Chapter 14: A Shapeless Thing
The neon signs of Neo Tokyo painted the smog in shades of electric blue and burning crimson, their glow diffused through layers of poisoned air until they became nothing more than distant, drowning stars. Megumin traced the edges of each corporate logo with her eyes, remembering other skies, other lights.
From the corporate arcology's rooftop garden, she watched the city's desperate attempt to outshine its own corruption. The dome above hummed with protective energy, but even its advanced filters couldn't completely purify the air within. Her mask's respirator wheezed softly with each breath, the sound mixing with the omnipresent drone of industrial machinery far below.
"I can't believe they still call this a garden," Hana said beside her, reaching out to touch one of the few surviving plants—a scraggly thing that might have been a tomato vine in a kinder world. Her gloved fingers came away stained with grey residue. She rubbed them together, watching the toxic dust scatter. "Even with the dome shields, nothing really grows anymore."
Through the scratched lenses of her mask, Megumin studied her friend's profile. Hana's shoulders slumped slightly, her usual optimism wavering in the face of such persistent decay.
"It doesn't have to be like this, you know."
"The garden?"
"The world." Megumin's voice grew distant, her brown eyes fixed on something far beyond the city's artificial horizon. "There should be places where the grass grows wild and green, where you can drink straight from mountain streams without filtering systems. Where people can hunt their own food, real food, without the fear of being poisoned with a single bite."
"I wish I shared your optimism." Hana turned to look at her friend. "You sound so certain. Like you've seen it yourself."
For a moment, Megumin could taste it on her tongue—the sweetness of fresh-picked apples, the gamey richness of roasted monster meat shared around a campfire. Her fingers twitched, remembering the smooth grain of a wooden staff instead of corporate touchscreens.
"Maybe I have," she said softly. "In dreams."
"Dreams, huh?" Hana's laugh was gentle, muffled by her mask but warm with affection. "I thought you left that life behind, Megumin. The explosions, the grand speeches about being a Crimson Demon…"
"This isn't about Yggdrasil," Megumin cut her off, more sharply than she intended. Her hand rose unconsciously to touch her chest. "I mean… actual dreams. Haven't you ever wondered if things could be different?"
A maintenance drone buzzed past, its sensors scanning the withered plants for signs of life.
"I think we all have," Hana admitted, her voice barely audible over the drone's whirring. "But this is the world we have. Unless you've got some secret plan to upend global environmental policy from that fancy new office of yours? You've only been working there for a month! Changing the world is impossible for people like us."
Megumin frowned behind her mask. In another life, she would have solved this with a well-placed explosion, reducing the corruption to rubble and starting fresh. But that was then, and this was…
"Impossible?" Megumin straightened. "Nothing is impossible for—" She caught herself, coughing to cover the slip. "For someone with proper ambition and resource allocation strategies!"
"There's the corporate climber we all know and love." Hana bumped her shoulder playfully against Megumin's.
"We'll do it properly," she declared, infusing her voice with every ounce of certainty she'd learned to project in boardroom battles. "I'll rise through the ranks, gather influence like a demon king. And then, when the moment is right—" She spread her arms wide, encompassing the broken horizon. "I'll use that power to change the world!"
"Through proper channels and stakeholder engagement, of course," Hana added dryly.
"Of course! The paperwork shall be legendary! Forms signed in italics, environmental impact accords that shall echo through the ages!" Megumin cackled, the sound bouncing off the dome's curved surface. "They'll never see it coming!"
Hana shook her head, but Megumin caught the way her eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter behind her mask. "You're ridiculous. But… I believe you." She turned back to the withered tomato plant, touching its leaves with surprising tenderness. "Someone has to believe in impossible things, right? Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"
The city's neon pulse seemed to slow, creating a pocket of stillness around the two friends. In that moment, Megumin felt the weight of three lives pressing against her chest—the explosive joy of Axel, the crushing conformity of Neo Tokyo, and something else, something yet to come, hovering just beyond her reach.
