Chapter 13: From the Ashes
Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix was having a good day.
The morning sun streamed through the enchanted windows of his private study, catching the gold filigree that adorned each pane. The light scattered across carefully arranged stacks of parchment, lending an almost ethereal quality to the mundane business of empire. Reports from the southern provinces spoke of bumper crops. The merchant guilds reported increased trade along the reformed networks. Even the yearly preparations for conflict with Re-Estize proceeded with uncharacteristic smoothness.
He allowed himself a small smile as he read General Nimble's latest dispatch. The Kingdom's nobles remained as predictable as ever, marshaling their peasant levies with the same tedious pageantry. They would clash on the Katze Plains, as they did every year. The Empire's knights would demonstrate their superiority, as they did every year. And the Kingdom would grow ever weaker, as they always did.
"Your Imperial Majesty seems pleased," observed Baziwood from his post by the door. The knight's ceremonial armor gleamed in the morning light, though Jircniv knew the keen edge beneath the polish was anything but ceremonial.
"Pleased?" Jircniv's fingers drummed against his desk, an old habit he'd never quite managed to break. "I suppose I am. Though one should be wary of good fortune. It has a way of breeding complacency."
The Blood Emperor's gaze drifted to the window, taking in the sprawling magnificence of Arwintar. The city had matured considerably under his reign, its marble spires and golden domes signalling the Empire's prosperity. More importantly, to the prosperity of those who had supported his ascension.
Loune cleared his throat softly, drawing Jircniv's attention to a fresh scroll. "The report from the Ministry of Magic, Your Majesty. Fluder Paradyne requests an audience regarding some unusual findings."
"Oh?" Jircniv raised an eyebrow. The old wizard's "findings" typically warranted attention, even if they sometimes proved taxing on the imperial treasury. "What sort of findings?"
"One of his scholars discovered some conflicting evidence in the records of the Eight Greed Kings. They want to fund a small expedition near the border of the City State Alliance." Loune's expression remained neutral, but Jircniv caught the slight tension in his scribe's shoulders.
The Eight Greed Kings. Even after centuries, their legacy cast long shadows. Jircniv's thoughts turned to the sightings of "Crimson Cultists" in the frontier towns. Deluded fools who spoke of some prophesied return, of a demon who would remake the world in flames. Most had been quietly dealt with, of course. The Empire had no patience for doomsday cults.
"Schedule him for this afternoon," Jircniv decided. "After my meeting with the merchant guilds. And have someone check on those meditation crystals we imported from the Argland Council State. The old man's been particularly excitable since they arrived."
Leinas shifted slightly at her post, half her face hidden in shadow. "Your Majesty, about the merchant guilds… There have been rumors of unrest among the larger houses. They claim the new trade regulations favor the less established families."
"Of course they do," Jircniv replied smoothly. "That was rather the point. The younger houses haven't grown fond of stability just yet. They are incentivised to innovate, rather than stagnate." His lip curled slightly. "Those who haven't learned can be taught. Or replaced."
The words hung in the air, a reminder of why they called him the Blood Emperor. Yet there was no malice in his tone, only the calm certainty of a man who had long since learned to view politics as a game of careful calibration. Each death in his early reign had served a purpose, each purge carefully measured to achieve maximum effect with minimum disruption.
Nazami Enec, ever the practical one, spoke up from his position near the balcony. "The larger houses might be more amenable if we offered them a share in the new mining operations near Azerlisia. The yields have exceeded expectations."
Jircniv considered this, absently adjusting one of his rings—a habit he'd developed after a third assassination attempt involving poisoned jewelry. "A reasonable suggestion. Have Loune draft a proposal. Something suitably generous, but with enough conditions to ensure their cooperation."
His fingers found their way to the imperial seal, a weighty thing of gold and precious stones. So much of ruling came down to the proper application of pressure. Too much, and systems shattered. Too little, and they grew slack, inefficient. The art was in finding that perfect balance, the precise amount of force needed to shape events without breaking them.
A shaft of morning sunlight caught the seal's gemstones, sending crimson reflections dancing across the study's walls. Jircniv watched them for a moment, reminded again of those cultists and their ravings. Fluder always seemed unusually interested in their prophecies, though he'd dismissed Jircniv's questions about them with his usual cryptic mumblings.
