[Volume 2 | Chapter 68: The Babysitter (IV)]

The afternoon had mellowed into early evening by the time they began the walk home. After lunch, Noelle had insisted on showing Acacia her favorite spots in Windsor. First, the historic clock tower with its intricate mechanisms, a hidden garden tucked between government buildings, and a small bookshop she claimed had the best collection of thaumaturgical theory texts outside Vanguard University. Surprisingly, Acacia had found himself not entirely hating the impromptu tour, though he attributed that mostly to the fact that his muscles hurt too much to summon proper irritation.

Now, as they ambled along the residential streets back toward Pandora's house, Acacia found his thoughts drifting to the problems awaiting him. Regardless, he couldn't solve all of them if he just spent his time wallowing in his despair.

Especially… the one that was probably the most pressing to his mind (as much as he hated to admit it.)

"So... hypothetically speaking, if someone—not me, obviously—needed advice about... girls?"

Noelle tripped spectacularly over a cobblestone, nearly face-planting onto the pavement. After a moment of flailing, she righted herself with flaming cheeks.

"Girls... as in... dating advice?!"

"No! Not dating advice! Just... how to apologize. To a girl. Who happens to be angry? And possibly hurt. But in a friendship way, not a... you know... way."

"Acacia Belmont," Noelle gasped dramatically. "Do you have a GIRLFRIEND?!"

"NO!"

An elderly couple stared as they passed. Acacia lowered his voice, his face feeling hot.

"It's not like that. She's just... we're just... it's complicated!"

"...Uh-huh." Noelle's smile had taken on a distinctly teasing quality. "Complicated. I see. Does this 'complicated' friend have a name?"

"Not one I'm sharing with you." Acacia crossed his arms defensively, then immediately regretted it as his muscles screamed again. "Forget I asked. It was a stupid question."

"No, no! I'm sorry!" Noelle's apology was undermined somewhat by the fact that she was still grinning like she'd discovered buried treasure. "I'll help, I promise! Tell me about this... friend. What's she like?"

Acacia hesitated for a moment before answering.

"She's... fiery and smart. Maybe too smart for her own good. She's surprisingly thoughtful when not being insufferably correct about everything."

To that, Noelle tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"Hmm, what did you do to make this fiery, brilliant girl angry?"

"I... may have excluded her from something unintentionally. She took it personally, and I think I need to make it right."

"So you need a peace offering?"

"I mean, I guess so." He shoved his hands into his pockets, sapphire eyes fixed on the sidewalk ahead. "What would you suggest for our hypothetical angry female friend?"

"Ice cream."

Acacia stared at her for a long moment, waiting for the punchline. When none came, he asked flatly, "Are you serious? That's your 'sage' advice? Ice cream?"

"Not just any ice cream! Artisanal gelato from Galetti's on Fifth Street. Trust me on this! They make a dark chocolate sea salt caramel that could end wars. Based on your description, I'm guessing she'd appreciate the bittersweet combination. Complex flavors for a complex girl." Noelle nodded as if she had just solved world hunger with this suggestion.

"...Is food your solution to everything?"

"Not everything! Though admittedly, it does feature prominently in my conflict resolution strategies. Food is universal! Everyone eats, and most people feel better after eating something delicious. It's science!"

"I'm pretty sure that's not what science means."

"Well, it's worked for me so far! My mom always says no problem can't be improved by sharing a good meal. Except maybe global warming. Or tax fraud." She wrinkled her nose. "Actually... there're probably LOTS of problems that food doesn't solve, but for friendship issues? Definitely worth a try."

Acacia felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

"So your advice is to bribe her with fancy ice cream?"

"Not a bribe! Think of it as... a conversational lubricant—wait, that sounded weird. I mean, it's harder to stay mad at someone when they've brought you something thoughtful, right? The ice cream shows you're making an effort, but it's the conversation afterwards that really matters. You have to actually apologize and mean it."

Well, maybe it wasn't terrible advice after all. Leila did seem like the type who might appreciate a gesture that combined refined taste with remorse.

"I'll consider it."

Noelle beamed victoriously.

