[Complete] Ch 13.2 Is it Wrong for a Sword to Remain Sheathed Against Injustice? (Patreon)

Is it Wrong for a Sword to Remain 

Sheathed Against Injustice?

Story Starts

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Chapter 13.2

Of Acts of Evil and 

Reclamations

The wailing, flame-wreathed pandemonium could not be contained on the ground. It rose into the starless sky, to the very peak of Babel, the tower of the gods where Freya lived.

“First they tried trapping our greatest heroes. Now they try to destroy our morale.”

Unusually for her, she was out of her seat, standing by the great window pane set into the outer wall. Her silver eyes fell on the city below, and as she watched her beloved children fall in the streets, a sliver of worry crossed her ever-perfect brow.

From atop Orario she surveyed the game board, and a rage brewed in her heart.

We goddesses of beauty could end this war in an instant. Charm the Evilus children in the streets, and the knives would fall from their hands. It seemed their foe had reached the same arithmetic.

Freya cast her eyes to a hill that rose between Central Plaza and the pleasure district. There, a squad of armed Evilus soldiers kept watch in both directions—towards Babel, and towards Ishtar’s walls.

This time they had brought towering shields, locked into a phalanx. Something they believed would answer the archer. Her Óðr.

They were there for her, Freya surmised. For her, and for Ishtar both. If either goddess of beauty set one foot outside her walls, she was as good as dead—or sent back to heaven, at the least. Shot, or bombed, or whatever else it took. And if the mortals got cold feet, the evil gods would do it personally. Freya spotted one standing amongst the soldiers: a goddess in heavy makeup. The goddess noticed Freya’s gaze and grinned, raising her middle finger.

Freya returned a cold glare and turned her attention elsewhere.

Beyond the first squad she counted three more on the rooftops, and others tucked into buildings and trees. Orario’s protectors were busy fighting in the streets; they had neither the time nor the hands to spare on rooting them out.

The enemy had deduced the threat the goddesses of beauty posed, and had planned for it.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Just below her, volunteer elves—some from Loki Familia, others from Dionysus—held positions on the tower’s lower platforms. Each had been supplied with the same heavy bow her Óðr used, a thing made purely of metal to Freya’s eye, bowstring and all. No mortal arm could have drawn one; the Falna’s blessing managed what flesh alone could not. Beside each elf sat a wicker basket of black-hilted blades. She lacked the discerning eye of Hephaestus or Goibniu, but as a goddess of magic, she knew these weren't just conjured steel.

No doubt, once all this settled, everyone would want him. Some would go to war to have him.

The blades were what she had overheard called Black Keys. Before the operation began, magic-stone lamps had been installed in a ring facing inward towards Central Plaza, throwing long shadows ahead of anyone who crossed the perimeter. The elves loosed into the shadows, and whoever’s shadow was struck froze where they stood.

Freya turned to her right, where her divining mirror stood. Through it she found Shirou.

He had relocated to the tower’s highest point, one of the Loki Familia elves at his shoulder. Nothing blocked his line of sight now.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Three red streaks crossed the dark and struck the phalanx. The shields meant nothing. Each projectile burst on arrival—blades overfilled with his magic until they ruptured, spending themselves as blasts. Bodies scattered. Shields clattered against stone. The goddess in heavy makeup scrambled for cover, her smugness gone, and what was underneath it was naked fear.

Freya moved to the nightstand beside her bed, poured herself a glass of wine, and returned to her throne. The immediate threat was spent; it changed nothing. Babel’s walls were still the only sensible place for her.

She crossed her legs and continued watching.

Through the mirror she observed him draw another arrow—no, another sword made into a projectile. Draw. Aim. Release. Draw. Aim. Release. The elf behind him pointed at something in the distance, and he nocked the next without hesitation.

Blood ran from his nose in a thin stream.

Crack.

He wiped it away with his sleeve without breaking rhythm.

Another squad of bombers coming out of the eastern district collapsed mid-stride, their shadows nailed to the street by Black Keys from the lower platforms. His arrow followed a heartbeat later, and the blaze rocks they carried went inert. Adventurers closed in and stripped the rigs from their bodies without ceremony.

Freya sipped her wine.

