasts rushing toward them.

That wasn't the most difficult part.

The miasma itself was near, and if it engulfed the wall it would need to be driven back—an exhausting task, which required a sustained application of holy aura.

Sigurd was glad he'd come. If he had not, he was certain the wall would have been breached. Every knight here would have been slaughtered, and the shadow beasts would likely have reached the nearest settlement, destroying it before a large enough force was mustered to push back the miasma and hunt them down.

A flurry of knights ran out to the top of the wall, and began to panic. They were only now realizing the severity of the situation.

"There's… so many…" One of the knights gawked, his hands almost too shaky to draw his sword. And though he began to manifest his holy aura, it immediately began to falter.

"Steel yourself," Sigurd's harsh and resonant voice had no tremor.

Though he urged them so, the knights atop the wall could not help but feel the weakness in their holy aura.

The sky turned darker as the miasma approached, as if they were suddenly shrouded by night. They would've hardly been able to see each other, if not for their auras.

"Tremble not! Have we not all sworn we'd give our lives for Varant if need be?!" Camille shouted. "Why should our auras falter—?!"

Captain at such a young age, and one of the Azure Knights' most accomplished swordfighters, Camille had earned many of the knights' respect. She had no difficulty asserting her leadership.

Here she did so as well, and her holy aura seemed to shine brighter than ever. Its flicker, however, was erratic—like a candle reaching the end of its wick.

When she turned to her brother for solidarity… she saw he was unable to manifest his own aura.

"Nicolas…?" Camille took a terrified, shaky breath.

Her brother's hands were shaking so terribly. He gritted his teeth and glared at his sword, as if anger could bring it to life. But even as his face began to twist into despair, it did not light.

Camille's aura began to dim at the sight.

The most painful presentiment hung over the knights, almost as thick as the miasma. As the beasts neared the wall, their death seemed increasingly certain; at the same time, their auras waned with fear.

Would they be killed like rats, unable to even muster their full strength to fight valiantly?

The first wave of shadow beasts began to pool disgustingly at the base of the wall. Wolves and tigers scrambled upward in short bursts. Close behind them came the second wave—vultures, gliding through the miasma.

Sigurd, sensing the terror latent in the air, took a deep breath and purposefully approached the far side of the ramparts as the first wave of beasts neared the top.

He drew his sword, and manifested his divine blessing. His holy aura glinted, extending his blade, its normally delicate hum seeming to ring louder than usual.

Then, Sigurd slowly raised his sword above his head, gripping the hilt with both hands. Like an executioner's strike, he brought it slicing downward.

That quiet, unassuming aura which seemed only to sharpen his blade came down like lightning, annihilating every shadow beast it met on its path to the bottom of the wall. And once it hit the ground, it burst, the aura scattering radially in thin arcs which stretched hundreds of meters.

The entire wave of beasts had been cleared at once.

It was a display of power like they'd never seen from Sigurd. Their knight commander was never flashy—and they'd equated the strength of his blessing with the sharpness of his blade, the ease with which it could cut through the darkness.

Here he proved his raw might.

Breathing heavily, Sigurd addressed the astonished knights even as the vultures neared the top of the wall.

"If we falter, we die," Sigurd said. He was sweating, and his voice was rugged with effort. "Believe in my strength, and all of us will live to see tomorrow."

The knights roared, their voices echoing. Atop the wall, their holy auras surged with courage, shooting out through the darkness.

The trip back to Varant seemed like it would end without incident. Then again, they'd thought the same right before reaching Sussuro—and they were ambushed right on its cusp.

Ailn was tense. He had no idea if they'd be attacked again.

Should he send a missive ahead, calling for a mass of knights to receive them before they reached the city? Or was that too paranoid?

"It'll be okay, Ani," Renea said, riding beside him. She smiled gently. "They wouldn't dare to attack us so close to Varant." Then her eyes took on a distant look. "If they did, I'm certain Sigurd would take it quite personally."

"It wasn't personal the first time we were attacked?" Ailn asked, exasperated.

"...Sigurd has his priorities," Renea mumbled. "In his eyes, as we don't carry the divine blessing, we're likely less important. That doesn't mean he doesn't care, though."

"I'm having a hard time seeing why you'd think he does," Ailn replied, through narrowed eyes.