The Empire had weathered its share of would-be prophets and divine messengers. Each had been dealt with according to their threat level—some merely required monitoring, others more permanent solutions. But lately, there had been something different in the air. A tension that even Jircniv's carefully cultivated network of spies and informants couldn't quite pin down.
He pushed the thought aside. Speculation without data was merely wool-gathering, and the Blood Emperor could ill afford such luxuries. There were reports to review, policies to consider, the thousand tiny adjustments needed to keep the machinery of empire running smoothly.
Jircniv reached for another scroll, this one bearing the seal of the Imperial Magic Academy. Yes, it was shaping up to be a good day indeed. He should have known better than to tempt fate with such thoughts.
The door to Jircniv's study burst open with enough force to rattle the enchanted windows. The Blood Emperor didn't flinch—assassins rarely announced themselves so dramatically—but his guards moved immediately, weapons half-drawn before recognition set in.
A junior guard stood panting in the doorway, his pristine uniform now coated in a fine layer of ash? The young man's face was flushed, eyes wide with barely contained panic.
"Your Imperial Majesty! The eastern district—" he broke off, struggling to compose himself under the weight of Jircniv's measured stare.
"Take a breath," Jircniv commanded, more curious than concerned. "Then explain yourself properly. We are not some common merchant's household where one may simply burst in shouting."
The guard straightened, the ingrained habits of imperial discipline asserting themselves. "Apologies, Your Majesty. There's been an incident in the eastern market district. The entire square is just… gone."
"Gone," Jircniv repeated flatly. He set down his quill, noting with annoyance how a drop of ink had marred the trade agreement he'd been annotating. "Define 'gone.'"
"A crater, Your Majesty. Where the fountain used to be. Half the surrounding buildings as well." The guard's voice trembled slightly. "The witnesses describe a light from above, brighter than the sun. Then… devastation."
Now that was interesting. Jircniv's mind rapidly cataloged and discarded possibilities. The Slane Theocracy's divine magic? No, even their most zealous cardinals preferred subtler methods. The Re-Estize Kingdom could barely maintain their street lamps, let alone manage a fireball of this scale. A dragon lord testing the Empire's defenses? But why target a market square of all places?
"Casualties?" he asked, his tone remaining calm and measured. Panic was a luxury reserved for lesser men.
"S-Sire," one of the younger bureaucrats stammered, his hands trembling as he clutched a parchment. "This—this is an act of war! The Re-Estize Kingdom must have acquired some heretofore unknown—"
"Fool," Loune snapped, shaking his head. "The Kingdom lacks both the talent and the resources for magic of this scale. To suggest such a thing—"
"Then it must be the Slane Theocracy!" Another voice cut in, frantic. "Their divine casters—"
"The Theocracy prefers assassinations and surgical strikes, not craters in broad daylight," Baziwood growled.
Jircniv exhaled, slow and measured, letting the panic around him run its course before speaking. "Speculation without data is useless. I will not have my council turning into frightened children. Now, casualties."
"We're still counting, Your Majesty. But we fear it could be substantial. The explosion came from such a height that our people had only a moment to react when they saw the light. Still…" The guard swallowed hard. "The property damage is extensive."
Jircniv resisted the urge to massage his temples. Just when everything had been proceeding so smoothly. The yearly war with Re-Estize was practically choreographed at this point, the noble factions were finally falling in line, and now this? The timing was too convenient to be coincidence, yet too crude to be a calculated strike.
"Fluder," he said, not raising his voice. The old wizard would hear him regardless—one of many small enchantments that made governing an empire marginally more efficient.
Nothing happened.
Jircniv's eyebrow twitched slightly. "Where is—"
"I assume he is already at the scene, Your Majesty," Loune supplied helpfully. "He left rather abruptly about two minutes ago. Something about 'unprecedented thaumaturgical signatures' and 'impossible mana densities.'"
The Blood Emperor closed his eyes for precisely three seconds—long enough to compose his thoughts, not long enough to suggest weakness. When he opened them, his gaze had hardened to garnets.