"Just promise me one thing," Hana said finally.
"Hm?"
"When you become this all-powerful corporate CEO demon king, don't forget about the little people, okay? Some of us will still be down here, trying to grow tomatoes that don't glow in the dark."
Megumin's laugh caught in her throat. "Never," she swore. "I'll never forget. Not you, not this moment, not any of it. That's a Crimson Demon's promise!"
"Ah! There you go with that Crimson Demon thing again," Hana teased. "One of these days you'll have to tell me what that actually means."
"One day," Megumin agreed softly, her eyes stinging with what she told herself was just atmospheric irritation. "When everything's green again. When the world is ready for a little magic."
Above them, through gaps in the ever-present haze, the first stars of evening began to shine—or perhaps they were just satellites, endlessly circling a dying world.
The memory of Hana was a ghost that followed Megumin through the palace's winding corridors. Each breath here was a small miracle—clean, crisp, untainted by the industrial poisons of Neo Tokyo. No respirator masks turning speech into mechanical whispers. No recycled oxygen burning her lungs with every inhalation. Just life, pure and precious and completely taken for granted by those who had never known anything else.
She drifted near the vaulted ceiling, watching servants scurry through halls of polished marble like ants in a colony. Their movements held purpose but no real appreciation for the miracle of their existence. How many breaths had they drawn without a thought for the gift each one represented? How many mornings had they woken to clear skies without remembering to be grateful?
"We were the same once," she whispered to herself, the words dissolving on her tongue. Back in Axel, she rarely thought of anything besides her explosions. Even in Yggdrasil, such magnificent scenes were nothing more than virtual entertainment. But Neo Tokyo had taught her the true worth of things—every breath, every patch of living green, every moment spent without poison slowly killing you.
For three days now, she'd haunted these halls like a crimson-eyed spectre, learning the rhythms of palace life. Jircniv fascinated her most—the way he wore authority like a second skin, how his crimson eyes missed nothing. She recognised something of herself in him, perhaps. They were both performers in their own way, though his stage was rather more limited than hers had ever been.
His routines were a study in controlled paranoia. Mornings spent buried in intelligence reports, testing each piece of parchment for poison before touching it. Afternoons holding court, his throne positioned to watch every entrance simultaneously. But evenings… evenings were different.
The palace bathhouse was his sanctuary at sunset—a cavernous chamber where steam rose from heated pools like spirits ascending to heaven. The guards outside its heavy doors were handpicked, trusted, but still kept at a careful distance. Here, finally, the Emperor allowed himself to be simply a man.
Megumin hovered near a gilded column, absently running spectral fingers through the rising steam. Her staff's familiar weight anchored her to purpose, even as memories threatened to drag her back to other times, other worlds. She could still hear Hana's voice, muffled behind layers of protective gear: "Someone has to believe in impossible things, right?"
But Hana was gone, along with that dying world of artificial gardens and corporate arcologies. This world still had a chance—if only its people could see what they had. If only they understood the precious gift of every unpolluted breath.
Below, Emperor Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix held court with the precision of a master swordsman. His black-gold cloak rippled like spilled blood as he turned, crimson eyes sharp. The twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed carefully contained fury—another report of the market district's destruction, no doubt. Another reminder of her… enthusiasm.
Beside him stood Fluder Paradyne, and oh, what a study in contradiction the old mage was. His skeletal frame practically vibrated with barely contained excitement as he pored over the investigation's findings. Gems and precious metals adorned his robes like stars, as if he could purchase enlightenment through mere ornamentation. But beneath the glitter and ceremony, his magical essence flickered pitifully—a candle pretending to be a sun.
Courtiers bowed and scraped before him with a reverence that made Megumin's head hurt. Their spines bent like wind-whipped reeds, foreheads pressed to cold marble in supplication to mediocrity. She could smell Fluder's desperate hunger for power, his need to transcend mortal limits. Once, she might have empathised. Now it just seemed… quaint.
