Saving the school would have been easier as a cafeteria worker

Chapter 105

"Oh joy, another clever one," Ear‑bleed Guy drawled. The ground around him remained glowing, indicating he hadn't ruled out a confrontation. "I preferred the last iteration."

It was a rude welcome, but still better than Dusk's dead, unblinking stare. For some reason, Cal got the sense that the man's manifestation was meant to kill him. Which was silly.

"No one asked you," Female-him replied heatedly before continuing in a softer tone. "Or me."

Cal ignored their byplay, more concerned with 'Cleo,' the girl who demanded a coin from him. Not because he suddenly saw her as a threat. No, it was because she'd reached the arena wall and was currently on her third attempt at scaling it.

The woman's arms and legs flailed uselessly as she scrambled up the smooth surface, managing less than a meter before sliding back down in a helpless sprawl.

She either had important connections or had a uniquely useful ability. Cal couldn't see another reason they would tolerate such a ridiculous character. A distant third possibility was that she served as their pet mascot.

"That was enlightening," Miss Plusier said with a knowing, if slightly strained, smile. "Dusky Dearie, any further complaints? Or has your curiosity been sated?"

The man's attention reluctantly shifted to the woman, sharing a deep look. Cal wasn't sure if he missed anything, but the shadows blocking the tunnel receded.

"For practical considerations, I shall limit myself to one more question," Dusk said, gathering magic into another orb. "I will give you the same opportunity as before. Depart in peace, or stay and be tested."

The manifestation appeared mostly similar to the prior one, but Cal could detect slight variations in its structure. Its power had also gone up a notch, but it wasn't anything extreme.

"Fire away," Cal said openly, leaving his shell deactivated. "Just don't give me a riddle. I'm bad at those."

Truly, he was a master of deception.

The orb shuddered, its surface undulating erratically as the man poured more power into it. When it seemed on the verge of bursting, it shot forward, splashing onto Cal. As the magic seeped into him for a second time, he wondered if Dusk had the skill to actually kill him with death magic. Thus far, he wasn't impressed.

"How did you choose," Dusk asked in a gravelly voice, "The Whistling Death as your moniker?"

Since everyone knew he wasn't the original guy, this had to be an attempt to learn why he'd killed their former member.

The radio on his face chafed as his face pulled into an awkward smile. He was tempted to lie, but why bother when the truth was harmless?

"This is going to sound ridiculous," he prefaced, holding his hands out to make sure everyone was clear on this. "But it was an accident."

With that simple line, he managed to piss off the greater half of those in attendance. He could feel their heated glares, see their tight expressions, and sense the collective urge to punish him for the farcical lie.

"I didn't even know who he was," he continued at a quicker pace. "But I wanted the shroud, and he looked at me the wrong way, so… you know."

Cal mimed a punch to a thoroughly unamused audience. A few in the stands flinched, but he wasn't exactly winning hearts and minds.

What about this was hard to believe? Wait, why was he even trying to defend himself?

"I want to see a show of hands," he said pointedly, meeting each person's eyes in turn. "Anyone here who hasn't killed someone for a pettier reason, go on—raise 'em."

Four hands were raised, but they all belonged to the same person. In fairness, he couldn't properly judge one member's response, given that she was currently sliding down the wall again.

"I rest my—" the magic within him activated, surging through his body in an attempt to silence it. "—case."

Huh. He hadn't lied there, and yet the magic still tried to snuff him out. Was Dusk trying to cheat him?

"You…" the man trailed off, forehead creased, ring gleaming.

Being the kind and considerate person he was, Cal decided to help him along.

"Passed," he supplied with a nod. "Either that, or I'm impervious to your death magic."

The man's face settled back into calculated blankness, eyes shifting to Miss Plusier, who watched with morbid interest. Cal could guess what sort of mental math was going on in that head of his. Either he admitted that his magic might be fallible, or he trusted his longtime colleague's word and kept that embarrassing tidbit to himself.