"Baziwood, have the Imperial Knights secure the area. I want every fragment of debris cataloged. Nimble, alert the merchant guilds that any price gouging in response to this incident will be dealt with personally." His fingers drummed once on the desk. "Leinas, coordinate with the city guard and the adventurer's guild. I want every corner of Arwintar searched."
A single explosion could be an accident. A magical experiment gone wrong, perhaps. But Jircniv hadn't kept his throne by believing in accidents. Someone or something had just demonstrated the power to erase a city block from existence. Whether it was a warning, a test, or simply a show of force didn't matter. The response had to be decisive.
The real question was: why the market square? If this was meant as a threat to the Empire, surely the palace itself would have made a more dramatic target. If it was foreign aggression, why not hit the military barracks or the Magic Academy? A random act of destruction seemed almost more concerning than a calculated strike. At least with the latter, one could anticipate the next move.
Through the window, Jircniv could see the pillar of smoke rising above the eastern district. The morning sun caught the debris cloud, painting it in shades of gold and ruby. Somewhere in his city, a power beyond even Fluder's understanding had just announced its presence. The imperial spymaster would need to be summoned, the border patrols doubled, the entire security apparatus of the Empire turned toward finding answers.
So much for a quiet day of administrative work.
Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix was having a very bad day indeed.
The reports kept coming.
Jircniv stood at his study window, watching the smoke rise over Arwintar as couriers and guards rushed through the palace gates below. Each new account painted a clearer picture of the devastation, and with each detail, he felt the weight of his crown grow heavier.
"The crater is perfectly circular," Fluder's scribe reported, reading from a hastily penned scroll. "Forty-seven meters in diameter, twelve meters at its deepest point. The stone itself appears to have melted, Your Majesty. Master Paradyne says he's never seen anything like it."
Of course he hadn't. It was rare for the old man to admit such a thing. Jircniv's fingers tightened on the windowsill as he remembered the reports he'd dismissed just last week.
He'd thought the problem dealt with. The ringleaders had been quietly eliminated, their followers scattered. Yet somehow…
"Continue," he commanded, not turning from the window.
"The surrounding buildings were destroyed. Much of the debris and foundation stone evaporated. Mortimer's Emporium—gone. As if they never existed."
Jircniv's face remained impassive. Old Mortimer was a friend of Fluder, and those pillars had been reinforced by the court mage himself. To simply erase them…
"Your Majesty," Baziwood spoke up from his post. "The treasury's preliminary assessment of damages—"
"Can wait," Jircniv cut him off. "What of the search?"
"Nothing yet. The city guard is conducting a thorough sweep," Baziwood hesitated. "Some of the survivors are saying strange things. Nobody seems to have seen the perpetrator."
Jircniv finally turned from the window, his crimson eyes narrowing. "And?"
"Yes, sire." Baziwood shifted uncomfortably. "We found only this in the wreckage."
He produced a scrap of fabric—deep red, almost black, with gold threading that seemed to catch the light oddly. Jircniv recognised the material instantly. The same cloth the cultists had taken to wearing in their ceremonies.
"I thought," he said, his voice deadly quiet, "that we had dealt with this particular problem."
"As did we, Your Majesty. But…" Baziwood gestured to the smoke still rising outside. "It seems we missed some. Or perhaps…"
"Let us hope this is merely a copycat," Jircniv finished. He moved to his desk, pulling out a specific drawer with precise movements. From it, he withdrew a thin folder—reports spanning the last six months. Incidents he'd dismissed as minor. Patterns he should have seen.
A merchant caravan disappeared near the border, leaving only scorched earth behind. A noble's estate reduced to ash overnight, with witnesses reporting lights in the sky. And always, always, whispers of the crimson cultists and their prophecies of cleansing flame.
"How many?" he asked, though he already knew the answer would displease him.
"We've confirmed twenty-seven dead, Your Majesty. Many buried within the surrounding buildings. The market itself was mercifully empty at the time of the attack."
