After Anneliese declared her intent, she began the rigorous process of transforming Traugott. Ghislain concealed her utterly with his illusions, and the other casters all guarded her diligently as she worked. Nothing escaped—least of all Traugott, or the screams he made as she endeavored to erase him.

Though he pleaded, begged, and cried out in pain that was atypical of the Shadowlands, Anneliese showed him precisely the same level of mercy he had to those he’d experimented on: none at all. Rather, she demonstrated to him what it was to receive the attentions of one who only cared about the acquisition of knowledge regardless of the toll it took on the other person. She treated him as one might treat an object, a tool; a disposable one, at that, easily broken and replaced.

She was methodical, deliberate. Traugott had pointed out that she might make some mistakes, and she took his undoubtedly good-natured warning seriously. She avoided his brain, his soul, and the magical circuitry containing his A-rank ascension. Nothing else was spared her experimentation as he was turned inside and out repeatedly in the pursuit of answers. She unmade and remade his body parts repeatedly, using the severed scraps of his form lying about.

Anneliese asked questions of Traugott as she worked. He, unlike someone like Dimocles, was not devoid of emotions and tells—she could tell whether he was lying with her tried-and-true empathic abilities. Like so, he became her unwilling aide in his slow erasure. Even the heroes of old regarded Anneliese with some quiet unease as she worked.

Yet her theory soon became reality, and she felt a sense of triumph as she reverse-engineered what Traugott had concocted to create this form for himself. It could be said that his was a crude method, employing Sophia’s instinctive brilliance with slight tweaks to accommodate himself, his memories, and his powers. She found those changes, toying with them to see what was what. Once she understood it, she erased parts of them, bit by bit.

With her grand piece completed, and Traugott a subdued and blabbering wreck, Anneliese began the final metamorphosis. Traugott began to rage as she touched Sophia’s power within the core of his new, false body. He whimpered and cried like a dog caught in a bear trap. All that she could see in that pathetic display was the same misery he himself had inflicted on countless others. She had overspent her pity after seeing the tragedy he’d wrought—there was none left for him.

Traugott, former Magister of the Gray Owl, renegade S-rank spellcaster, died so that another could live. Anneliese was sure that any other would be a better use of the body than he possessed.

Traugott’s body shifted, cracked, and reset itself into the form of the Good King Norman, just as it had been before. But when the struggling ceased—the relentless attempts at liberation, the pleading cries… she could tell that something new laid before her. Something living, born from something dead.

Frightened red eyes peered up at Anneliese, totally silent as half a dozen blades of blood poked against his flesh. For the very first time, she saw some small resemblance between Sophia and Norman in their features. There was new life—and already, she felt it better than what came before.

Anneliese rose to her feet, looking at the new creation. “Can you understand me?” she said, expecting he could—she’d used that actor from the troupe as the baseline for this form.

The new man slowly nodded.

“Do you know who you are?”

The man opened his mouth, and in the same muted tone that the Shadowlands enforced, answered, “No.”

Anneliese could see no lies in those features. More than that, she could see magic pulsing through him, steadily as a heartbeat. A new being had been made. Something with all of Traugott’s power, but none of his character. The Shadowlanders had given him a name. She thought it fitting to make that name a reality.

“You’re known as the Manumitter,” Anneliese explained, then gestured at Bhaltair. The obese spellcaster commanded his undead to pull back their weapons, and the newly-created life sat up, looking around cautiously. “You’re called that because you embody a hope of a trapped people. Whether they’re worthy of realizing their hope, or whether you’re willing to give it to them… you’ll help decide that, now. I desperately hope you make better choices than the one that came before.”

The Manumitter looked up at her uneasily. “I don’t understand.”

“We have little time,” she continued. “Others beside myself can better explain it. I must be unfair to you, because I have to—but when all is said and done, I will give you the freedom to choose. For now… sleep.” She gestured at Emperor Balzat.

He used the only S-rank imperial spell, [Subjugate]. It employed its spirits to invade the Manumitter’s mind, and without the know-how to resist shamanic magic, he fell unconscious immediately.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“That was quite terrifying of you,” Felipe I commented. “You remind me of Vasquer, in many ways. Understanding, gentle… yet also capable of torturing something for hours if you think it’s necessary.”

Anneliese stared at the shell. “He deserved worse. Would that I had more time.” She shook her head, finding herself somewhat uneased by what Traugott had brought out in her. “What you saw of me, here, was what that man was at all times. Everything was just another tool, in his eyes. I imparted unto him only the standard he set with his own actions. The world is better with him erased.”

“Is he erased?” Emperor Balzat questioned, kneeling down to examine the body. “Is there no chance he can regain what he lost?”