She had watched him fight before—in the Dungeon, at the soup kitchen, during that ridiculous duel in the pleasure district. Each time she had seen competence, restraint, the careful application of force. This was different. This was the man unshackled.

And yet his soul remained that same grey field of broken swords. No brighter. No dimmer. As if the killing cost him nothing at all.

‘How many times have you done this, I wonder?’

The mirror shifted, following Ganesha Familia members escorting civilians towards the plaza. A woman in the crowd stumbled. A young adventurer reached down to help her. The woman’s hand went to her chest.

An arrow took her through the shoulder before her fingers found the knife. A second followed, and whatever bound her to the blaze rock beneath her dress was cut. She screamed. The adventurer scrambled backwards. On the tower, Shirou was already aiming elsewhere.

The Ganesha member looked up towards Babel, towards the distant figure. Too far to read his face. Freya imagined wariness.

Crack. Crack.

Two more bodies fell in the northern district.

He could have run. Could have hidden. Could have let someone else carry this. He hadn’t, because that was not who he was—and every god in the city was learning it at once.

Freya raised her glass towards the mirror, towards the distant figure lit by the glow of his own conjured steel, and drank to him in silence.

“So this is where your attention has been directed.”

Freya smiled, not turning towards the figure who entered her room.

“Hermes.” She acknowledged him with a tilt of her glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Deliveries.” Hermes stepped forward, his eyes finding the divining mirror and staying there a moment too long. “My cute child has made communication devices for everyone. Yours, I thought I’d bring personally.” He produced a wooden box and opened it: two small devices, shaped like earrings. “So. Are you planning to invite our hero into your Familia? I’m sure it would be quite the honour.”

“I’m still waiting for the fruit to ripen before I have it for myself,” Freya said, turning her full attention towards him. “Now the question is—will you be standing in my way?”

Freya knew Hermes’s goal: to usher in the final hero, the one who would slay the dragon.

She also suspected he had never lost contact with Zeus.

Hermes flashed her a disarming smile. “My only want is to bear witness.”

“Mm. And what is it you’re witnessing tonight, I wonder—the war, or me?”

“Can’t it be both?” He set the box down beside the mirror, unhurried. “Though if I’m witnessing anything, it’s patience. Yours is famous, Lady Freya. I only wonder how far it stretches. If someone else were to pick the fruit early—Loki, say, or a certain goddess of justice—would you let it stand?” His tone stayed light, a man discussing the weather. “Purely curiosity. I’d hate to plan around the wrong answer.”

“Then don’t plan around me at all.” Freya swirled her wine. “The fruit will keep. Whoever holds the branch in the meantime is of no consequence.”

“How generous of you.” Hermes’s smile didn’t move, but something behind it filed her answer away.

She knew what kind of god he was. He would not simply stand on the sidelines. But even his meddling could prove a boon—stepping stones came in all shapes.

“Though it seems there’ll be competition,” Hermes continued. “And I’m sure many will eventually deduce his current status.”

Of being godless.

The phrase did not need saying.

Freya had anticipated this from the night Hermes was pulled into the Astraea Familia’s surveillance of her Óðr. The circle of those who knew was widening, and the circle of those who could guess was widening faster.

‘Let them. No one shall step between me and my Óðr. Every one of them—gods, heroes, this war itself—shall be stepping stones for him to reach his full height. Only then shall I claim him as my own.’

Freya looked up at Hermes—thief, liar—and gave him a sultry smile.

-=&<o>&=-

At the heart of the pleasure quarter sat Belit Babili, the brothel house that served as Ishtar’s throne. From the main hall’s windows she watched fires take the red-light district, orange light flickering against the silk curtains.

Evilus soldiers had positioned themselves in the surrounding buildings. She’d counted at least three squads through the smoke—enough to make certain she could not step outside without springing an ambush.

‘Clever rats.’

The strategy was transparent. Keep the love goddesses contained. Freya, Aphrodite, herself—any one of them could end this farce with a single glance, given the right crowd. Their Arcanum was sealed, but beauty? Beauty was woven into what they were. No oath could suppress it.

She took a long drag from her pipe and exhaled, smoke curling towards the vaulted ceiling.

“I suppose Freya has no choice but to hide inside her little tower.”

