The other man looked at him, and his expression suddenly softened.
“…Yes, you still have me,” he said softly, standing amidst the dark mass of people. A breeze drifted through the scorching sunlight, rustling the leaves.
“But you can… make a bit more use of me.”
The professor adjusted the edge of his hood and looked up at him.
“All right, Mr. Wizard,” he said. “Give me a ‘Sonorus.’”
As the former savior of the Empire of the Silver Iris, he of course didn’t know a certain scarred Chosen One, nor did he understand what a “wizard” was, or what a Sonorus meant—but the literal meaning was still clear enough.
And so, the chaotic roars, curses, and shrieks of the crowd gradually unified into one voice, quickly forming a rhythmic, orderly chant.
“What does Fish Tail Street want?”
“—Air is free! Breathing is not a crime!”
The waves of sound roared to the heavens, shaking the glass windows of the Public Security Directorate. Residents from afar leaned out of their windows to see what was happening. They whispered among themselves, and many bold ones joined the crowd. The angry mob grew ever larger.
Azukar glanced inscrutably at the black-haired youth beside him. The man had already closed his lips, wearing an indifferent expression. You could hardly tell he was the one who had just spoken in an accent identical to those around them. If one closes their eyes and listens—it was like hearing a fisherman who’d lived on this land for decades.
“…Filthy, lowly rabble!”
Nett Samman stood at the third-floor office window, gnashing his teeth. With such a racket, anyone who wasn’t deaf would know something major was happening here.
“Is the Magelight cannon still not in place?” he barked furiously at his subordinates.
“Reporting, Director! We’re urging them! But transport still needs some time…”
“You useless shit!” He kicked his subordinate hard. Ignoring the man gasping on the floor clutching his stomach, Nett picked up the binoculars to examine the situation—only for fear to suddenly appear on his sweat-drenched face.
“Wait! Th-that’s…”
At the gates of the Public Security Directorate, the constables blocking the angry crowd were on the brink of collapse. They wanted to shoot, but no matter whom they aimed at, the people showed no fear. It felt like firing a shot would cause the entire crowd to swarm in and tear them to pieces.
At last, one young constable couldn’t take it anymore and aimed into the crowd, ready to pull the trigger—but no matter how he tried, the trigger wouldn’t budge, as if it were jammed.
“Lumen Ascendat.”
Just then, a graceful, deep voice cut through the crowd. The constable was suddenly engulfed in blinding white light. Reflexively, he dropped his weapon, crying out in pain as he covered his eyes.
Both the people of Fish Tail Street and the constables were swallowed in a massive, dazzling sphere of light. Amid the rising shrieks, Azukar frowned and swiftly shielded the professor’s eyes, squinting toward the golden figure that had appeared at the far end of the street.
At the front stood a figure clad in a silken robe of gold and white, adorned with multicolored gems. Golden lilies bloomed elegantly on the robe’s hem, and twin crossed guns were embroidered on the shoulder cape. On his head was a golden miter, in hand a resplendent scepter. He had a handsome face and gentle, commanding green eyes.
Azukar recognized him immediately—one of the five cardinals of the Radiant Church, and its youngest. Pavaton Miller, who in a few years would become one of the leading contenders for the papacy.
Behind Bishop Miller stood over a dozen Radiant Church clergy. They frowned at the groaning chaos left by the fading light sphere, but none dared speak before the cardinal gave his word.
Nett Samman nearly tumbled down the stairs in his rush to get outside. When he saw the grim-faced head of the Samman family beside the cardinal, he nearly blacked out.
“Oh Light above,” he forced a sycophantic smile, “what an honor, Your Grace Miller! What brings you to—”
Then he saw the Samman patriarch silently mouth a few words: “Shut up, you idiot.”
“May the Light be with us,” Bishop Miller nodded elegantly at him. “What’s going on here? I heard someone chanting… ‘Air is free, breathing is not a crime’?”
Nett Samman stammered, sweat dripping from his forehead like rain. If he tried that pirate nonsense now, it would look like he was mocking the cardinal—and the Samman patriarch might tear him to pieces himself.
“Just a group of commoners incited by ill-intentioned agitators, Your Grace. Please, do not trouble yourself. The Samman family will see to a complete resolution.” After casting a final glare at Nett Samman, Bartfield Samman turned his eyes back to the huddled, hesitant crowd, who had frozen at the sight of Radiant Church clergy. His expression twisted with disgust.
How… unsightly.
