Puella Magi

The night wind scattered the crimson sparks around her.

Yuri stood atop the Onius family tower, one of the tallest in the Senatorial Ring. The sky that night, heavy with lead-colored clouds, let no starlight through, yet the center of Gran-Devana seemed to have its own light, given the countless thaumaturgic lights illuminating the monuments of the elite’s power.

Vel’Shaad, Lady of Ultio Fatidica, spread her arms wide, letting her long pink hair fall loose around her face as a glowing circle formed beneath her feet.

[You have initiated a transformation to activate the abilities of the Gift. Warning! Your powers will be harmful to the mundanes nearby. Do you wish to continue?]

What a foolish question!

Light shot upward in a vertical column, and the black cloak Yuri wore dissolved into scarlet dust, revealing pale skin marked by dark lines. Pieces of metal began to materialize on her body, snapping into place with rhythmic clicks: first greaves, then gloves, pauldrons, and finally a partial cuirass over her torso.

Each piece adjusted with precision, as if obeying an unspoken command. Around her waist, a short skirt of metal plates layered itself over crimson fabric, and tall, narrow-heeled boots completed the attire. Lastly, a white mask formed, leaving only her eyes exposed, glowing with a menacing crimson light.

From the top of the building, she could see the Celestial Sanctuary a few kilometers away, lit by hundreds of candles burning in honor of the gods, and by hovering globes of thaumaturgic light.

Her destination lay at the highest point of the imperial city: a vast complex of white walls, towers, and inner courtyards, built upon steps carved into the rocky face of a hill. The central temple dominated the landscape, a structure of gray stone and golden rooftops, with large arched windows of stained-glass depicting the effigies of the Orthodoxy’s gods: Mother of Dawn, Just-God, Daughter of Ashes…

***

Yuri leapt over the walls and descended into the sanctuary, gliding.

Before any guard could notice her presence, she decided to announce herself by invading the Relic Chamber, destroying with a single blow the stained-glass window depicting the god known as the Burning Voice. A circular hall revealed itself, supported by black marble columns that rose into a dome painted with frescoes of the gods surrounded by angels, creating the mortal beings of Ordinem Finis. At its center, set upon a polished bronze pedestal on a slab of white stone, the sword slept.

Its double-edged black blade pulsed faintly, as if breathing. The wide guard, curved downward, bore engravings worn away by time, symbols whose meaning even the priests no longer knew. The long, segmented hilt allowed it to be wielded with one or two hands, and the angular bronze pommel repeated the same ornamentation as the guard, balancing the weapon’s design.

Around the sword, dozens of priests in gray robes knelt, united in a chain of prayer. Their mouths, hidden beneath the hoods of their sacred habits, murmured chants to keep the weapon dormant, while a rhythmic sound marked the passage of black beads in their rosaries.

Yuri approached the holy men.

The doors of the Relic Chamber suddenly opened, though the priests did not move a muscle or cease praying. Crusaders of the Orthodoxy rushed in, forming ranks as soon as they saw her, defending the sacred blade and the servants of the gods who placated it day and night.

They were warriors in full armor, the finest steel painted white, trimmed with gold, and bearing the emblem of the goddess of war upon their chests: a purple flame encircling a crimson vertical sword. Their closed helmets, with only a narrow slit for the eyes and crimson plumes, made them look like incorporeal beings existing solely to kill.

The soldiers carried long spears, their blades shaped like the flame of the emblem upon their chests, which also adorned their rectangular shields.

“Intruder!” the commander shouted, pointing his spear at Yuri. “Surrender in the name of the gods, and I swear you will receive a less cruel judgment than the fate we shall give you in the name of the Daughter of Ashes!”

Vel’Shaad did not reply.

The first group of warriors advanced.

Spears descended in perfect arcs, but she moved with the subtlety of the wind to evade them. Her hair whipped as she broke through their formation with a sequence of spinning kicks.

A spear was torn from the nearest crusader’s hands and hurled at another, piercing the slit of his helmet. The metallic gurgle echoed through the hall, making the holy chants grow louder.

The warriors held their discipline. Two shields tried to crush her from the flanks, but Yuri raised her hand, and black runes shone as thaumaturgic barriers to block them. Then, vertical lines of aether shot forth toward the crusaders, slicing through their armor to cut them in half.

The remaining spears lunged forward, and Yuri spun, her lines of aether cleaving deeper than any blade, shattering shafts, severing heads, and destroying the joints of their armor.

The emblem of the Daughter of Ashes was stained completely red.

The commander advanced last. A hardened man, surely a veteran of many battles, he cracked his neck and attacked cautiously, wielding a massive sword inscribed with thaumaturgic runes. He was larger and heavier than the others, his more ornate armor betraying his rank.

The blow came from above, strong enough to cleave even a Stoneling in half.

Yuri raised her right hand. A crimson circle gleamed, and a curved blade, black as coal, materialized to block the commander’s strike.

Sparks flew in all directions, the ricochet of the impact throwing the Crusader off balance, giving Vel’Shaad the opening to swing low and sever the commander’s legs.

The blade then returned in a circular motion and beheaded the warrior before he fell.

The priests continued praying. Some glanced at her for a moment, but soon lowered their heads again, murmuring desperate prayers.

The deep sound of their chants reverberated across the high ceiling.

Yuri walked among the holy men. None dared to stop her. Perhaps they feared facing an enemy who had slaughtered their protectors. Perhaps they trusted too much in divine protection.

When her hand touched the hilt, however, they knew no god would come to their aid. The entire hall shook. The candles flickered.

The chants faltered for a moment.

“Who dares wield Omnem, the God-Sword, and take upon themselves such an ancient burden?” A voice echoed, not in her ears, but in her mind. “I was forged for Ys Vattlaml, the Great Hero, to protect the world and bring an end to the Millennial War. I will not be a slave!”

Yuri pulled the sword from the stone. A glow ran the length of its blade, accompanied by tiny luminous particles, as though the weapon was wrapped in heat, revealing its true nature as a deadly and powerful artifact. A veil of pale smoke rose from the blade, reinforcing the sensation of an active force flowing through it.

And indeed there was. Pure thaumaturgic energy.

The chain of prayer shattered like the stained-glass she had destroyed. The priests screamed, most fleeing the hall in panic, others still trying in vain to continue their prayers.

“The world is rotten” Yuri said, raising the weapon. “The greatest good I can do is to destroy it.”

For a moment, silence.

“If it is destruction you seek, then you shall have in me an ally. For I am neither good nor evil” the Sword replied. “The hand of the wielder decides as they wield me.”

The blade glowed even brighter, and the Lady of Ultio Fatidica felt its weight adjust to her strength, as if accepting its new bearer.

Behind her, hurried footsteps crossed the chamber doors. A new battalion of Crusaders entered, shields raised, spears leveled. At their head came a slave-paladin in full armor, the heraldry of the First Citizen engraved in gold upon his chest.

“Desecrator!” he roared, taking the strange fighting stance taught only to the elite warriors of the old imperial family. “Relinquish the relic!”

Yuri spun Omnem in her hands, the sword’s glow tracing a semicircle in the air, and raised it before her eyes.

“I was forged from strands of aether to serve the greater good.”

“Then let us kill the world” Vel’Shaad decided, with a rasping laugh, as the Crusaders and the slave-paladin surrounded her for another bloody dance.

The blade shone brighter in response, blazing like a small sun.

“So be it.”