Seven Years Later
When the staff at the Royal Army base at Lufield spoke of a dragon's den, they didn't mean the nest of a fire-breathing lizard. It was the office of the Commander-in-Chief they meant. Neither was a place where a person wanted to be, by any means.
It wasn't my favorite spot either.
Still, come Monday morning, I was back there again, facing the wide rosewood desk under the light of an ethereal window in the back. At the table sat rigidly the non-dragonoid five-star General Liesebeth Ruthford in her steel-gray uniform. But even in the broad light of day, it was difficult to view this woman the same as any ordinary human. Her dark hair fell long about her, shading her back like a cape, or folded wings, and the curve of her chest was covered in a glittering scaling of medals. For honor and valor and so forth.
The General kept her left eye closed at all times, the original lost in a storm of steel somewhere, since then replaced with an artificial magic eye that let her gaze pass through walls unhindered. But the unnaturally glowing imitation eye made her self-conscious, and she didn't like to openly show it. The pale, thin scar crossing from the forehead down to the cheek served as an excuse to keep it hidden.
For many, she was the closest thing to a dragon on earth.
Among the otherwise male-dominated senior army staff, the General was a black sheep; a woman barely halfway through thirty. Her borderline mythical achievements in the war and the early demise of several predecessors had boosted her up through the ranks at a speed impossible in peacetime. But the fact alone that she survived in the chair that seemed to kill everyone else said all there was to say about competence.
Leading armies may have been mostly a desk job in this day and age, but the skills of the "Iron Valkyrie," one of the Seven heroes of Calidea, and a living Sword Saint candidate, hadn't put on any rust.
But to me, she was simply "boss". Nothing more, nothing less.
And now, apparently, ex-boss.
"Could you say that again?" I asked for a repeat, staggered.
"You heard me," General Ruthford replied and sluggishly brought her stamp down onto the document in front of her. "This coming Sunday, your service in the Royal Army comes to an end. Good work, Cardinal Mage. And congratulations. You've done your duty and civilian life awaits."
Stamp.
"Wait. What do you mean I'm discharged?" I stammered. It was rare for me to lose my composure like that, but I think it was understandable here. "You can't do that! This country doesn't even have an army without me! At least explain why. Why so suddenly…"
"What do you mean, 'suddenly?'" she replied. "The war is long over. We have peace now and weapons are needed no more. It's time for you to find other, more constructive ways to contribute to your nation."
"Just kill me."
"Awfully melodramatic of you, 9XA."
I had never protested or refused orders before. Not even once. I was pretty proud of that. I wasn't proud of all the things I did while under orders, but I thought maintaining personal integrity in both good and bad was a thing worthy of respect.
But now I felt I had to question this.
"I was literally made for war! I've lived and breathed only for war since I was six! What else would I do if I'm not a soldier anymore? No. I'm the product of illegal, unethical human experiments! To prevent the kingdom's dirty secrets from leaking, I should be disposed of and evidence of my existence erased. Isn't that right!? At least let me have an honorable way out!"
"Don't say such morbid things," the General scolded me, and took a slim folder from the desk drawer. "You're only sixteen and have much to live for. In fact, most would say your life has only just begun. But I had a feeling you might struggle to get started, so I have a small proposition regarding your path henceforth."
"What is it?"
She held up a thick, sketchy-looking folder and gestured at me to come take it. When I opened the cover, the first thing my eyes met was an ornate symbol of a griffin wrestling with a serpent. Underneath was the name, Academy of Belmesion.
"Go to school," the General said.
"School?" I snorted, frowning. "But I already know everything worth knowing."
"About monsters and massacre, maybe. But there's more to life and to magic than mindlessly making things explode. I think it will do you good to spend some time with ordinary people of your own age. You'll also get four more years to consider what to do with your life. Maybe inspiration will find you."
I turned around the stack of documents in my hands and gave my professional opinion:
"This is a terrible idea."
But the General wouldn't hear it.
"I will lend you my name, and the Ruthford House will sponsor you financially. You won't need to worry about tuition or anyone discriminating against you because of your sketchy background. Of course, said background will have to remain strictly confidential, so study the fake biography the guys at the Bureau prepared for you. Those people have a knack for writing fiction."
I singled out the sheet in the stack containing personal information.
My name on it was written as "Hope Ruthford".
Hope. The naive word troops chanted in the Arbusian theater when they'd see me. Hope of victory after the long, bleak nightmare of war. I thought they were being brainless, but seeing the word now spelled with black on white evoked a very complicated feeling.
Was this irony?
Calidea's hope meant despair to the rest of the world. For us to win, an untold number of our neighbors had to die. In the imperial Tarachia, they knew me as Demon of the Red Moon, Horror of Nines, Hyperwitch, Devil of Fire, Hellspawn, and so on, and those were among the most family-friendly titles.
"Is this an order?" I asked sullenly.
The General rose from her chair, stepped around the wide table to me, and took my shoulders in a firm but gentle grip.
"It's a personal appeal. I'm not saying this as your commanding officer, but simply as a woman who happens to feel a smidgen of sympathy for you. If not for yourself, then do it for me."
