Delphine Inland

The train whistle wakes the monster with a start.

The first thing Archdevil notices in Eggrio station is the police force. Knights and infantry of the local Witch's private gendarmerie occupy the platforms. They parade in front of the train window, muskets in hand and sabers at their sides. They dress in white, blue, and green uniforms.

A crowd of men of various ages, all wearing expensive clothing at a glance, approach the train. They have terror and anxiety on their faces and attack the doors of the carriages as the train stops.

Trouble ahead.

Archdevil heads to the door. A gentleman on the platform has already opened. The man is leaping in, colliding with Archdevil.

He does not apologize or look at him but continues. And he is not the only one. The crowd begins to pour into the wagon.

Archdevil gnashes his metal teeth. He holds his arms before his face, waiting for the crowd to dissipate. Mostly, it is avoided, but some unwary people crash into it and get hurt.

I swear I'll kill them all.

Archdevil tests the idea, but the sudden whistle of the train tells him that it is about to leave again.

Suddenly, he pushes the guy in the door. That flies out, and Archdevil follows. The small group of men outside seem to realize what kind of creature it is. They shout and run towards other wagons as the train moves slowly. The locomotive hisses, mixing with the screams of the approaching gendarmes, weapons in hand.

“You there!”

Archdevil raises his hands in surrender, showing off a smile that shows off his sharp teeth.

The group of agents freezes. Archdevil lowers his hands and raises an eyebrow.

“Are you an Archdevil?”

“I don't know. Sometimes I feel like a dog. Can we know what this welcome is?”

The guards lower their weapons. They observe the emblem on the sleeve of the coat. Archdevil turns slightly, allowing them to marvel properly.

“Are you done?”

A gendarme with the emblem of Priscilla, the porcupine-snail, comes forward.

“Forgive us, Noble Archdevil Delphine. We did not know they sent you to handle the situation. Please, what should we call you? Prince, Blessed?”

“Huh? No-no. I'm not noble. Don't confuse me with a clique you helped escape by train.”

The gendarmes are even more confused.

They don't know the difference between Archdevils of Esteem and Archdevils of Contempt. Better, I could have told them to call me Prince and made them piss down the barrels of their guns.

Maybe there's still time…

“As you prefer.” The gendarme has a frowning expression. “In any case, the revolt is not be quelled. They burned sixteen mills. We tried to free the press, but they hit the university and the power plant. There is also fighting in the fashion district, which is why we evacuated men and women from the upper classes—”

“Stop, is there a riot going on?”

The gendarme's face appears even more disconcerted.

“You mean you did not know anything about it!? Yet the Witch Judge of Ampra… are you not in the service of the Delphine?”

“Of course, that's what I'm here for. Also, I haven't seen the Witch Judge for at least two years. I would gladly strangle her.”

“What are you saying!? What—”

“But shut up a bit. I'm here for university. For the Witch Director's husband, actually. He runs a museum, he's not?

The gendarme remains silent.

“Okay, why am I talking to you? You gendarmes share only one neuron per team. It's clear. You will have evacuated him. So, perhaps with my train group.”

“Desolate, I think.”

The gendarme's tone is uncertain. Resentful, sorry, scared? Archdevil grimaces to hold back a laugh.

“Delphine wants me to investigate. So, I will investigate. Step aside.”

Walking towards the exit, Archdevil pushes the gendarme instead of going around him. He hopes for a reaction from him, which does not arrive.

The city of Eggrio, known for its multicolored and sloping roofs, appears like the ghost of a war camp.

Several plumes of fire and smoke, sounds of shots and explosions creeping through the alleys, is what Archdevil captures. There are broken windows and rapid movements of soldiers. But there was no sign of militiamen or rioters.

Too bad. I could have joined a bit.

Archdevil clenches his fists. He thinks back to his father, who died in the workers' rebellion fifteen years earlier. He was of factory age but was still too young to understand.

The blood.

This is the only language these events understand. A language Archdevil knows and craves. But he cannot. He cannot do as his father did. A magical bond binds him to duties that he does not deserve. Actually, yes, he deserved them all.

I should have spit in her face then. Damn, it's cold in this city.

Full of negative feelings, Archdevil reaches the university square.

A handful of eight policemen are crouching behind a barricade. They are covered in blood and are shaking. All around, there are bodies of the dead filling the square. There are puddles of blood between the marble tiles, sickles, pitchforks, knives, pistols, rifles, and swords. It is miniature of a battlefield.