The thought brought a smile to her lips. The fairest goddess in Orario, cowering behind Babel’s walls like a frightened maiden.

The smile curdled.

The fairest. As if that ice-boned harlot deserved the title. Aphrodite she dismissed outright—that contest had never been close. But Freya. Freya she loathed down to the bone, and the masses loathed her more for crowning the woman regardless.

Her fingers had tightened around the pipe stem. She made them relax.

Caged by flies. The indignity of it sat badly, but there was no reason to take risks. All she had to do was wait for Freya’s patience to crack first—then watch the fairest goddess get herself sent back to heaven in disgrace.

She pictured it: the perfect composure shattering, the silver harlot’s children scattered and masterless. The thought warmed her more than the pipe did.

Ishtar turned from the window and settled onto her throne, crossing her legs beneath flowing silks.

“Tammuz.”

The young human at her side straightened. “Lady Ishtar?”

“What news?”

“The archer atop Babel has sent us a letter.” He held up a scroll, a thin steel rod still embedded in the wax seal. “Delivered by one of his projectiles.”

She raised an eyebrow. The archer had been busy all night—she’d watched the distant flashes from her windows, heard the reports of bombers dropping mid-stride. Range like that, from the tower to her doorstep, and he could put a letter on her wall without breaking a seal’s wax. The message under the message was not subtle.

“And what does it say?”

Tammuz unrolled the parchment. “A request for cooperation. We secure our own sector of Orario, and assist with reclaiming the surrounding districts.”

“Tch.”

She’d never sat through enough Denatus gatherings to know every adventurer worth knowing, and her children brought her gossip besides. An archer who could strike anywhere inside the city walls should have made waves long before tonight.

“See to it that our borders are thoroughly guarded,” she said, chin settling into her palm. “Tell the Berbera to keep the rats from sniffing around. What happens beyond our walls is not my concern.”

“B-but Lady Ishtar!” Tammuz’s composure cracked. “If we do nothing, Orario will—”

“Yes, yes.” She waved her pipe. “Once our safety is secured, you may send the spares to assist with whatever plans they have.”

Tammuz’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue.

“Now hurry and recall our whores before the enemy makes playthings of them.” Another stream of smoke. “I will protect my own children. Everything else is secondary.”

Tammuz bowed and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Tammuz.”

He paused. “Yes, Lady Ishtar?”

“Have the children gather what they can on that archer.”

His frown deepened, but he bowed again. “Yes, Lady Ishtar.”

She watched him go, tapping ash from her pipe.

“We must not mistake foolishness for magnanimity,” she murmured to the empty hall. “I am no goddess of justice.”

Returning to heaven meant the end of everything—her Familia scattered, her holdings seized, her rivalry with Freya concluded in the most humiliating way imaginable. That was precisely what Evilus wanted.

She would not give them the satisfaction.

Let Freya play the fool. Let the Astraea brats play hero. Ishtar would guard what was hers and walk out of this chaos with her power intact.

Beyond her windows, the fires went on burning.

-=&<o>&=-

The communication crystal crackled with Finn’s voice. “We have secured the sector! Double-check corners! Stand fast, protect the weak! Lowell, take three and secure the establishments.”

“Hurraaaaaaaaaaah!!”

The adventurers’ roar came through loud enough to distort the crystal. The sector was theirs, all the way to the pleasure district. Houses and establishments cleared, and a joint team from the Apollo and Hermes Familias dispatched towards Melen.

Loki Familia held one flank of the secured zone. They would push forward and widen their control. Every Familia that had volunteered—including those of the pleasure district—had been assigned a section of its own to expand.

Finn’s commands kept coming: swift, precise, exactly what the troops needed. Riveria could hear the change in the voices that answered him. Veterans who had barely held the line through the night were answering like men turned from defence to offence.

“Now that Finn’s here, our formation is unbreakable!” Dyne bellowed over the channel, something heavy crunching beneath his words. “Look around—this place was like a wake a moment ago. Now everyone’s raring to go!”

“Yeah.” A grunt of effort from Noir, the sound of a blade pulled free. “Honestly, even our new generation is so capable, it makes me mad. And our trusted captain’s here to inspire us all!”

