A Certain Magical Index, Vol. 20

by Kazuma Kamachi

  Index Librorum Prohibitorum.

  The index of prohibited books.

  Aiwass, who had defeated Accelerator just before leaving Academy City, had spouted something about remembering the word index.

  Maybe it was connected.

  Maybe the key to saving Last Order had been given to him in the form of a note.

  And then, the truck’s tailgate was thrown open from the outside.

  Light poured in, revealing a tall man with blond hair and blue eyes. He addressed Accelerator and Last Order, the only two passengers inside.

  “We invite you to the Elizalina Alliance of Independent Nations. I don’t know how much we’ll be able to do for you, but why don’t we think of ways to heal that girl together?”

  Accelerator didn’t give a verbal response. He just hung his head low in front of Last Order, still gripping the note in both hands.

  Almost like a white angel offering a prayer or something.

  And thus, in the faraway city of science, a being who exceeded the extent of humanity was smiling.

  Aiwass.

  A regular person might have broken out into a greasy sweat at the sight of that expression. That was the sort of nuance this smile had to it. As he gave that smile, which nobody else would understand the actual meaning behind, he simply spoke.

  “As I thought…His right hand is interesting.”

  It was unknown whether Aiwass deciding something was interesting truly benefited people who wished to live proper lives.

  And Aiwass itself didn’t possess the thought patterns to care about stunted human lifetimes.

  This being only took action in accordance with its own interests.

  “Perhaps I should have met with that boy as well before he left the City.”

  7

  They’d lost the conifer woodland they’d used as cover, but one attack helicopter was still left.

  They couldn’t fool the attacks from the skies any longer. It was one-on-one, face-to-face. If they didn’t shoot it down at this chance, the privateers’ attack would slaughter all the people from the settlement running around trying to escape.

  The immobile Rikou Takitsubo was included in that number. Hamazura and the others had to win, no matter what.

  And yet.

  “Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!”

  Someone gave a shout inside the cramped anti-air cannon. Hamazura and Digurv, who hadn’t actually touched the trigger, were uplifted as well.

  The attack helicopter approached.

  A straight line of gunfire ran along the ground.

  The attack helicopter, now committed to the attack, was incredibly fast. They wouldn’t hit much if they took aim with the machine guns. They’d gotten a missile lock on it, but firing it now probably wouldn’t do them any good. Normally, surface-to-air missiles were for shooting fleeing aircraft in the back. The chances of a direct hit on a flying object moving so fast right at them were slim. The ambush they’d pulled off using the conifers as cover had worked because their opponents never thought there would be a counterattack and were slow to take evasive action. That would be useless now that they were fully alert.

  Grickin had said it would be a Wild West shoot-out. Their bullets would cross, and whoever pierced the other first would win.

  Hamazura thought he was right, too.

  However, the attack helicopter above had a staggering advantage over them.

  Damn it…!!

  Hamazura frantically worked the caterpillar treads, twisting the chassis’s movement to get out of the approaching line of gunfire. But he wouldn’t make it. The attack helicopter made a slight adjustment to its trajectory and approached, aiming to shoot through the anti-air tank.

  It was over.

  He unwittingly shouted Takitsubo’s name—and then a sound that took his heart in an iron grip tore into his ears. It was the sound of thick metal plating being pierced.

  He blanked out.

  Completely unmetaphorically, he stopped breathing.

  However—he didn’t die.

  In fact, the piercing, eardrum-hammering noise hadn’t been the anti-air tank getting blown up at all.

  The ghastly noise had come from the attack helicopter soaring in the sky.

  The sound had been a giant sword, almost three and a half meters long, skewering it from the side.

  “…Huh?”

  The word on its side, Ascalon, was practically burned into his eyes.

  Hamazura’s dumb-sounding grunt had come out at the completely nonsensical sight. Despite his own life being saved, part of him didn’t even try to acknowledge the phenomenon.

  In the meantime, an even more absurd reality unfolded before his eyes.

  Someone had jumped onto the attack helicopter, which was flying at over twenty meters in the air. Yes—someone had leaped up from the white ground. It was a tall man dressed in clothing that was mainly blue. Grabbing the grip of the sword he’d stabbed into the side of the helicopter, he whipped it around.

  The king of the skies was tossed away with just that, like a toy hammer.

  The tall man let gravity lower him, and he landed right in the middle of the snowfield. As he did, he slammed the sword into the ground. The attack helicopter exploded savagely, spraying orange flames all over the place.

  “…To save others from meaningless atrocities, to quell the tears that have no need to flow, you stole the enemy’s weapon and fought with all your might. You are a brilliant sight to behold.”

  A low male voice echoed out from the flames. He spoke in fluent English, on a level that allowed even Hamazura to manage to understand certain words.

  A moment later, the flames burst out from within.

  Around the man, possibly created when the snow melted, floated a mass of water. It moved in an unnatural way, like juice spilled in a space without gravity.

  “I know not what transpired here, but would you allow me, Acqua of the Back, to offer what assistance I may?”

