9 - They Who Are About To Die

The first rays of sun were just peeking over the horizon when Archmund amade their way to the opening of the Granavale Dungeon, to the army camp of Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio.

“Gods above, man, did you sleep?” Mercy said when he saw Archmund.

“I slept enough,” Archmund said, suppressing a yawn.

He had “pulled an allnighter” to “cram” for a new magical technique. He was tired, yes, but nowhere near as tired as when he’d done it in his previous life. Being young again was wonderful.

“If you’re not taking care of yourself, you can just stay up here,” Mercy said. “Come back for the second wave and recovery efforts tomorrow.”

That would let Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio get the first crack at everything in the Granavale Dungeon. Utterly unacceptable.

Unfortunately, the fatigue dulled Archmund’s wit. He pulled the Ruby of Light out from his pocket to buy some time to think. As if by instinct, it hovered over his open palm.

Mercy stared. Then he placed one palm on Archmund’s forehead, gripped his shoulder with the other, and stared intently into his eyes.

Archmund tried to escape, but Mercy’s grip was surprisingly strong. He could feel the other boy’s magic through the physical touch, alien to his own. Surprisingly light and pleasant for someone so serious and dangerous — almost girlish, if magic could be said to be girlish.

And Mercy himself — was Mercy even a boy? Because up this close, with his perfectly neutral face, in the dim light of dawn and the fading firelight, Mercy was put together like a porcelain doll.

“I… I’m surprised,” Mercy said, as even as ever. “The way you look, I’d expected you to have done something immensely stupid and spent all night draining your magical reserves. But you barely seem any weaker than you did yesterday afternoon.”

Archmund had in fact spent all night draining his magical reserves. And yes, it was surprising he was barely weaker than he had been yesterday afternoon. Mentally, he was tired, and he knew that missing a night of sleep was equivalent to losing 20 IQ points, as pseudoscientific as IQ was.

Though there were some sacrifices worth making.

“You can come along then,” Mercy said, releasing him. “I suppose you won’t be a total liability.”

“Wait, don’t you need to know what my power is?” Archmund said.

“Oh, I’ve got an idea,” Mercy said smugly. Perhaps he’d learned through touch alone.

Archmund shuddered.

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In short order, they stood before Mercy’s forces. There were about two hundred men — no, some of them were much younger than that, Archmund realized with a chill. Through the eyes of a child, even twelve-year-olds looked ancient, but he had adult memories. Some of these kids looked fourteen.

“Today, we break first ground on the Granavale Dungeon,” Mercy said, voice clear in the morning air. “Some of you have faced Dungeons before. Some of you have lost comrades and found glory. Most of you will not survive.”

The men yelled — the usual macho we-who-are-about-to-die type posturing. Surely it wouldn’t be that bad, right?

“All of you knew the stakes when you joined the Omnio Sacred Guard. You will die a hundred times before you let a single drop of noble blood be spilled. You will die a thousand times before you let a Hand of the Omnio fall. You will die a million times before a single drop of Omnio blood ever dreams of a blade!”

Archmund’s stomach turned at the idea that these men — these boys — were expected to die for him. But they did not share his nausea. The men roared. They pounded their chests and shook their fists. They wanted this death and glory.

“But those of you who do will be remembered for the ages. And for the lucky few, these will be your first steps as heroes!”

The men raised their swords and spears and let out a resounding cheer. Their weapons glistened, capturing the morning light in a way that plain metal could not. As the sun rose, it illuminated their armor, setting it ablaze with kaleidoscopic light — pale pinks and teals and limes. His breath caught in his throat.

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“First time seeing Gemstone Gear?” Mercy said, voice low. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I thought Gems were too expensive to forge into… full-body armor.”

“That’s what has you surprised? Maybe you’re not a total idiot,” Mercy said. “Don’t worry, you’ll see how they’re made soon enough. One last round of preparations, first.”

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Mercy’s tent was made of extremely practical tarp on the outside but emblazoned with rare furs on the inside. Archmund saw the usual tiger, lion, and — was that komodo dragon? Their furniture was no less ornate — there were four proper chairs with cushions, and an actual tablecloth on the round table in the center of the room.

Mary had rushed over first thing in the morning upon realizing that Archmund wasn’t in his room. She fretted over him like a mother hen — a small mercy that could be allowed for one who was going to his death, Mercy had declared, with a shit-eating grin that suggested he was fully aware of the pun. Mary was aghast that he’d spent all night practicing magic, practically besides herself — “It’ll stunt your growth, young master!” she’d screamed.

