act29side

The Graf's spire in Urtica is too small, so I built the Genesis Spire in Vedunien. It is already the tallest in Leithanien, but not necessarily across all the lands.

But I will never stop. That is the difference between myself and sages past.

<i>That</i> is immortality, Fremont.

I hope that when you build a new spire, you'll make a few extra rooms. So you won't need to use my own secret chamber just to modify a piece of music.

I will.

Now then, let us begin.

I'll go activate all the resonance capture devices. It will all be clearer once we dismantle the melody later.

Herkunftshorn sits firmly on the chair in the center of the room, unfolding the Movement. Fremont nudges aside priceless ancient tomes to make room for the witchcraft matrices.

By the way, Fremont, what is it you call the other side of the world?

(Sarkaz) 'The beginning and end of all threads.'

A petty name.

Their phylactery grants Liches an almost unique ability among the races. Concealing that phylactery means a life that will not end.

With infinite time, Liches are allowed to glimpse the infinite truths of the world. But do you treat them as merely pages in a tome of knowledge?

Caution is in our nature. The more we discover, the fewer spaces we can live.

Right then, Fremont, what about you?

Me?

'The beginning and end of all threads' ...

You often complain that the Liches under your command are either too young or too hidebound, but have you ever considered entering that space, rather than treating it as simply a drawer in which to hide your phylactery?

A terrible chill sweeps over Fremont.

A faint but dazzling light blooms atop Herkunftshorn's scepter. He has already begun to play the Güldenesgesatz. Fremont's hands have not stopped either.

Lich and Caprinae, King of the Royal Court and Kaiser of Leithanien, they have always moved in tacit agreement.

Even in the tensest moments, the two could insert discussions on various topics. Philosophy, music, and sometimes even the climate and cuisine of Leithanien.

Herkunftshorn had raised the matter so naturally. The true secret threatening the mortality of the Liches.

If he used his Exile to its fullest extent, the lifethreads could dissolve all of these notes in an instant, annihilating the defenseless man before him.

No one else knew the Leithanian Kaiser had come here. He would have enough time to tell the Lich Court to flee the country.

But Herkunftshorn had raised it so naturally, casually bringing up the secret that had remained hidden all these long years.

Hahahaha!

After a long while, Fremont bursts into hearty laughter.

Wonderful. As it happens, I've also encountered some bottlenecks in my study of that space.

If you're really interested, Herkunftshorn...

I could lend you my phylactery.

That's enough, Herkunftshorn.

Don't you find the nostalgia nauseating? It's enough to make me want to vomit last night's leftovers. Besides, I'm running out of time.

It's been a while, Fremont.

I'm sure you remember what you've borrowed. The time has come to return it.

Franz, steady your breathing. You're going to crush your Originium dice into powder.

Their former owner, Bielefeld, was a rare great caster of Erdenherre who lived a century ago.

He once used the dice to control the wind and lightning in the central valleys of Gaul, masterfully sinking the indomitable flagship of Corsica I and ruining the enemy's formation in a single stroke.

The Battle of the Four Emperors...

Indeed. It was a delightful victory. The Gaulishmen couldn't even manage to cobble together a complete banner. The lamentations of the fleeing and the cheers of the victorious alternated, like a grand duet.

Unfortunately, we lost Bielefeld in the subsequent attack on Lingones. I saved those dice as a tribute to him, in his honor.

If the will of a caster wavers like the grass in winter, how could he ever hope to control the wind and lightning?

Ebenholz remains silent. The Witch King's tone is calm, even... gentle.

It was a feeling not unlike he had discovered a child who'd stolen an old item from his home, stopped him, and explained the item's provenance after the necessary scolding.

How long have you been gone, Franz?

Gone...?

The weakening golden melody seeks an exit from the secret chamber, with Ebenholz and the Witch King standing outside the door. Before them lies a steep, dark red staircase.

This is... The Graf's spire in Urtica.

A series of changes have taken place since the Vyseheim incident, and he had been gone for over a year. But he could never forget the place.

Do you dislike these stairs?

These carpets, blood red, engraved with dark patterns beneath the pristine handrails.

