Chapter 87: Blasphemous Rifle

Dimitry wasn’t a stranger to anxiety. No different from his shadow, it stalked him throughout his life.

Adrenaline-fueled cram sessions where the smallest detail decided between matriculation into medical school and failure. Nervous rocking to ease the dreadful lull before a piano competition. A scrub nurse’s rolling eyes while he struggled to mark the site of a cholecystectomy incision with trembling hands, praying his first solo surgery didn’t involve him accidentally slicing the bile duct, liver, or small intestines. Routine procedures that rapidly ballooned in complexity with profuse bleeding or the sudden discovery of a tumor.

Anxiety loomed over Dimitry then, and it did again now.

Eyes pierced him from the throne room’s every direction: curious eyes, dismissive eyes, pompous eyes. Overbearing perfume—rose, lavender, and citrus—wafted as nobles shifted to get a better view. Like zoo-goers gawking at a rowdy chimpanzee, none dared get too close. The crowd maintained a two-meter gap between themselves and the target of their gossip.

“Does the Jade Surgeon bear news of plague?”

“—accepting every refugee.”

“What does he carry in his bag?”

“Will our lands be blessed now that he has returned Your Royal Highness to Malten?”

“This one has heard of them mingling in public.”

“Then he is no holy ambassador—just her concubinus.”

“—that the flesh barber whispers to aquatic demons—”

“Will we incur Zera’s wrath once more?”

Confidence seeped from the voices and postures of women wearing elegant dresses or red robes and men in decorated uniforms. Every distinguished mannerism exuded the belief that they were a superior breed of people, resulting from a privileged upbringing and a lifetime of unconditional respect.

Fifteen years ago, a bright-eyed and naïve young man, Dimitry would have collapsed under the pressure. His legs would have shook. His spine would have slumped. His subtlest gestures would have been hasty and indecisive—all primal impulses. Social evolution programmed humans to display submissiveness to those at the top of the hierarchy, and in this society, nobles dominated.

But Dimitry was a young man no longer.

He attained control over his unconscious communication through countless interactions with exhausted coworkers, rude patients, and their demanding family members. Life as a surgeon and a leader necessitated the ability to hide his honest feelings.

Dimitry now employed that same skill to veil his unease. Stood tall, he met every noble’s inquisitive glare and barbed utterance with an unassuming smile—just as a benevolent apostle might. The apostle he would soon insinuate himself to be. He had to convince everyone attending the summit that the cast-iron bomb and rainbow-glowing rifle in the bag strapped to his back were weapons Zera herself bestowed upon him to combat the heathen threat. Failure would endanger him and perpetuate Malten’s slow decline.

From the crowd of gossiping nobles, a single sorceress dared breach the invisible barrier surrounding Dimitry. She pulled back her red robe’s hood to reveal neck-length brown hair. It was Raina—Angelika’s mother and the city’s head enchantress.

“How are you?”

“I’m well, Mrs. Vogel. Just getting accustomed to the kind people here and their pleasant welcome.”

“It’s unfair that you have to bear their gossip alone after everything you’ve done for us.” Her hand, palm scorched with past overload, tapped his arm. “I’ll stand with you.”

Raina’s motherly concern filled Dimitry with warm comfort. Although her gesture may have appeared inconsequential, she risked her aristocratic reputation to accompany the most conspicuous man present. “I appreciate your kindness, but I’ll be making an announcement soon that may earn me quite a bit of scorn.”

“I'd rather show support to the man who saved my life than hide behind a pack of squabbling bullies.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ve already decided.” Raina flashed a courageous, bubbly smile. “Besides, there’s something else I want to ask.”

“Sure. What is it?”

Her determined orange eyes transitioned to excitement. She giggled devilishly. “I have it on good authority that your announcement might be related to that magic. You know the one I mean.”

Dimitry sighed. Despite telling Angelika, Leona, and Emilia to keep accelall a secret, it was inevitable for one of them to reveal the spell to their mother. “That’s right.”

“I knew it!” she cheered in a hushed tone. “Ask me how I know.”

“How do you know?”

