Cameraman Never Dies

"Here's the deal." Seraphis shifted slightly, her eyes narrowing. She was lecturing him when there was an unknown enemy right below them. Wow! speak about commitment to teaching.

"Ethercraft is only as strong as the principle behind it. It can be anything, based on creativity. Anything."

Judge nodded, remembering the strange, almost absurd principles he'd seen before. A literal god who created a fake reality to do fake time loops, a guy who walked on air instead of just flying. Creativity would be useful as long as you are not wierd.

"But," Seraphis continued, "because there are countless principles, there are also countless ways to counter them. Ethercrafts can work like scissors, paper, and rock. You could be the strongest out there, but if someone's principle hard-counters yours, you're toast. Got it?" Experience more on My Virtual Library Empire@@novelbin@@

"Mhm." Judge nodded again, his focus returning to the woods below.

The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves. The blue moonlight trickled through the canopy, painting everything in a ghostly glow. Then, movement.

A figure emerged from the underbrush, stepping into the clearing with an eerie confidence. They wore a long brown coat that billowed slightly, and atop their head sat a navy colored triangular hat that looked both ridiculous and ominous at the same time.

Both Judge and his master looked at the man with a triangular hat, wondering whether he was lost and was searching for the sea or just had a weird fashion sense.

Judge blinked. "What is that? A scarecrow trying out a new career?"

"Shh." Seraphis hissed, her grip tightening on her blade.

The figure paused in the clearing, tilting his head upward as though he could sense the duo in the tree. The hat shifted slightly, revealing glowing yellow eyes that gleamed like molten gold.

"Okay," Judge whispered. "Not a scarecrow. Definitely not a scarecrow."

The person in the hat raised a hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the air around him shimmered. A faint, black aura enveloped his figure, and the grass at his feet began to wilt.

Seraphis muttered under her breath. "That's not good."

"Uh, care to elaborate?" Judge whispered back, his grip on the tree tightening.

"Rot principle," she said grimly. "Everything they touch decays. Grass, wood, flesh, ether— it doesn't matter. We need to get out of here. On that note, I might need to give you lessons on how to hide your presence."

"Great plan," Judge said, ignoring the 'lessons' part. "Let's just shimmy down this giant tree without touching the ground, the leaves, or anything else."

Seraphis shot him a glare. "Would you rather stay here and wait for them to rot the whole forest, including this tree?"

"Point taken."

She leaped down without another word, moving like a shadow. Judge followed, albeit less gracefully, landing with a grunt.

The figure in the hat turned toward them, their golden eyes locking onto Judge. A smile, faint but unnerving, curled across their face.

"Well," Judge muttered. "Guess we're about to find out if I've really gotten better with swords."

"Don't worry," Seraphis said, drawing her silver blade. "I'll make sure to tell your mother you died valiantly. Maybe."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Master," Judge muttered with a sarcastic grin that could rival a used-car salesman pitching a boat.

He knew, deep down in the parts of his soul he'd rather not examine too closely, that her grim warning was as likely as a dragon agreeing to work as a village mail carrier. She would never let him die— not because she liked him or anything, but because his mother was her best friend. Best friend… Wait. Friend...

A fuzzy, uncomfortable image of a certain guy with a red, cabernet sauvignon wine bottle floated to the front of his mind, like a fish bobbing to the surface of a murky pond. He couldn't pin down the details— what was the guy's name again? Brad? Chad? Something punchable, for sure.

All Judge knew was that if he ever found that particular individual, the man better have life insurance, a last will, and maybe a pre-written apology on standby. Forgiveness? Oh, not a chance.

Before he could stew in his hatred any longer, Judge screamed.

It wasn't just a little yelp of surprise or even a dignified shout of "Oh no, my brain feels funky!" No, this was a full-throated, blood-curdling screech, the kind you'd expect from someone who'd just stubbed their toe on a table made entirely of spite. His hands flew to his temples, pressing as if he thought he could squeeze the pain out like juice from an overripe lemon.

Meanwhile, Seraphis, ever the pragmatic type, looked on in mild horror. This was not part of her job description. Confused as to whether this was some elaborate performance art piece or a legitimate medical emergency, she opted for the safest course of action: scooping Judge up like a sack of traumatized potatoes.