But she wasn’t formally working, moreso just there for emotional support. Mercy’s servants were the ones responsible for their final preparations. And when it came to the greater conversation, servants were supposed to be seen and not heard.

Mercy’s head servant, a tall, slim girl with short dark hair, poured them both two large mugs of a thin dark liquid. There was a familiar warm and comforting scent wafting from it, so familiar that Archmund instinctively took a sip.

He almost spat it out.

It was coffee, or something very much like it. In his old life, he’d had more than his share of coffee. Some days, at the worst of his job, he’d drunk ten cups a day, some as late as three in the morning, just to stay awake and work.

A part of his mind wondered just how much convergent evolution this world had gone, to have both coffee and tea cultures. But he forced himself to stay focused.

Had coffee always been this bitter? It tasted horrid. Maybe the coffee in this world was worse, or maybe his taste buds were younger and more selective.

He forced himself to swallow, only to see Mercy and her servant staring at him.

“You drank it black?” Mercy said. His composure broke completely for a second there, his mouth hanging open, before he gestured to his servant. His servant dropped a handful of white cubes into both cups, along with a thick yellow-white paste, before swirling until smooth with a spoon.

“If it’s meant to be drunken with that extra stuff, why don’t you just make it like that?”

“The butter will split if it’s added at the wrong time,” Mercy said. “It’s part of the ceremony.”

Archmund took a sip. It was good, but it felt more like the dessert drinks from popular coffee chains than actual coffee. In his past life, he’d liked drinking coffee black, because he’d drunk so much of it that if he added milk and sugar every time he would’ve been thirty pounds heavier.

“Don’t tell me you would have preferred it without the sugar and butter?” Mercy said.

Archmund said nothing. He supposed he must have flinched.

“Well, you’ll be glad for it once we’re in there. We’ll need the energy, and you absolutely need it. It will keep you awake.” Mercy said. “If you don’t have any questions, I can explain our tactics.”

“Just one,” Archmund said. “Will those men truly die for me?”

“Without question.”

“That’s horrific.”

“Excuse me?”

Archmund hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It had just slipped out, an unfortunate side effect of transmigrating from a world with the concept of “inalienable human rights”, no matter what social class you were born into.

“Nothing.”

“No, Archmund Granavale, I want to hear it,” said Mercy Stirpstridecim de Omnio. “What exactly about my Sacred Guard and their vows do you find so horrific?”

“A hundred of them are supposed to sacrifice themselves so I don’t get cut?”

“It’s metaphorical, but yes. That is what they agreed to when they chose to join the guard. This is the life they chose. What’s wrong with that?”

Material conditions. Being forced into a terrible job by the threat of poverty. Risking your life to chase glory because it was the only choice you had. Archmund knew he couldn’t say any of this outright. Not to a representative of the Imperial Family.

“What about their dreams? Their loved ones? How can you live knowing that you’ll send them to their deaths to serve yourself?”

“Because I am a scion of the Omnio.”

Mercy’s eyes were cold. His voice, colder, yet lilting. There was the faintest quavering — or perhaps Archmund was imagining it, because the only hints of warmth from Mercy had been when he’d told his men to embrace their deaths.

“I am a descendant of his Eternity, Alexander I. I was born blessed. I was born better. And no amount of handwringing from a minor noble will change who I am and what I deserve.”

“Can you honestly say that not a single member of your Sacred Guard has the potential to surpass us?”

“No!” Mercy said. “How could you even suggest that? Did the plague wipe out your memory? If there was any sign of that happening — never mind that it couldn’t, as far as you’re concerned — any sign of an unauthorized commoner using true magic is high treason, and is grounds for a full-scale invasion of the land.”

“Right,” Archmund said, leaning back on the plush chair. He was acutely aware of Mary’s presence at his side, and how he’d asked her to try using the same magic that he had. “Any sign that a commoner can use ‘true magic’, which is—”

“Drawing out the power of Gems—not Gemstone Gear, Gems—beyond the purpose cut into them. Like what you or I do.”

“That’s high treason.”

Mercy nodded.

Archmund hated this.

There was an entire army all but meant to die for him. He would be joined at the hip with someone who didn’t care about throwing their lives away. And he had no choice but to do it. If he didn’t, House Granavale and Granavale County would suffer, and it would be his fault.

He was getting vibes of his old life, when he forced himself to work jobs he hated because they were the promised “success” he’d once aspired for.

Mercy downed the rest of his coffee. “Drink up, Granavale. We’ll be going in real soon. And like it or not, my men won’t let you die.”