Arc 9: Menosorpo (3)

“Interpreting a magic circle is ultimately much like translation. You determine what it seeks to accomplish by interpreting the combinations of symbols, their directions, and their positions. But—”

Daud pointed to one part of the magic circle.

“I’ve never seen symbols like these in the first place. I can find almost none of the symbols or grammar normally used in magic circles. In translation terms, it’s not just that I don’t know which word means ‘I’—I don’t even recognize the letter ‘A.’”

Daud spoke with remarkable confidence, as though if he didn’t know, no one would.

I scratched my cheek.

“Do you think I might have drawn a nonsense magic circle?”

Daud had made his dislike and suspicion abundantly clear from the moment we met. He might well think I had deliberately drawn a fake circle as a prank.

Besides, he looked distinctly unhappy right now.

“No.”

But Daud shook his head firmly.

“The pattern is consistent. And the symbols all follow a consistent direction to activate magical induction. A nonsense circle scribbled at random would never look like this.”

Whatever he thought of me, he was assessing the magic circle objectively.

I was a little impressed.

“You looked upset, so I wondered if that might be why. I’m sorry.”

“I am upset. In fact, I’m upset precisely because it is a proper magic circle. And yet I can’t interpret it.”

Daud rubbed his chin, lost in thought for a moment. At last, he spoke.

“You said you got this as a dungeon reward, right? What sort of dungeon was it?”

“Well, it was a low-level dungeon. A cave environment, with lots of traps and Ratmen living in it...”

“Not that. I mean, what was the mechanism for clearing it? A boss? A switch? A puzzle? What did you do to clear the dungeon?”

At Daud’s question, I glanced briefly at Saibel.

She hadn’t seen how I cleared the dungeon. I would rather keep it that way.

“It was a sanctuary.”

I offered a suitably limited truth.

Sanctuaries inside dungeons weren’t common, but they weren’t exceptionally rare, either.

As long as I concealed the fact that I had cleared it by saying, “I don’t believe in gods,” there shouldn’t be any real problem.

“... A sanctuary.”

Daud’s eyes narrowed.

“Then this magic circle may be written in the ancient language.”

“The ancient language...”

I breathed the words.

Daud continued.

“Sanctuaries were originally built when gods were physically present in this world. A reward obtained from one is likely to be in the ancient language. All the more so if it’s a collection of symbols like a magic circle.”

The ancient language.

Just as the name suggested, it was a language that had existed long ago but was now lost.

Why it had been lost was unknown, but the leading theory among modern scholars was simple: it was too difficult.

And, as an addendum:

They must have invented it to chatter among themselves.

That was their speculation, and it was actually very nearly correct.

The ancient language was created by mages to communicate among themselves.

In fact, the language itself was magic.

Its most distinctive feature was that its spoken and written forms occurred simultaneously.

Anyone who had mastered the ancient language would naturally hear its sounds upon seeing the writing.

Because the language worked that way, words spelled identically could have countless different meanings. The same written characters often had different pronunciations.

Naturally, an ordinary person had no hope of deciphering the text.

'The ancient language, huh.'

I examined the magic circle I had drawn again.

I only knew what the ancient language was in theory; I couldn’t interpret it myself.

But I had gained a clue. If this circle was in the ancient language, I could see why nothing had happened when I activated it.

As I mentioned earlier, the ancient language’s characters contained sound.

In other words, simply drawing this magic circle and feeding it mana wasn’t enough. Something had to be spoken aloud. There was one more step to activating it.

'Maybe it’ll work properly if I say the magic circle’s name, “Menosorpo.”'

Like a character in a comic or game shouting the name of a move.

Speaking would complete this magic circle.

'... But.'

Let’s not do it here.

I had no idea what might happen.

* * *

After Frondier left, Daud spent a long while silently studying the magic circle he had drawn.

Saibel remained beside him.

“... Dad, are you still looking at it?”

“Mm.”

At Saibel’s question, Daud pointed to one corner of the magic circle.

“Frondier, was it? That’s where the boy started drawing the circle.”

It was at the edge of the clearing.

Frondier had begun tracing the magic circle there with his dagger, gradually giving it shape.

“And just as he said, he drew an enormous magic circle. Right here in this clearing.”

“Right. You mean it’s amazing that he remembered a circle this big in such detail?”

“That too. But there’s something else.”

“Something else?”

Daud looked at Saibel and asked as though setting her a problem.

“Saibel, suppose you were drawing a magic circle. Where would you start? If you were copying one this enormous, I mean.”

“... Hmm, the center?”

“Exactly. That’s the normal way. It’s also the best way to keep the circle balanced. But Frondier started at the edge. He drew the outside first, then filled in the inside. Why?”

“... I-I don’t know?”

Saibel tilted her head, utterly at a loss.

Daud explained.