A memory surfaced—herself as a young mage, practising explosion spells in her clan's outskirts, certain that raw power was all that mattered. The thought felt alien now, like trying to recall someone else's dream. That version of Megumin felt so far away.
These people, with their petty politics and magical hierarchies… she could unmake their entire world with a whispered word. The urge tickled at her fingertips sometimes—to show them true power, to tear away the illusion of control they clung to so desperately. But that would solve nothing. She had come to apologise, after all.
The sun's last rays painted the palace windows in shades of amber and gold. Soon, Jircniv would retreat to his evening ritual, seeking solitude in steam and heated waters. Megumin felt her lips curve into a smile behind her veil of invisibility.
A [Greater Teleportation] spell carried her through space like a whisper. The bathhouse embraced her invisible form, steam rising from heated pools in lazy coils. Lavender and sandalwood tickled her senses—such simple pleasures, untainted by industrial filters or synthetic aromatics. When was the last time she'd smelled something real?
Jircniv entered.
The Emperor's robe slipped from shoulders carved by years of martial training, falling to marble tiles with a whisper of silk. He sank into the water with a sigh that seemed to shed decades of careful control.
He would have made a fine Crimson Demon, Megumin thought with unexpected fondness. All that pride and power, wrapped in a package designed to draw attention. She almost laughed at the thought, but held it back. Time enough for introductions soon.
A quick [Silence] spell settled over the chamber, muffling all sound beyond its borders. Perfect. No interruptions, no witnesses. Just two beings of power, about to have a very interesting conversation.
Steam danced through the air in serpentine patterns, wrapping around polished columns like lovers' arms. Even here, in his most vulnerable moment, Jircniv's crimson eyes never stopped moving. They swept the room, mapping exits and angles of attack. A predator's instincts, even in repose. She could appreciate that kind of dedication.
But how to appear? Her crimson robes were… distinctive. Memorable. The kind of thing that started wars and sparked religious movements. No, she needed a disguise. Something meaningful.
Hana's memory surfaced like a bubble in still water.
Strange, how the mind curated its treasures. The gas mask was perfect in her recollection—every scratch on the left lens (from that mad climb to the arcology's peak), the crooked third filter stripe (they'd laughed about that for weeks), the particular way the valves wheezed when Hana spoke too quickly. But Hana's actual face? That had faded, not from time's passage but from simple scarcity. In a world where faces hid behind protective gear, Megumin had known her friend more by her equipment than her smile.
Megumin reached inside herself, fingers of thought probing the boundaries of her new existence. Something answered—not Yggdrasil's rigid frameworks or Axel's wild magic, but a power that lived in her marrow. Flesh rippled like disturbed water.
Her form… unravelled.
Muscle and bone flowed like mercury, reality's basic principles becoming mere suggestions. Colours that had no business existing in nature rippled across her surface—impossible shades that hurt the eye and delighted the mind. Her skeleton rearranged itself with sounds like a forgotten language spoken backwards.
The strangest part wasn't the horrific fluidity of it all. It was how right it felt.
After losing two worlds, perhaps the universe had granted her this small mercy: the ability to be anything, to shed forms like old clothes. Her consciousness expanded beyond mere biology, touching realms of possibility that would give gods nightmares. She was everything. She was nothing.
The power sang through her veins like liquid starlight. A dragon's majesty? Child's play. An angel's grace? A parlor trick. A demon's hunger? Please. She could be the concept of transformation itself, dancing on the head of infinity's pin.
But she chose Hana.
The seifuku materialised first, each thread impossibly perfect. Crisp pleats and pristine fabric that had never known pollution's touch. The sailor collar settled around her throat with its red neckerchief a bloodied promise. This was the uniform of a world that valued control over life, preserved in sterile glory.
