Saving the school would have been easier as a cafeteria worker

Chapter 104

As the feeling of liberation faded, Cal was open to the possibility that he may have overdone it. No one had spoken since his taunt, or even moved. They all just stood there, frozen in time. If it weren't for the shifting of various elements, he would have thought them all under the spell of a power manifestation.

He'd meant to make an impact, but he wasn't sure how to transition back to the talking part, and it felt like a waste if he jumped back to murdering people.

Should he break the ice? Maybe tell a bad joke that the Captain would find funny?

Annoyingly, he couldn't think of one, and he went back to inspecting the group. In total, three people remained in close proximity to him. Two of them were the pair in orange. The four‑armed man had reacted fast, rushing to his partner and curling protectively over them. Judging by the deep gouges carved across the arena floor, he'd been driven back, but they were still within ten meters of Cal.

The third was a surprise. It was the man seated on the ground, muttering gibberish. Dusk appeared to have prioritized the raving man's safety, erecting a dome of darkness to shield him while being tossed back himself.

None of that was to imply anyone on the arena floor had been injured. He'd be disappointed if they were. His manifestation had been fully channeled into Sparky Chain Man, and they only had to deal with the displaced air his attack caused.

Although saying they were alright might have been a stretch.

"What in the hells was that!?" Female Cal exclaimed, stamping her foot in anger. "I can't fight something like that!"

Her fist clenched, and she pivoted, facing the stands and punching outward. Arcs of wind crashed into them, sending a pair of unlucky spectators scrambling out of their path. That class of Infinita Nox members had done poorer than their fellows on the floor, with only a few mustering the nerve to raise manifestations.

"Perhaps if you practiced a higher form of magic, that wouldn't be the case," Ear‑bleed Guy said derisively, the ground at his feet radiating a faint energy. The magic didn't feel offensive, but it definitely wasn't friendly.

Female him, or Raya, as lame people called her, spat on the floor, folding her arms with a sneer on her face.

"Step out of your field and say that again," she jeered. "Then we'll see how helpful your fancy magic is when my fist is around your spine."

Cal genuinely hoped he'd never sounded like that.

"Is this really the time?" Combustion Man questioned. He'd landed on his back and stayed there with his limbs extended, resembling a starfish. Flames like fireflies fluttered above him, the magic powering them condensed to an impressive degree. "Those were my favorite torches too."

A tongue clicked, and Mr. Gun‑Runner angled his revolver toward the prone man. The scruffy man had drawn it from his back, and with his red cloak now pulled over one shoulder, Cal could see several other barrels strapped there.

"You best not think about making us pay for it," he said, holding one gun on his fellow criminal and the other on the Federation agent.

Cal, at a complete loss for how to proceed, was almost thankful when yet another person piped up.

"Our cousins are strange," the four-armed man rumbled, scratching his bald scalp with one hand while the others flexed uncertainly. His face was odd, with a jutting chin and a prominent forehead. "How much longer until home, Pabo?"

The shorter figure turned to the creature on his shoulder, whose round head twitched back and forth, releasing a series of noises Cal couldn't hope to decipher.

"The abomination calls us strange," Acid Chick interjected, a pool of acid bubbling at her feet. She wore tight leathers that left her shoulders, hips, and part of her stomach bare. The outfit rose up her neck and merged into a mask that stopped at her sharp cheekbones. Behind her, long black hair—bound in sections to contain its mass—swayed with a life of its own. "Thank your blessed Maker that I even tolerate your hideous existence."

The large man didn't acknowledge her, keeping a steady and watchful gaze on Cal, who, quite frankly, agreed with the man's assessment. These people were weird.

After a prolonged period of silence, they were now bickering freely amongst themselves. Did they forget he'd poofed a man?

"Undetermined," Pabo said curtly, prompting the larger man to release what might have been a pitiful whine if his weighty voice hadn't turned it into a growl. His friend didn't seem perturbed, continuing in a monotone. "I propose that the agenda be resumed."

There was an agenda? Were they taking minutes as well?

A clap sounded, drawing everyone's attention. It was from Miss Plusier, hair down and with needles arrayed around her.

"A wonderful suggestion," she said, lightly dusting herself off. "Would anyone like to uphold the challenge?"

She glanced around, met by a range of stares from flat to 'are you serious?'

"Excellent," the assassin said, sweeping her hair and retying her bun. Her needles returned to it, and she began walking toward a tunnel she'd landed near. "I believe that's all for me. It was dreadful to see you all. Please be strangers and forget to write."

Cal went slack‑jawed as the woman continued on her way out, casually waving over her shoulder without bothering to turn.