  Several feelings intersected, and the protagonists’ chance encounters gave way to even greater stories.

  This was when their counterattack began.

  As long as they continued to run through the giant, intensifying war without losing sight of their goals, this world, which had always created smiles for people, would never break so easily.

  BATTLE REPORT

  In a hospital in the city of Rome, a single one-person room, was enveloped by a strange air.

  Tranquility.

  It was a sight as though the image of the one sleeping there had permeated the entire room itself.

  The one lying atop the bed was the Roman pope.

  An old man, who was supposed to be cloistered away deep within the basilica in the Vatican, had been dressed in an operating gown and had had several tubes attached to his mouth and nose.

  A young priest, right after entering the room, shook his head without meaning to.

  Perhaps, somewhere in his heart, he’d been hoping: hoping that he would rise like someone from a legend at the chaos now engulfing the world.

  “…No one can stop Fiamma’s oppression…,” said the young priest to him, wringing the words from his throat. “After seeing his power firsthand, all the cardinals have either bowed in fear or have chosen to obey out of personal desire. Of all the things, some have even stepped forth to suggest we choose a new pope in the middle of this war.”

  Only the young priest’s words continued.

  “A large magical battle appears to have broken out between the United Kingdom and France as well. Fiamma is likely the one instigating France…No, that is not the only place. At this very moment, everywhere across the world, many battles are being waged now, all in accordance to Fiamma’s plans.”

  In other words, not a single response came back.

  The young priest suddenly felt like crumpling at that fact. However, the situation wouldn’t stop there. Another person, a nun, flew into the hospital room, her breathing ragged.

 
; “I-it’s awful!!”

  “We are in the presence of His Holiness!!” the young priest scolded.

  The nun flinched. However, her face was still pale as she continued to work her mouth like a beached fish. “Th-the people of Rome have begun saying how sick they are of aiding this kind of war!! And they’re beginning to gather in the streets! They may start marching on the Vatican!!”

  On the surface, World War III was treated as a war between Russia and Academy City. However, just as Academy City and the United Kingdom were allies, civilians would have indistinctly realized that Russia and the Roman Church were in a friendly relationship as well. In fact, several units from the Italian military had already gone to fight in this war.

  The cardinals controlling the Roman Church had been captivated by Fiamma’s power and were now useless. Maybe, just maybe, the normal people acting out of righteous anger held the power to better change the course of history.

  However.

  “…We must stop them.”

  “Father?”

  “Historically, several ‘people’s revolutions’ have succeeded. But those great undertakings only succeeded with painstaking advance preparations! This sort of ad hoc riot will not change history! At this rate, it will end with the Roman Church’s security forces massacring them!”

  “Th-then what shall we do? What should we do?!”

  “They earnestly have the Roman Church’s future at heart. Therefore, we must stop them before they resort to violence. We cannot allow them to die like this.”

  The young priest and the nun hurried to rush out of the hospital room. However, the priest stopped once, right near the exit. Casting a short glance at the holy man on the bed, his words seemed to seep out of him.

  “If only…If only you would show everyone your face and say a few words to them, we may have been able to cleanse their anxiety…”

  The young priest shook his head as if to rid himself of impossibilities. After that, he headed off for the city of Rome, which was close to erupting into riots, in order to deal with the problem presented to him.

  The tranquil air once again returned to the room.

  And…

  Something absolutely impossible happened.

  With a twitch, the pope’s fingertips moved.

  Nothing but a tiny tremble. And then, as though that were the trigger for everything, the man’s closed eyelids opened. He pulled out the tubes going into his mouth and nose, sat up on the bed, and looked around. The place held no grand papal attire; there was only a habit, both modest and trimmed down to the important elements, hanging up on the wall.

  Picking up the remote control on the side table, the pope turned on the television. As he listened to the news playing on it, he removed his surgical gown and changed into the habit.

  Tragedies were being reported.

  A mother lamenting before unfair cruelty appeared. The commentator’s words continued, almost as if to amplify the anxiety. The profile of a girl praying appeared. The report was that her father hadn’t been seen ever since an explosion had gone off near their house. Somebody, somewhere, was crying, asking why this war had to happen.

  For a time, the Roman pope was silent.

  Before he took any definite next action, a magical communication came directly into his mind.

  “Hiya, Mr. Dandy Gentleman. Should I assume you’re still sitting in the Roman Papal seat?”

  “Is that Vasilisa?”

  Before, when he had gone for talks in order to strengthen his cooperative relationship with the head of the Russian Church, its patriarch, he’d secretly traded a means of communication with her.

  “The cardinals seem to be attempting to carry out a papal conclave. They’ve probably decided already that my authority is lost. The words that come out of my mouth alone cannot stop the war, you know.”

  “But you still got up anyway. As long as I know that, everything’s hunky-dory.”

  “What are you doing right now?”

  “Hmm?”

  A loud popping noise grated on the pope’s mind.

  He scowled.