Archdevil walks straight, pretending not to see the cops.

“Stop, duck” one whispers.

Archdevil stops on the threshold of the barricade, but his eyes remain fixed on the central door of the facade. There is a slight shimmer.

“And why?”

“There is a snipe—”

A bang. A hiss. The air will be apart. Archdevil grabs the bullet, clenching it in the fist. He feels it hot and pleasant. Smoke escapes from clenched fingers.

“Aren't you saying anything more, officer?”

Archdevil waves towards the door.

“Now I'll fix it for you. But don't come in until I'm out, okay?”

“Sure.”

It is not out of kindness nor to protect their safety. Archdevil does not want them around. Even if he were to kill everyone present, those agents would only be a burden.

A second shot. This time, he blocks with his left hand.

Archdevil approaches walking, an easy target. Yet no more shots come, to his regret.

Entering through the open door, he finds no one. The immense hall in marble and twisted columns, with frescoes on the ceiling and walls, seems like a makeshift camp. Tables and chairs arranged to form barricades, bullet casings on the ground, and some bodies heighten this sensation.

They are men and women from various social backgrounds. At first glance, they seem like peasants, laborers, people with sunburnt skin and worn and dirty clothes. But there are also a couple of clean faces, university students, and small merchants. Who knows?

Archdevil bends over one of the bodies, poking the pale face with his index finger.

“Nothing to be done. You're dead. I guess you can't entertain me much.”

Picking them up, Archdevil realizes how sad the circumstance makes him feel. After all, it is normal that it happened this way. Only a fool would stay and fight with someone who blocks bullets.

I'm off the charts for them. As happened with my father and his companions...

They show so many ideologies and beautiful words. But then an Archdevil, a Witch, arrives, and the dream dissipates. All finished.

I hate reality.

I hate Delphine with all my heart.

Trampling on the bodies like ordinary tiles, Archdevil advances and looks for the Witch Director's office.

Unexpected. Here is what it was. The hammer came from above as soon as Archdevil stepped over the threshold. It is impossible to surprise him. With his fist clenched, Archdevil blocked the blow, shattered the hammer, and shot the shaft away.

For an instant, his gaze met the brown eyes of a woman. She has backed away and is now staring at him from the corner of the room.

Blond, frizzy, curly hair adorns a hard, sun-bleached face. The coarse features, the massive shoulders and neck, the muscular arms and legs. An outfit of breeches and shirt, a rough leather waistcoat, peasant stuff. In one hand, clutched a blood-soaked sickle.

Archdevil's gaze runs to the desk. Two bodies with faces disfigured beyond recognition fall over and at the base of it. A faint trace of magic comes from them, and the emblems on their uniforms leave no doubt.

“So, somehow, you killed two witches.” Archdevil abandons his guard, straightening his shirt collar and tie.

“Another one of you disgusting monsters.”

“Ouch-ouch, take it easy. I may be a monster, but I'm still far more attractive than a bull-looking Witch.”

Instead of taking up the provocation, the Witch changes her expression. Archdevil catches the surprise.

“How do you know?”

“Well, I had you were a minotaur. Or you were a witch. The choice wasn't difficult since the former doesn't exist. You smell like magic. You certainly didn't think that dirty clothes would be enough to disguise you.”

“No one ever noticed.”

“That's because I have an excellent sense of smell. Your magical power is ridiculous. That's why no one noticed.”

The Witch smiles a nervous smile. She tightens her grip on the sickle and undoes the top of her shirt. Her neckline displays the bull-ant emblem. It is a six-legged bull, the jaws equipped with chelicerae, with the body in three pieces like ants.

Archdevil chuckles.

“What do you find funny about it?”

“Ho, nothing. My comparison with the minotaur is very apt.”

“You don't seem the least bit alarmed.”

“I should?”

“Don't you see those two?”

The Witch gestures, pointing at the two bodies on the desk.

“Witches of the lowest level. What are they, between forty-eight and sixty? No, the Witch Judge of Ampra is number seventy-two-thousand-something.”

“It doesn't mean anything. By your logic, I, Witch Clea, number ninety-nine thousand-nine hundred-four, should be worth nothing.”

“The facts speak. You stay there, chatting. Did your attack fail? Do you want to beat me with tavern jokes, I'm pretty good, you know?”

“I speak because I want to know. I need to understand how strong the enemy of the people is.”

