Thousand Tongue Mage

Sunlight was warm on his face.

Zora couldn't see it, of course, but he could feel it pressing through the high slotted windows behind his bench. Sunlight stretched long and lazy across the floor of the preparation room, heating the terracotta tiles like the back of a cook's hand, while above and outside the room, the roar of the crowd spilled through.

Boots stomped on wood. The Royal Ayapacha Military Academy's cheers echoed in loose, wave-like cadences. He wasn't paying attention to the battle happening in the arena just outside the room, but it was the semifinals, so the energy in the audience was a hundred times stronger than usual. People wanted to see blood.

Better in here than out there, I suppose.

Cracking his neck, he adjusted the small notebook in his lap and dipped his quill into the inkwell by his side. The scratch of nib against paper was coarse and delicate at once. His handwriting may not be half as tidy as it used to be—not since he lost his sight—but he could still manage when he concentrated.

Tch.

He grimaced and crossed another word out, muttering something vaguely scornful in Old Sterngott under his breath.

Suddenly, the gate to his left opened, and Ifas hobbled in with the air of a man who'd just been punted across the arena multiple times. Zora didn't need to look to know his driver's servant uniform was torn and bloodied. The fabric scraped stiffly with dried blood, and he could hear the wet rustle of open wounds not yet scabbed.

Still, the driver was grinning as ever.

"... Nope," Ifas said, staggering past him as the announcers outside reported the results of the first semifinal round. "Absolutely not. I'm not defeating 'Master Eryn'. That's beyond my pay grade. What are you writing, 'Master Alvay'?"

Zora exhaled through his nose, unmoved. "A letter to those I left behind in Amadeus Academy. Even if I don't send it out, it'd do everyone well if I kept a journal of everything I did in the south. It'd make for good stories to tell for the kids."

"Ah. Teacher stuff. Are you proud, then, that I made it all the way to the semifinals despite being an underdog?"

"Are you proud?"

Ifas shrugged as he walked past Zora, holding his wounds. "It's simply a miracle I even got this far into the tournament. The guys deciding the matchups really gave me all the easy fights. The real fight will be in the finals, between the Worm Mage and whoever wins this next round, so will the fake Salaqa or the real Salaqa win?"

As the announcers began screaming for the second semifinal round contestants to step out into the arena, Zora closed his notebook, slipped it into his cloak, and stood up. One hand curled around Eria's briefcase. The other he folded behind his back after brushing off the collar of his uniform, making sure he'd walk out there with dignity befitting that of the Salaqa Household.

"I don't particularly care whether I win or lose," he murmured. "Either way, the Salaqa Household will win this tournament. It is inevitable that our Worm Mage wins the finals as well."

"Then why fight to begin with? You could just surrender now and spare yourself the effort."

He fixed his mask calmly.

"Because I promised her I'd give it my all."

Then he walked left and stepped into the light, leaving the preparation room behind.

The roar of the arena in the centre of the campus hit him like heat from a kiln. Wild chanting, the rhythmic thump of feet against wood, and the high-pitched calls of vendors hawking cloudfruit and roast rice around the spectator's stands immediately hurt his ears. Above it all, the announcers' voices leapt like leashed hounds through the mushroom amplifiers, calling out names and brackets and other sorts of battle cries, but he didn't really pay attention to them.

Because across the clearing of the artificial mushroom forest, she was already there.

The little heiress.

Kita Salaqa stood before the pale trunks of the mushroom trees like a war-princess from some old fable, her two sawtooth greatswords resting loosely in her grip. He'd come out here with the bare minimum care put into his appearance, but she'd come out here with no holds barred. She wore feathers in her hair, extra quilted fabrics on her shoulder and waist, and if he was smelling it right… some sort of sweet-smelling face marking as well, in true Attini Empire fashion.

All around the arena, the crowd of several thousand thundered her name, and Zora stopped a few paces inside the arena.

Well, it is how it is.