"Your presence shall be tolerated," Dusk said begrudgingly, proving pride was a wonderful trait. "For the moment."

That was the tone of a man plotting Cal's untimely demise. The joke was on him. In a couple of hours, provided he was within the Academy walls, the Federation agent would be dead anyway.

Cal had definitely learned his lesson about signing covenants all willy-nilly.

The group's reaction to his decision was mixed, split between distaste, ambivalence, and guarded scrutiny—par for the course from what he'd seen.

"I guess that's a no to the pins," Cal added, hoping to warm his reception. The only response came from Forma, who patted down his silk shirt in search of one. "Agenda then."

It took about as long as Cleo's next run at the wall for someone to finally speak, and in that wait, he noticed that, despite her earlier words, Miss Plusier made no move to depart.

"Raya," Dusk said, addressing the wind mage with a penchant for brawling. "I believe you were next."

The woman startled, her grey eyes snapping to Cal, face twisting. She seemed to chew on something before spitting on the ground.

"Got into a scrap," she said, fidgeting with her knuckledusters. "Doesn't matter much, thinking back on it. I cede."

Either one of the group members getting pasted changed her perception of things, or she was being evasive. Her personality suggested the former to him.

Dusk's demeanor offered no clue to her choice, and he inclined his head toward the person Cal assumed was next in line.

"The border's tighter than normal," Mr. Gun-Runner said, muzzles angled to the floor. "Normal payoffs aren't cutting it. Machiavellian's enclave operated some sea routes. I want them."

The name was unfamiliar, but Cal had a sneaking suspicion it referred to the late Sparky Chain Man.

"I object," Deck said, his voice hard but not hostile. "It would give you a monopoly on routes to the south. I propose we do an accounting of the enclave's assets and then set them for auction. The proceeds will be distributed among the ranking members of the chapter."

Cal received a fleeting glance from the card user, and he wondered if he was meant to object. Logically, the killer got the loot, right?

"Fair enough," Mr. Gun‑Runner said swiftly, prompting Cal to think that had been his intention all along. His eyes swept the arena, searching for any more naysayers and finding none. "I cede the floor."

The dichotomy of a bunch of killers having a civil, almost dull meeting was still getting to him.

"The lots we drew determined Forma was next," Pabo, the shorter man in orange, said. "I will speak for him. To that point, I would like to raise the shared complications resulting from the termination of our chapters' joint operation."

Cal wasn't sure if good things came to those who waited, but he certainly felt like it should apply in this scenario.

Decoding what they were saying, Cal inferred that chapters were regional groupings. Most of this group would be from the Empire's chapter, with the two men in orange from the Free Cities—if their currency and speech patterns were any indication.

"Don't act like it's our fault," Female-him said defensively. "The leak could have easily come from your side."

That earned several nods, even Ear‑bleed Guy setting aside his animosity toward the woman long enough to agree in silent support.

"I was not assigning blame," Pabo clarified evenly. "However, I would note our contribution was entirely liquidated, while yours was not."

They hadn't specified what this operation was, but he had to assume it was the tower in the Waste. He just didn't understand what they meant by contribution.

"As unfortunate a turn of events it was," Deck said with restrained politeness, "we had limited oversight of the facility. Its administration was handled by an affiliated partner, and while we did provide personnel, all of their contracts were long-term. None here ever set foot in it."

His story aligned with Miss Plusier's account, which lent it some credence, but Cal still felt they were downplaying their involvement.

"How long are we talking?" he asked, feigning annoyance. "And is that the norm? I get antsy if I'm in a place longer than a week."

Deck's lips pursed, clearly displeased by the intrusion. His gaze shifted to Miss Plusier, whose mask of confidence had slipped back into place.

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"I think it was a two-year deal," Combustion Man answered from the floor. "With something like six months left on the contract. After that they could rotate out or renew for a bonus. The terms were okay, but for people like us, sabotage, assassinations, and extortion are far easier."

Two years was a long time to be active in the Waste, but it lined up with the number of cages he saw around the tower. His next question was if the six-month expiration was relevant, but there was a limit to what he could pass off as curiosity.

