Slumrat Rising

Chapter 84: Honing The Edge

The next three days passed slowly in the library and quickly outside of it. Truth’s knowledge of possession was now alarmingly broad, and while his knowledge of baptisms was less so, he had come to some curious conclusions about them. A lot of magical rituals were, to his slight surprise, indistinguishable from religious rituals. They were, in fact, the same thing, just done for often quite different reasons. The tragic story of Magus Lorenz was a good example.

Under almost any other circumstances, Magus Lorenz would have been remembered for his modest contributions to the field of animal husbandry. If he was remembered at all. The majority of his contributions consisted of minor technical improvements to the process of cleaning and then washing wool before it was processed into yarn. Even amongst drapers, it wasn’t the sort of research that set the world on fire.

Keenly aware of and despairing over his mediocracy, Magus Lorenz was determined to make a grand achievement. In the manner of those with limited imagination, he immediately convinced himself that the secret to greatness lay in the very cleaning and washing equipment he studied. The vast machines took the sheered wool and pulled it along an assembly line. Bound imps “skirted” the wool, removing any stuck-on bits of unpleasantness before the wool was dragged into the purification vats.

The vats had a single function. They were magical devices for the purification of the wool, removing all disease and evil influences from the material before it was worked into yarn. A quite common and necessary step when one considers just how far the fabric made of cursed wool might travel before being identified and destroyed. The magical technology was quite well-tested, and even the most current, sophisticated models would be immediately recognizable to a factory worker three hundred years ago. Bluntly, it was a technology that did not need improvement.

Naturally, the purification vats were the focus of Magus Lorenz’s frenzied research. He worked with the half-bright logic his limited ability afforded him, searching in libraries for things that were both “purifying” and “baths’ or “vats.” He quickly discovered that the so-called perfected technology of the purification vats was an inferior knockoff of even older technology! He had been lied to, talked down to by the greedy, venal, thuggish bean counters who wanted only more of what they already had. But he, he would show them all. He would show that these vats were more than the unlovely and unloved components of assembly line manufacturing. They were the future of good health and skincare. And he would prove it to the world.

Magus Lorenz, in a fit of immense spite and poor judgment, chose to use the same exact religious purification ritual that was used as the basis for the purification vats. He didn’t recognize the faith, but he assumed that meant that there would be no one to complain or contest the patent rights later. And while the baptismal ritual was intended to purify a sheep before it was sacrificed, Magus Lorenz was a man of modern magics and industrial thinking. Magic was a tool, the vats a component. Does a hammer care if it hammers nails or noggins? It does not. Therefore only a small-minded, superstitious fool would care about the original designer's intent.

Magus Lorenz was good enough to create the magical tools necessary for the ritual. The bath was etched and enchanted. The formation was laid out around it. Reagents, expensive but still just affordable, were carefully processed and added to the boiled spring water. He gathered his wife and children to be the ritualists and carefully submerged himself in the bath. He arose a new man.

His skin no longer draped loosely over his soft flesh. His back straightened, eyes brightened, and he breathed deeply and easily for the first time in years. Decades. He was a man reborn. With just a little refinement and a lot of legal work to secure his rights, he would be rich. Not everyone could afford the elixirs and time needed to reach higher levels and extend their life. This method would at least give them the look and feel of youth. No small thing.

A week and a day after the ritual was cast, Magus Lorenz’s wife and children turned themselves in to the police, weeping miserably or staring in numb horror at their hands. They explained how Magus Lorenz quickly fell to madness. How he drove them, with blows and cruel words, to stitch pure white fleece to his arms and back. Shaving his head and suturing wool along his neck and scalp. How he insisted on being bound hand and foot. How his wife felt unable to resist the compulsion to slit his throat. How his sons knew to build the pyre and lay their spasming, smiling father upon it.

And so Magus Lorenz earned his immortality in history.

Truth had to think for a long while on that. The forms of things mattered because, without them, the cosmic energy couldn’t interact in the desired way with the material world. But intent mattered. Both the caster’s intent, the creator of the spell… and apparently, that of the entity providing the power.

It was no wonder that modern magic stripped away as much of the divine or infernal as possible from their spells. They might be weaker, but they were vastly more reliable.

He hunted around for a copy of Ars Goetia and was not too surprised to learn that his school had taught a badly cut-down version of the real book. The real Ars was six centimeters thick, with every picture, every summoning, and every description, accompanied by commentaries. Botis, he learned, was not merely a powerful demon in his own right; he also lead sixty “armies” (definitions of which varied) and was both a “president” and an “earl.”