Archdevil scratches his head, perplexed.

“Sending a letter to the President saying: ‘Excuse me, we would like to overturn the government, weak point please?’, wouldn't it have been easier?”

“We have taken Priscilla and her husband hostage. But that was luck. Luckily, the two were very close, and having taken one, we blackmailed the other.”

“Ha, clearly, clearly. Do you want to know that Witch will sacrifice herself for me?”

Clea does not answer. She holds Archdevil's gaze, tense, ready to strike or react.

Archdevil shrugs.

“Sorry, but no Witch would sacrifice herself for me. I'm not even noble.”

“Then I will kill you.”

“Stop. Do you want to die? Do you think beating an Archdevil is like beating the Shield Archdevil here? Is this what you think? Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I can break the neck of the Hundredth Witch, and I'm not even the most efficient.”

“Your words: The facts speak. You stand there, chatting.”

“I chat because I'm here for other reasons. I chat to cool off the anger. You killed my target, you know? I also chat because I hate this society. If I weren't bound by magic, I would give you a little help. But I also chat to mock you, pathetic and deluded people.”

Archdevil looks menacingly at the interlocutor. He does not want to fight her after seeing how he reduced two witches far more important than her. He knows the trick: the Common Fund.

It may have various names, but it is an old story. Some unhappy Witches decide to ally themselves with other unhappy witches or commoners. They put their capital, or a portion of it, in a mutual fund. The Witch who has them can circumvent the problem of magical costs, obtaining more resources than those guaranteed by law.

“An old trick,” resumes Archdevil. “But it won't help you.”

“Speak clearly.”

“Look, I guess you can stop. You may be ugly, but I doubt you're stupid. Your rebels below have already retreated. There's no point in pretending you want to talk anymore. You too, withdraw.”

Clea hesitates for a moment.

“Did you understand this too?”

“Look, let's make a deal. I tell you the truth. You tell me where to find the museum exhibits. I saw that you emptied it.”

“I fear that the riots have destroyed everything.”

“I passed by the museum before entering. The large statues are untouched. It was carefully emptied of transportable things, don't screw me.”

“What truth do you have to offer?”

Archdevil frowns, tired of having to negotiate. His hands are shaking and, if it were not for a vague desire for chaos in the Empire, he would reach for the revolver.

“One you won't like and one you will like. You will have both.”

Clea remains silent. She sighs, abandons her guard pose, and extends her free hand.

“Okay, I accept.”

“Wait, you're not using magic. Are you perhaps not capable?”

“Magic? For what purpose, sorry?”

“Sealing a deal as a Witch. I only trust binding contracts, you know.”

Clea clicks her tongue.

“Okay, I will seal it as a Witch.”

“Excellent.”

Archdevil shakes hands, accepting the deal. Clea begins to speak as the spell dissipates.

“We transported what we could in Priscilla's motorized carriage. We have a headquarters in the village of Alcle, an hour's ride from the city. I imagine the object you are looking for is there.”

Archdevil laughs, releasing the Witch's firm grip.

“Very well. The truth you will like then. Among the museum's treasures, there is still a sample of the poison that was used to kill witches. It seems that the Prince, the President's son, can produce it from that sample.”

Clea's eyes widen. Her jaw drops.

“What, there is such a weapon?”

“Sure, but didn't you study history before starting the revolution?”

“Studying is for rich people. I struggle to believe you. Why keep such a substance in a museum?”

“From what I understand, it is just a sample. In itself, it is harmless. But they use it to study it. In case of need, you know, synthesize an antidote.”

Clea takes two steps towards the witches' corpses. Archdevil turns towards the door, hearing footsteps from downstairs.

“I told them to wait, but they're coming.”

“I guess they kept it because there is some form of guarantee. It must be a useless weapon.”

“You're wrong,” Archdevil grimaces, time to go. “You're wrong because my owner was poisoned. I don't know how, but I shall find the antidote.”

“Which I imagine is synthesized from the same sample.”

“We don't know, we have to try. Look, we should get moving.”

“The bad news?”

Archdevil cracks his neck and shoulders.

“You will all die. The revolution will fail.”

“What?”

“Even putting together all the inhabitants and all the witches of the nation, you would have no hope against the President. It is a clear and transparent rule. Eighty to twenty, twenty to eighty.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

The voices get closer. Someone is running up the stairs.

“I'll explain it to you another time.