“For the past few days, every time I walked in on the girls, they dispersed. When I asked why they were being so secretive, Angelika just shrugged, and Emilia hid in her room. I had to trap Leona to get anything out of her, and she was all like, ‘you’ll find out from Dimitry soon enough.’

“Later, I found a strange seal in the rubbish pile. Something so odd only made sense when I put everything together. You probably thought you were oh so clever.” Raina puffed out her chest. “But I’m clever too, you know.”

He laughed. It seemed a parent’s snooping rather than her loose-lipped daughters undid his secrecy. Not that it mattered. Soon everyone would learn about accelall. “I made a big mistake underestimating you.”

“You sure did. Let me in on the fun next time.”

“I promise I—”

A steel spear’s blunt end crashed into the floor. Metal clanging reverberated across the throne room’s marble walls and arches. The guard holding the weapon stomped. “Her Royal Majesty, Amelie Pesce, and Her Royal Highness, Saphiria Pesce.”

Silence swept across the crowd.

Two massive oak doors opened, their hinges croaking under the overwhelming weight they carried.

A pair of yellow-robed court sorceresses strode across a blue carpet. Following them was a dignified queen. Her red and gold mantle trailed behind her every step, as did a stone-faced princess in a yellow dress. The entourage passed between two masses of kneeling nobles before occupying two thrones—the third remaining empty.

Dimitry glanced at Raina, taking cues from her every movement. He knelt.

A group of three noblemen with decorated epaulets grinned at the sight.

The bubbly enchantress leaned towards him. “Men take both knees.”

He forgot about that sexist rule. “Right.” Dimitry altered his posture to resemble a sat Japanese martial artist. Although his movements were slow and calm, the anxiety festering in his gut grew tumultuous. Could he maintain his unflinching facade until the weapon demonstration?

Amelie’s glaring red eyes scanned the groveling sea from her elevated platform. She raised an open hand. “Three days from now, devils will invade our kingdom once more. Like every month prior and our ancestors before us, we will crush them underfoot. We will prevail. Malten will prevail.”

“Malten will prevail!” repeated the crowd.

Caught unaware and too late to join the chant, Dimitry remained silent.

“However, heathens grow in size and strength. Now faster than ever before. As those in the north have learned, crawlers now strike from two directions at once. Warriors take heed.”

Scant whispers filled the room.

“Did Volmer collapse at last?”

“Celeste, guide us.”

A guard beside a far wall stood. “Your Royal Majesty, pardon this one’s selfish intrusion. Now that Your Royal Highness, Princess Saphiria, has returned, how come we do not have Zera’s blessing once more?”

The voices grew louder.

“Blessings come in many forms, boy,” a gruff voice responded. “We may have lost the Church’s protection, but we retain our humanity.”

“Indeed!” another shouted.

Dimitry cracked a broken smile. Were those outcries Lukas’ doing? It made sense for a spymaster to manipulate thought. By planting the seed of an idea into people’s minds, they were more likely to make related connections—a concept modern psychologists called priming. Today’s targets were nobles.

Did Lukas believe that priming the audience with thoughts of Zera’s blessings would make Dimitry’s weapons and ‘visions’ come off as sacrosanct rather than heretical? Would the spymaster’s attempts succeed?

Dimitry hoped so.

Amelie didn’t appear thrilled. “You will speak only when spoken to.”

“This one’s humblest apologies.” Gaze downcast, the guard lowered himself once more.

“First, I will hear from the Marquis of the North. Rise, Richter Kuhn.”

“Yes, my queen.” A portly man in enchanted armor tumbled onto the blue carpet splitting the throne room into two.

“What was the tally for the last night of repentance?”

“One carapaced devil, thirty-eight crawlers, and fourteen fliers. A negligible few attacked the villages on the northeastern border.”

“And the forecast for this month?”

“With Volmer’s impending collapse and the heathen’s disposition to raid enchanted fortifications, the biggest change will be the northern assault on the city itself. The escalating trend makes it difficult to predict the exact scale of the assault.”

“Are your knights and man-at-arms prepared—”

Their voices trailed into Dimitry’s periphery as his heart beat as if to burst from his chest. Soon, he would be in Richter’s position. Maintaining a dignified image in silence was simple, but could he do the same while speaking to nobles? Lying to them?