He tilted his head slightly, allowing the wash of sound to pour into his ears. Their cheers rang with admiration, adoration, and affection. She was the strongest of the Five Princesses, after all, and after the humiliating defeat of the other four at his and Enki's hands—not even worthy of being seen by spectators—they loved her for standing there like that.

Every breath of the crowd was filled with her name, and not a single voice called for him.

Except…

He turned his head just a fraction and smiled. One voice. Soft and far off. But there—threaded like a silver string through the tapestry of noise—was Eria sitting by herself, cheering for the both of them.

So he faced forward again, and Kita bowed. Zora returned the bow with old-fashioned grace.

"My thanks, heiress," he said steadily, "for your kindness this past month. You have been a great help in assisting the two of us with acclimating to life in this academy. Diligent, courteous, talented, and respected by both her peers and her professors—I must admit, I've often wished I had a student like you back home."

A polite smile curled her lips. "That is very flattering, Mister Alvay."

"Flattery implies exaggeration," he said. "I simply speak plainly. But even so…"

His voice quieted. The weight beneath it did not.

"I meant what I said before," he said softly. "This is not a fight for children. Would you not reconsider and surrender now?"

She didn't answer.

So he showed her why he asked.

With the grace of a breath drawn through silk, Zora let go a little bit, and his aura exploded outwards like ink in water: soundless, scentless, but immensely powerful.

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The nearest rows of spectators fell hushed in an instant. Someone dropped a banner. Someone else gasped without sound. The whole front edge of the crowd leaned back as if the very air had thickened between them and the ring, and… well, he still didn't care about them now.

Only her.

Kita's smile vanished. Her knees trembled. He could hear her pulse beating faster in her wrists, and he could hear the scrape of her glove shifting as her fingers shook.

She understood this was no schoolyard match. This was the second time he'd shown her his full aura. She had every right to be afraid.

And yet she didn't move, and she didn't smile.

Afraid as she may be, she held her ground, greatswords trembling in her hands, and stared on defiantly.

Zora's expression softened. His tone became gentler.

"Very well," he murmured.

And with that, far to the side, the announcers' voices rang out like a bell:

"Begin!"

The moment the announcers' voices rang out, Kita dashed in. The two sawtooth greatswords whistled forward, so Zora calmly raised his briefcase and placed a hand on the latch.

"So the Earthen Princess said, 'drown the onlookers with soil and sand'," he said. "Men need not judge the battle we fight for ourselves."

As the briefcase opened, a wave of compressed soil, packed dust, and sun-baked sand from the ground immediately erupted into the air around them. The entire arena swallowed itself into a grainy fog, and the cheers faltered. Spectators coughed. Hundreds in the nearest rows cursed, and even the announcers sputtered over their mushroom-muffled horns.

"Contestant Alvay Salaqa has begun the battle as he has every match so far, flooding the field with soil and sand!" one choked. "A disorienting strategy! It is difficult to see much, if anything at all! How will Kita Salaqa respond, as the last of the Five Princesses still… standing…"

But the announcer's voice cut off as all eyes turned to the thickening storm where two blurred shadows darted and danced.

Steel on steel sang out across the fog, reverberating through the bones of the audience.

Zora abandoned the briefcase immediately. Now, he held a standard-issue sawtooth blade in both hands, because Kita was a much, much more formidable opponent than any of the battle amateurs he'd fought thus far. She wouldn't let him cast his spells from afar with leisure. He couldn't see her, but he could hear her heart beating, and hers was raring to go.

Her blades roared.

His whispered.

He ducked low beneath a horizontal swipe and countered with a light diagonal, knowing she'd block it—which she did, both swords braced. The rebound forced him a few paces back.

"I can't feel your full strength!" Kita shouted through the murk. "You're holding back again!"

He spun, brought his sword up just in time to catch her next strike.

"This is my full strength," he said coolly. "Isn't it you who's holding back, Miss Salaqa?"

She snarled. For a moment, Zora thought he'd pushed too far, but then the rhythm shifted. She pressed harder, driving him backwards, not with mere brute force, but… tempo. She changed the cadence of her strikes. She became faster, more reckless, and—

There.