Last came the gas mask. Not birthed from magic but from humanity's desperate industry, it consumed her face in black rubber and chrome. Filters jutted out like mechanical mandibles, their ridged surfaces dark with memories of filtered toxins. Behind scratched lenses, her eyes became twin voids that drank light rather than reflected it. The whole apparatus rattled softly with each breath, as though the mask itself lived and hungered.
Was there still a person under that mask? Did the question even matter anymore?
Her shoes touched wet marble without a sound. Steam parted around her like subjects before a queen, recognition written in water vapor. One final spell remained—a simple dismissal of invisibility. She had mulled over what she wanted from the emperor long enough. Time to begin the performance.
I hope you're watching, Hana. This is for your world too.
Jircniv's reaction was magnificent in its efficiency. One hand seized a nearby towel while the other swept up a decorative amphora—ready to be thrown at a moment's notice. His muscles coiled like springs, body settling into a defensive stance that spoke of years of assassination-survival training.
"Interesting." A single word, delivered with perfect pitch—loud enough to alert any guards who might be listening, yet tinged with just enough curiosity to buy time. His crimson eyes mapped her form, cataloging details with predatory focus. "The bathhouse is traditionally neutral ground, even for would-be assassins."
She raised her hands in a placating gesture, her empty eyes meeting crimson. "I apologise for the intrusion, but this was the only way to ensure a private audience. Your guards are loyal, but their presence would complicate matters."
Jircniv's gaze flicked to the door, then back to her, his mind clearly racing. He slowly raised the container and his posture remained alert, ready to strike at any provocation.
"Oh! No, no," Megumin waved her hands, realising how this must look. "This isn't an assassination attempt! Well, I mean, I guess it could look like one, what with the whole appearing-while-you're-bathing thing, but I promise that wasn't the intent! I just wanted to talk somewhere private about the, um, recent unpleasantness in your market district?"
The Emperor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're claiming responsibility for the explosion."
The hiss of Megumin's respirator filled the silence before she answered, the sound alien and mechanical in the steam-filled chamber. Through the mask's dark lenses, she studied the Emperor with the detached interest of a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen.
"Claiming responsibility suggests it might not be mine to claim," she said, her voice distorted into something barely human. "Let us say instead that I am acknowledging a certain miscalculation on my part."
"A miscalculation," Jircniv repeated, his voice flat. "Twenty-seven dead. Half the eastern market destroyed. And you call it a miscalculation."
"The blast radius was actually quite precise," Megumin replied, her head tilting at an angle just wrong enough to be unsettling. "Though I admit the yield exceeded expectations. I was meaning to simply test my abilities when… that happened."
Jircniv shifted slightly, water rippling around his chest. His eyes never left the dark lenses of her mask. "How did you get past my guards?"
Megumin made a dismissive gesture, the movement too fluid, too seamless. "Is that really what concerns you most? The shortcomings of your security rather than the reason for my visit?"
"Forgive me for being cautious when confronted by a masked figure who appears uninvited in my bath and admits to killing my citizens," Jircniv replied, sarcasm edging his words.
"Fair point! Very reasonable, really." Megumin clapped her hands together, the sound echoing unnaturally in the silenced chamber. "Social niceties dictate that I should express remorse for the deaths, so consider that done. Very sorry about it all. Truly regrettable. Such a waste of life, et cetera."
The gas mask wheezed with her exaggerated sigh. "The truth is, I'm still getting used to this. Where I'm from, such matters tend to be less permanent." She tilted her head the other way, studying him. "Your eyes are very interesting, by the way."
"Forgive me if I don't return the compliment," Jircniv said dryly. "Your appearance is rather distinctive."
"Oh, this?" Megumin gestured at her mask. "It's quite practical, actually. Where I come from, the air itself is poison. Everyone wears these, or they die slowly from the inside out." She leaned forward, the lenses of her mask reflecting nothing.