What if they asked questions or raised concerns Dimitry didn’t prepare for? Would he lose all credibility if he stammered? Would that solidify his image as a laughable commoner? And yet, losing the nobles’ respect wasn’t the worst outcome.

Death was.

Dimitry walked a fine line between heretical speech and the harbinger of salvation. Every word he uttered had to be subtle but precise. Assured yet delicate. Inadvertently insulting the most revered deity in a religious society was tantamount to suicide. No one could rescue him from such a fatal mistake.

Although sweet, Raina’s well-meaning support would do nothing to rescue him from an enraged crowd, and Queen Amelie would selfishly deny her role in his schemes to preserve herself. Even if she risked everything to defend him, any noble zealot could secretly hire an assassin to dispatch Dimitry with magic or a simple dagger.

Success was his only option.

He had to impress.

Mouth dry, Dimitry rubbed a sweaty hand against his uniform. A lump in his throat grew increasingly uncomfortable. He knew the feeling well: it was the soaring fear of failure before any grand performance. Like all downward spirals, the longer Dimitry dwelled on doubt, the more it dwelled in him.

Pressure on the verge of overwhelming, he couldn’t let it consume him. His efforts would be for nothing if he did. A single solution flashed across his mind—a therapy he cautiously prescribed to trauma patients on Earth and one he practiced to stay alert during eighty-hour workweeks in the emergency room.

Mindfulness meditation.

Although the calming effects were best with habitual use, he welcomed anything that could help him escape his current anxious cycle.

As nobles rotated out of their speaking position, Dimitry focused on his breathing. Slowly, relaxation permeated his body with every rhythmic breath, extracting tension from his clenched jaw, shoulders, and finally, his mind. The rustling of linen, a sorceress gently clearing her throat, clinking coins in a pouch beneath a man’s uniform. Every sound distinguished itself as Dimitry retreated further from his nervous monologue and tethered his attention to the present.

Before long, a confident voice thundered across the room. “Doctor of the Court, Dimitry Stukov.”

A hundred expectant glares locked onto the interloper.

“Ignore them,” Raina whispered. “I believe in you.”

“I appreciate the support.” Shoulders firm and back straight, Dimitry stepped onto the blue carpet dividing the room into two. Whispers flanked him from either side as he approached the queen sitting at the end. He gave the nearby stone-faced princess a subtle nod before kneeling beneath their elevated thrones. “This one is at your service, Your Royal Majesty,” he imitated the speech of the dozen speakers before him.

Her piercing red eyes weren’t welcoming. “Since your arrival in my kingdom, you have demonstrated skills superior to any doctor before you. That is why you enjoy your privileged position in my court. You’d be wise not to forget that.”

Dimitry didn’t budge. He knew Amelie didn’t aim her message at him, but those behind him. Being overly friendly to a stranger would only foster discontent, diminishing her ability to sway the nobles' opinion later. Although he considered the queen using him as a scapegoat if his accelall announcement failed, Precious detected no scheming against him during yesterday’s meeting. Amelie needed him as much as he needed her. That was unless she changed her mind since. “This one takes your words to heart.”

“See that you do.” She propped her chin onto her hand. “Now, you have heard the others speak. Mira and both marquises expect this month’s night of repentance to have more casualties than any before. Even in a land where men have eyes like yours, surely there are heathens?”

“There are,” he lied.

“Then, as the barber-surgeon who cast their rivals out of practice and dared to erect a hospital from a cathedral, you will take responsibility?”

Her words had teeth, but Dimitry recognized them as an opportunity to bolster his reputation. Most present fought as knights or sorceresses. He would appeal to their ego. “My queen, this one has the greatest respect for your country’s warriors. They wage battle with their life in the balance to defend those who can’t, myself included. While—”

“The whelp is cultured enough to show proper respect, at least.” A man in an overly decorated uniform ran a hand down his beard.

Haughty laughter trickled from every corner.

Dimitry resisted the urge to groan. Were the people here so pompous that they would degrade the single person responsible for their medical care? A slip of the scalpel was all it took to end a life. He continued his speech. “While this one lacks strength, I aim to support the war effort any way I can. My ability to mend wounds is second to none. Any injured soldier will promptly receive the best treatment available in Remora.”