“Well…” Anneliese closed her eyes. “Not on his own.”

In reconstructing his body, she had come to understand how to rebuild it again, returning the character of Traugott back to the shell. She was the only one with that knowledge, and she was quite confident even Raven couldn’t emulate it. Perhaps it might’ve been safest for her to ignore that knowledge. Yet Traugott knew things. He had learned countless secrets. With this, at least, she preserved the option to interrogate him, if necessary.

For better or for worse, she kept that knowledge.

“We’ve dawdled enough,” Anneliese said loudly, looking around at everyone. “Bhaltair—take the Manumitter. We’re going to support Argrave. Devise a foolproof method to display him as a hostage without risking him being recaptured.”

“And what of the Shadowlander?” asked Ghislain.

Anneliese looked at the rider, who laid there suitably subdued after both his fight with Traugott and his freedom from the hierarchy. Bhaltair prudently still had guards positioned with blades raised to pierce him, lest he sabotage their efforts at the last minute.

“Take him, too. Subdue him the same way,” Anneliese commanded. “I think it’d be best to have a somewhat impartial witness testify, too. He’ll suffice.”

“The Hopeful will likely know that the escort he sent with us had been freed of the hierarchy,” Felipe I pointed out. “He could be coming, even now.”

“Then let’s waste no more time. We reunite with Argrave. Displaying Traugott should, I think, stop the fighting. Even if only temporarily.”

“And beyond that?” Someone asked—she couldn’t see who.

“We could escape immediately if I instruct the Manumitter on how to use his power. But I want to consult with Argrave.” She rolled her shoulders, psyching herself up for one final push. “The Shadowlands still remain a threat to our realm. We might change that, somehow.”

Anneliese was beyond exhausted. But after this fight, she finally began to see some light in this dark realm. A hope of freedom.

#####

Argrave had never before used this many blood echoes in a fight. Every single one of them was in the purpose of escaping, not attacking. It wasn’t by choice, either; he simply didn’t have the mental capacity to attack amidst this onslaught.

The time for talking never came despite his tremendous efforts to force the contrary. He’d hoped to rough this Shadowlander lieutenant up a little to force her to the table, but the only one ‘roughed up’ ended up being him—he was hit, twice, and both nearly killed him. She was unrelenting. She became so skilled at tracking where Argrave was going to end up that he often couldn’t even think about what to say—he had to desperately struggle to stay alive, valiantly struggling against feints and counter feints as he controlled the battlefield for Anneliese to work her magic.

The only way to get this woman to slow down, he was certain, involved taking significant risk to his own person. Given his importance in this operation, he couldn’t dare afford said risks. He’d been given a role, and he knew it was so delicately crafted that freestyling could get everyone killed. Argrave became Atlas, shouldering the whole damned world while a psychopath far stronger than Hercules tried to kill him with infinite weapons.

For a long while he was far too preoccupied avoiding imminent death, but all too suddenly that rapid and unceasing assault did what felt impossible—it ceased. Argrave breathed heavily, staring at this woman. He didn’t even have the fortitude left to conjure words. She was looking at something distant—he didn’t dare look away, in case this was some trick to make him put his guard down. Finally, he got some more distance from the woman, observing what she was.

Amidst the bloody locust clouds that protected Anneliese’s battlefield, he saw a group appear. He was beginning to dislike white hair, but seeing his favorite white-haired person there immediately reversed that perspective. And—bound in some intricate device—rested a limp and shadowy Good King Norman. Well, Traugott, in actuality, but it had all the familiar hallmarks. He’d expected a dead Traugott, but this one seemed alive and well. It was beyond expectations, but also made him worry some. That snake needed to be chopped to bits as soon as possible, to ensure he was dead. For now, he trusted Anneliese.

Argrave looked at the berserker Shadowlander woman, and finally closed his fists to end the spell. His fingers were stiff from their prolonged casting, and he flexed it again and again. He cast the last remaining locusts shrouding the whole arena adrift, revealing a devastated scene with tides of Shadowlanders crawling at the edge of it all. He was certain that the land had been a few meters higher up when the battle began, but now it was a wasteland of destruction—sheared flat in some places from locusts, and broken to bits in others from the Shadowlander lieutenant’s assault.

“Should’ve listened,” Argrave said. “Might’ve got a clue. Ready to talk?”

He could tell from looking at her the Shadowlander strongly considered leaping out with one more attack, and flinched instinctively. Beneath that unending rage, though, was someone smart enough to realize when bashing things couldn’t solve the problem. He sighed in relief.

Argrave sent a blood echo out to teleport to Anneliese’s group. In his heart, he could feel it. It was time to get the hell out of here, one way or another.