"He knows you're quite capable," Renea countered, admonishingly. "Because of that, he can afford to worry a little less about you. And if something really did happen to us—"

Renea's eyes creased as she relived a painful memory. "There isn't a soul in this empire who doesn't remember what happened the last time Sigurd was consumed by rage." She spoke with an almost clinical detachment. "An entire noble lineage was exterminated."

"What kind of care is that?" Ailn asked. He gave an indifferent shrug. "It doesn't do us much good if he only starts fighting for us after we're dead, does it?"

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"...Well, no…" Renea bit her lip.

"You know, maybe Sigurd should start caring about people before they're gone."

Despite their revived valor, the knights forced into a defensive posture. The first wave of wolves and tigers had been extinguished, yet more followed swiftly in the vultures' wake.

Nicolas alone engaged the attention of two tigers at once. It was an astounding feat, as tigers were typically fought at a ratio of six to one.

With a circular motion of his blade, he deflected the first tiger's heavy blow, while a surge of holy aura flowed from his unguarded side—not only repulsing the second tiger's attack, but causing it to momentarily recoil.

The first tiger took a pouncing stance.

"Nicolas!" Camille shouted.

"Focus on yourself, Camille!" Nicolas shouted. His tone was strident—almost angry.

The tiger leapt, and Nicolas's footwork was swift, more precise than usual. He had no intention of fully avoiding the tiger's attack. Instead, he intercepted it, maneuvering himself so that his blade—broadened by a swift application of his holy aura—would crash upon the leaping tiger's shoulder.

The tiger writhed, its roar silent as it lost a foreleg.

Camille's battle was no easier. She had taken it upon herself to draw the attention of every vulture atop the wall.

They were tricky creatures, opportunistic ones which consistently sought the least nimble knights to prey upon.

She weaved through the chaos of the knights' battles, acting as huntress, her intuition bordering on prescience. Camille saw the whole battlefield. She could sense when a vulture would come swooping down almost a minute before, and would go sprinting across the wall to meet it, augmenting her leaps with her aura.

Every knight atop the wall found themselves stronger than they'd ever been. Yet the miasma itself loomed ever closer. And if it were to set upon them before they had the chance to drive it back, then all might truly be lost.

Sigurd was almost as swift as Camille.

He was hunting the tigers. He'd swiftly decapitate one, lingering for just a moment before he'd go dashing to the next—Sigurd knew better than anyone that the loss of their heads didn't always ensure these creatures' demise.

When miasmatic tendrils would spring forth from the decapitated creatures' heads, Sigurd responded with holy arcs of his own, his aura surging with precision to intercept the wild, lashing tendrils.

Then he'd extend his blade till it was nearly twice its normal length, cleaving through the tiger with a sweeping slash.

Through Sigurd's extraordinary efforts, what was once a dozen of these tigers had been whittled down to just a handful—few enough that those knights atop the wall could handle the rest with ease.

Glancing over the battlefield, Sigurd quickly calculated the safest course of action.

He leapt from the northern wall, cushioning his fall with his aura, charging alone toward the miasma despite the knights' desperate cries.

The wall could not be engulfed.

The next wave of beasts was still forming within the miasma's swirling darkness. If Sigurd could clear the miasma in the area now, he could destroy them before they even manifested.

He raised his sword above his head yet again, channeling as much holy aura into his blade as he could muster. The hum of his aura grew louder and louder, resonating like huge crystal chimes caught in heavy winds.

Sigurd let his blade come crashing down. It was the grandest display of aura yet—a pure manifestation of the divine blessing which seemed to have its own life. Broad bright ribbons shot forward, dispersing miasma as they went, their holy light fading only after clearing the air a hundred meters into the distance.

The sky slowly returned to its normal color.

"Did we… succeed…?" Sigurd gasped for breath. Far behind in the distance, he could hear the knights' roaring cheers.

Up ahead, the miasma seemed to have stopped its approach.

But just as he'd started to relax, two shadow beasts began to emerge from the miasma. The first was a giant elephant, its trunk seeming to waver and shift like smoke. The second was a sleek leopard, its form more mist than substance.

Over the course of their return trip, Safi had gotten a few more chances to examine the substance within the obsidian jar—cautiously, and without hurting herself, as she'd promised her father.