  That was clearly an explosion. Not one, not two—but many going off, intermittently. He heard angry yells with them. Vasilisa was probably having a magical death match against someone while making small talk.

  “Would you like to know? I’m in the middle of making my rebellious subordinates cry. Ah-ha-ha—there’s this perverted sorceress named Skogssnua, and her face is covered in snot right now. Weren’t you the type to burst into tears if you heard about comrades killing each other?”

  Vasilisa’s tone didn’t change.

  From that alone, he understood just how one-sided the battle actually was.

  “…Go easy on them. They are your subordinates.”

  “I thought you’d say that,” said Vasilisa with a quiet giggle, in a tone that left it vague how serious she really was. “But if you dislike this sort of thing, how in the world do you plan on ending this war?”

  “What? I’ll just do what I need to,” answered the pope simply. “…Not as a pope leading two billion followers, however. I must only do what is needed as one more follower of the Roman Orthodox Church. Which is to work from within to halt any grave distortions that may lead us down the wrong path. I did promise that mercenary, after all.”

  After saying all that, the pope whispered the next part to himself alone.

  “I contacted God’s Right Seat as well, to save our followers more effectively, but it seems the Lord still intends to give me more trials.”

  The pope opened the hospital room window and, without hesitation, jumped out.

  The curtain on a new battle was opening—for one old man.

  Fiamma of the Right had returned to his base in Russian territory.

  “Don’t act so scared, Nikolai,” he said with arrogant indifference as he walked.

  An elderly man’s voice came back to him from his communication Soul Arm, which was in the form of a book.

  “You started this war.”

  “More accurately, I proposed it. You all were the ones who officially pulled the trigger, weren’t you?”

  “Depending on how this war between the magic side and the science side progresses, Russia’s standing after it’s over will be unsatisfactory. You told us that, so we agreed to your proposal—and this is the result! I’m sure by now that you’ve heard something about the huge combat force partly composed of Academy City unmanned weapons and how good they’ve been doing!!”

  “I keep telling you not to act so scared.”

  “If this state of affairs continues, you and I both will lose our bastions. I will not let you lie and say you don’t understand what that means. And if I may, if you have no plan for dealing with this, then we’re through. After we’ve eliminated you, we’ll settle this war we started on our own terms. By searching for a way to end things with the least possible damage.”

  “Outlooks aren’t so good on that one. You’ve been going about your preparations for war and keeping it secret from the patriarch—if that happened, the Russian Church would want your head, too.”

  Fiamma shrugged a tiny bit and smiled.

  “Let’s speak hypothetically. What if I had a card up my sleeve that could reverse everything in an instant?”

  “What, have you gotten your hands on nuclear weapons? Unfortunately for you, Russia has those in great quantity.”

  Nikolai was speaking quickly, scornfully.

  “But as far as we’ve done test firings of ballistic missiles through official routes, we are certain they won’t ever reach Academy City or any of its satellite agencies. Switch out the warhead all you want—if you can’t hit them, what’s the point? With them intercepting one hundred percent of the missiles, bringing out nuclear weaponry won’t lead to stopping them.”

  “The archangel Gabriel.”

  “?!”

  With just those few quietly whispered words, Nikolai stopped talking.

  “Or perhaps the name Mis
ha Kreutzev is more familiar to you?”

  “You’ve obtained it…?”

  “I’ve secured the nun who had acted as its medium. What if I said I would use her as a basis to give form to the archangel and control it as my pawn? Just so you know, it would be ready to use at any moment. Anyway, would this state of the war, or what have you, that you’ve been so worried about not even budge a bit?”

  In all likelihood, Nikolai Tolstoj, said to be a person who profiteered whenever some kind of conflict sprang up, had immediately started counting his chickens before they hatched. Fiamma heard him start speaking quickly and excitedly from the communication Soul Arm, but he wasn’t listening much.

  Ignoring the book-shaped Soul Arm, he muttered to himself alone, “…Well, my true goal in getting her was something else. The fact that I, of Michael, can make Gabriel’s power my own—that ambiguity of the correspondence of aspects is one that should be detested.”

  Cutting off his monologue there, he once again spoke, as though announcing something to the world.

  “Now then—it’s time for the fun-filled Project Bethlehem to begin.”

  “What was that?”

  Ekalielya A. Pronskaya, a Russian Air Force pilot continuing the fight in the skies over the Sea of Japan, frowned. Her communications device, connected with her helmet, delivered the words of the enemy Academy City superlarge fighter jet pilot.

  “I said, the Kremlin Report,” the enemy soldier told her, sounding mildly annoyed, as they each flung their own top-of-the-line chunks of metal around. “The most vital, top-priority procedure in the Russian defense forces. Anyone in the military must have at least heard of it.”

  “…”

  She knew of it, but only by name.

  But that hadn’t been something she’d gained official viewing permission to see. It was more like a legend that had spread through those in the military. Nobody knew if it really existed or not. Ekalielya wasn’t surprised by the Report itself, but at how their enemy had even grasped rumors of something that didn’t (purportedly) exist in the public record.