"Excellent! And if you need a wingwoman, I'm totally available to—"

"No. No wingwomen, sidekicks, accomplices, or whatever else you're plotting in that single braincell of yours."

She deflated visibly, pouting like a scolded puppy.

"You're no fun."

"I'm a joyless void of anti-amusement. Accept it."

"Never!"

They turned onto a street bordering Windsor Preparatory Academy's expansive grounds. The school stood silent and mostly empty during summer break. The iron gates surrounded the perimeter, with the main entrance facing the street they now walked along.

Acacia was about to make another sarcastic comment about Noelle's inability to take anything seriously whena movement near the school's gates caught his eye. A figure emerged from the main building, glancing furtively over his shoulder before heading toward the exit.

Acacia stopped dead in his tracks.

Alaric Ptolemy.

Walking out of Windsor Preparatory's library wing, clutching something to his chest that looked suspiciously like a large, ancient book.

The book.

That book in Alaric's arms—even from this distance, Acacia could see it wasn't a standard library text. The aged leather binding, the distinctive size, the way Alaric clutched it protectively against his chest—it matched everything Bismarck had described about the Modern Tome's physical properties.

Acacia's mind ran wild.

If Alaric had the Modern Tome…

That would explain how he suddenly knew Nemesis's true name and his Ars Magna.

That would explain his dramatic improvement in thaumaturgical ability.

That could potentially explain the strange primrose glow in his eyes when commanding his lackeys.

The Dead Sea Scrolls didn't have to just contain historical records. If it was truly a book holding the fate and future of the world, then logically it would make sense to also contain all possible and future spell formulations, prana manipulation techniques, Aeterna Armamenta knowledge, and political secrets that spanned centuries. If the Modern Tome continued that tradition, it would be an incomparable repository of recent thaumaturgical innovations and classified information.

Anyone possessing it could learn spells far beyond their natural capabilities.

Including Strategic Class spells like the [Incendio] Alaric had attempted to use.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Eh... Acacia? Whatcha looking at?"

But his focus remained locked on Alaric's retreating figure. He had to confirm his suspicion, had to see the book up close, had to—

Alaric vanished.

One second he was there, the next—gone.

[Flux]? An amplified version of it?

"Alaric!" Acacia shouted, breaking into a full sprint toward the school gates.

"Who? Wait!" Noelle called after him, but he was already sprinting across the street, darting between startled pedestrians.

His legs protested—burning from the morning's torture session—but his adrenaline overrode the pain as he practically barreled through Windsor Preparatory's front entrance. The lobby stretched before him, all polished marble and mahogany, and completely deserted except for a bored-looking pudgy security guard who barely glanced up from his newspaper.

Acacia raced past him, ignoring the halfhearted "Hey, you can't just—" as he made a beeline for the library wing.

The library doors stood open, the cavernous space beyond quiet and still. A middle-aged woman sat at the circulation desk, glasses perched on her nose as she catalogued returns. Two other library workers moved between the stacks, shelving books as if in slow motion.

"Excuse me," Acacia gasped, barely slowing as he reached the desk. "Did you see a blue-haired boy just now? He should have been carrying an old book, large, leather-bound, possibly with unusual markings?"

The librarian looked utterly confused.

"Blue-haired boy? No, dear. No one's been in here for the past hour except staff."

"That's impossible! He just walked out of here! He was right there, carrying a book from your collection!" Acacia gestured wildly back toward the doors.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about... There haven't been any students checking out materials today."

"What about the checkout records? Can you check those?" He gestured frantically at her computational device.

With a bemused expression, she turned to her screen, tapping a few keys.

"Nothing since yesterday afternoon, I'm afraid. Exclusively faculty checking out summer reading."

That made no sense. Acacia had seen Alaric with his own eyes, mere minutes ago, exiting this very building with a book that matched the Modern Tome's description. Unless…

Alaric's eyes glowing primrose as Cassius immediately stopped fighting and obeyed his command to leave.

That strange, instant compliance.

Was it possible? Some kind of memory manipulation? But that would require advanced Interference Thaumaturgy, far beyond what a sixteen-year-old should be capable of... and if he had that skill, he would have needed to do that to every faculty member and worker present, which was a logistical nightmare to consider.

