[156] The Second Encounter (5)
Amy realized Freeman was more tactical than she'd expected.
A master of the Schema, a Compound Eye, and on top of that a three percent anti‑magic—he could even neutralize a sniper's shot.
It was a way of fighting that let him operate at close, mid, and long ranges alike.
"Were you hiding there?"
Freeman leapt up, holding a gun loaded with magical rounds. He bounded from tree to tree, cutting the distance with movements so quick they felt staccato.
What followed was a chase—an exchange of pursuit and retreat.
Amy kept trying to snipe, but it was impossible to hit Freeman. No matter how much she backed it up with Hongan, that three percent margin of error would show up somehow.
She might stand a chance if she closed to midrange, but that would be like stepping into Freeman's backyard.
There was no other way.
Amy refused to give up and stuck to her sniping. But Freeman, who didn't even need to bother dodging, was practically yawning.
He could do whatever he liked. A sniper shot wouldn't land, and if she came closer he could just shut her down with Compound Eye.
"I heard mages have limits to their mental stamina…"
At the start of a fight, a mage who didn't need to swap rounds had the advantage, but since magic can't be cast forever, the longer it went the more the scales tipped toward the gunner.
When the speed of her Flame Strike slowed from before, Freeman moved in to secure his prey.
Amy had no mental strength left to cast more. Her head felt like it was bleaching out. Her Omniscience wouldn't latch onto Omnipotence.
"Hah. Hah."
Still, Amy squeezed every last ounce of will out of herself. Finally, she cast one last Flame Strike.
Freeman watched the incoming magic without flinching. As a ballistic expert and gunner, he'd already noticed the impact point was slightly off.
He raised both guns and rested his fingers on the triggers. The opponent wouldn't even be able to maintain flight magic. At this point she was practically an ordinary girl.
Bang!
A violent impact hit Freeman's temple. For the first time an expression crossed his face.
Confusion and wonder.
The Flame Strike had landed fully ten meters from its intended point. How could it possibly hit him?
Thoughts stopped there. Struck in a vital spot, Freeman crashed to the ground with a thud. As he lay sprawled out, flame began to flare across his face.
'Marsha….'
Amy, clinging to a tree as she descended, finally lost her grip and landed hard on her backside.
She was utterly exhausted—mentally more worn than an ordinary person pulling four straight days without sleep.
But the gamble had paid off, so she didn't feel too bad.
"Huff! Huff! Done. I won."
The effective sniper range on that final attack had actually been less than a hundred meters.
If Freeman hadn't charged, the Flame Strike would have vanished before reaching him.
But Freeman rushed in—and that was his mistake. Having closed the two hundred meters he'd given up, Amy used her last reserves of concentration for a radial deviation.
She altered the spell's trajectory into a zone that caught only the Flame Strike and redirected it into Freeman.
With a tactic like that, three percent anti‑magic couldn't evade it.
If up till now it had been like throwing a stone, this time it was like taking that stone in hand and striking him with it.
"Anyway, good thing I won. If I'd died I'd be too embarrassed even to go to heaven."
There was no time to rest—her friends were still fighting. Amy hunched over and, aching, made her slow way toward the cliff.
* * *
Freeman's face was on fire. Still, he didn't groan.
From the moment consciousness returned and the pain of the burns hit, only one thought filled his head.
'I have to get to Marsha.'
Amy's flames kept scorching his skin, but Freeman's body repaired itself at an equally furious rate.
Poised between life and death, pain and relief, Freeman recalled days spent with Marsha when they were children.
"Oh? It's Freeman. Coward Freeman."
"Slanted‑brow Freeman! Why don't you cry already? Cry for us!"
Freeman had always been the butt of jokes because he was a coward.
Of course no one is born a coward. He blamed his dramatically slanted brow for everything.
"St‑stop it. It hurts."
"So cry, then. If we make you cry Marsha will come. Pretty Marsha."
"Don't bother Marsha!"
"Idiot, Marsha's the boss of the alley—who would bully her? Besides, Marsha's fun! Hurry up and cry. Hey! Hey!"
"Aaaah! Marsha!"
Freeman couldn't hold back his tears and ran.
The kids were determined to make him cry. They jabbed his face with sticks and, when they got extreme, threw stones.
"Hey! Tell Marsha to come here! We're going to play war!"
They made Freeman cry to get Marsha to come out and play. Still, Freeman always ran to Marsha's house.
For someone ostracized, her home was the only place to go.