The cardinal mused, “Ill-intentioned agitators? Lord Samman, are you implying the presence of Shadowchasers in your domain?”
The Shadowchasers were a newly emergent rebel group in the Empire of the Silver Iris. Hidden among the populace, they opposed both the nobility and the Church, known for their elusiveness and cunning.
Bartfield Samman was clearly alarmed. “Wh-what? No, no, Your Grace Miller! My domain would never harbor such blasphemous existence! This misunderstanding likely arose because, ahead of the Dawn Festival, we levied a modest waste-handling fee on the merchant guild. These foolish commoners must have been misled by greedy merchants into thinking we were taxing the air—that’s why they’re protesting. As if we’d ever tax air!”
“That’s not true!”
A voice rang out from the crowd. The young fisherman flinched under the stares of unfamiliar nobles and a cardinal, but he still mustered the courage to step forward. “The constables came to FishTail Street and said the smell—of fish—was offensive. They wanted to charge us a hefty pollution tax for air! My lords, we live by fishing—how could our homes not smell of fish?”
“That’s right! Exactly!”
“This is outrageous!”
Scattered voices began to rise in support around him.
“Lies! Not a word of truth from these filthy lowborn!” Eager to redeem himself, Nett Samman sprang forward. “My lords, as everyone knows, the blood of pirates runs through these fishermen. Deceit and theft are in their nature. How could you trust anything they say?”
Indeed, fishermen and pirates in the region shared origins—some, unable to survive or simply morally depraved, had turned to piracy, exploiting their knowledge of the seas to raid trade and fishing vessels.
“I’m not a pirate!” the young fisherman’s face flushed red. “I make an honest living!”
Nett Samman sneered. “Oh? You claim the constables came to collect a tax? Where’s your proof? Witnesses don’t count. Can any of you swear to the Sea God that neither you, nor your parents, nor your neighbors, nor your friends or their friends have even one pirate among them?”
The fisherman fell silent, stammering without an answer.
Nett Samman grinned in victory, casting a cold glance at the foolish youth and memorizing his face.
“So this man is lying, and the others were simply deceived due to their ignorance—constables! Arrest him!” Bartfield Samman concluded.
He lowered his head toward Bishop Miller. “Your Grace, I deeply regret letting you witness such a spectacle. Perhaps we should take our leave? Graybridge Port is currently offering an exquisite and rare deep-sea clam—nearly impossible to find elsewhere…”
A calm, cold voice interrupted him.
“May I ask—do I qualify as a witness?”
“You are…?”
Bishop Miller looked at the tall young man in a worn cloak, most of his face hidden beneath a hood. One of the attendants behind him suddenly snapped his head up, eyes wide in shock as he stared at the newcomer.
“…Cousin?”
“Nova Brody, son of Viscount Edmond Brody. I greet you, O’ Dustless Light.”
“Dustless Light” was an honorific bestowed by followers upon this particular cardinal.
The newcomer pulled back his hood, revealing a pale, detached face. His striking smoky-gray eyes calmly met the cardinal’s green gaze. Despite his disheveled clothing, he stood tall and poised, with the grace of someone far from intimidated by power.
“Brody…” Bishop Miller murmured, then smiled and turned slightly. “I believe one of my attending students is also named Brody, no?”
The cleric respectfully bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace—Percy Brody, top second-year at Saint Barodo Academy of Sorcery. He is one of the students attending you.”
“Attending” referred to a select group of outstanding students permitted to follow high-ranking members of the Radiant Church, receiving their guidance as a mark of distinction.
“Oh, a promising young man indeed,” Bishop Miller nodded noncommittally. “Young Master Brody, what a curious coincidence, don’t you think?”
Though this was the moment Percy Brody had long awaited—a chance to converse with the cardinal—his expression was sour. He lowered his head, trying to hide his discomfort. “Yes, Your Grace… I never expected to meet my cousin here.”
Bartfield Samman reacted swiftly, chewing over the surname with interest. “Well then, Mr. Brody… What exactly do you intend to prove?”
Nova sensed the fingers of the person beside him twitch. He frowned, and under the cover of his cloak, swiftly caught their hand.
Don’t be reckless, he traced lightly into their palm.
He understood the burning urge for revenge—after all, his family’s destroyer was standing right there. And the fact that this person could hide so completely even in front of a cardinal, a dozen nobles, and clerics alike, leaving them blind as bats to a shining, living figure, was a testament to the terrifying potency of their “little tricks.”
But now… was not the time to strike.