Unless he had help from the Modern Tome.

"I need to see your restricted section," Acacia said suddenly.

"I'm sorry, but that area is off-limits without proper authorization. You would need a faculty member or—"

Acacia was already moving, sprinting toward the far corner where ornate iron gates separated the general collection from the restricted archives. He vaguely registered Noelle's voice calling his name as she finally caught up, but his focus remained on that room.

"If someone stole the Modern Tome, they would hide it in plain sight. The best place to hide a book is among other books, after all."

Bismarck's words, and they made perfect sense. Windsor Preparatory's library housed one of the more extensive collections of rare thaumaturgical texts outside the major universities. The restricted section, with its enhanced security and limited access, would be the perfect place to conceal such a valuable artifact, especially since, as Acacia knew from his time practically living in Ocarina's libraries, restricted materials were only inventoried annually rather than monthly like the general collection. Even if Alaric were the heir to a noble house like the Ptolemys, it would prove rather difficult for a 16-year-old to find a hiding place with that much security. It would only make sense to hide it somewhere that he would be able to easily access at any time, and it just happened to be in the school he just graduated from.

Security through obscurity, bureaucratic negligence, and the assumption that no one would think to look there. Ezio must have hidden it during some negotiation with underworld contacts, using the neutral location of the school library as their meeting ground, but something went wrong. And somehow, Alaric had discovered it.

Beyond the restricted section's gates were row upon row of ancient tomes sat in climate-controlled cases. Somewhere among them, potentially, the missing Modern Tome of the Dead Sea Scrolls—now in Alaric Ptolemy's possession.

"Acacia!" Noelle finally caught up, grabbing his arm with a surprisingly strong grip. "What are you doing?! You can't just run into the restricted section without—"

The sharp sound of footsteps approaching from behind interrupted her. Both turned to see the security guard sternly approaching, hand hovering near the Mystic Gear at his belt.

"I'm going to need both of you to step away from those gates. The restricted section is off-limits during summer break."

So it was just as she thought.

The Modern Tome had been right here, all this time, hidden in plain sight exactly as Bismarck had theorized. Now Alaric had it, along with whatever dangerous knowledge it contained.

But how had he known where to look? How had he gained access? And most importantly, what did he plan to do with that knowledge?

How... in the hell... am I even supposed to get it from Alaric's possession...?

The sun hung low in the sky, dousing Windsor's outskirts in shadows as Alaric Ptolemy ran like a hunted animal. Ragged breaths tore through his lungs, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His legs trembled beneath him, and his muscles screamed after using [Gran Flux].

It was a spell far beyond what his body should attempt without proper preparation.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

He was gasping between labored breaths, barely keeping himself upright as he stumbled over uneven ground. Blood trickled from his nose, yet another sign of his dangerously depleted prana reserves. Six uses of ⸢Ephemeral⸥ in two days had hollowed him out and left him a shell of trembling nerves and exhausted tissue.

His watch read 5:58 PM.

Two minutes.

Two minutes to cross half a district or face whatever horrible fate the Tome had decreed.

"He saw me! That Belmont boy saw me! I'm such an idiot!" he moaned, remembering the shock of those piercing blue eyes meeting his. Recognition, accusation, realization—all plain on Acacia Belmont's face, even from across the street.

His foot caught on a broken piece of pavement, sending him sprawling across dirty concrete. The ancient book clutched against his chest tumbled from his grasp, landing with a dull thud that seemed to echo through his very bones. For one terrifying moment, Alaric lay there, face pressed against filth, the desire to simply stop—to surrender to exhaustion and fate—nearly overwhelming him.

But the Tome's cover began to glow with that unmistakable pink light.

"UWAHH!" With a desperate cry, he flung himself away from the book, rolling onto his back and scrambling backward on his elbows as quickly as his shaking arms would allow. "No, no, no! I'm going! I'm going!"

He had to swallow his bile as he grabbed the Tome and sped off.

Please! Please, I never wanted this! I just wanted them to respect me! I wanted them see me as worthy...!

