The Spike of Conviction: The World Through the Eyes of the Witch's Apostles - Episode 2

Night broke, but the air in the training grounds did not change. The smell of sweat and earth soaked into the stone walls. The seeping blood left behind by a believer who had collapsed yesterday. The second basement level had no windows, so day and night could only be judged by the color of the illumination magic stones. When the orange began to fade, it was dawn. When it deepened, it was dusk. Someone had taught him that once. Now it was a pale orange. Morning. Gouf stood before the engraving on the wall. "Doubt the world's righteousness." Echidna's words. The Witch of Greed—a being said to have died some four hundred years ago—her ideology lived on in the cult through oral tradition and manuscript copies. Gouf had first seen these characters in his twenties. Back then, he hadn't thought much about their meaning. He'd been too occupied with survival and learning the cult's work. Now was different. He traced them with his finger. The cold grooves in the stone caught at his fingertips. He didn't know who had carved these characters. But he understood that someone had deemed it necessary to leave them here. So they wouldn't be forgotten. So the questioning would continue. (What am I doubting now?) Two days remained until the strategy meeting presided over by the Weltheim faction. The conversation from yesterday's dining hall lingered in his mind. "Be prepared to involve some civilians." The believer who had spoken those words hadn't seemed particularly troubled by them, continuing to eat as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Gouf withdrew his finger from the wall. The outside world knew what kind of organization the Witch's Cult was. Lugunica Kingdom Law, Article Seventeen—involvement, faith, support: death penalty. Informants received fifty holy gold coins as reward. Discovery meant execution. That law had continued for three hundred eighty years. Three hundred to five hundred members. Seven Sin Archbishops corresponding to each of the Seven Deadly Sins served as the highest executives of this "heretical faith." Gouf was one of those executives. The Pride seat. A position that only those bearing a Witch Factor—the remnants of a witch's power—could hold. One didn't become it by choice. The factor chose you. That was all. He possessed an authority called "Gevaert." It inflicted spiritual pressure on a target, temporarily sealing their ability to act. Fundamentally different from ordinary magic that consumed mana. Because it burned the Witch Factor itself as fuel, the more he used it, the more he felt something being scraped away from deep within his body. He'd used it a little during yesterday's training. This morning, his left arm was slightly heavy. This was the price. Always accompanied by small costs. "Lord Gouf." Ortz's voice came. Quiet footsteps approached from the training grounds' entrance. Forty-five years old, a solidly built man, one who didn't waste words. Fifteen years in this cult. "A follow-up report has arrived from the south," said. Gouf didn't turn around. "Read it," he said. "An orphan girl named Seril. Twelve years old. From Forna Village, one hundred twenty kilometers south of the royal capital. Two years ago, her village was burned in a royal army sweeping operation, and she lost both parents. Currently, two low-ranking believers in the south are protecting her, and they're requesting her transfer to this base," said. Forna Village. Gouf knew of it. The royal army had burned it on suspicion of harboring demihumans. The story that came out later was that it wasn't the entire village that had harbored them, but only two houses. Yet the village had been erased. A farming settlement of roughly three hundred people had turned to ash on mere "suspicion." "What are the details of contact with Subaru Natsuki?" asked. "The girl received food from someone believed to be Natsuki near the village ruins. However, contact occurred only once, and there are no signs the girl was actively involved," said. Subaru Natsuki. A boy apparently operating within Emilia's faction. What troubled Gouf was the strange fact that this man appeared in the same scene multiple times. In reports from other believers, in records of other operations, there were several instances of the same boy appearing in the same place at the same time. As though time itself were rewinding— No. He still had no certainty. It was merely a feeling. "Approve the transfer," said. Ortz paused for a moment. "The Weltheim faction may argue for the girl's disposal. Anyone who made contact with Natsuki's associates is a risk," said. "I know," said. That was all. Ortz bowed without another word and left. His footsteps receded. They echoed in the stone corridor and faded. Gouf remained motionless in the now-empty training grounds for a while. (Dispose of a twelve-year-old orphan.) He understood why the Weltheim faction would say such a thing. Anyone who had made contact with Natsuki might be a potential spy. There was risk of information leakage. From the organization's logic, it was a sound judgment. But. Gouf touched the scar on his forehead. His left index finger traced the white line. An old scar, roughly twenty centimeters long. It ached on rainy days. When he'd been in the noble's labor camp, he'd never been called by name. A number, or else "you" or "that thing." Treated the same as tools. How old had he been then? Around ten, he supposed. Clearer than any memory were the sensations of hunger, cold, and exhaustion. It was cult members who had picked him up from there. A "heretical faith" had gathered up a child discarded by the world. That fact hadn't changed even now. (What was it I wanted to protect?) He had fought to destroy a rotten system. That hadn't changed. But "destroying" and "hurting" were not the same thing. The illumination magic stone cast a dim orange glow onto the stone floor. Somewhere, water