Jircniv's expression remained carefully neutral, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "And where might that be?"
"It's a place that no longer exists, at least not for me." Megumin spread her arms in a theatrical gesture. "But that's neither here nor there! I've come to make amends, as is proper when one has inadvertently caused harm."
"Amends," Jircniv repeated skeptically. "And how exactly does one make amends for twenty-seven lives?"
Megumin tilted her head, considering. "Well, I suppose it depends on how you value human life. I've learned that in strictly economic terms—"
"They were my citizens," Jircniv cut her off, his voice hardening. "Not numbers in a ledger."
"How refreshingly sentimental," Megumin observed, her tone suggesting genuine surprise. "I wouldn't have expected that from someone called the Blood Emperor. Your reputation suggests a more pragmatic approach to mortality."
Jircniv's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You seem remarkably well-informed."
"I've been listening," Megumin admitted. "The way you govern. It's quite fascinating, actually. In some ways, it reminds me of corporate governance structures, though with more beheadings and fewer quarterly reports."
She began pacing the edge of the bath. "I could offer gold, of course. Material compensation for families, reconstruction costs. But that seems inadequate. Money doesn't really address the fundamental imbalance, does it?"
"And what imbalance is that?" Jircniv asked, his eyes tracking her movement.
"Power," Megumin said simply. "You have it, but not enough. I have too much, with too little direction." She stopped, turning to face him directly. "Perhaps we could help each other."
The bathhouse doors burst open, and Leinas Rockbruise stumbled through the silence barrier, her face flushed with panic. Her mouth moved soundlessly for a moment before she entered the spelled area.
"Your Majesty! The Windflower Scripture—they're here! In the throne room! Their leader demands immediate audience regarding the market district incident and—" The Imperial Knight's eyes finally registered Megumin's presence, her hand dropping to her spear. "Intruder!"
Leinas's spear spun in one fluid motion, her face twisted with protective fury. Steam parted around her as she lunged forward, the blade's edge singing through the air with deadly precision. The knight's reputation wasn't just for show. Her attack would have bisected any normal assassin.
But Megumin wasn't 'normal', was she?
"[Temporal Stasis]."
Leinas Rockbruise, one of the Empire's four Imperial Knights, froze mid-strike. Not the crude paralysis of a [Hold Person] spell, but something far more fundamental. The very air around her crystallised into perfect stillness like a three-dimensional painting. Even the water droplets from her blade's arc hung suspended, catching light that suddenly had all the time in the world to reflect.
Megumin sighed, the sound whistling through her mask's filters.
"My apologies for that," Megumin said, turning back to Jircniv. "She seems very dedicated to her job."
The Emperor's eyes hadn't left her mask's dark lenses, though she noted how his gaze flickered briefly to his frozen knight.
"Release her," he said finally, his voice level despite standing nearly naked before an apparent enemy. "If you are truly here to apologise for your transgressions against my Empire, you would do well to show my authority some respect."
"Erm…" Megumin gestured vaguely at the frozen knight. "I can't do that right now, but she'll be fine! Just taking a brief vacation from linear time. I didn't want her getting hurt trying to protect you from someone who's honestly just here to talk."
"Then talk." Jircniv's laugh held no humour.
He ran a hand through his still-wet hair, a gesture of frustration that seemed startlingly human from someone of his station. "I simply wanted to take a bath in peace. First, a masked girl appears claiming responsibility for an act of terrorism, and now I must deal with the Theocracy's dogs sniffing at my door. Can it all not just go away?"
Something clicked in Megumin's head. An idea sparked, dangerous and wonderful, like the moment before casting her favourite spell.
"It… could, you know." The words came slowly, her mask tilting at that unsettling angle again.
"Could what?"
"Go away." She straightened slightly, warming to the concept. "The Theocracy's representatives. They're being rather inconvenient, aren't they? Demanding audience, making threats… Very rude, really. Especially when you're trying to have a private conversation about property damage restitution."