The Messengers who came from the capital every once in a while, exchanging glances. The servants standing in every corner...

Sorry, it's hard to like them.

Right.

When I was your age, I would wake up in the middle of the night and take these stairs to wake up my tutor.

The Witch King ascends the stairs. The sound spreads far down the long corridor as the lamps along the walls light up one by one, illuminating the path beneath the feet of the spire's owner.

Between the lamps float interconnected intricacies of witchcraft. The tutor sent by the Empresses was intended to perform poorly, so many a night Ebenholz would sneak into subtler corridors to practice.

He unconsciously followed the Witch King. For a moment, he seemed to think that the man was still living in the spire, only waking up in the middle of the night to head to the door, for whatever unknown reason.

The short-horned Elafia opened the door. I didn't go in. I stood in the doorway and asked him.

Over the course of three months, I reviewed the six hundred and thirty-four scores collected throughout this ancient spire, all composed by famous musicians and grand casters.

I took the melodies apart, including those that were incomplete or unplayable.

Why is it that the art of which Leithanien is so proud, accumulating the beauty of 'elegance' and 'harmony' of a thousand years, flows with dead melodies and crusty notes?

I turned this sculpture by the door into a sandbox, quickly deducing the situation for the next century.

Iberia would form an alliance with the sea, Victoria's steel knights would spew steam, boots coated with mud and blood would tromp into foreign lands, the Gaulish irises would bloom in the deep forests of Einwald...

But what of Leithanien? The country's horns and fangs have rotted nearly right out of our heads. First with Siracusa, then with Sturmland... Moss and vermin infest every nook and cranny of the spires.

'Why do you turn a blind eye to all of this?'

'Nein, why do you not know of it?'

The short-horned Elafia was still half-asleep. But more detestable than the sand still sprinkled, unwiped in the corners of his eyes, was his long silence. The fear and emptiness he tried to hide.

He claimed to be the most knowledgeable man in Urtica, and even all of Einwald, but he couldn't answer a single question.

Then you kicked him out of the spire, and his entire house fell into decline... I've heard the story.

Just for that. You truly are unreasonable!

Junge, if I were you...

Those hypocritical servants who secretly partook of the wine cellar would never drink a drop of water again. They would feel the pain of their throats cracking inch by inch until their deaths.

As for the teacher who tried to mold me into useless rubbish, he would find himself impaled by Arts dozens or hundreds of times stronger than his during one of those perfunctory demonstrations.

His expression of fear could be frozen into a fine sculpture.

The foolish ministers who tried to manipulate me with a melody would be manipulated themselves, and the obvious contradictions between the twins black and gold could be exploited...

Exploitation without purpose, arbitrarily taking lives... In your own words, those heinous acts are completely meaningless.

'Witch King'.

The purpose of a stairway is to lead you to a higher place.

I despise these stairs as well, but because they are too short. Graf Urtica's spire is so small, with such a narrow view.

Franz, you see this spire as a cage. So, how will you break free of it?

How will you defeat your enemies?

<i>Who</i> are your enemies?

You are despicable, Ebenholz.

You are hateful, Ebenholz.

You are pitiful, Ebenholz.

Is it them?

Nein, of course not.

Then, is it the 'Witch King'?

Is he the nightmare that's troubled you for a lifetime?

Nightmare?

The increasingly empty house, the white-haired child holding his trembling hand on his knee, softly singing a song that begins with 'The Sky is blue and fine'...

The sound of the cello spreads out like an endless grassland, while the sound of the piano turns into a flowing stream. He washes away all weariness, allowing him to walk a long way, with the dark of night no longer so heavy...

He often dreamed of these things.

Dreams are already fleeting, and if he has to miss these beautiful moments, he would rather never sleep.

Nein. I have never dreamed of you.

Memory?

Memory?

<i>Fall des Hexenturms,</i> <i>Triumph der Goldmond: Vorspiel zu Zwillingstürme</i>...

The theaters across the country must perform certain plays each quarter, all with similar themes. With Urtica being the old tyrant's homeland, such plays were put on twice as often.