Mirane Rosewood spoke first,
"What's with the carvings? Cults?"
"Oh threat not, they're nothing really. Just something I was a part of. An old order, defunct now," he responded, lowering his head with a slight smirk taking shape near his lips, "You nobles need not worry. We wouldn't dare call ourselves anarchists."
It was possible to peek into the room hidden behind his long, shrouded figure. Empty and barren— the only thing it had space for was a wooden table with rows of folios scattered around it in an unorganised frenzy. Dust covered the windows, making it almost impossible to see the rot thriving outside. For someone as distinguished as Mirane, this was well beyond the limits of what she would find herself reaching out to willingly.
However, the situation she found herself in was dire. The empire's attempts at unearthing the mystery surrounding the disappearance of a Royal was a disgrace too heavy to bear for a noble such as herself. Even if Orion himself didn't plead for her compliance, she would've made her way here eventually. Whether that would've been an act of nobility or self-respect is a fact that can no longer be tested; as she was already here, face to face with a man that held mystery far too complex for her to understand now.
"Whether or not we worry about it is our choice," she pushed him aside, entering the room forcefully. In response, the man served as a futile blockade in her path, resisting the shove only briefly. He spoke out,
"Hey, this is technically trespassing. You know that, right?"
"Well, I wouldn't be trespassing if you didn't have something that wasn't yours, now would I?"
"What do you mean?" the man queried, feigning curiosity through his now annoyed expression.
"Nostradi, where are the parcels you received from him?" Mirane asked, attempting to make sense out of the sheets of paper cluttering the area ahead.
"Look, I'm just a middle-man. I get parcels sent to me all the time. They tell me where to deliver them, and I do."
"So, where was your last delivery?"
The man, now fidgeting around Mirane, as if attempting to divert her way before she reaches for something untouchable, speaks again,
"That I cannot tell you. Trade secrets, they must be upheld."
Mirane stopped scavenging her way across the convoluted mess. She looks up and stares at the man, her breath still and judging.
"Alright, so what are you trying to hide from me then?"
She pushed him aside again, this time shoving him far enough to the point he stumbled upon a pot of water set aside on the floor. It rolled around and fell on top of the surface covered in notes, dampening the place in a chaotic formation of wet-trails. And as if someone had added drops of life into them, the glyphs drawn beneath bloomed atop.
Damien's heart stopped.
His finger grew cold and his breath turned shaky.
A faint sigh and another. He tried to regain the focus in his eyes.
It was that same glyph. The one that shattered the mantle of Nostradi's seal, and the one that once tore the Imperial Dome at Academie D'lube Sanctifie.
A guideline to combine Solence and the Witherflow, extracting the chaos between the Fourth Circle and the Fourth Canticle.
The centerpiece of the Dragon's Maw Raid and Nostradi's masterpiece.
"Raphael."
Damien spoke, instinctively, as if the thought needed an assurance almost immediately. He looked around to see every face in the room staring at him, each holding a different yet similar expression: some form of curiosity. Except for one, except for the man cloaked in ashen robes and a wheel etched across his hand.
"How… Do you know that name?" Ernst spoke quietly.
"I—Uh, I just read it in a book, in the archives!"
"Liar!" He screamed, the windows shaking, shivering, as if in response to the rage in his voice.
"Tell me, HOW do you know that God Forsaken name? Who spoke of it?"
The man panicked further. Mirane stood in confusion, both at the man's behaviour and Damien's sudden involvement in his act of hysteria.
Suddenly, he stopped. Without a moment's notice, he raised his hand, glyphs of Witherflow appearing upon it instantly. No chant, no summoning. He formed a ray of pure, unfiltered Infernal mana and shot it towards Damien. Mirane responded as swiftly as she could, kicking away his hand and wrapping them behind him to subjugate him. Qingge formed a sphere of Solence around them, Second Circle, trapping the surge of infernal clouds inside it for a brief instance. However, that was all she could afford to do, as the rapidly strengthening, concentrated flow of sin broke through it almost effortlessly. It was obvious that its path could only be faltered by Damien alone.
He summoned a barrier ahead. It was a Third Circle summon with his 'Sanctiglyph of Veiled' Light adding a varnish of potency to it. Halos of divine light appeared above him, spiralling with unfiltered purity, each turning into threads of Solence that strengthened his defense further. Combined, they managed to cast away and divert the surge of infernal energy rushing toward him.
Everyone in the room realised something at that instant. The man in front of them is far stronger than he made himself out to be.
However, the Guild Leader of the Nobles of Grace was someone who stood far beyond the reaches of Ernst. She was the Empire's fourth sharpest fang, Mirane Rosewood.
Before the man could afford to form another glyph in front of him, she blocked the channels transferring infernal mana to his head with a blow to the back. Then, she clenched her fist, adding a layer of enhanced Solence to it, and struck him again. And again. And again. And again.
"That was for trying to harm someone entrusted to me."
And she hit him again.
"And that was for lying to us."
Everyone stared at her with unrivalled admiration flourishing through their eyes. Witnessing one of the guild masters in direct combat was a truly worthwhile experience for anyone training to follow in their footsteps. Even Damien found himself astonished by her efficiency.
Their jubilations were short-lived as a loud thunder strike interrupted them. With a sound resembling some sort of divine intervention shattering reality itself, the Jester, the intruder who defied the Arcane laws, appeared in front of Mirane Rosewood and her temporary disciples.
And he spoke thus,
"Well, well, we meet again, the Sainted and his entourage,
Let me reintroduce myself, the fugitive at large,
They call me the Jester, here to save the day and take charge
Of our researcher, that you so plan to purge??"
He raised an open palm above his head as several spirals of golden light hovered over him at an impossible pace. "One, two, three… Seven," Valen muttered, before turning on layers of barrier covering both him and Damien. Despite a delayed reaction due to being startled by past memories, Damien manages to add a few more levels to the protective shield Valen formed around them. However, he knew of the futility behind this act.
A seventh circle attack is a truly celestial display of power. No replica of a fifth circle shield can protect them.
"As punishment, let's see you all submerge!" The Jester's face turned to glee as he raised his head up and burst into a maniacal laugh.
"Ha ha ha ha ha, The Sainted, and the Divine General of the Nobles of Grace, today sure is my lucky day! The lord will be greatly pleased when he hears this."
And then, the ceiling decorated in Solence fell, its weight overwhelming every breath breathing within that room.
With the sole exception of a single person.
Mirane Rosewood.
She singlehanded held the mantle of Solence above her while its force reverted the direction of airflow present in the room. The Jester's laugh deepened, now turning into a scream of elation,
"Suffer, suffer more! Fight for your survival, Mirane! Show me what you've got!"
Mirane looked up, grinding her teeth against one another in furious rage. With bloodshot eyes, she stared deep into his gaze and added,
"Survival? Don't make me laugh. This Knight that you're underestimating will now show you what it means to be a Guild Master."
And with that, she lifted the empyrean structure floating above her in rapid fury. She bent the rules of her own limits and channeled several Sixth Circle Glyphs into it, each cancelling out the complexity in the framework of the Ciphers placed above it. Then it ignited, exploding into flickers of Solence and throwing everyone away with its whiplash.
The Jester simply smiled. He applauded her efforts and narrowed his eyes.
He was amused. But not satisfied.
"That sure was… fun! I didn't expect your mana spike to emerge."
And the rhymes were back.
He took his gloves off, revealing a pattern similar to what was carved on Ernst's hands.
"It's about time I got to test myself against one of the Empire's swords. Let's see who's stronger between a wielder of the Seventh or a newly blooming emissary of the divine, the Sixth Circle Guildmaster!"