Jircniv stared at her for a long moment.
"I mean, if they're being such a bother…" Megumin shuffled awkwardly, the motion making her school uniform look even more out of place. "I could just… sort of… make them be somewhere else? Temporarily! Probably temporarily. Most likely."
A drop of water fell from the ceiling, the soft 'plip' echoing in the silence barrier. In her frozen bubble of time, Leinas's blade continued to not-quite-reach its target.
Jircniv actually laughed—a sharp, surprised sound that echoed off the marble walls. "What are you supposed to be? Some wish-granting dragon?" He shook his head. "A scripture of the Slane Theocracy is not a stray cat to be shooed away."
"Is that a no? Because it would be very simple to just…" She waggled her fingers in what she hoped was a suitably mysterious fashion.
The Emperor studied her for a long moment, crimson eyes calculating. "I believe the Slane Theocracy has some business with you, actually. They've been rather adamant about investigating 'Crimson Cultists' in my territory."
"Crimson…cultists?" Megumin repeated, genuinely puzzled. "I don't know what that is."
"No?" Jircniv's smile was thin, disbelieving. "Strange. Their scripture leaders seem quite concerned about individuals who speak of crimson destruction. Yet here you are, claiming responsibility for an explosion that matches their descriptions perfectly."
Megumin's mask tilted in confusion. "I'm not part of any cult. The explosion was entirely my doing."
"Of course it was," Jircniv said in a tone that suggested he believed exactly the opposite. "Just as I'm sure you alone could make an entire scripture 'go away', single-handedly and with no help whatsoever."
The subtle sarcasm in his voice sailed right past Megumin, who simply nodded enthusiastically.
"Exactly! It would be trivial, really. A simple [Mass Greater Teleportation] and they'd find themselves…" She paused, considering. "Perhaps atop the nearest mountain range? Or in a nice field of flowers?"
Jircniv's expression shifted almost imperceptibly—calculation replacing skepticism. If this delusional magic caster truly believed she could challenge a Scripture, perhaps he could solve two problems at once. Either she'd eliminate some of the Theocracy's agents, or they'd dispose of this bizarre intruder for him. He'd have the alibi of delivering a Crimson Cultist directly to their door regardless. A win either way.
"Tell me," he said, his voice carefully neutral, "what exactly do you hope to gain by coming here? By claiming responsibility for a terrorist act and then offering to attack representatives of a neighbouring country?"
"It's not an attack," Megumin clarified, the gas mask's lenses reflecting nothing. "Just a geographical relocation. And I told you, I'm here to apologise properly. The explosion was excessive. I'm still adjusting to this realm."
"This realm?" Jircniv repeated, now certain he was dealing with a madwoman. A dangerous one, certainly, but clearly deranged. These cultists were getting bolder by the day.
"Yes, this…" Megumin gestured vaguely at their surroundings. "Everything. It's all very new to me."
"I see." Jircniv didn't see at all, but that hardly mattered. "And you believe you can simply make the Theocracy's agents disappear without consequences."
"What consequences? They'd still be alive, just… elsewhere. They could walk back. Eventually."
The Emperor considered his options. If this cultist actually possessed even half the power she claimed, letting her loose on the Theocracy's agents might provide valuable intelligence on both threats. And if she failed… well, he'd have one less problem to deal with.
"You're very confident," he said finally. "Perhaps overly so."
"Experience breeds confidence," Megumin replied, shrugging. "And I have quite a bit of experience with explosions. And teleportation. And temporal manipulation, as your knight is currently discovering."
Jircniv's gaze flicked briefly to Leinas, still frozen mid-strike. That, at least, was undeniably impressive magic. Once this was all over, he would ask Fluder what tier of magic it was.
"The Windflower Scripture is waiting in my throne room," he said, his tone casual despite the weight of his decision. "They have been demanding access to the explosion site and authority to investigate suspected cultists throughout my Empire."