Jircniv closed the folder with deliberate care. "Summon the war council." Jircniv's voice remained level, but the room was deathly silent now. "And send word to Fluder—I want him here, not poking through rubble like some common archaeologist." He looked out the window, where the smoke had started to thin but the scent of burning still lingered in the air.
"Your Majesty," Baziwood started, hesitation in his tone. "If this was a demonstration…"
"Then our enemy is not simply testing us," Jircniv finished, "but teaching us to be afraid."
No one spoke. For once, not a single official, knight, or scholar had a counterargument. The silence was its own confirmation.
As if in answer to his words, a distant rumble shook the palace. Not an explosion this time—just thunder. Yet Jircniv noticed how everyone in the room tensed at the sound, hands moving to weapons.
The Blood Emperor allowed himself a small, bitter smile. He had spent years carefully cultivating that tension in others. How strange to feel it himself now.
Outside, the rain began to fall, turning the rising smoke into a grey pall that hung over his city like a shroud.
Megumin was having a bad day.
Raindrops pattered against cobblestones that shouldn't exist, soaking through her crimson robes as she pressed herself against rough-hewn stone. Another patrol of guards rushed past her hiding spot, their torches casting wild shadows in the growing dusk. Their armor caught the light—real metal, real leather, real in a way that made her head spin.
This wasn't right. She should be back in the dev lab, probably getting congratulated on a spectacular server shutdown. Instead…
Her hands trembled as she touched the wall beside her. The stone felt wrong. Too detailed. Too imperfect. Not the carefully rendered textures of Yggdrasil, but actual weathered rock that scraped against her fingertips.
Voices approached. Megumin held her breath.
"—eastern district's completely destroyed—"
"—never seen magic like that—"
"—whole square just vanished—"
She squeezed her eyes shut. She hadn't meant to. It was supposed to be a game effect, something spectacular for the final event. Just an accident. She was casting a final explosion before everything was gone—
No. She couldn't think about that now. Not about the transition, not about being ripped from another world, not about anything except the very immediate problem of an entire city guard searching for her.
More torchlight. More boots splashing through puddles. Megumin drew deeper into the shadows, her distinctive robes suddenly feeling less like a badge of pride and more like a target. The rain plastered her hair to her face as she tried to think past the panic clawing at her throat.
She needed… she needed…
What did she need? A plan? A hiding spot? Kazuma?
No. Stop. Focus.
First step: don't get caught. Everything else could wait. The existential crisis, the questions, the growing horror of realising she'd actually destroyed part of a living city—all of it had to wait.
Right now, she just needed to survive.
Another patrol passed. More torches. More voices. More chances to be discovered.
Megumin bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, the sharp pain helping to center her thoughts. She couldn't stay here. But where could she go? She didn't know this city, didn't know its rules or its people or its anything.
All she knew was that somewhere out there, in the rain and darkness, she could hear people hunting for her. And her crimson robes might as well have been a signal fire.
The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as she forced herself to breathe slowly, steadily. One problem at a time. Just like Kazuma had taught her.
The patrol's torchlight swept across her hiding spot, and pure instinct took over. Megumin's hand moved in familiar patterns, her mouth forming hushed words that tasted like starlight and shadow. "[Greater Invisibility]."
The spell settled over her like a second skin. She blinked in surprise—she hadn't actually expected it to work. In Yggdrasil, invisibility had been a simple status effect. Here, she could feel the magic clinging to her skin, wrapping her in layers of bent light and distorted perception.
Invisible but not intangible, Megumin carefully extracted herself from her hiding spot. The guards passed within inches, close enough that she could smell oil from their torches, leather from their armor. One of them sneezed, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
"This is pointless," one guard grumbled. "If someone's powerful enough to destroy a market square, they're not hiding in some alley."
"Orders are orders," his companion replied. "Besides, did you hear what Master Paradyne said? Whatever caused that blast, it could be some kind of ritual that left the caster weakened."
Megumin bristled at that. She wasn't weakened. If anything, her magic felt stronger here, more immediate. The thought sent a shiver down her spine—if only because she felt a ghost of her old grin touch her lips. How much damage could she actually cause in this world?
Information gathering first, existential magical crisis later.
