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Not Even Child’s Play
Halfway along the path, Magrat abruptly came to a stop, his head cocked to the side as he glanced over his shoulder. “Hmm?”
The darkness of the night was all that met his gaze, no one was there. Yet, from beyond that veil of darkness—emanating from the Valley of Death—he felt a presence.
“I surely killed Francis. And her sister, there’s no way she survived that fall from such a height, right? Isn’t that so, me? It has to be, right?” Despite his attempts to reassure himself, unease refused to subside. This sort of unfamiliar discomfort typically materializes in some form or another.
He sighed, clicked his tongue, and turned on his heels, retracing his steps. Soon enough, he arrived at the very spot where Mary had fallen off.
“Well, there’s nothing here, after all. What am I getting all worked up about? Dead, dead, Mary is unquestionably dea—”
Thump, thump, thump.
He heard it. The sound of something ascending.
He felt it. The presence of an immense power.
It was undoubtedly drawing closer, approaching from the depths of the abyss.
Magrat’s senses heightened. “What’s this?! What’s climbing up?! What’s with this oppressive pressure?!” His frantic shouts echoed into the air, unanswered.
The rhythmic thumping drew closer, inch by inch—thump, thump, thump—until it reached the surface.
A “white claw” clung to the edge of the cliff, followed by another digging into the ground.
“Bones
?”
The claw, connected to a significantly larger skeletal hand, pulled its way up. The bone construct, several times the size of a human hand, exerted its strength, dragging a “body” behind it.
“Alright, then
” And there she stood before him, a young girl—Mary—her voice sweet and gentle despite the grotesque appearance of her hands.
She donned not a torn and ragged dress, but rather a pristine black and white gothic dress. Her torn and tattered hands bore sharp-clawed bone appendages that extended from her wrists, serving only to inflict harm upon others.
With a delicate pinch of her skirt, Mary crossed her legs and performed an elegant curtsy. “Good evening, Sir Magrat,” she greeted, sending a shiver down his spine. Despite her calm demeanor, a powerful aura of death enveloped her.
“So, did you inquire about why my father wanted Mary dead?” Romeo’s words on the phone echoed in Magrat’s mind. He suddenly had a gut feeling that the answer stood right in front of him.
Hermit, in the shape of a sphere! If you punch it, it’ll be an instant gut party right here!
Without any movement, without wavering in his gaze, without a sound, Magrat unleashed a senseless act of violence upon her.
Mary faced the unperceivable violence, extending her right hand to grab the invisible force. With a grinding sound against the bone, she forcibly crushed it within her palm.
“A game of ball, perhaps? How nostalgic. It’s been since I was a child.” She maintained her posture, a smile playing on her lips.
“Haa
” Magrat involuntarily exhaled, his instincts sounded the alarm. He empowered both legs, tightening the muscles in his calves, preparing to kick the ground.
That
 that’s not the old Mary Pulcherrima anymore! She’s been reborn and come back!
Rather than retreat immediately, Magrat observed his opponent’s condition.
“Haha
 then let’s play a game of tag next! I’ll be the demon, and you’ll be the prey! If I touch you and carve you up, I win! Ah, ha
 Haaaah, nnnnaaaaah!” New bones emerged from Mary’s agonizing voice, sprouting from her back. Skeletal arms, unusually long and with palms the size of a person’s face.
“Come on, run away! It’s your specialty, right? You love it, don’t you?!” Mary swiftly swung them towards Magrat.
“Tch, I specialize in the demon role, you know!” Magrat prepared to evade, taking a large step backward as Mary’s bony arms narrowly missed him. With a thud, her hand struck the ground, causing a violent impact that shattered the earth.
Though Magrat was at a distance and no contact had been made, the gust of wind following Mary’s strike lightly grazed his face, leaving a shallow cut near his eyes.
“Even at this distance, just from the air pressure?! Ha, unbelievable!”
Mary floated gracefully in the air, propelled by the recoil of her strike, closing in on Magrat from above. “This time, I’ll crush you! Reduce you to minced meat!”
“Hermit! It’s party time!” Magrat retreated while simultaneously channeling his power. Countless magical projectiles materialized around him, unseen yet visible, swerving widely as he swung his arm. They encircled Mary, attacking from all directions, leaving her no escape in mid-air.
Mary sprouted yet another massive arm from her back, extending it alongside her already open arm, sweeping away the unseen bullets. “A game of soap bubbles, huh? I used to enjoy that as a child.”
“I intended it to be an adult game! Dammit!” Magrat crossed his arms in front of his face, shielding himself from the resulting whirlwind.
As the dust settled, Mary landed gracefully, approaching within reach of her extended arm from her back. “At this distance—there’s no way to avoid it. Embrace the murderous intent of a hundred deceased souls!”
“It won’t be that easy. Come at me!” Magrat braced himself for the impact, instinctively creating a shield using the power of the Hermit.
Bam!
However, it couldn’t fully withstand the force, and he was sent flying, crashing into a tree with a resounding thud against his back.
“What
 an incredible power
 You
 just moments ago, you were a cute little girl with zero magical evaluation
! How
 why
 how did you transform into this powerful state?”
“Don’t know. Don’t understand. Can’t you tell just by looking at me?”
“Haha, that’s true. Analyze!” Magrat struggled to comprehend the situation as Mary’s magical evaluation value appeared before his eyes. “What
 is that? It’s strange, isn’t it? There’s no way
 no matter how you think about it
”
Magrat questioned his own eyes, trying to grasp the inexplicable phenomenon unfolding before him. He could partially comprehend it, but he couldn’t explain the reason behind it.
“I wonder if I can use it too. I just need to concentrate magic in my eyes and chant ‘Analyze,’ right? Ah, I can see it. Sir Magrat’s magical evaluation is 8751. You’re indeed higher than my sister. Truly befitting of an Arcana user.”
In response to Mary’s casual remark, Magrat’s voice grew hoarse. “Don’t mess with me! How could yours possibly be 15000?! Why
 why, why
 why are you higher than me, someone loved by the world?!”
His wounded pride took hold, and in a fit of anger, Magrat scratched his head, gritted his teeth, and flew into a rage.
***