"How terribly inconvenient for you," Megumin observed. "Especially when you're trying to enjoy a peaceful bath."
"Indeed." Jircniv's smile was a diplomatic masterpiece. He revealed nothing while seeming to offer everything. "If you truly wish to make amends for the disruption you've caused, perhaps you could explain yourself to them directly?"
"Explain myself?" Megumin considered this, oblivious to the Emperor's true intentions. "Well, I suppose that would be the proper thing to do. Take responsibility and all that."
"Precisely." Jircniv nodded, relief carefully hidden beneath imperial dignity. "They're quite eager to meet anyone connected to explosions. I'm sure they would appreciate hearing your unique perspective."
Megumin clasped her hands together, the school uniform's fabric rustling unnaturally. "An excellent suggestion! Very diplomatic. I shall introduce myself formally and clarify this whole misunderstanding!"
If Jircniv was surprised by her easy agreement, he didn't show it. "Splendid. Though perhaps you might release my knight first?"
"Oh! Yes, of course." Megumin gestured casually. "She'll return to normal the moment I leave. I didn't want our conversation interrupted by well-meaning but ultimately unnecessary violence."
Jircniv inclined his head in acknowledgment. "The throne room is down the main corridor, left at the third intersection, through the golden doors. You can't miss it."
"Perfect!" Megumin struck a dramatic pose, one hand on her hip, the other raised toward the ceiling. "I shall away to meet these scripture people forthwith! And worry not, gracious Emperor—I shall ensure they understand that you bear no responsibility for my actions. It would be most unfair for your empire to suffer because of my miscalculations."
"How considerate," Jircniv said, barely containing his amazement at how easily his ploy had worked. This cultist was powerful but clearly lacked basic political acumen. "I appreciate your understanding."
"It is the proper thing to do," Megumin declared with an emphatic nod. "Farewell for now, crimson-eyed one! May your bath be relaxing and free from further interruptions! [Greater Teleportaaation~]!"
Brilliant azure light erupted around her form as a mesmerizing whizz-whoosh sound filled the room. In a dazzling flash of blue, she vanished, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air where she had stood.
The moment she disappeared, Leinas unfroze, her spear completing its arc through empty air. The knight stumbled forward, nearly falling into the bath before regaining her balance.
"Your Majesty!" she gasped, looking around wildly. "The intruder—"
"Has gone to hand herself into the Windflower Scripture," Jircniv replied calmly, rising from the water. "Hand me my robe, Leinas. I believe we should prepare for an interesting diplomatic situation."
As the knight helped him dress, confusion evident in her face, Jircniv allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Whether the cultist destroyed the Scripture or the Scripture captured the cultist, he would be rid of at least one problem. And if, by some miracle, they destroyed each other…well, that would be the ideal outcome.
"Your Majesty?" Leinas ventured, still bewildered by what had just occurred. "Should we warn the Scripture?"
"About what?" Jircniv asked innocently. "A delusional woman in a strange mask who claims responsibility for destroying the market district? I believe that's precisely why they're here, is it not?"
"But she froze me! She appeared out of nowhere in your private bath!"
"Did she?" Jircniv raised an eyebrow. "I recall her offering to apologize for an act of terrorism and then volunteering to explain herself to the proper authorities. She seemed awfully guilty about it. Perhaps these cultists do have a heart."
Leinas opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. "As you say, Your Majesty."
"Indeed." Jircniv straightened his imperial robes, his expression once again a mask of controlled authority. "Now, I believe we should make our way to the throne room. I wouldn't want to miss whatever explanations our visitor might offer."
As they left the bathhouse, attended by guards who had seen and heard nothing of the encounter, Jircniv reflected on the strange cultist's words. Her claim about "adjusting to this realm" suggested the Crimson Cult might be more widespread than intelligence reports indicated. Perhaps they were still lingering pockets outside the Empire's borders? Something to investigate, once the immediate crisis had passed.