dripped. The silence peculiar to underground spaces. No sound from the outside world reached here. Gouf took his stance. Alone in the training grounds, he began to practice forms. No weapon. Only the movements of fists and feet. The patterns his body remembered, repeated quietly. His breathing steadied. His mind grew quiet. A girl named Seril would come. To this place. When the Weltheim faction argued for her disposal, Gouf held the position to stop them. Or rather, he hadn't yet decided whether to stop them. He would judge after confirming the information. That was the proper procedure. Yet something deep in his body felt as though it had already been decided. —— By afternoon, Gouf had descended to the first basement level's dining hall. It was slightly past the lunch hour, but a few people still remained. At the edge of a table, the young believer who had collapsed during yesterday's training was eating soup. Bandages were wrapped around his left arm. Helga's work, probably. When Gouf took his seat, the believers around him stiffened slightly. It happened every time. He apparently looked intimidating. He was aware of it. But he didn't know how to change it. He received his meal. Root vegetable soup and black bread. Heavily salted. This was his daily food. Outside people might laugh if they heard. One of the kingdom's most wanted was eating black bread in the basement of an abandoned monastery. The young believer glanced at him. He immediately looked away. Gouf watched the scene from the corner of his eye as he drank his soup. After yesterday's training, that believer had said "I'll continue" and stood up. On trembling legs, he'd still taken his stance. Gouf remembered that scene in detail. "Your right-side defense was open during yesterday's training," said. The young believer, suddenly addressed, stopped moving his soup spoon. "...Yes," he said. "Correct it. I'll check during the next training," said. That was all. The believer thought for a moment, then said quietly, "Understood," . His voice was steadier than before. He finished the rest of his meal in silence. The air in the dining hall seemed to have relaxed slightly. —— When night came, Helga arrived. She passed Gouf in the first basement level's corridor. She wore a white coat and carried a leather medical bag. One wouldn't think her sixty-two years old, given how straight her spine was. "Your complexion is poor again," she said . She looked at Gouf with a diagnostic gaze. "It's the authority's side effects. I'm used to it," he said. "There's fatigue you can grow accustomed to, and fatigue you cannot," she said. Gouf fell silent for a moment. Helga Valm. A former royal physician who now ran a small clinic in the Creyvan district, southwest of the royal capital. She treated demihumans and the poor without discrimination. She wasn't a formal believer of the cult, yet she was called here whenever someone was injured. When he'd once asked why she came, she'd answered, "Because there are people in need." That answer, Gouf still hadn't quite digested. "A child is coming from the south," he said. He hadn't meant to say it, but the words came out. Helga stopped. "An orphan. Twelve years old. From the ruins of Forna Village," he said. Helga's expression grew quiet. Whether she recognized the name of Forna Village or had deduced it from context, she said nothing for a while. "...I'll be permitted to examine her," she said , her voice clipped. Gouf nodded. That was all. The two parted ways in the corridor. Helga walked toward the medical office. Gouf watched her receding back for a while. He didn't understand what this woman was thinking. She was neither cult nor kingdom. She simply treated the wounded. That alone moved her. (There are ways of living like that.) The thought came, and he immediately pushed it out of his head. It had nothing to do with him. The illumination magic stone in the corridor flickered faintly. On nights when the underground air currents were unstable, the light wavered slightly. Shadows stretched and contracted. Watching that movement, Gouf made his way to his private quarters on the third basement level. He opened the door. A stone room. A simple bed and a small bookshelf. Several manuscript copies of Echidna's philosophy lined the shelf, their spines worn from being read so thoroughly. He sat in the chair and took one manuscript in hand. He didn't open it. He simply held it. The strategy meeting in two days. Three executives from the Weltheim faction would come. What they would propose, he could predict to some degree. A large-scale conspiracy operation in the Creyvan district of the royal capital—the commercial area Gouf had been tasked with manipulating—one that would not spare civilian casualties. What would Gouf answer to that? He still hadn't found the words. On the manuscript's cover, faint characters were written: "Doubt the world's righteousness." The same words as on the training grounds wall. Words Echidna had repeated throughout her life. To doubt was not to deny. Gouf was only beginning to understand that recently. To doubt the world's "righteousness" was not merely to resist the kingdom's order. One had to doubt one's own organization's "righteousness" as well. The illumination magic stone flickered again. The light created a distorted shadow in the corner of the room. A girl was coming from the south. The Weltheim faction was moving. The strategy meeting was approaching. Three matters were slowly taking shape in Gouf's mind. What form they would ultimately take, he could not yet see. He returned the manuscript to the shelf. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes. The stone ceiling floated dimly in the darkness. It would take a while before sleep came.

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Episode 2

Name: The Spike of Conviction: The World Through the Eyes of the Witch's Apostles
Author: Novelia

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