“H-he saved this one’s arm!” a red-robed woman among several uttered. “Other barber-surgeons recommended amputation, but Dimitry removed the festering gash another way. Without his aid, I may have died!”

As if committing an unspoken taboo, the sorceress’s praise filled the room with dismissive silence.

Dimitry wordlessly thanked her for being the sole voice of reason.

“I am aware of his talents,” Amelie said. “Like many others present, I have benefited from plague cleansing magic. There is no doubt about his skill.”

A handful of agreeable murmurs ensued.

“However, aiding a stabilized man already in bed differs from his downed comrades arriving from the battlefront. Does Dimitry have the capacity to tend to surges of wounded with haste?”

“This one does, Your Royal Majesty. Although I have arrived in this city only recently, I have already begun instructing nurses. I no longer work alone.”

“Will they be enough?”

“They will,” Dimitry said. “However, the brave warriors of Malten deserve more than such a paltry level of care. An injured man or woman bleeding on the field may not survive long if their allies are preoccupied with fending off heathens. Every moment is the difference between life and death. That is why I strove to find a solution.” He paused. “And I have found it.”

The distinguished crowd’s murmurs rose in volume, their voices abound in curiosity.

“Is it more magic?”

“Maybe he carries it in his bag.”

“—if my sons and daughters are safe, this one will sleep—”

“Go on. What’s the solution?” a man barked.

Was it Dimitry’s dramatics or Lukas’s unseen interference that entranced the onlookers? He didn’t care. Whatever it was, it worked.

Amelie leaned forward. Her furrowed eyes revealed her own surprise. “You speak the truth. Even a squire carries noble blood: their passing is no less than a tragedy. Now, release us from suspense.”

“Is Your Royal Majesty familiar with the concept of a field medic?”

“Yes.”

“My invention of an ambulance is similar. It is a two-man unit solely focused on administering aid on the battlefield. They swiftly tend to the wounded warrior’s most grievous injuries to prevent permanent damage, then carry them back to safety on a mobile bed. This one will personally take care of the rest once they return. Preparation for this service has already begun.”

“Do they return armor, too?” someone asked.

Dimitry looked back. “Unfortunately, they don’t. Although valuable, my belief is that life takes priority over garments.”

“Garments?” A sharp laugh followed. “Someone of your station would labor decades to afford such a ‘garment’.”

A man with a prosthetic leg limped forward. “The surgeon is odd, and his mannerism uncouth, but I rather have my boy back than the pierced steel breastplate stood in my parlor.”

“This one is in agreement with Sir Schumacher. I would feel at ease knowing my children are safe.”

“And I.”

Thankfully, not all nobles were single-minded dolts.

The queen’s red eyes traveled past her subjects, then down to the man knelt in front of her. “Dimitry, I will employ your services. Do well to conserve lives as you have so far.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.” He looked back.

Unlike the dismissive glares that met him when he entered the throne room, several nobles looked on with a modicum of respect. Some even nodded to show their support.

Dimitry’s opportunity arrived. He won the crowd’s attention. However, now came the time to risk it all with an announcement necessary to preserve the city’s long-term stability. Terrifying words slipped out of his mouth, “if this one may give one more offering—”

“Be quick,” Amelie said. “There is much preparation to be done.”

“I wish to confer a gift to show my appreciation for the generous hospitality the people of this summit showed me.” He unstrapped the bag pressed to his back.

Heads shuffled left and right for a clearer view. Innumerous eyes watched as he retrieved a cylindrical, gold-glowing cloth from within.

A sorceress guildmaster in red and gold robes edged closer. Mira peered over him. “A muzzle? Is that… a voltech rifle?”

Her concern evoked similar puzzled cries from the audience.

“What is it?” The queen’s stupefied expression belied that she already knew her question’s answer.

Dimitry inhaled a sharp breath. “It is a weapon more powerful than any in your kingdom.”

Tension followed his statement.

Then, hysteric laughter.

Amelie jumped out of her throne. “You dare ridicule me?”

The calm from his meditation gone, Dimitry’s heart raced once more. “That wasn’t my inten—”

“Shall this one restrain him, my queen?”

