Ch.298Grand Finale – To Serve and Protect

“That Prophet has finally…”

The voice of the Industrial Spirit King echoed throughout New York, heard by most. Fewer heard the elf’s voice that followed, but Inspector Raymond Beck was among them.

He had thought preventing an angel from turning an innocent person into a murderer through a non-prosecution decision would be his biggest accomplishment this year. With a sigh, he picked up the two swords he kept by his bedside.

The sword engraved with the God-President’s words shone brightly enough to illuminate the path ahead in the darkness of the city plunged into blackout. No terminals appeared to have invaded his home yet.

He would need to change into his suit and rush to either the prosecutor’s office or police headquarters. The angels created directly by the God-President, along with prosecutors wielding swords engraved with His words, might be able to resolve this.

Was there a way to subdue the Industrial Spirit King? As he stood up, its massive size seemed to be the biggest problem. No human could climb it, but if they sent angels… With explosives, it might be possible.

The gray-haired prosecutor opened his closet, searching for the suit lined with mythril chain mail. He briefly looked down at the drawn sword before covering his deceased wife’s photograph.

You always hated these things, Claire. As he gently stroked the back of the covered frame, he heard something knocking from outside the window. He immediately drew his glowing sword to illuminate the outside.

He had thought it was a terminal, but outside stood another prosecutor in proper attire, waving a sword engraved with the God-President’s words. He knew who it was standing outside the window.

It took a moment to recall the name. Yes, Assistant Prosecutor Jack Wilkes. A reliable young man. Perhaps he was heading to work this morning when he encountered this trouble. He nodded.

No, that wasn’t right. Jack Wilkes’ only flaw was his poor time management. He wouldn’t be the type to head to work at this hour, even if he had slept through the Industrial Spirit King’s voice.

Prosecutor Raymond Beck tucked a short sword behind his back and headed for the door. The knocking sound at the window had changed to knocking at the front door.

The visitor would have only one weapon: a sword inscribed with the God-President’s words. Therefore, Raymond pulled the door open immediately.

As expected, it wasn’t Assistant Prosecutor Jack Wilkes. If it had truly been the assistant prosecutor, or at least someone from the legal profession, they wouldn’t have tried to use a sword engraved with the God-President’s words for murder.

The entity wearing Jack Wilkes’ face thrust its firmly gripped sword heavily toward Raymond’s neck as soon as the door opened. But there was no blood spilled, no flesh pierced.

The blade’s tip lost its sharpness and force the moment it touched Raymond’s neck. Like a knife striking an iron plate, or even more unnaturally, it stopped completely.

A terminal? Must be a terminal. Raymond grabbed the blade and pulled the thing wearing Assistant Prosecutor Jack Wilkes’ face toward him. Not a drop of blood flowed from his hand.

Raymond lightly pierced its neck with the short sword he had concealed. He briefly felt the terminal’s steel-replaced skeleton, but it snapped off his blade like undercooked pasta.

His dagger sliced through its neck as smoothly as if licking it clean. The God-President’s words engraved on the blade shone with pure white light even over the red blood and black oil.

The prosecutors’ swords engraved with the God-President’s words could only cut the guilty. Criminals, the convicted, and things that sought to harm people. Raymond grabbed its head.

“A machine doesn’t die from beheading. Lacking creativity, aren’t you, Prophet? At least The Idealists used the knowledge of their terminals.”

The terminal swung its arm to strike Raymond, who was still in its sight, but he regripped his dagger and cut off the arm. It fell away, leaving only a clean, straight cross-section.

It was surreal, but the blade inscribed with the God-President’s words accomplished this surreal feat quite simply. Raymond picked up Jack Wilkes’ sword, which until moments ago couldn’t pierce even a layer of aged skin.

He completely dismembered Jack’s body, which was already more than half replaced with machinery, until it could no longer move. What remained was a mechanical mass leaking black oil. He swallowed his sorrow. Barely.

He didn’t express his sorrow as sorrow. He already knew well how to express devastation, grief, and absurdity as hatred toward evil. It was merely an appropriate level of hatred.