Donning a little wistful air, she turned her cyclopean gaze at the window and the bright day out in the field, and said,
"Like you, I've sacrificed much of myself for our Kingdom. Too much, one might say. I'm all that's left of my line, and it doesn't seem I'll have the time to start a family of my own. So would you indulge me in this small illusion of parenthood, for at least a short while?"
Was she for real?
For a person who openly loathed private chatter, sentimentality, and such soft expressions, to speak so earnestly about herself was too weird. If it was an act, I suspected I was being manipulated. But if she actually meant every word—What did this woman expect from me, really?
"…All right, all right," I agreed with a sigh. "I just need to go there and lay low, right? I'll do it. Not like I have a real choice."
"I appreciate it," the General said and smiled wryly at me. "Hope."
A knock came from the door then and interrupted us. Receiving permission, in peeked a short, smart-looking young man in thick-rimmed glasses and the white coat of the Mysterium's R&D department. In his hands, he carried a sleek, white-painted box.
"Good timing," General Ruthford greeted him. "Are they finished?"
"Yes, ma'am," the man said as he hurried over, trying to cover his nervousness with a forced smile. "Fresh from the bakery."
The General took the case from him, set it onto the desk, and removed the lockless lid. Inside was no candy or donuts. She took out an item and turned to show it to me; a jagged ring of black metal, made up of small, polished cubes welded together.
Holding the ring, she looked at me, and her gaze grew colder.
"At the end of the day, you are a product of illegal, unethical human experiments. At present, only two human Tier 8 mages exist in all the world. That you're one of the two has to remain secret, for the safety of our people. To that end, your power will need to be restrained before we let you loose among the civilian population."
"Restrained?" I repeated with a frown. "Is that even possible?"
There'd been attempts before, but I kept breaking their toys without even meaning to.
"After five years of painstaking trial and error, Mysterium found a way," the General said. "A very expensive way. This ring is made of authentic dragon scales. Black dragon scales, taken from a beast of the very highest caliber. As you well know, not only are they extremely durable, but they also actively disrupt the flow of mana."
Dragons were supposed to be virtually extinct. I could only wonder how and where Mysterium got the materials.
The General took my hand, raised it, drew down the robe sleeve, and then fit the ring on over the fingers and knuckles and down to the wrist. For a marriage ceremony, it was kind of in poor taste. She tapped the side of the hoop and the band tightened on its own, like a living lizard's tail, just about tight enough to hold on without blocking the blood flow.
"Wow," I remarked in awe, feeling a cold sense of weakness start to sneak up along the arm. "It actually works? I don't think I could cast anything above Tier 7 with this on."
"Tier 7?" The Mysterium mage snorted, looking at me and the ring incredulously. "You know, I couldn't put a pinky through that without retching. These things could actually kill a mage with low enough mana levels."
"These?" I repeated.
General Ruthford looked at me. "You get five."
Still holding my arm, she went on to take out one ring after another from the case and put them on. When one ring made contact with another, they snapped firmly together as if somehow magnetic and couldn't be separated again. They weren't very heavy, but when all five were latched onto my arm, the limb had grown leaden, and I began to feel genuinely awful.
"Isn't this going a little overboard?" I asked and grimaced. "I'm practically powerless now."
"According to the numbers, a five-fold seal tones down your mana intensity to the level of a Tier 3 mage. That's the average level for academy graduates. The rest of the world may look like ants to you, but I wouldn't call this 'powerless' by any means. I'd use the word, 'reasonable.'"
"It's a big world. What if something goes wrong? The war may be over, but we still have a lot of enemies out there. How can I deal with any emergencies with only a student's output?"
"You're authorized to remove up to three rings at your own discretion. For the remaining two, you need permission from someone with Echelon-1 authority. But every time a ring is released, we receive a notification of it, as does the Royal House. And you're going to have to submit a thorough report, and we're going to have to convene a hearing to deliberate if the removal was justified, to soothe the hardliners in the government. So think long and hard if your emergency is worth the hassle. If we learn you've abused your abilities, we can lock the remaining rings too, or get you another five. This is the price you must pay so that you wouldn't have to be erased from existence. Seeing life from the perspective of the 'weak' ought to be a learning experience for you too."
I pulled my arm from the General's hands and turned away, rubbing my numbing wrist.
"I never expected a medal," I said, "but after everything I've done for this country, I get only more whipping? Is this your idea of justice?"
"I'm sorry, Hope," the General said, and whether it was an act or not, she did sound convincingly apologetic. "Society is complicated. But rather than a lock, try to think of it as a key. Ironically, you'll have more freedom and opportunities this way. I will do what I can to support you, but how to make the most of your one and only life—that's something only you can decide."
General Ruthford returned to her seat behind the table, leaned her elbows on the table, and crossed her fingers with a falsely pleasant smile.
"That said…Good luck with the entrance exam."
"Huh?" I raised a brow at her. "Exam?"
"That's correct. Belmesion is the most popular academy on the continent. Aspiring students need to take a test to prove they're worth teaching. I can tell you by personal experience that their exam is no joke. You have a month to get ready, so I recommend hitting the books as soon as you can. Fail to enroll and…Well, there might be somebody out there in need of a magical dishwasher, I guess."
Could I still take execution?