"M—" Deck stammered. He raised a gloved fist to his mouth, clearing his throat. "My Lady, I don't believe you can do that…" His head tilted toward Dusk, a thread of desperation in his voice. "Can she?"

The shadow user was on a knee, palm placed flat against the ground. His eye twitched, and the tunnel she'd been walking toward became sealed by warped darkness.

"No," he said, rising to his feet while holding his back. "She cannot."

Miss Plusier stopped and faced the man.

"Dusky Dearie," she said with a dangerous smile. "Care to reconsider?"

Cal began to wonder what would happen if he just kept standing here in silence. Would they all kill each other? Considering Female‑him had already gone back to shooting death glares at Ear‑bleed guy, he was leaning toward yes.

"Spider," Dusk said, his voice gaining an ominous edge. A wiry hand gestured toward Cal. "Explain."

She quirked her head, brow furrowing in perplexity.

"Are you not the one who requested my aid in reconnecting with a lost member of our order?" she said with an aura of confusion. "There he is. I do hope you all get along. Now, I have much to do at the shop, so if you would?"

She pointed at the blocked tunnel expectantly.

"From my point of view," Combustion Man commented, refusing to budge from his spot on the ground, "I don't see how they can be confused, and I barely knew Robert."

Who?

"The adults are speaking," she said sweetly before addressing Dusk again. "Are children these days slow learners? Your garden might require further trimming."

Rest in atomized pieces, Sparky Chain Man. Cal didn't know how much had been orchestrated versus pure chance, but with an attitude like that, his death was inevitable. It did cause him to question Miss Plusier's motive for inviting him, and he couldn't tell how she'd react if he went all murder-happy on the rest of them.

"I've been requesting your presence to resolve manpower issues and preempt needless conflict," he said grimly, rising from the floor but keeping his manifestation in place. "And then you bring this."

'This' had a name.

"Dearie, you endorsed the challenge," Miss Plusier replied, planting a hand on her left hip before continuing in a scandalized tone. "Next, you'll tell me you no longer condone violence!"

Dusk's face was devoid of emotion, and Cal could sense a familiar sensation emanate from the man.

"You know as well as I," he said in a flat voice, "the vanquished in challenges are traditionally granted quarter. There was nothing traditional about that display."

…had that not been a death match?

No one had actually said it was, but the vibe had definitely suggested someone was going to die. It occurred to him that his own biases might have colored the whole thing.

Whoopsie?

"Perhaps if you kept stronger company, we wouldn't be having this discussion," she said peevishly, wearing a dismissive look on her face. "Omen, do you care to contribute, or will you keep babbling like a simpleton?"

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The man rocking on the ground stuttered, and the skin around his empty eye sockets twitched once before he resumed his incoherent muttering.

"Cease your diversions," Dusk rebuked, a note of anger in his voice. "His gift is taxing as is."

Cal was curious whether that gift could pose any kind of threat to him. Omen was largely an unknown, but, like Dusk, his tenure was noted by the Federation. His passivity kept him from being viewed as a leader, yet Miss Plusier had still made a point of addressing him.

Regardless of his ability, if Dusk felt the need to intervene in his defense, then Omen was an exploitable weak spot.

"If I'm such a distraction," she said flippantly, drawing a needle from her bun and twirling it with her fingers. "Then I really should be on my way. I would have thought you knew better than to test my patience."

If Cal had known better, he would have borrowed Mia's hair clip and snuck in here while they talked amongst themselves. They seemed to have a lot to say to each other, and he was in no hurry to get in their way.

"And you mine," he said, his voice settling back into a cold calm as he rubbed his ring with a thumb. "I shall restate my inquiry then. From East to West, from North to South, no name of consequence escapes my ears."

A stubby finger missing a nail was pointed directly at Cal.

"Pray tell, how did you come across an unknown being swifter than a Finger and with raw power that eclipses one. I am eager to understand."

Would it be incredibly rude to point out that the man was missing one of his ears? It seemed like the sort of thing he'd get stabbed over.

"Now, now," she tutted, wagging a finger with that coy smile of hers. "My threads reach far and wide. Is now the time for you to start doubting them?"

A flat denial then.

Cal couldn't determine which was the stronger party. The tailor had smoother movements, but she wouldn't be able to ignore the man's magic.

Dusk's stare traveled from her to the section of colosseum wall behind where Sparky Chain Man once stood. A cavernous gap had been opened, warded stone vaporized by Cal's attack. It would've punched straight through to the outside if he hadn't collapsed the magic.

"Yes," the shadow user said plainly.

Her smile turned slightly brittle as she followed the man's sight

"Why listen to a retiree prattle on and on?" she asked rhetorically, rapidly spinning her needle above her open palm. "When there's a more suitable storyteller right here."