The latter titles were understood to bear no relationship to the beings' actual titles in Hell, as human concepts simply did not apply to so much of it. In essence, he was a powerful demon near the top of the hierarchy, and when he spoke, other demons listened and obeyed. When summoned, he would appear either as a serpent or a tall, handsome swordsman with elegant horns and needle teeth. And he was a talker.

That was one of the few things the commenters all agreed about- don’t let him start swinging his sword, don’t let him start talking. In either case, you would find him a step ahead and leading you quickly down a path of no return. Not a seducer, exactly. Just very… reasonable. Knowledgeable and persuasive. Incisive.

Truth mulled it over on the practice field. The angelic blade seemed indifferent to his desire to fight using demonic magic. There was probably a story there, but he had a sick certainty that his education wouldn’t let him understand even if it was explained to him. Cutting things, that he understood. A nice, simple thing, swinging a blade.

The sword was light, just a bit over a kilo. Normal for a sword this size, he knew, but he kept expecting it to be heavier. It was lively in his hands. Moving through the sword dance on the practice field, parry to cut, back to parry, then the explosive thrust! Then recover and begin again.

How would Botis attack? Well, he would attack first. He would know what was coming. Either preempt the attack and defeat in a counter-ambush, spoil the attack and set yourself an advantage, or simply use a fatal counter when their assault left them open. Botis was always a step ahead. Which meant that he was always ready. But even a demon wouldn’t run around with a spell constantly primed, would he?

Actually, Truth had no idea what a being like Botis could do. Maybe he did run around with a spell half-cast.

Truth planted himself in front of a training dummy. He couldn’t really get into it. Just a mannequin. He looked around and found a training sword and belted it onto the dummy. For some reason, it felt better now, like he could take it seriously. Which was objectively ridiculous, but he was prepared to go with it.

Alright, Fuckhead here was about to try something. What would Botis do? Get his spell off first. How to make sure your spell goes off first? Have it partially ready to cast. Truth carefully pieced together the spell form in his mind, aiming to have it mostly together but not sweating the details. He walked towards the dummy. Four steps away, he tried to complete the spell and launch forward at the same time. It didn’t quite work, but as the angelic blade whipped toward the dummy’s neck, he could feel it almost take.

It was the most progress he had made with the spell so far. Truth smiled and reset. He hadn’t practiced something like this since… god, was it studying for the SAT? Doing all those endless memorization drills for talisman pathways. He could probably diagram a Farx and Whillooby Type 5A Air Circulation Talisman (Private residence, single room / Personal Vehicle Types R, F, N(u), N(x) / Poultry Sheds less than 5 meters square,) in his sleep.

He squared up to the dummy again. It didn’t feel bad. Teaching his body and his mind at the same time. He formed a rough outline of the spell and held it loosely in his mind. It didn’t feel bad at all. Good even. He rushed the dummy again. Once more, the spell didn’t quite go off. That was ok. He was making progress. It would get there.

Truth kept up the exercise throughout the day. Just having the spell present in his mind. Loose, but present. Could he drink a cup of locally grown and roasted coffee while redying Incsive? With difficulty, yes. Could he actually cast it while enjoying the faint notes of dark red fruit winding their way through the savory coffee smell? He tried.

He could not. Not yet. Practice, practice.

He briefly tried to hold it during a conversation with Jember but directly gave up. It was too much distraction. He couldn’t keep the forms even loosely in mind. Shame. Watching Pitz and trying to hold the spell was a fun challenge. It struck him as more realistic. Lots of movement, lots of noise. He tried to keep it in mind, attempting to cast it when players made a strong move on the ball.

No success, but he could feel it inching closer and closer.

He explained to Merkovah what he was doing during one of their study sessions, and the old monster strongly agreed.

“Let's try something. I will attack you momentarily. Try to cast Incisive before I do.”

The beardy and deceptively young-looking exorcist sat back in his chair, slipping his hands into his pockets. It occurred to Truth that the exorcist’s semi-formal clothing had a suspicious number of pockets, now that he thought about it. Truth pulled together the rough outline of Incisive in his head and tried to steady his breathing.

There was no visible change in Merkovah, but Truth was suddenly, absolutely sure that the man was about to attack. About to kill him. Truth desperately cast Incisive as he attempted a draw cut.

It will come from the left. Truth shifted to the right as he drew and stepped into the blow.

The angelic blade stopped a hand’s width from Merkovah’s neck. The sense of murderous intent had vanished like a shadow at night. The old monster grinned at Truth.

“Congratulations! Well done!”

“Thank you, Teacher. It’s thanks to your support.”

“Of course! But still, you have worked hard. Now. Keep it up! Tomorrow, we are off to the mountains. We will not return here for some time.” Truth nodded and left.

He hadn’t mastered Incisive. Barely touched the threshold of it. But it was a start. Truth smiled. It was a start, and he could see the way forward clearly.