One thing was certain—whoever emerged victorious from the confrontation between the masked cultist and the Theocracy's agents, Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix, the Blood Emperor, would come out on top.
Megumin materialised in an empty corridor, pleased with her diplomatic success. The Emperor had seemed quite receptive to her apology, even suggesting a proper course of action! How refreshing to find a ruler who understood the importance of taking responsibility!
She glanced around, getting her bearings. Golden doors, the Emperor had said. Left at the third intersection. Simple enough. She strode forward, her school uniform and gas mask creating a bizarre contrast against the opulent palace decor.
As she walked, Megumin considered how best to explain the situation to these "Windflower Scripture" people. A formal apology seemed appropriate, followed by a detailed technical explanation of why the explosion had exceeded parameters. Perhaps a demonstration of controlled magical output to show her good faith?
The thought made her giggle behind her mask. Oh, the expressions on their faces would be priceless! Assuming they had faces. One could never be too certain in another world, twice.
Rounding the third intersection, Megumin spotted the golden doors the Emperor had mentioned. They were magnificent—twice her height and covered in intricate carvings depicting what appeared to be the Empire's military triumphs. Very subtle. Megumin approved.
Two guards flanked the entrance, their armor gleaming in the torchlight. They stiffened as she approached, hands moving to their weapons.
"Halt!" one commanded. "Identify yourself!"
The Crimson Demon struck a dramatic pose, one hand on her hip, the other extended theatrically. "I have come at the Emperor's behest to speak with the Windflower Scripture regarding a certain explosion that may have been slightly more impressive than intended!"
The guards exchanged bewildered glances, clearly unprepared for a schoolgirl in a gas mask making such proclamations.
"The Emperor sent you?" one asked dubiously.
"Indeed! We just had a lovely chat in the bathhouse. Very accommodating, your Emperor. Suggested I come explain myself directly to these Scripture people. Most efficient!"
Before the guards could respond, the golden doors swung open from within. A stern-faced woman in ornate white robes stepped forward, her piercing eyes fixing on Megumin with immediate intensity.
"We heard everything," she said, her voice cold as winter. "The Windflower Scripture has been expecting you, heretic."
"Heretic?" Megumin tilted her head, genuinely confused. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."
The woman's lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. "Oh, there's no misunderstanding. The Slane Theocracy has documented every aspect of your cult's magic. That explosion was unmistakably the work of your fellow followers." She gestured sharply. "But we never expected one of you to simply walk up and announce yourself."
Megumin's confusion deepened. "I'm not part of any cult. The explosion was entirely my doing. A bit stronger than I intended, but that's why I'm here to apologise!"
The woman's lips curved into a thin, humourless smile. "I see your script hasn't changed. A lone actor claiming responsibility." She gestured sharply to her companions. "Bring her in. We'll continue this discussion inside."
Two robed figures moved forward. Megumin allowed herself to be guided into the throne room, still trying to make sense of the situation. What cult were they talking about? How thoughtful of the Emperor to direct her to people who clearly needed an explanation about the explosion! Perhaps they'd been tasked with reconstruction efforts?
As she entered the grand chamber, Megumin noticed the empty throne upon its dais. Of course, the Emperor wouldn't be here yet—he was still finishing his bath. Around the room stood a dozen more white-robed figures, some holding ornate staves, others with hands resting on weapons.
They didn't look like city planners.
"I think," Megumin said to no one in particular, the respirator's mechanical wheeze punctuating her words, "that there has been a rather significant miscommunication."
Why was she hesitating? She'd come to apologise for an accident, yes, but if they rejected her apology, wasn't she free to act as she pleased?
Behind her mask, Megumin smiled. Perhaps that was simply her nature for things to end this way. But she couldn't deny that a small part of herself hoped for an outcome like this.
It seemed a more practical demonstration of her abilities was in order after all.