Tears, sweat, and blood formed a putrid scent on him. The abandoned warehouse district stretched before him like a labyrinth of forgotten buildings and broken dreams. Somewhere among them lay his destination which was the only thing standing between him and death.

The Tome never lied.

"HENCEFORTH IT IS DECREED THAT ALARIC PTOLEMY, HEIR TO THE HOUSE OF PTOLEMY, SHALL PERISH UPON THE HOUR OF SIX IN THE EVENING ON THE TWENTY-SECOND DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH, YEAR FOUR HUNDRED EIGHTEEN OF THE ERA VIRTUTIS, UNLESS HE STANDS WITHIN THE WALLS OF THE DWELLING AT THE TERMINUS OF OAKRIDGE PATH BEFORE SAID HOUR."

Those archaic words had appeared on the page just ten minutes ago when he was on the opposite side of Windsor. The cruelty of it—the impossibility of the task—was deliberate, a sick game played by whatever entity or deity controlled the Tome.

Just like yesterday's decree:

"SHOULD ACACIA BELMONT ENTER THE RESTRICTED ARCHIVES OF WINDSOR PREPARATORY ACADEMY ON THE TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH, YEAR FOUR HUNDRED EIGHTEEN OF THE ERA VIRTUTIS, ALARIC PTOLEMY SHALL BE STRUCK DOWN WITH NEITHER MERCY OR RECOURSE."

He hadn't wanted to attack Elias, nor had he wanted to threaten Leila. But the Tome had given him no choice. It was either intercept Belmont or die. Every confrontation, every cruel word, and every dangerous spell he'd cast had been orchestrated by the Tome's merciless commands.

Or so he told himself, anyway. The truth lay in between.

A dilapidated structure loomed ahead with a barely visible address on a rusted mailbox. Alaric's heart leapt desperately as he recognized the numbers. With a final burst of effort that sent fresh blood cascading from his nose, he hurled himself through the rotting doorway and collapsed onto the filthy floor inside just as his watch ticked to 5:59 PM. For a moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing and his heart's thundering. Then, unsolicited, the Tome fell open in his lap and pages turned by themselves until they settled on fresh text illuminated by that terrible pink glow.

"THE DECREE HAS BEEN FULFILLED. ALARIC PTOLEMY SHALL LIVE ANOTHER DAY."

He curled into a ball, clutching the Tome tightly to his chest, tears streaming down his face. Sobs racked his slight frame whilst violent convulsions sent fresh spikes of pain through his abused muscles.

He was alive. He'd made it. For now.

But the Tome wasn't finished.

The pages turned again with the pink light intensifying until it cast the abandoned building in an unnatural roseate glow. The decree formed as if carved by an invisible hand.

"HENCEFORTH IT IS DECREED THAT ALARIC PTOLEMY, HEIR TO THE HOUSE OF PTOLEMY, SHALL PERISH UPON THE COMPLETION OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH, YEAR FOUR HUNDRED EIGHTEEN OF THE ERA VIRTUTIS, UNLESS HE PERFORMS THE ZULUMAT RITUAL BENEATH THE CONJUNCTION OF LUNA AND SPICA, OFFERING IN SACRIFICE FIVE CHILDREN OF WINDSOR, THEIR BLOOD TO NOURISH THE COVENANT."

"...Eh?"

Something inside him broke.

"NO! NO! I CAN'T! I WON'T! I DON'T CARE IF I DIE! I WON'T KILL KIDS, YOU HEAR ME?! I WON'T! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

Five children. Some "Zulumat" ritual. Blood sacrifice. The words blurred before his eyes as fresh tears welled up, yet those daunting implications violated his mind.

Reality set in.

Essentially, in order to save his life…

"No... not like this... Please... I can't..."

He could feel it all slipping away. His sanity, his identity, his soul being devoured by the infernal Tome in his very hands.

Alaric Ptolemy—heir to one of Orion's most prestigious families in High Nobility, a student with promising artistic talent he'd never been allowed to pursue, a boy who'd only wanted to make his father proud—curled around the book that had become his prison and his executioner, and wept.

He had two days to become a child murderer.

Or die.

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