"Immaterial," Pabo cut in, reasserting control of the conversation. "Our focus should be on mitigating the fallout of its discovery. As this is your sphere of influence, what assurances can you provide on that front?"

Deck seemed prepared to offer a response, but was preempted by the senior member of the group.

"Your concerns are heard," Dusk said diplomatically. "Having one of our number taken alive is a blight on our reputation, and it will not stand. Selene, I trust the issue is in hand."

The man's head tilted toward Acid Chick, his words phrased as a statement rather than a question. In some ways, her magic was the oddest of the bunch. Cal suspected it had roots in water magic, but he didn't understand how she could turn it caustic. Either way, her ability was less important than the implications Dusk laid out.

They were tying up loose ends, and the glass user Cal's party had captured was on the menu. While it was concerning, the Academy would be well aware of the risks involved in holding him and were no doubt prepared for—

"My pieces are in place," she said smoothly, derailing Cal's train of thought. "I could have him drown in his own blood tonight, but doing so will make future movements… difficult."

Cal did not smack his forehead, despite really, really wanting to. Shame on him for assuming the school that needed him, of all people to save it, was able to keep a prisoner alive for longer than a week.

Justified exasperation aside, he had to warn someone about this. The tricky part was who he would tell. This seemed like good bait to draw out a conspirator, but did that outweigh the knowledge the glass mercenary held?

Gah. Why couldn't he just punch people and be done with it?

"Preferably," Pabo said in his monotone voice. "All witnesses will be eliminated. I understand The Tremor and the Empire's crown pri—"

"No," Dusk asserted, flaring his magic in warning. "Harming the Empire's heir would result in unparalleled retribution. I foresee the Right's Fingers being recalled from their stations abroad and martial law declared. We will be forced to abandon the majority of our holdings in the Empire, and while I'm certain chapters such as yours will initially welcome us, that is not a tenable future."

The four-armed man growled, the sound incomparable to the whine he had uttered previously. His mass leaned forward, one foot sliding back and fists clenched. Eyes snapped to him, and Cal could feel magic pulse around the arena.

"Forma, enough," Pabo instructed, placing a calming hand on the larger man. "I apologize for my colleague; he can be ill-tempered at times."

Wasn't he the nicest person here? At the very least, he was tied with Combustion Man.

"Barring the assassination of royalty," he continued, ignoring the antagonistic atmosphere. "What other measures can be taken? Additionally, are we aware of any statements being made? It's imperative we understand what research was compromised."

Research? Like the documents Basem destroyed?

Acid Chick shared a look with Dusk, and the older man gestured for her to respond with his bony hand. She took another moment anyway, refusing to look at the foreign pair.

"Aside from the crown prince and The Tremor, the prince's aide was confirmed to have been a member of the raiding party. His elimination would likely be redundant," she said, inspecting her nails. "I'm not privy to whether they've made statements, but there are two other students suspected of having been involved."

Uh… any chance that wasn't who he was thinking of?

"Lilliane Arcutien and Callum Ardere," the woman continued, dashing his unrealistic hopes. "I would support the latter's execution."

On the one hand, he was happy Lily wasn't in her crosshairs. On the other hand, what in the hells did he do that warranted execution???

"Those names and houses," Dusk said introspectively, turning his serious gaze to Miss Plusier. "That is an odd coincidence, Spider."

The tailor blinked before chuckling, raising a palm to her mouth.

"I hope you're not suggesting anything untoward," she said slyly. "I neither knew nor cared about your little side project. My dealings with them were for nostalgic reasons, and there was hardly an exchange of pleasantries before they dropped a Finger on us."

Cal had thought they'd moved past the warehouse incident, but after feeling the sharp looks on him, he felt the need to add his side of the story.

"They tricked me into a meeting with a fake job offer and then tried to kill me," he said with a shrug. "Didn't take it personally."

Aaaand… everyone was staring strangely at him again. Whatever, he'd chalk it up as an improvement.