“Did you say you could restore their minds? Can a person become human again when you return an electric mind to a body whose insides have already become an industrial spirit? Or does it become an industrial spirit that believes it’s human? That’s all you can create, machine. And the conclusion of this trial by combat… proves guilt. I’ll execute immediate judgment without an assassination warrant.”

With those words, Raymond drew his sword and easily pierced the head that wore the skin of a young man with a bright future ahead of him. He shook off the blade and tossed it aside.

Sparks flew from inside, and black oil flowed out. That was not a human body. Despite knowing this, Prosecutor Raymond wiped his face with his palm.

There was no time to be consumed by grief. He locked the door, went back to his room, and put on his suit lined with chain mail. With his hair swept back to keep his vision clear, he took his sword and left the house.

I hope this old body is still useful. Dressed in his suit, he stepped outside and lightly struck his dagger against his longsword. The words inscribed on them began to burn white.

Angels would be able to see it, but so would the terminals. As he waited, taking slow, deep breaths, something he hadn’t expected approached him.

It was an industrial spirit with a metal processing machine topped with two large metal cutting blades as its head. Using its believers as shields, I see. The industrial spirit began to speak with a clicking sound.

“You smell of your comrades’ blood. The machine of the age is moving to save you, so why do you interfere?”

Raymond was relieved by this fact. He felt immense relief as he watched the industrial spirit begin to charge at him, propelling itself with concrete limbs.

It wasn’t some nameless, faceless New York citizen, but right before his eyes. It was charging at him despite seeing the white-burning sword inscribed with the God-President’s words, feeling nothing.

The dagger in his left hand very lightly sliced off the concrete forelimb lunging at him, like cutting pudding with a steak knife. The industrial spirit lost its balance.

He stepped forward. Avoiding the clicking cutter, he plunged his blade into the industrial spirit’s chest like a spear into a lion’s heart. The diagonally pierced engine began to idle.

A steel sword should not have been able to pierce the body of an industrial spirit made of rebar and concrete. Cutting through it was even more absurd. But with the God-President’s words, it was possible.

That’s why he felt relief. The sword embedded in the concrete mass pulled out as easily as a pitchfork from a haystack. He cut through the last supporting part. The industrial spirit collapsed.

He climbed onto the fallen industrial spirit and raised his sword again, emitting light. After waiting a while in that position, an angel who had been flying by saw him and descended.

It was an angel with a slightly weaker flame in its left eye. Giving off a somewhat unreliable impression, the angel landed heavily and asked Raymond:

“You need to evacuate… No, wait. Are you a prosecutor?”

“I’m Prosecutor Raymond Beck of the New York City Prosecutor’s Office. I’d normally be more courteous, but… what are the angels doing right now? How many are in Manhattan? Do you have a count?”

The angel shook its head. Typical of angels who easily become ineffective without someone to command them. Prosecutor Raymond decided to overstep his authority just this once. The God-President would understand why.

“First gather everyone at the police headquarters and count them. Then start clearing the area around there, working outward from places close to the police headquarters in groups of three or four angels. How can you not even have a count! Wait, if you’re moving without orders, where are you going?”

The angel shrugged. It spread its wide gold-plated wings studded with sharp golden feathers.

“I was flying toward a place sending an SOS with magically created flames. I mean, I’m paid with tax money, so I should do something, right?”

I’m not sure if I should say his mind isn’t completely in the gutter, or if he’s just soulless. Raymond decided to nod for now.

“Which building? I’ll go check it out, and you go gather the angels. You seem to be a fallen angel, and I’m glad to meet someone who can at least think for himself. You don’t mind me overstepping my authority, do you?”

At those words, the angel with the slightly weaker flame in its left eye shrugged as if it were nothing. Its answer was remarkable. Remarkable, but pleasing at the moment.

“I never really cared about that anyway. I just have to write a report or two. It’s a row house two blocks ahead! You’ll see it when you get there!”

The angel flapped its wings lightly and flew up into the dark sky. Perhaps worried about colliding with something, it was flying higher than usual. That should be fine.

Raymond immediately headed toward the building the angel had mentioned. His aging body wasn’t well-suited for running, but at least he could run without worrying much about the terminals.