Without a second thought, she bolted. No dramatic monologue, no calculated plan— just pure, unfiltered adrenaline and the faint hope she was running in the right direction.

"I did not come to fight you!" a voice called out from the background, the source was the man wearing a triangular hat so impractical it would've been better suited as a roof for a birdhouse. His tone was somewhere between exasperation and mild amusement.

Receiving no reply— because, you know, Judge was too busy experiencing what could only be described as a migraine from the ninth circle of hell— the man shrugged with the nonchalance of someone who regularly lost arguments with their cat.

Holding his hat firmly in place, he muttered to himself, "Saphiel seems to care a great deal for his new student. What a shame, the kid looks like the kind who trips over air." He sighed, a long and theatrical affair that implied he was deeply misunderstood by the universe, before trudging off into the woods. Whatever lay ahead, he clearly didn't expect it to involve anything more dramatic than a raccoon stealing his lunch.

Meanwhile, Seraphis was in full panic mode, which, for her, looked an awful lot like rummaging through her back pouch with the determination of someone trying to find a phone charger in a dark room. She didn't dare stop running or glance over her shoulder. Sure, she could fight whoever that guy was—and probably win—but not with her disciple currently auditioning for Loudest Screams in the History of Screaming.

Her frantic search came to a halt when her hand closed around something. She pulled it out triumphantly, revealing a peculiar object: a transparent globe with a dark sphere suspended in the center, encircled by two golden rings. If it looked fragile and expensive, that's because it was, but this wasn't the time to worry about warranties. Judge was still screeching like someone had just told him taxes were due tomorrow.

Holding the globe aloft, Seraphis activated it. A shimmering blue light engulfed them, and the world twisted, stretched, and abruptly replaced itself with… a room. An unfamiliar room, to be precise. The kind of place that screamed "classy but ominous." Judge continued his caterwauling, though now mercifully muted, as if the sound itself had been shoved through a pair of noise-canceling headphones.

Seraphis wasted no time darting through a nearby door, returning moments later with someone who could only be described as "the poster child for formalwear." He wore a tailored suit so sharp it probably came with a warning label, complete with a high collar, waistcoat, and cravat.

His silver-rimmed monocle gleamed under the light, and his silver hair and beard practically radiated sophistication. He looked like the kind of guy who knew exactly how many teaspoons of sugar were in your tea— and judged you for it.

Without a word, the man fished a cube from his coat pocket, tossed it in the air, and snapped his fingers. A faint white barrier shimmered into existence along the walls, and Judge's muted screams abruptly returned to full volume. It was like unmuting a chaotic group video call you regretted joining.

Seraphis flinched, gesturing at the still-flailing Judge. "Do you know what's wrong with him?" she asked, the desperation in her voice cutting through the noise.

The monocled man adjusted his accessory with the care of someone defusing a bomb. "Ah, yes. Classic case of Memoir Bane Prying."

Seraphis blinked, her face clearly broadcasting What in the world is that supposed to mean? But she nodded anyway, because when a man with a monocle uses big words, you just nod. "And that is…?"

"An extremely rare condition," he said, his tone dripping with the authority of someone who hadn't been questioned in decades. "I haven't seen one in nearly a century. It's a side effect of mental ethercraft, specifically principles used to seal memories. When someone attempts to recall those sealed memories, well…" He gestured toward Judge, who was currently redefining 'losing your mind.' "This happens. Fortunately, it's not a disease. He'll recover."

Seraphis let out a long, relieved sigh, rubbing her temples. "Thank goodness," she muttered, and then her face got back to being serious. "For a second there, I thought I'd have to throw him into a fountain to see if that would help."

The man raised an eyebrow, his monocle glinting ominously. "Had you done so, Seraphis, I would have billed you for the cleanup."

"Fine," she shot back, crossing her arms. "Bill me later."

She then looked at her disciple, just one thought ruminating in her mind— Mental Ethercraft! It was the hardest type of ethercraft to create a principle out of, and also the use was limited due to the severe use of the caster's psyche. So it was just as unpopular as it was dangerous.