“Give the word, and I’ll behead him without delay.”

A raven-haired princess motioned as if to defend him with a hidden dagger, but fortunately, a sudden yell stopped Saphiria in her tracks.

“Wait!” Scar cutting across his cheek, a broad-shouldered man ran out of the crowd. He knelt beside Dimitry. “Your Royal Majesty, pardon this one’s insolence, but the Jade Surgeon speaks the truth.”

“Valter, return at once!” Marquis Richter shouted across the room.

“But father, this is the weapon I told you about. The thunder rifle bag!”

“You damn idiot,” the portly man bellowed. “Centuries of Kuhn servitude just to sully the family name by spewing rubbish in front of Her Majesty?”

The young knight defiantly stood to face the crowd. “The thunder rifle bag is a weapon that pierced a heathen’s shell with the crack of lightning! I have seen the Jade Surgeon fire it myself.”

Mira marched forward, her hazelnut hair trailing behind her. “Is it true?”

“I lie not, great sorceress. Any technology that may allow us to benefit each other is welcome in my eyes.”

The knight vouched for Dimitry as he had hoped, but once he unveiled the thunder rifle bag’s outer layer, would his praise be enough?

Amelie’s fist slammed into her throne’s armrest. “Silence!”

The chaotic din permeating the room ended at once.

A knowing glint in the queen’s eye reassured Dimitry that she knew of his plan to reveal suspicious, Church-like magic.

He didn’t trust her methods anymore, but it was too late now.

“What lies beneath the reflectia coat?”

“A spell that grants sorceresses the power to kill heathens with ease.”

“I know of no such spell,” Amelie said.

“This one does not lie.”

“The color will tell me everything I need to know. Show it to me.”

“I cannot.”

“You dare defy my authority?”

“That is not my intent.” Dimitry struggled to ignore countless glares digging into his back like traumatic forceps. “The enchantment beneath is hazardous to all in its periphery. It is against my principles to expose others to senseless danger.”

Amelie beckoned the court sorceress beside her. “Anelace, your undervest.”

Without hesitation, the loyal servant fiddled beneath her yellow robes. She pulled a thin, leather armor piece from underneath. Coating it was the gray glow of dispelia.

“Throw it to the surgeon.”

The undervest flopped against the blue carpet beside Dimitry. Was the article’s purpose to negate magical attacks against the queen, or did the court sorceress wear it in preparation for this moment? Did that matter right now?

Apparently not. No one’s concern targeted the loose armor. Instead, their gazes fixed onto the enhanced voltech rifle.

“What do you wait for?” Amelie asked. “Show us this spell.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.” He placed the enhanced voltech rifle over the still warm dispelia undervest and peeled back its reflectia cover.

Accelall’s rainbow glow, mending and melding, peeked out from beneath.

Nobles’ heads leaned closer. Their eyes widened like those of a mother gasping at a breakup in a midday television drama.

“…Church magic.”

“Does Dimitry come at the behest of The Holy Kingdom to return with their blessing?”

“Nay, he comes to confirm we crumble under the pressure of heathens.”

“Then why would he cure the plague with dark pink healing enchantments?”

The nobles’ outbursts devolved into fierce argumentation.

Dimitry couldn’t stop his fingers from trembling. He hoped his voice wouldn’t be the same now that the real struggle began. This was what the queen meant when she said his life was at stake. Hopefully, his preparation would keep him alive.

Amelie feigned displeasure with a frown. “What spell is it?”

“Accelall.”

Mira, Richter, Valter, Raina, among others who attended the summit two weeks ago, stood shocked. Perhaps they made the connection to invisall.

“Where did you learn of it?”

“It came to this one in a vision.”

The queen’s brow furrowed once more. “A vision?”

As the throne room sank further into chaotic infighting, a shout echoed from somewhere imperceptible. “The surgeon’s visions resemble the apostle’s!”

Doubtless the utterance of Lukas’s men.

“Is that why his eyes are unlike any other? Was he birthed from Zera herself?”

“Impossible! The Church cares not for us!”

“What if Celeste sends us her pity?”

“And she sent him? A man who consorts with demons?”