One swing of his sword would send heads flying, cutting them into pieces as easily as butchering meat hanging from hooks. By the time the sidewalk was soaked with the blood and oil of terminals, they stopped approaching him.

If the Industrial Spirit King had any sense, it would send something different. Thinking this, he took a deep breath. If he could give one of his swords to the people in the row house, they might be able to hold out.

After running just two blocks, he witnessed another strange sight. A bald man in work clothes was gripping the back of the neck of one of the Industrial Spirit King’s terminals.

It was an elf terminal. Nothing else was unusual about it, except for the carefully attached cufflinks on the sleeves of his work clothes—the kind that would normally be found on an expensive suit.

“Listen to the voice of your soul, not him! You gave us your soul willingly, calling us directly to live without regrets! You are not just an empty shell! Doesn’t even an echo remain of what evaporated?”

He was shouting desperately, but it seemed futile. Raymond understood what he was trying to do. He recognized those lifeless eyes, the bald head, and the work clothes.

It was The Idealists’ Hive Mind. Other terminals around had already fallen with bullets to their heads, and only this last terminal remained, its mechanically replaced arm severed, held by the back of its neck.

Seems like someone who personally created terminals. Raymond cleared his throat. The terminal raised its head to look at him. Seeing his suit soaked with blood and oil, it wore an expression full of wariness.

“We are not his terminals. We are…”

Despite the urgent situation, he decided to speak politely. Kindness was the only way to persuade a wary beast.

“I know you’re The Idealists. I also know this isn’t your doing. And it won’t work. You’re facing a Spirit King. The mana difference alone…”

Upon hearing about mana, he approached Raymond. Though momentarily distracted by a familiar terminal, it seemed the Hive Mind was also looking for a way to overcome the mana difference.

“Can you help us get to the Veterans’ Association Hall? We, too, know we lack mana. We need to find mages. There’s a man at the Veterans’ Hall who knows a mage’s apprentice. We tried to teleport with a terminal from Blingkerton who blinks, but we can’t go all at once… and we’re running out of mana. We request your help.”

Raymond didn’t know much about magic either. He served the God-President and used His power, but he wasn’t a mage.

Nevertheless, he could help. The Idealists had never caused problems. At least not problems of this magnitude, or like the previous uprising. But he needed to confirm one more thing.

“Can you guarantee that if you find a way to take over the terminals, you won’t start any revolutions or such? If you can guarantee that, I’ll help.”

The large terminal of The Idealists looked down with sad eyes at the terminal it had been trying to take control of, then embraced its neck and crushed it in one go. Apparently, its skeleton wasn’t made of metal.

Then, the Hive Mind Idealist spoke proudly before the gray-haired man. Now he knew how to speak about himself.

“If it’s not a revolution where everyone can join hands and dance together, it’s not our revolution! We are ideological beings. Pure ideology is unchanging. Even if all our terminals are taken and only ghosts roaming New York remain, we will not change. But if we are human, we will only try to change the world with our own hands. Will you trust us?”

There was will in his emotionless eyes. The way he looked at this city of love and hate was quite human. Raymond decided to trust him.

“I will trust you. But please wait a moment. First, I need to take minimal measures to prevent more terminals from rushing to this area…”

The terminal standing before him shook its head. It took out bullets and reloaded. When it opened a nearby sewer cover, another body in work clothes crawled up from inside.

“This terminal has already run out of mana. We will guard with this terminal. Please go with that terminal.”

It was terribly inhuman yet perhaps self-sacrificing. Raymond decided to temporarily suspend judgment on the socialists and inhuman communists he so despised.

He placed Jack Wilkes’ sword in the terminal’s hand. He began to mentally map the route to the Veterans’ Association Hall, crossing Manhattan’s busy streets with the terminal that had emerged from the sewer.

Raymond thought of heroes. He thought of the Veterans’ Association Hall filled with members of the Argonne Invincibles. He thought of those who had established hope in the hellish battlefields of the Great War.

“That way, and then… that should work. Follow me. Heroes are waiting.”

The sword inscribed with the God-President’s words burned whiter than ever before. It was burning like the light of Hexenbane, who had given his life to erase a curse.