She followed the guards from a safe distance, listening as they continued their conversation. Fragments of useful intel emerged between complaints about the weather and their superior officers:
The explosion had occurred just before noon. The Imperial Magic Academy was involved in the investigation. Someone named Fluder Paradyne seemed to be in charge of magical matters. The Emperor himself had taken an interest.
Empire. Emperor. The words rattled around in Megumin's head as she pieced together her situation. Well, that was no good. Maybe he'd accept an apology in person if she just explained herself?
But she needed more information. But more importantly, she needed supplies. Her robes were far too distinctive. A change of clothes, some food, maybe a map… what a headache.
In Axel, she'd always had someone else to handle these details—Kazuma with his crazy plans, Darkness ready to shoulder any troubles, Aqua…
The thought of her friends sent a wave of nausea through her that had nothing to do with magical drain. Twice now. Twice she'd lost everything. Her chest felt tight, her eyes burning with tears she couldn't afford to shed. Not here. Not now.
Here, she could smell the ash on the wind. Real ash. Real death.
Her legs threatened to give out. She wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and wait for someone—anyone—to find her and make things make sense again. But that luxury belonged to a younger Megumin, the one who always had friends to fall back on.
"Have any of the patrols checked the sewers yet?" One of the guards spoke as she trailed behind. Wrong direction, Megumin thought distantly. Her explosion magic had always come from above.
"Let's leave the sewers in the capable hands of adventurers, shall we?"
Adventurers. Of course there would be adventurers here. The thought hit her with the force of memory—card-carrying heroes taking quests from guild desks, arguing over reward splits, bragging about their latest conquests over mugs of ale.
Her hand unconsciously moved to where her guild card should have been. In Axel, that little piece of parchment had meant everything. It had been her ticket to purpose and belonging. Even in her darkest moments in Neo Tokyo, she'd sometimes dreamed of that card's familiar weight.
An adventurers' guild would have maps, information, maybe even a way to figure out exactly where—and when—she'd landed. But it would also be the first place the authorities would look for someone with unusual magical abilities. She could picture it now: guards posted at every entrance, watching for a crimson-robed figure asking suspicious questions.
No, as tempting as it was to seek out that familiar sanctuary, she couldn't risk it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She quietly sighed to herself. another piece of her old life denied to her.
Her invisibility spell thrummed softly against her skin, a constant reminder of the power still at her disposal. The palace loomed ahead, and with it came a sobering thought: any ruler worth their crown would have wards against invisible intruders. Yet… her explosion magic had proven different here, devastating enough to level a market square. The rules were different. The limitations unclear.
A lifetime of caution—Kazuma's endless lectures about stealth, years of corporate risk assessment—whispered for her to stay hidden, to gather more information before acting.
But wasn't that exactly what they'd expect? Even the guards expected to find the perpetrator skulking about in alleyways. The thought sparked something in her, a familiar defiance that had driven her to master explosion magic when everyone said it was useless. The same fire that had carried her through board meetings and hostile takeovers in Neo Tokyo. She was Megumin, the feared and revered Crimson Demon who had challenged a Demon King. One who had risen to corporate heights in Neo Tokyo. A mad god who had unwound an entire world by its seams.
Playing it safe felt like an insult to herself. An insult to the Crimson Demon.
The palace towers beckoned through the rain, their gold-capped spires rising above the chaos below like a challenge waiting to be answered.
"[Fly]," she whispered, the spell coming as naturally as breathing. Her feet left the ground, and for a moment the sensation was so different to Yggdrasil that her heart leapt. She could feel the rain passing through her, could taste the wind. Real magic. Raw and terrifying in its immediacy.
The palace gates loomed ahead, guard patrols moving in precise patterns. Through the rain, Megumin could see more soldiers on the walls, crossbows at ready. But their eyes searched the streets, the alleys, the obvious approach routes. None looked straight up.
They never looked up. Not in Axel, not in Neo Tokyo, and apparently not here either.
Megumin began to move, circling the palace walls.
"[Detect Magic]."
She noted a few magical traps set up strategically around each spire and windowsill. The wards weren't anything special—simple alarm spells mixed with what looked like basic defensive enchantments. Nothing like intricate trap networks of Yggdrasil's high-level dungeons. Tier three magic at best.