Dimitry froze. He knew his peace negotiations with myrmidon would eventually become common knowledge, but it was too soon. People in this world needed to learn to keep their damn mouths shut.

Amelie ran a hand through her graying black hair as if at an impasse. “Leandra, detain him. Carefully.”

The second court sorceress strode forward to clasp his hands behind his back. Her perfume smelling of sweet citrus, she leaned in to whisper. “All according to plan, hm?”

“Not exactly,” Dimitry muttered, wondering how many others were in on his schemes.

Leandra raised her voice. “Stand.”

He complied.

The queen pulled her red and gold mantle bottom off the floor, then rose from her throne. Every movement dignified, she stepped down from her elevated platform. “Normally, I would have cast aside your claims as the mad ramblings of a larmesh addict, but your deeds have been nothing short of miraculous. Tell me, did your surgical methods come from a vision as well?”

“They did,” Dimitry lied.

“And those enchanted bedclothes?”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.”

“Your reason for returning Saphiria to her home?”

He nodded.

“Do you expect us to believe you’re the apostle?”

“This one does not know who he is, only what he came here to do.” Dimitry’s foot tapped the rifle beside it. “A force beyond my understanding impels me, and the weapon at my feet serves as proof of my aspirations.”

Amelie’s gaze traversed the room. “Who wishes to test their faith and this… this device?”

No one spoke.

Then, a bubbly woman emerged from the crowd and rushed forward. Panting, Raina knelt. “This one, Your Royal Majesty!”

“We need to confirm its safety first,” Mira said. “I can’t let you risk your life. Your daughters need you now more than ever.”

“The Jade Surgeon is the reason this one is alive. Call me a fool, but I trust him.”

“Are you sure you wish to proceed?”

She nodded.

Dimitry repressed the urge to hug Raina. She treated him well ever since they met, and now when everyone else refused to openly acknowledge him, the amiable woman alone offered her support.

“Very well.” The queen faced the guards by the entrance. “Open the doors and clear the main hallway.”

Raina covered the enhanced voltech rifle in its reflectia coating and dropped an iron pellet into the barrel. “Dimitry, how do I use this strange core seal?”

“Press your palm to the exposed end.”

Her hand fumbled around the grip. “Like this?”

“A little further up.”

The nobles muttered among themselves as guards obeyed Amelie’s command. Before long, A blue carpet rolled from the throne room into a long corridor now devoid of maids, gifts, and other ceremonious paraphernalia.

Vol in hand, Raina aimed down the rifle’s barrel. “I think I’m ready.”

Dimitry looked around. “This one urges anyone who values their hearing to cover their ears. It’s one injury I can’t fix.”

A handful of nobles heeded his advice. The rest pretended the warning didn’t concern them.

“Your Royal Majesty, s-should this one shoot?” Raina asked.

“You may.”

The head enchantress inhaled deeply. “Propelia.”

With a loud and echoing crack like lightning, an iron pellet blasted from the muzzle. It flew at velocities exceeding the speed of sound before veering off course and pounding into a marble wall with frightening force.

Silence.

Nobles shot disbelieving glances at their neighbors, the voltech rifle, and then at Dimitry. The man with a prosthetic leg mopped a forearm across his sweaty forehead, Raina’s unsteady hands held her weapon as if it were the holy grail, and Mira pulled her red and gold collar away from her neck.

“See, father? I do not lie.” Valter stood. “The thunder rifle bag is a formidable tool of war.”

Marquis Richter didn’t respond. His wide eyes focused on the dent where the iron pellet collided with the wall.

Even Amelie wore a dumbfounded stare. She quickly recovered. “Leandra, release him.”

The court sorceress tore herself away from the scene before complying.

Rolling his freed shoulders, Dimitry suppressed a grin that strove to spread across his face. Some watched him with shock, others with fear, more still with caution. But their feelings were irrelevant: he had everyone where he needed them—waiting with bated breaths for his next word. They danced to his tune. His plan to win the nobles’ support and rout potential troublemakers could proceed.

Dimitry lifted the bag from earlier, which contained a second object: a cast-iron ball filled with gunpowder. He held it out for all to see. “Your Royal Majesty, if I may, I have another item that may interest you.”