Prana surged through the earth like writhing earthworms, mingling with the silver powder to ignite a dark silver pentagram.
Wayland stood up and held his right hand over the center of the magic circle.
He began to chant the incantation provided in the textbook.
The air around him suddenly warped. Faint slivers of silver light rose slowly from the ground, swirling into a cylindrical vortex as they approached his palm--looking for all the world like a long, glowing lantern.
The incantation continued.
With a low, muffled hum, the 'lantern' vanished. A series of invisible ripples surged outward, grinding to a halt roughly two meters away and closing ranks. A sequence of magical circles manifested around Wayland, their outlines shimmering before gradually fading from sight.
Wayland glanced at the remains of his magic circle, now nothing more than dark grey ash. After a moment's thought, he gathered the residue and tossed it into the Thames, covering the site with fresh soil.
While traces still remained if one looked closely enough, it was now almost impossible to tell that a magical ritual had taken place here.
He tucked away the remaining mineral water, silver powder, and his mixing bowl in a hidden spot within the woods.
Finally, Wayland walked to the river's edge, took a deep breath, and jumped.
As he hit the water, the river lashed out, pressing against him from all sides.
'It works, but the range is a bit too large. It's wasteful.'
Wayland focused on the barrier, shrinking the air bubble until it sat roughly thirty centimeters from his skin.
He continued his descent.
Despite the murky, dim light, Wayland quickly reached the riverbed.
The Thames was only about seven or eight meters deep at this point, but the layer of silt and sludge was significant.
Following the guidance of his detection spell, Wayland drifted forward.
After a few minutes, a hazy red glow appeared in his vision--an eerie, unsettling sight in the underwater gloom.
"Irigal, wake up. Help me scan the surroundings."
Wayland grew cautious as he approached the source of the light. Now that he'd reached his destination, he deactivated the detection spell to conserve his prana.
["There's no one around,"] Irigal reported.
"I know there are no people. I'm looking for the ghosts. Focus, will you?"
Irigal pouted. ["There are no ghosts, either."]
Wayland narrowed his eyes. The red light was growing brighter and wider. Finally, he stepped across a visible threshold.
"Irigal, what about now?"
["Still nothing."]
Wayland took another step forward and immediately came face-to-face with the two ghosts.
"I! RI! GAL!"
["Will you be quiet? Haven't you noticed how wrong this place is?"]
"..."
Wayland had to admit, it was wrong.
After all, who would plant a garden of roses on a riverbed?
He stared at the field of vibrant, blooming red roses and felt a sudden chill.
"What are those ghosts doing?"
Wayland's attention shifted to the two spectral entities lying in the middle of the rose garden.
'They're dead.'
["They were already dead."]
Irigal's voice sounded frustrated. ["I mean they're about to dissipate completely!"]
Wayland looked closer. The ghosts, whose forms had been relatively solid before, were now almost entirely translucent.
'The roses are draining their prana. What the hell is going on? Did these flowers develop a consciousness?'
["You could say that. Have you heard of Fairies or Elementals?"]
"I have."
Wayland nodded. Avalon, where Merlin resided, was the legendary land of Fairies; the Lady of the Lake, who had given Artoria her sacred sword, was an Elemental.
["This is likely a Fairy of this place--more accurately, a manifestation of the Thames itself."]
Irigal sighed and waved a hand. ["Let's see her true face."]
Wayland felt a cool, refreshing sensation wash over his eyes. His vision blurred for a moment, and he instinctively blinked.
"Ugh, it reeks!"
Wayland immediately covered his nose and mouth.
The smell was revolting--like a mixture of rotting offal and raw sewage that had been left to fester for years.
Even through his hand, the stench clawed at his throat and lungs. He fought down the urge to vomit and looked up.
The field of roses before him had transformed.
It was nothing but sludge.
A mountain of filth and debris: plastic bags, rubber, leather scraps, electronic waste, old batteries--all of it soaking and rotting in the water.
Wayland felt as if he were standing at the very bottom of a landfill.
'What is that?'
He peered through the gloom. With the illusory roses gone, the riverbed was dark once more. In the distance, he could see a jagged, deep rift nearly ten meters long.
And standing right in front of that rift was a young girl.
Her skin was covered in black, sickly spots. Her clothes appeared to be made of black plastic, and her eyes were a blood-red as they stared directly at him.
Wayland couldn't help but take a step back.
'That... that is the Fairy of the river?'
[Translated and Rewritten by Shika_Kagura]