While Edward interrogated the lone survivor, I busied myself with the cleanup.
Once I stripped the corpses of their mana, they lost all resistance to external magic. A single burst of magical flame reduced them to piles of ash in an instant.
It didn't matter that Edward had thinned the oxygen to near-zero; as long as magic power was the fuel, the flames would roar regardless.
"Speak," Edward commanded. "Scream all you like; no one on the outside can hear you."
"Ugh... guh... oo-guh..."
"Can't even manage a sound? Let me make it a little easier for you to breathe."
"Cough! Hack!"
I watched Edward’s interrogation with interest.
It was rare to find someone who could perform chantless magic that wasn't just basic wind spells, but true Atmospheric Manipulation—the ability to precisely control the composition of the air rather than just moving it around.
Thinking back to those Dark Section mages who had attacked during the day—that Kara-something of the Empty Fist had been quite powerful, compressing air into invisible bludgeons.
Achieving that level of control requires a deep understanding of the fundamentals of magic. Edward must be studying every attribute as intensely as I am.
Most nobles who graduate from the Academy but can't inherit their family estates aim for positions as Court Mages. Considering they spend their years building a foundation for that career, I can understand why the Academy doesn't teach chantless magic yet.
Still, no one reaches this level without an iron will.
Recognize me as a shadow, huh?
Very well, Edward.
If your naive delusions have truly burned away in the face of a life-and-death crisis, I suppose I can acknowledge you as a shadow.
Though, your next opponent might be a bit much—
"What... do you want... with me? I... don't know anything..." the mage gasped, his breath failing.
There was no despair in his eyes. Instead, they flickered with a desperate light, as if he still held a trump card in reserve.
"I know... gah... there's a monster here... so I... brought her along!"
In a flash, Edward was sent flying.
I glanced toward him, wondering if he’d been killed. Even as he coughed up blood, he managed to manifest a faint cushion of air at the last second to kill his momentum before hitting the ground.
His mask was half-shattered, revealing his face. His eyes were rolled back; he was completely unconscious.
I see. He can activate chantless magic as an automated safety measure even while out cold. I’ll have to give him a better score for that.
However, with his consciousness gone, the atmospheric pressure returned to normal. The mage who had been undergoing interrogation scrambled to his feet, frantically casting recovery magic to steady himself.
"Cough... I’m saved..."
"Who’s the Bald Mask? This isn't what you told me," a new voice rang out.
A small figure clad in black garments stepped in front of the mage. I couldn't see her face, but the voice was unmistakably a woman's.
The survivor shook his head as he stood up. "Who knows? But he’s the real deal. He can manipulate the air itself."
"Hmm."
She sounded bored as she looked toward Edward, but I could tell her focus was locked on me the entire time.
She was wary.
The woman in black turned my way and spoke. "Is it wise to leave your post? O Guardian of the Frontier?"
"So you don't call me the Monkey of the Abandoned Land?" I asked. It was a first for a mage.
"Let the others call you what they like," she said with a soft chuckle. "I have no intention of fighting you here. I came to talk."
"What?!" the mage beside her hissed, his face pale. "What are you saying? He turned all my subordinates into ash—"
"—Be ashamed of your own ignorance."
With a casual movement, the woman took the mage's head off.
"Don't you know the proverb? Leave a Brave alone, and you won't be cursed."
She ignored the body as it collapsed and twitched, blood spraying from the stump of the neck. She caught the flying head and looked at me.
"My role is strictly that of a negotiator. Consider this a souvenir."
...I really didn't want that.
"Leave a Brave alone"—that wasn't much better than being feared as the Abandoned Land. She was just dressing it up in different words.
And besides, I’d been turning the bodies into ash specifically to avoid leaving a mess. She could have at least considered the cleanup before killing him.
"Well? He can still talk. He's a collector's item," she offered.
"Y-y-y-you! You! You! You!" the head shrieked, its eyes bulging.
He was using chantless recovery magic to stay conscious for a few more seconds, but he’d clearly lost his mind.
"I’ll pass. I’m a bit too old to be playing with morbid dolls."
She tossed the head to me. Since it was in such poor taste, I swatted it aside, crushing it into dust.
"So," I said, getting to the point. "What's this negotiation?"
If she’d gone to the trouble of bringing a "souvenir" to talk to me, I might as well listen.
"I am Wednesday. My organization, Blood Week, received a request. The clients are House Pentagram and House Slash."
"Heh. You're remarkably open about that."
"A certain degree of transparency is necessary. I've been granted the authority to negotiate. Based on our assessment of you, I judged that we wouldn't even get a word in unless I offered that much."
Divulging the clients' names was a massive concession. Either she didn't care if it was known, or she was operating on the assumption that I already knew.
"And?" I prompted.
"I want to know your objective," Wednesday replied. "Order has been crumbling since you arrived at this Academy. Does this desire for upheaval represent the will of House Brave? Or is it merely your own?"