"But you killed someone over a shitty cloak," Female‑him muttered, swallowing once his attention settled on her.

In what was a tactical decision, she moved up a few places on his kill list.

"Selene," Dusk said, refocusing on Acid Chick. "To strike down any noble on Academy grounds will cause an uproar, and this Callum Ardere is unfamiliar to me. For what reason do you support his death? Does he pose an inordinate threat to our order?"

Cal was biased, but yes.

Antics aside, he eyed the woman warily. What had she learned that made him stand out as a threat?

"My investigation has been extensive, and I've employed unconventional methods," she said, reaching into her tight leather outfit and producing a device. She held it out, spurring flashes of confusion from several faces. Cal recognized it as an Academy phone. "Through which I've discovered a heinous plot."

Cal was not freaking out, but he was ready to tear her throat out at a moment's notice. How did she get a phone, and was it still hooked up to their systems? What could she have learned from that?

"The one known as Callum Ardere," she continued in a venomous tone, "is frequently paired with Lilliane Arcutien. It's absolutely unacceptable. He's passable, but her beauty far outstrips his. Removing him is the only rational option."

Passable? That was better than average, right? He was pretty sure he'd just been complimented.

"Clarification requested," Pabo said. "You intend to kill someone solely because of their appearance."

Come to think of it, she had threatened his life there.

"Pabo," Forma interjected, shaking his head. "Don't you remember? She didn't raise her hand."

It took him a second to connect the man's words, but when he did, Cal decided the four‑armed man was the smartest person here.

"Oh," Pabo replied quickly, surprise laced in tone. "You are correct, Forma. Disregard my query."

Had he ever joked about the school's message board being the death of him? He wasn't sure, but if he had, then he'd be giving Oracle a run for his money.

Now, how did he explain that not everything she read on there was true?

"I object," Deck said, pausing to collect himself. "To whatever you are proposing. I'm not terribly clear on it, yet I feel an objection is in order."

Cal could sense a frown behind her mask, but she didn't treat Deck with the same level of contempt as she did the pair in orange… or his school persona, for that matter.

"We're not executing students for your aesthetic preferences," Dusk said in a flat and definitive voice. "Then we agree to a single assassination?"

The question was directed to Pabo, who turned to his automaton for a moment before responding.

"If I could make a proposal," he said carefully, gauging the arena. "Our enclave is willing to negotiate for the termination of the Adjunctor from Shirai."

If Cal had been given a pin, he'd have dropped it just to hear how well the sound carried.

Soliciting the death of a City Lord's heir was a massive undertaking, and he struggled to believe anyone would casually suggest it—let alone entertain it. What had Basem been digging into that these two want him dead for? And was it related to the cores being shipped into the Academy?

He wanted to ask, but then noticed something odd.

No one was laughing, calling Pabo crazy, or telling him to get lost. They all remained silent, pondering expressions on their faces as they apparently considered the ludicrous request.

Could they pull it off?

"Why?" he asked, becoming public enemy number one again. "I mean, I'd like to know why I'm killing a foreign diplomat before I do."

It was a perfectly reasonable question, so why did everyone look at him like an idiot?

"Are barbarians accustomed to questioning contracts?" Pabo asked, more befuddled than upset. "I fail to see the pertinence, but it would be beneficial to my enclave should the Adjunctor never return East."

Cal's lips pressed into a flat line. All it really confirmed was that these two were enemies of Basem. It didn't tell him what either's goal was or how they affected the Academy.

"Is there a time frame?" he followed up. "And do you prefer a spectacle or a quieter affair?"

Offering to do the job seemed to be the obvious choice to get more information.

"We are not particular about the details," Pabo replied. "What terms do you propose?"

Would it be strange if he offered to do it for the exposure?

Probably. However, asking for money sounded dumb.

"It's usually an open bidding process," Combustion Man said, the flames above him fluttering about.

The ground must have been incredibly comfortable for him to stay lying there through the entire meeting.