Every time he went he felt the same emptiness. Her mercenary father kept the house bare of furniture. He was often gone all night for work and when he returned he'd beat Marsha.
When Freeman opened Marsha's door he found her sitting in a corner of the empty room.
In the room without a bed, desk, or even a blanket, only half‑eaten bread and a glass of milk took up space.
"Marsha, wah, the kids hit me."
She always wore her hair in a bob. She was pretty, and Marsha greeted Freeman with a gentle smile.
"Ugh, you're always getting picked on. Don't you get tired of it? Why do you hang around those kids?"
"I don't hang with them. They find me and bother me no matter what."
"All right. I'll go tell them. Where are they?"
Freeman wiped his nose and said,
"Can't you not go? If the man comes in while you're out he'll beat you."
"What's the difference? Either way I'll get hit. I'll tell them not to play with you if they bother you."
"No! You don't have to hang with them either—you only do it for me. I hate that you smile at those bastards."
"Well, thanks. Then either get stronger or stop complaining when you take help."
Marsha poked Freeman's forehead. Embarrassed, he'd shouted earlier, then fell silent and looked up shyly.
"Are you really going to go teach them a lesson?"
"No, I'll just give them a firm scolding and come back. Come play with me later."
Marsha said this, and Freeman brightened.
"Really? You have to come back quick!"
"I will. If you're hungry, eat the bread and milk. I already ate."
When Marsha left, silence returned to the room. Freeman's face fell again as he took in the poverty of the place.
'I was going to give this to her.'
Freeman pulled a small hand mirror from his pocket. He'd saved coins from odd jobs for three months to buy it.
Marsha owned nothing but the clothes on her back. Her adoptive father took everything.
"You're a girl—you should have a mirror. That man's strange. I don't know why he'd leave such a pretty daughter like that."
Freeman smiled, imagining Marsha would like it. But the face in the mirror didn't smile.
A seriously slanted brow.
Because of that brow he'd been nicknamed a crybaby since childhood. After ten years of that, he'd become one for real.
"Is it that bad? I think it's fine."
Years passed, and Marsha and Freeman reached seventeen.
Freeman was still the town coward, but he worked diligently and had a decent reputation.
He truly only socialized with Marsha.
He saved what he didn't spend on living to buy gifts for her.
Of course, no matter how many things he bought, her father seemed to take them all—but Marsha was genuinely happy when he gave her presents.
Freeman never regretted spending money if it meant seeing Marsha smile.
At some point she seemed to have lost that smile. He had a vague idea why: her adoptive father had been abusing Marsha more severely lately.
Most kids grew up in rough households.
Freeman himself lived every day being called an idiot by his drunk father.
Then one day Freeman learned the truth—that the blows Marsha suffered were not like a parent's punishment.
"Marsha? Marsha?"
That night Freeman went to Marsha's house. It might have been fate. He'd been bothered all day by how much sadder Marsha's face had seemed.
When she didn't answer no matter how he knocked, his unease deepened.
Freeman climbed in through the window; there was nothing to steal anyway, and windows were usually open in summer.
"Oh—Marsha? You're in your room… Why aren't you answering?"
The sight of the room in the moonlight froze him. Marsha knelt there, dazed.
A knife lay in her hand, and blood dripping from the blade ran across the floor toward a corpse.
"Ma‑Marsha…."
Freeman snapped to and ran forward. He didn't know where the courage came from, but if Marsha had lost herself like that, he felt he had to do something.
"Get up. What the hell happened?"
After shaking her shoulders again and again, Marsha came to.
She stared at Freeman in a daze and then, in a voice that stunned him, said,
"My father…tried to assault me."
Freeman was speechless.
He'd thought the man creepy—reserved and grim—but he was still her guardian, right? When the thing he'd half‑suspected turned out true, a wave of disgust washed over him.
"Let's run. The man's a mercenary. If his comrades find out they'll come for revenge."
Freeman was right. Smart Marsha snapped back to her senses at those words. They had to leave the house as quickly as possible.
Marsha suddenly laughed bitterly. Having never had anything, she realized there was nothing to take with her.
Freeman grabbed Marsha's wrist and pulled her out. They ran without stopping to the edge of town.
"Huff! Huff! Now it's okay, I think we can be safe for a bit."
"Yeah. They can't chase us outside the town."
Marsha panted, calming herself. She feared her adoptive father's comrades, but she had the resolve to run to the ends of the earth.