“Frondier knew the circle’s exact dimensions and every bit of spacing. A circle that takes up nearly this entire clearing, without the slightest error. Do you understand how absurd that is?”

That went beyond simply remembering.

He hadn’t merely memorized every detail of the circle’s shape and symbols. He remembered its overall size, the spacing and positions of each symbol—everything, as though he had a blueprint.

“I’m not sure we can even call that a good memory. If we call this ‘remembering,’ then nothing people have done until now would qualify.”

“...”

Saibel gaped in amazement.

Remembering the entire shape of the magic circle was impressive enough, but to have every measurement and interval stored in his head?

“Hmm. At first, I wondered why you’d brought home such a listless boy.”

“Huh? What?”

“But I can see why you’d choose him.”

Saibel’s face instantly turned scarlet.

“I told you, it’s not like that! How many times do I have to say it?”

“Don’t be so embarrassed. Your father is starting to think better of him now, too. Though that doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind completely. Unless he does something about those sleepy eyes...”

“Why do you listen to everything else I say but not this?”

DING-DONG.

Whether the timing was good or bad, the doorbell rang just then.

“Hmm, a visitor? I’ll go see.”

“Forget it! I’ll get it!”

Saibel trudged off, her voice still thick with anger.

'Honestly, what am I supposed to do about Dad jumping to conclusions like that!'

She opened the door in that same mood to find a man she didn’t recognize standing outside.

“Hello. You’re Miss Saibel Forte, correct?”

“... Oh, hello? Are you here to see my father?”

“No, I came to see you, Miss Saibel.”

“Me?”

Saibel tilted her head as she studied the gently smiling man.

His voice was kind, and his face reminded her of a harmless herbivore.

“Sorry to trouble you. Allow me to introduce myself.”

The man took out a business card and handed it to Saibel.

She read it.

[Serf Daniel]

- Indus Member No. 9

“Indus...?”

Saibel quietly studied the unfamiliar name.

“Yes. You’ve heard the name, haven’t you? Indus is an organization formed to oppose the nobility’s belief in their own inherent superiority.”

“... And what does Indus want with me?”

Serf’s explanation reminded Saibel what Indus was.

In the class-based world of Etius, discrimination based on status was an ever-present problem.

Most people didn’t even recognize it as discrimination, but Indus was made up of people who saw the injustice in the discrimination practiced by nobles and the imperial family, and spoke out for reform.

Membership wasn’t limited to Constel students; any commoner could join. This man, Serf, probably wasn’t a Constel student either. He looked over thirty.

Saibel’s opinion of Indus was neither good nor bad. The truth was that she hadn’t taken much interest in it.

Still, its influence was so great that people said, “An enemy of Indus is an enemy of the common people.”

That was why even someone as indifferent as Saibel knew what the organization was.

As a commoner herself, though, she did think there was nothing wrong with such an organization existing.

“Let me get straight to the point. Would you consider joining Indus?”

“Me?”

So she had no particularly positive or negative feelings about the offer, either.

It was unexpected—she had never considered it—but it didn’t feel unpleasant. She might join if the mood took her, or she might not.

Serf’s next words changed that.

“If you join now, you can take part in the ‘revolution.’”

“Revolution?”

“Yes. A revolution that will abolish all unjust discrimination, leaving only complete fairness and equality.”

Saibel’s mind raced.

Something felt off.

All the more so because Serf seemed to be deliberately making her uneasy.

“... What exactly does this revolution involve?”

“You’ll find out naturally once you join us.”

What kind of scammer’s pitch was that?

The mention of commoners brought something to mind.

Edwin von Behertio’s Golem incident. He had used a Golem to assault several students.

But apparently, evidence had emerged that those students had been systematically bullying Edwin. Their motive was simply that he was a “fallen” “noble.” The group’s name had been Aktober.

Was this Indus organization planning something similar?

“Does Indus engage in anything unsavory?”

“What do you mean by unsavory?”

“Like singling out a noble as a target and harming them in the name of ending discrimination?”

Saibel didn’t mince words.

Serf looked troubled, but he was still smiling.

“We merely seek to strengthen the common people and amplify their voices.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

At Saibel’s pointed question, Serf’s smile deepened.

“Such methods are one part of our efforts.”

“I must decline your invitation. Thank you for coming all this way. Please leave.”

Saibel bowed with the utmost courtesy.

At that, Serf sighed as though there were nothing to be done and turned away. Saibel silently watched him walk off without a trace of reluctance.

As he was leaving, Serf suddenly spoke.

“Come to think of it, there is something I should tell you.”

Perhaps because his face was in shadow, she couldn’t quite make out his expression in profile.

“To borrow your wording, Miss Saibel...”

But he was unmistakably still smiling.

“Our next ‘target’ is Frondier de Roach.”

“... What did you say?”

“I just thought I’d let you know.”

With that, Serf left.

Saibel felt an indescribable revulsion crawling across her cheeks.