"He would need to be dealt with outside of Empire borders," Dusk stipulated, his voice distant in thought. "We've already garnered too much attention."

There was far less pushback than he expected, and he wondered if this was how assassinations were decided every time.

"That adds a layer of complexity," Deck said offhandedly. He flicked through his cards, scrutinizing them.

Cal planned to counter the first offer, and he was mildly surprised when the next person spoke up.

"S‑s‑st—sto," Omen, the gaunt man sitting on a mat, stammered in a hoarse voice. His rocking intensified, fingers scraping against his skull. "St-st—stor—storm."

Storm?

Dusk's head snapped toward the man, inspecting him carefully as shadows pooled around him. The others turned as well, scanning for threats with wary expressions as their magic built.

"Tch." Mr. Gun‑Runner clicked his tongue, annoyed. He pointed his muzzle at the horizon. "Look there. Seems someone's afraid of getting wet."

Cal followed his sight, staring into the night sky. His initial screen showed nothing, and he had to tune his vision further to notice the dark curtain stretching across the horizon. He could see no end to it, and it was so distant he could barely track its advance.

Come to think of it. He'd never seen a storm hit Postremo Lux.

The automaton shrieked, releasing high-pitched whines and whistles that caused heads to jerk its way.

"Reporting…" Pabo mumbled, sounding uncertain. "Moisture content near zero. Significant mineral presence. Composition reading: over ninety‑one percent silica. Bearing zero‑one‑zero degrees north."

Silica? North?

"S-s-san," Omen forced out, throwing his head back and forth. "Sandstorm."

A sandstorm? But there weren't any deserts nearby—

Cal's mouth went dry, his eyes widening. He nearly broke his neck whipping his head back to the horizon. Even with his senses stretched to their limits, he couldn't detect so much as a trace of magic, and the colosseum's wards were designed to contain what was within, not block outside signatures. He instinctively reached for his connection to the void again, calling everything available to him.

Impeccable control.

Power to blot out the sky.

Sand.

Only one option remained.

The Right had arrived.

What was that feeling in his chest—oh, okay. In a race to push his augmentation past its peak, his heart had burst. No problem, that could be fixed right up. His sweaty hands also weren't an issue. He was a fist-fighter.

This was totally not him panicking. Nope. Definitely not. He was a professional in complete control of his body and emotions.

Cal kept repeating that, and yet, he may have just given himself an aneurysm. He reined himself in to the best of his ability. This was going to be an awkward first impression, but not catastrophic. After all, he was only doing his job.

Credit to the Infinita Nox members in the stands; they were the first to act, bolting toward the exits in a mad dash to escape the inevitable.

He… he should stop them?

Indecision plagued him. It didn't feel like he was done here.

One of them reached a tunnel, and that step was their last.

Reality bent as a sword came into existence, descending with ruthless intent. It cleaved through the unprepared criminal, parting them in two. Both halves fell with a squelch, providing a clear view of the attacker.

They stood blocking the exit, wearing a polished breastplate with matching greaves and bracers. Beneath the armor hung an extended white tunic that fell almost like a skirt. Their pants were a dull grey, and their boots were tipped with metal. A hood fastened to their tunic by a line of buttons, its trim embroidered with flowers. Over their face sat a silver mask shaped like a woman's visage.

Cal belatedly felt the presence of their magic, followed by more. He pivoted again and again as new figures materialized out of nothing. Their armor was identical, and their weapons varied. He thought the mask might also be copies, but the features differed slightly, and some were cast in gold.

Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine; the number stopped rising at fifty.

How did fifty members of the Blessed Order come out of thin air?

Cal didn't understand. Was this even a bad thing? They were on the same side, weren't they?

Yep, definitely allies. He just needed to clue them in somehow.

"Robert Credent," a masculine voice said from behind a golden mask depicting a woman. "For committing the highest form of blasphemy, violating Her grace, the order sentences you to death."

Robert… hadn't that name recently been mentioned?

The man's broadsword was leveled directly at Cal.

…but he hadn't violated anyone!?