"Attention. Attention," the calmest female voice imaginable spilled across the heavens. "An aetheric pressurization of 'White Empress' level has been detected. A duel of high-ranks is possible. Everyone remain calm. Please leave the audible range of this message. This is not a drill. Attention. Attention..."

  The voice was irritatingly serene and in sharp contrast to everything. The local sky was turning crimson, possibly from the spectral distortion of the air above the canton. Everything luminous was flickering, and everything moving was trembling, including the canton itself, which had decided to take several rather large steps. Anyone in its place would have panicked.

  "That's our teacher!" Vitl wheezed with idiotic pride from under Ortahn's arm. "I've been hit by her fists more than once. And now she's scaring the whole city with those same fists!"

  "You've been hit? Pfft, that was a light massage compared to what I got from her," Gron grumbled, his voice muffled, from behind.

  "Yaron got it the worst," Lun stated with deadly justice.

  "Enough talking," Ortahn whispered. "Especially such nonsense."

  Ortahn hadn't wanted to drag the "Wild Roses" along with him, but they had miraculously (by the name of Vitl) tracked him down. Ortahn had tried to chase them away, but Vitl had cheerfully declared the truth, "You're happy deep down, Ort!" and Gron had finished off the last of his resistance with a heavy argument: "We don't have a future anyway. So giving up the present for our friends is no big loss." That foolish statement had strangely pricked Ortahn in the chest. And he had neither the time nor the strength to argue with this horde of stubborn men.

  They tried to press into each other, taking up as little space as possible. To Gron's jokes about "male brotherhood," Ortahn threw his aetheric invisibility cloak over them. And now their group resembled an invisible, but very unwieldy and noisy colossus, all too easy to run into.

  "I've got thoughts in my head: 'Stop. There's nothing here. Go back to your routine. This is pointless.' It sounds pretty convincing. That's not normal, is it?" Krel asked with anxiety.

  "It's the psychic pressure from the Chancellery tower. Just ignore it," Ortahn reassured him, and a sigh of relief rippled through the pile of men. They understood that they weren't going mad, just that someone was trying to control their thoughts.

  The Chancellery was already close, and Ortahn looked inside himself. His internal energy reservoir seemed practically inexhaustible—at least, until Esh was in his arms. Then it would become truly inexhaustible, having switched its emotional source.

  A wide staircase led to the black tower, from which witches were running out of the massive doors and, finding enough open space, soaring into the air. Combat homunculi towered among them. Due to the distorted vision in the aether cocoon, Ortahn could only see vague outlines: enormous (though smaller than Nephilim), chitinous humanoids, taking off with the loud buzzing of many transparent wings.

  Ortahn knew that Tulila was a high-rank. But how could one, even the maddest high-rank, stand against an entire canton? There was no doubt—this would have to attract the attention of even the Overlordesses. He respected his teacher even more; the incredible degree of restraint with which she had beaten her students became clear to him.

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  They stepped onto the stairs, and the "Roses" grew quiet, holding their breath and clinging to each other with the strength of drowning men. Witches bumped into the invisible barrier but paid it no mind, their minds already at the epicenter of the storm. Ortahn noticed that the entrance was ordinary, without a Sphinx. Probably because of the frantic flow of people passing through it every day. He was moving forward slowly but surely, already brazenly shoving interfering sorceresses aside. One more step. A little further. Esh was closer.

  Crossing the threshold of the Chancellery, Ortahn immediately understood why a Sphinx wasn't needed. The passageway was covered by an anti-magic field the thickness of a sheet of paper. His spell popped with a soft clap, and the "Wild Roses" were revealed to the numerous witches in the hall in all their illegal glory.

  Without thinking, Ortahn knocked them off their feet with a shockwave of air. Taken by surprise, they didn't have time to resist. But one chitinous homunculus remained standing, its halberd held out. It froze like that, awaiting a command via the aether, until a stone fist, which grew from the floor at Torb's will, took it down.

  "Taut! Now would be a great time for you to save us!" Vitl, who had dragged the soul-deprived man along for this very purpose, yelled. But Ortahn doubted he could regain soul so quickly.

  The city alarm should have sounded right then, but it was busy with Tulila's antics. Ortahn turned back to the street. Out there, the witches preferred not to engage in combat, but to simply flee. The reason became clear very quickly: it wasn't fear of the group of men, but to avoid being crushed by the enormous reason that had just crashed down from above, turning the staircase to dust.

  "It's the Nephilim Law!" Lun screamed in a piercing voice.

  "I know!" Ortahn shouted, feeling unpleasant changes in his own body.

  "IT'S THE NEPHILIM LAW!" Lun shrieked, now hysterically, jabbing a finger at the colossus that filled the entire doorway.

  "Yes, Lun, nothing has changed since your last scream," Ortahn replied, losing control of his speech. As well as his will, but at least it knew what to do.

  From the pile of rubble at the Nephilim's feet, amidst clouds of choking dust, beautiful, giant blue roses, without a single thorn, grew and entwined the silver body with unnatural speed. The Law easily tore the first stems, but new, even thicker and more tenacious ones instantly grew in their place. A portion of the roses filled its cage-like torso, and the Nephilim froze, its hand, raised to strike, never reaching its target. It now resembled an abandoned monument.

  "Excellent," Ortahn breathed out, surprised at his choice of spell.

  "It's the Nephilim Law!" Lun reported with renewed vigor.

  "Lun's right, you know," Gron backed him up grimly. "There's nothing 'excellent' about the Law. Not for us."

  Behind him, Gron and Karbo were already magically engaged with a pair of witches who had recovered.

  "Excellent that it's blocking the entrance," Ortahn explained, his brain working feverishly. "Inside these walls is a honeycomb power grid. We can't break it, but neither can they. That means we can't let them get through here. This is also our only way out. You have to hold the Nephilim until we get back with Esh."

  "It's the Nephilim Law!" Lun reminded him. "It's the Nephilim Law."

  "Just feed the roses. I taught you how to transfer energy," Ortahn said.

  "Hold? A Nephilim?" Torb asked with Lun-level skepticism.

  "Glad you're so quick on the uptake," Ortahn nodded. "If it breaks free, try to stop it, Torb."

  "It's the Nephilim Law!" Lun and Torb said in unison.

  "It's made of metal, that's your department, isn't it? Its body bends, just like any other," Ortahn waved it off, already backing deeper into the tower and returning the risen witches to unconsciousness. "Vitl, Gron, Karbo, with me! The faster we save Esh, the faster we save Tulila and our own asses."