A wet series of squelches erupted across her limbs. The scent of iron rose immediately. Tiny blood-born army ants clicked and whirred over her skin as they stitched torn skin back together in seconds.

Zora exhaled sharply, almost a laugh.

That really is a powerful Art.

Anything short of a killing blow, she'll just heal back in a few seconds.

Their blades locked again, hard and close. Kita's strength poured through the hilts. Zora leaned into it, not to overpower her, but simply to match her strength.

"Why do you want to win this tournament so badly, Miss Salaqa?"

She didn't answer at first. Instead, she circled, blades dragging arcs in the haze of dust that still lingered, and he tracked her by sound alone.

"For the honour of the Salaqa Household!" she said finally, attacking again.

Zora caught her first blade. Parried the second.

"No," he said. "That's not the real reason."

Kita's silence this time was shorter. She let out a quiet laugh, almost embarrassed, and backed off a step to breathe.

"... I want the faculty to order me a book," she admitted. "A rare one. A cookbook."

"A cookbook?"

"A collector's edition from the Plagueplain Front. It's impossible to find unless you're stationed there, and I doubt I'd ever go there in my lifetime."

He adjusted his grip slightly. "That's what you're fighting for?"

She exhaled through her nose. "My steward, Machi, always teases me about not knowing how to cook. I thought I'd surprise her. Learn something and make her a real meal for once."

Zora said nothing. Instead, he turned his head—just slightly—toward the stands.

Among the spectators, Ifas was laughing at something Eria had whispered to him. He looked perfectly relaxed, one hand resting lazily on the edge of the rail as though he hadn't just lost terribly against Enki, but hanging from his hip—bound in thick leather, with two copper clasps and a foldout stitched into the spine—was that very book.

Zora knew it was that exact book, because it was the one Ifas had been whipping out recipes from for him and Enki in the northwest.

"But you are the heiress of the Salaqa Household," he said.

"Am I?"

He stepped back into stance just as Kita rushed him again, and their swords met in a clean, hard clash. Close enough that her breath was warm against his cheek.

Her hands still trembled in his aura, but she didn't back away.

… Ah.

She really has grown a fair amount since we last talked in the northwest.

She's not trying to be the 'Earthen Princess' anymore.

So he smiled and let go.

His weight shifted. He broke his own defensive momentum. She seized the opening without hesitation, sweeping his legs and slamming him to the ground. Her boots landed beside his ribs. Both sawtooth blades crossed clean against his throat.

It was the same hold he'd let her get him in on the first day they met.

Dust settled, and the haze began to lift.

In the moment of silence that followed, the announcers' voices rose like a trumpet.

"Contestant Kita Salaqa has defeated her opponent!"

The arena erupted. Applause thundered through the artificial mushroom forest. Her name echoed in waves across the arena, and perhaps even the campus, but she didn't bask in it.

She glared down at him instead like she was the only one who didn't enjoy her victory.

"... That wasn't 'everything' you had," she whispered. "You still held back."

Zora tilted his head.

"All men play their roles," he replied. "Alvay Salaqa gave you everything he had. If you're eager for someone stronger, you may challenge the Thousand Tongue another time, Kita Salaqa. Perhaps he may not treat you like a child any longer."

…

At last, she gave him a small, reluctant smile before offering him her hand.

He took it.

As she hauled him to his feet, he brushed the dust from his sleeves, adjusting his collar with care.

"In any case," he said casually, "even if you'd lost, I'd have let you in on a little secret."

"Oh?"

"I know someone who already owns that collector's edition cookbook."

Dinner that night was a quiet affair.

The cafeteria hall buzzed faintly with the students' voices discussing today's semifinal rounds, but at the Salaqa's table, it was mostly silent. The four of them dug into their meals while Ifas stood behind Zora, looking completely unbothered as usual.

Zora didn't look back. He just angled his head slightly.

"That cookbook on your hip—"

Ifas didn't miss a beat. "Not lending it."

A pause.

Zora kept his face forward. "She only wants to borrow it."

"No."

Another silence.

Zora sipped his tea.

"You are my servant—"

"No."