Amateur hour, really.
The rain intensified as Megumin ascended higher, moving between the spelled zones. Each rumble of thunder reminded her of the explosion that had brought her here.
Through one of the higher windows, she caught glimpses of opulence—marble floors, gilded furniture, and priceless works of art. Signs of power, of authority. Of someone who might have answers.
A flash of movement caught her eye. In a large chamber three stories up, a man paced before a window. Even from this distance, she spotted it. His eyes were fixed on some document in his hands.
Crimson eyes.
Megumin drew closer, careful to stay out of the detection range of the nearest ward. The Emperor's features became clearer—young, sharp, with an intensity that reminded her of corporate executives before major negotiations. But those eyes…
He turned suddenly, speaking to someone out of her view. She couldn't hear through the glass, so she settled on casting a silent [God's Eye] within the room. His lips moved, and his words now reached her ears with perfect clarity:
"—something about this attack doesn't add up—"
Megumin bristled at the Emperor's words, visible even through the rain-streaked glass. Didn't add up? It was a perfect explosion! The blast radius, the way it had carved through enchanted materials like they were nothing, the sheer raw power—
The thought stopped her cold, horror replacing indignation. When had she become so callous? People had died. Real people, not NPCs or respawning creatures. And her first thought had been about the technical excellence of the explosion that killed them?
Something was wrong with her. She felt sick.
In Axel, death had never seemed so permanent—not with Aqua around to complain about Kazuma's recklessness. But this wasn't Axel. She had no idea if [True Resurrection] worked here, if the laws of death and life followed the same rules.
The rain fell heavier now, droplets racing down the windowpane like tears. Below, the sounds of the city rose up—guards shouting orders, people crying, the chaos she'd unleashed with a single spell. Through it all, she watched the Emperor pace, his crimson eyes reflecting lamplight as he studied reports of devastation. Her devastation.
Her fingers moved almost of their own accord, tracing familiar patterns in the air. "[Discern Enemy]," she whispered, the spell settling over her vision like a crystalline lens.
Numbers and statistics bloomed above their heads—pathetically low compared to the god-like beings she'd faced in Yggdrasil. The Emperor himself barely registered on the scale, his guards only marginally stronger. Even the court wizard, all dramatic robes and self-important posturing, wouldn't have survived a single round in her old world.
"[Greater Teleportation]."
The spell carried her through the window, rain droplets vanishing mid-transport. She felt the warmth first—real warmth, not the calibrated temperature settings of Yggdrasil. The Emperor's study smelled of ink and expensive perfumes, nothing like the acrid server rooms where she'd last cast magic.
A messenger burst in, almost clipping her invisible shoulder. "Your Majesty! Word from the Slane Theocracy. They're mobilising their Scripture units. They claim divine mandate to investigate any magic that threatens the human realm."
"Of course they do," the Emperor cut him off sharply, crimson eyes narrowing. "Send word back—any Scripture members who cross our borders without explicit permission will be treated as hostile agents. I won't have zealots turning my capital into a bloodbath again."
Megumin watched him manage the crisis with an unexpected pang of sympathy. How many times had she sat through emergency meetings after some corporate disaster, wrestling with stakeholders and damage control? At least she'd only been tasked with PowerPoint presentations and quarterly reports. This poor emperor had to deal with another country on top of everything else she'd dropped in his lap. If only he knew the source of all his current sorrows was with him in that very room.
Sorry about the paperwork, she thought with a touch of guilt. And the zealots. And the whole explosion thing, really.
Corporate life had taught her patience, strategy. Her time in Neo Tokyo had shown her the weight of real responsibility. She wasn't the same explosion-happy kid who'd first stumbled into Axel.
And yet.
And yet here she was, invisible in an Emperor's study, watching him try to understand what had happened to his city. To his people. The whole situation was so absurd she had to bite back a laugh. Or maybe it was a sob. She wasn't quite sure anymore.
One of the guards shifted position, boots clicking on marble. Such a small sound. Such a real sound.
What are you going to do, Crimson Demon?
She had no idea. And wasn't that just perfect?