"There's something… um… really strange about it?" Safi thought aloud. "I was vibing it out last night. Not in a good way," she hurriedly corrected herself, as if she'd offended Ailn. "It feels like a new corpse and a really really old corpse at the same time."

"A new corpse and an old corpse at the same time?" Ailn echoed. His mind was drawing a complete blank. He'd expected there to have been some kind of insidious sacrifice. But what Safi just said made no sense to him. "How old are we talking?"

"Ummmm, I don't even know how to answer that…" Safi mumbled. "Just really really really really old."

"A new and old corpse at the same time… and it feels like it's trying to eat you." Ailn thought it through, then glanced at Kylian. "You've got a pretty good sense of the miasma, right? Does that sound familiar?"

"The Azure Knights' sensitivity to the miasma is not so literary," Kylian replied, his own brow wrinkled in thought. "I can only imagine those with aura and those with mana understand it in different ways."

"...What even is the difference?" Ailn asked. Now that he thought about it, there was something a little strange about two supernatural 'energies' coexisting.

"None know, as of yet," Kylian shrugged.

"In mage school they teach us that aura is just a manifestation of mana!" Safi chirped. "And that knights want to say it's different just 'cause they want to be special." She covered her mouth. "Oops. I didn't say that. My teacher did."

"Right," Kylian sighed. "The magic tower in the capital similarly thinks little of holy aura. Differences in Varant's theology, and the empire's at large notwithstanding, the empire has every reason to diminish our aura's importance." Then, showing more resentment than he usually did, he added, "And there are those central nobility who even wish to dissect the divine blessing, such that Varant can be rendered unnecessary."

The knight muttered his next words under his breath. "...And replaceable."

"Are you saying the knights who won't be happy I'm bringing a mage along to Varant?" Ailn asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Given the circumstances in the catacombs, I hardly think we have the luxury to be so provincial," Kylian said. "I would be remiss if I said all those in the Order will feel the same."

Ailn mulled over what he'd learned. Nothing here was useful in the short-term. He felt a bitter taste at the back of his throat as he thought about the contents of the obsidian jar—but he also knew it wouldn't do them any good to let panic creep too heavily into their thoughts.

The knights had done a slow, thorough investigation of the catacombs. If whoever was responsible for the alchemy circles was still there, they hadn't shown themselves yet. The tunnels were too extensive and labyrinthine, though, to make any guarantee—even if they fully mapped them, anyone hiding down there could move shop constantly to evade detection.

"Who of the knights has the best miasmatic sensitivity?" Ailn asked.

"...His Grace Sigurd," Kylian replied.

"Oh great," Ailn said. "Guess we'll have to have a heart-to-heart."

Sigurd took a great leap, augmented by his own holy aura. He rose over ten feet in the air, attempting to cleave right through the shadowy elephant.

But before he could reach the beast, the leopard sprang after him. Though it seemed to lack the strength to reach his height, the leopard suddenly dissolved into pure miasmatic smoke, retaining the vague form of a big cat, as it rose into the air to meet him.

No—it rose above him. And before Sigurd knew it, the creature was pouncing down on him, slamming him down to the ground, its claws digging into his shoulder.

"GAH!" Sigurd felt the miasma invade his body, as if it were trying to tear him apart. Gritting his teeth, he manifested his aura in response, attempting to annihilate the leopard with the sheer surge of holiness.

The creature recoiled in pain, almost fully dissipating right there. But before Sigurd could extinguish it, the elephant's titanic foot cast a shadow over his face.

He took a sharp, panicked breath as he barely rolled out of the way before it crushed him. He sprinted as well he could to make even a modicum of distance, sharply turning back in anticipation of another attack from the leopard.

The two shadow beasts advanced almost with leisure, the elephant simply marching steadily, the leopard deliberate in the way it stalked.

Nearly exhausted of his aura, Sigurd stared down the two creatures of death, wondering if he'd survive this encounter.

Almost gasping for breath, and mustering as much will as he could, the proud noble and knight commander unexpectedly found himself distracted by a thought—a fleeting moment of affection for a certain woman, who waited for him in a cabin deep in the Singing Mountains of ark-Chelon.