The needle stopped on him, because of course it did.

As heads shifted back to him, Cal internally swore at being put on the spot. They wanted to know how they knew each other, but Cal wasn't about to explain that it was through Alice. He still needed to say something, but it had to be vague and indicate he wasn't interested in elaborating.

Inspiration hit Cal like a thunderbolt, and previous considerations were thrown out the window as he rasped his reply.

"She has a—" He paused, suddenly aware of the blunder he was about to commit. Despite being surrounded by deadly killers, he closed his eyes and took a defeated breath. "—magnetic personality."

Maybe he should check if the Captain was a mind mage.

Silence descended on the arena, and as it dragged on, Cal seriously considered burying himself in a hole. Mercifully, someone stepped in to spare him from his torment, erupting in laughter so boisterous that some in the stands fell on their ass.

"Pabo!" the four-armed man said excitedly, turning to his smaller friend. "I get it now. It's because the scary woman uses metal magic."

His shorter companion placed a palm on his face, shaking his head as the creature on his shoulder emitted odd noises.

"Agreed," Pabo said, his head inclined toward the automaton before he shifted toward the four‑armed man. "Forma, I fear time with the barbarians is detrimental to your psyche. Disregard the anomaly's last statement."

Anomaly? That was a new one.

"Our tolerance has its limits," Deck said, mirroring Acid Chick's negative sentiment toward the pair in orange. "Mind your manners."

Once again, Cal wondered how they hadn't all killed each other yet.

"Question," Female‑him said in a muted tone compared to her usual crassness. "If we don't laugh at the shitty joke, are we getting blasted?"

The phrase "cruel and unusual punishment" echoed in his ear.

"I thought it was funny," Combustion Man mumbled from the ground, earning a series of disapproving looks.

"Enough," Dusk said, flaring his magic. It wasn't an attack, but it certainly attracted everyone's attention. "You," he continued, addressing Cal. "Speak your purpose."

For some reason, Cal suspected saying that he was here to stop a Grand Summoning would not go over well.

Coming from the perspective of wanting answers, he was in a precarious position. Miss Plusier's gambit of passing him off as The Whistling Death seemed to have fallen on its face, and this group wasn't inclined to trust him with their dirty secrets. Thankfully, he hadn't come in completely unprepared.

"The lady asked," he said, chuckling a little at his deviousness. "I answered."

Miss Plusier was using him, but that was a two-way street. He was more than willing to coast on her credibility.

"She told me there would be work," he continued, taking in the variety of expressions that followed. "And that more hands were always welcome."

He spotted a few in the stands inching toward the exits, clearly weighing whether to retreat. Those on the arena floor stood their ground, but he could feel the richness of their magic swell. Well, most of them. There was one notable standout.

"I like the little man," the four-armed man said with a pleased look on his face. "More hands are good. More hands are the best!"

Little? Cal would argue that everyone was little compared to the beast of a man.

"That does not qualify as our endorsement," Pabo corrected in a mechanical fashion. "We are ambivalent to the anomaly's presence and defer to the local chapter's decision."

The robed man's words seemed to trigger something, and glances were exchanged between those on the floor, wordless communication passing over Cal's head.

"I do detest these formalities," Miss Plusier said with exaggerated dismay. "Alas, I'll fulfill my role. A challenge was issued, approved, and concluded. The Whistling Death fought for his name and prevailed. I asked for objections, met the eyes of all who had a voice, and received none. Even you, Dusky Dearie, did not refute it outright. Have the rules changed, or does that not settle this matter?"

Was there a rulebook he was meant to have read before coming here? That would have been helpful to know.

From what he could tell, Miss Plusier had arranged the challenge to legitimize him… but she hadn't expected him to deal with the opposition so thoroughly and then tried to slip out the back. Now she was forced into justifying her actions—the horror.

"It's not without precedent," Dusk returned, sounding displeased at the admission. "However, those cases possessed a subtlety wholly absent here."

Should he try whistling again?

"When did we start valuing subtlety over strength?" she asked, her tone deliberately provocative. "If it saves you some fretting, I can attest he's no servant of the Empire, and he's certainly not welcome down south."

Cal appreciated the clever phrasing on her end.

Her words caused Mr. Gun-Runner's jaw to lock, but if he knew anything, he didn't offer it. Deck noticed the reaction, frowning in thought.

"Strength is paramount," Dusk conceded, staring at the assassin. "As is knowing when to use it, but this debate shows no end, and we have delayed our guests long enough."

The man turned back to Cal, the ring on his finger glowing with power.