“Ha-ha-ha!” Bahra’s laugh, a thud, the hiss of a spell burning something out of the air. “Well, they’re all cocky little brats; that’s what we love about them!”

All of it poured through the communication crystals Asfi Al Andromeda had supplied.

“Ahem—please clear our communications,” Riveria said into hers.

“Yes, Lady Riveria,” came the chorused reply.

Riveria wore two crystals, one at each ear. With so many adventurers coordinating, a single frequency would have collapsed into cacophony. Most members carried only the Loki Familia crystal; a handful held the general frequency as well, meant for relaying commands between Familia leaders.

Riveria and her elven squad had remained at Central Plaza. Finn had insisted on the arrangement—his thumb had been aching all morning, and he’d confessed to feeling as though something vital was missing from their intelligence. Until that instinct resolved itself, he wanted a portion of their strength held here.

“They will not be sending reinforcements!” Finn’s voice cut through the general frequency. “If we are broken here, look for Hildsleif! He has command of the sector near the gates!”

A messenger sprinted up to Finn’s position, nearly tripping over rubble. “Captain! W-we’ve received word from Hildsleif—he says, ‘How dare you force all the responsibility onto me, you shameless prum! Go die!’ He sounds furious, sir!”

“I see! Well, I’ll certainly give my life if that’s what it takes! Tell him I pray for his success!”

Riveria sighed.

“That’s Finn’s response? ‘I pray for your success’? After everything I said? Is this a joke?!” Hildsleif’s fury bled across the general frequency, half-strangling the Freya Familia messenger carrying the crystal. “Did you even deliver the message properly, you useless piece of excrement, or are you looking to meet a swift end at my hand?! Well, that can be arranged!”

“Eeeeeeeeek!! Don’t kill meeee!!”

Riveria pinched the bridge of her nose. Some things never changed, even in crisis.

The fighting ground on for another quarter-hour, adventurers steadily pushing Evilus back from the secured sectors. Riveria held her position, staff ready, watching for any sign of the trap Finn suspected.

Then screaming erupted from Babel’s entrance.

A figure burst through the doors—an adventurer in torn armour, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. He stumbled down the steps, legs giving out as he collapsed onto the plaza stones.

“Someone—” He gasped, reaching towards the nearest patrol. “Rudra... Familia...”

Riveria was already moving. She reached him as Raul and Anakitty arrived from the opposite direction.

“What about Rudra Familia?” Riveria demanded, kneeling beside him. “Speak!”

“In the Dungeon... they—” His eyes rolled back. He slumped against the stones, unconscious.

Anakitty checked his pulse. “Still alive. Exhaustion and blood loss.”

A low rumble shook the ground beneath their feet.

Riveria’s head snapped towards the Dungeon’s entrance.

“No,” she breathed.

The entrance exploded outward—a shower of rock striking tents and scattering civilians. On the sword-ramps along Babel’s flank, the stationed elves staggered with the shockwave. Riveria caught herself holding her breath.

None of them fell.

Monsters poured through the breach—hellhounds, minotaurs, trolls, creatures that had no business above the tenth floor. They flooded into Central Plaza with mindless fury, trampling past the fallen adventurer, crashing into the unprepared rear lines.

“DUNGEON BREAK!” The roar carried across the plaza. “FORM ON ME! DEFEND THE CIVILIANS!”

Riveria raised her staff, already chanting. “Harbinger of the end, white snow—”

The first wave of hellhounds reached the civilian tents.

Ice lances erupted from the ground, skewering a dozen monsters before they could touch the wounded. But more kept coming—a tide without end, pouring from Babel’s shattered maw.

“Messengers—inform your leaders! Support will cease! We’re securing your deities first!” 

Riveria knew the voice and looked up. Shirou Emiya and the elves with him were leaping down the tower’s face, swords embedding themselves into the stonework beneath their feet, a staircase built in the falling. He landed near the table where Astraea and Loki had been taking afternoon tea. Her goddess had not put the wine down.

Shirou seized both goddesses about the hips and hauled them up, one under each arm. Swords hung over his shoulders, launching left, right and centre at everything that charged them.

“Secure the deities! Secure the medical tents!” Riveria ordered.

She had a feeling this was only the beginning.

-=&<o>&=-

End

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