"Members of our order must be bound by covenants, but with your level of strength, our standard ones cannot bind you, and crafting those that could would take time. My magic, however, has no such limits," he said, his voice steeped in grandiosity. "Before I begin, does anyone hold objections to inducting—"

"Yes," a voice said before the man could finish.

It was a quiet one, heard only because of how tuned-up his senses were. Every head in attendance turned toward a specific section of the stands, where the woman who'd tried to mug him was sitting. She rose from her place, skipping down the steps before hopping down into the arena below.

To Cal's utter bewilderment, she began jogging toward him. It wasn't a quick jog, and he doubted she was even augmenting her limbs. With the size of the arena, it took her thirty seconds to reach them, only to end up with her hands on her knees and panting.

Cal looked to Dusk, who'd completely shut his eyes, as if unwilling to witness this. The biggest reaction was from Mr. Gun-Runner, who abandoned his previous targets and leveled both his weapons, dread seeping into his face. Others simply looked away or held palms against their faces.

"He owes," she said between breaths, placing both hands on her head and leaning back to recover quicker, "me a coin."

Was he being punked?

"Just give her a stupid coin," Female-him said, huffing with exasperation. "That's one fight not worth having."

Confusion, thy name was Cal.

"It is the most elegant way out of an inelegant dilemma," Deck said, forcing himself to look at the woman. "The sewer rat is insatiable."

The undercover Federation agent turned to Miss Plusier, who'd taken to holding her coat closely to herself.

"They're right, dearie," she said, keeping her eyes on the woman. "If you don't surrender a coin, she will rifle through your pockets."

Cal's hand, resting by his side, patted said pocket, confirming his possessions were still there. He hadn't recognized the woman from the files, and "sewer rat" didn't ring any bells either. Originally, he'd written her off as a member of the stands, but these reactions were strange.

"Coin," she reiterated, holding an open palm out. "Pay up. Everyone else has."

Not one of the allegedly infamous killers in the arena refuted her statement.

Cal didn't care about money and, in theory, had no problem giving her a coin. Practically…

"I left my wallet at home," he said, wondering what he'd done in life to be put in this position.

It was a laundry list of things, most better left untouched.

The one known as Pabo reached into his orange robes, producing a pouch and tossing it to Cal.

"Conformity with local customs is the swiftest path to resolution," he said, eliciting beeps from the creature on his shoulder.

The pouch clinked as Cal caught it, and peering inside, he saw coins of different sizes. He pawed through them, counting tender from the Free Cities: Anis, Tubern, and Edin. He picked one at random, tossing the pouch to the four-armed man and flicking the coin into the woman's palm.

"Satisfied, Cleo?" Dusk said, in a tone that allowed for only one acceptable answer.

The woman held the coin up, squinting at it before bringing it to her mouth. Cal assumed she was going to bite it to test the purity of its gold. He assumed incorrectly because she plopped it on her tongue and swallowed it whole.

What in the hells was wrong with this group?

"I withdraw my objection," she said, turning on her heel and walking back to the stands.

Fortunately, Dusk didn't wait for her complete withdrawal before continuing.

"Anyone else?" he questioned, eyes roaming over everyone once before settling back on Cal. "Then I will proceed."

His magic resumed its climb, and an orb of darkness was created above his palm.

"My manifestation discerns truth from lies. Two paths lie before you. You may leave and never return to the city of Postremo Lux, or you may stay and be tested. Should you choose the test, lower your shell—and beware, this breath may be your last."

Cal observed the orb with a wry expression concealed by his shroud. He didn't know of any manifestation outside of mind magic that could do what the man described, but he cut the power to his shell all the same.

Defenseless, he spread his arms wide, welcoming the magic.

The man's eyes narrowed, and the orb bulged before rocketing toward Cal. It splashed against his chest, bursting like a balloon. The inky substance soaked through his clothes, then his skin. He felt it invade his body, spreading through him and curling deliberately around his heart. He could feel Dusk's connection to it fade, and yet he also got the sense that the man would know if he tampered with it.

"Speak now," Dusk demanded in a focused tone. "Do you have designs against Infinita Nox?"

Absolutely, and they weren't pretty.

"No," he responded breezily.

The magic reacted, unleashing its nature against him. He didn't fight it, allowing it to sweep through his body.

When he first entered this world, his mind hadn't been right, making it difficult to recall. What he did remember was being unable to see—the lights were too bright, and his sight was undeveloped. But he could smell. There might have been ash and smoke, yet it was the deceptively sweet scent of rot that clung to him.

Cal had been born to death and then taken by it.

"So what's this about an agenda?" he said in a distorted voice, lungs full of life. "And do I get a pin or something?"

Out of all the magic to use against him… it had to be death.

His luck was turning out pretty good tonight.