Return of the Runebound Professor

Noah stood alone in the Scorched Acres. He held his violin in one hand and its bow in the other, but his arms hung at his sides, their music temporarily silenced, as he stared up into the distant clouds as they trailed past beyond the twisting branches of the burnt tree above him.

He’d had Tim send him to the Scorched Acres shortly after class had ended. As much as he wanted to spend the time with Moxie and the others, he couldn’t afford the luxury. That was the cost of playing a hand at the games he’d started.

Between the nobles, the Inquisitors, and everyone after Isabel’s Master rune, not to mention all the demons he had shacked up in Tim’s tower… there was too much at stake. He’d sold the world a promise that Spider was some monstrous entity that could not be challenged.

And, inevitably, someone would call his bluff.

He had to make sure it wasn’t a bluff when that day came. Noah had grown stronger in the Damned Plains. A lot stronger — but not strong enough. That always did seem to be the case, but that was probably because he’d been punching above his weight ever since the day he’d set foot in the Scorched Acres.

I have to take the power that already rests at my grasp. I’ve made some good steps in getting control over my Rank 5 Rune, but it isn’t something that can be mastered and perfected immediately. The only way true understanding of runes can be gained is through experience.

But Unstable Pandemonium isn’t the only power I have at my disposal. I’ve left Formations aside for too long. I’ve let music aside for too long. Alexandra set off too fast for me to ask her what the hell was up with her pattern, but that’s fine. I can ask next class. What matters is that there’s so much more to patterns than I’ve let myself access.

That ends today.

“What is music?” Noah asked the clouds above him.

“What is a pattern to me? What is music to me?” Noah’s words drifted through the empty air, swallowed by the Scorched Acres. He wasn’t going to get a response, but he wasn’t expecting one. The only way to truly master a pattern was to completely and utterly understand it. There was no point trying to practice anything before he was completely confident he understood himself inside and out… and that was a whole lot harder than it sounded. “Is music a means to an end? A purpose that I clung to from a past life, or a meaning for my present one? Or perhaps simply a convenient weapon?”

Noah loved music. He knew that much. But loving something was painfully easy. It was possibly the easiest thing a human could do. Love was ingrained so deeply into humanity that a man could take one look at something and decide to pursue it for the rest of his life — a woman, a passion, a goal: all the same.

Love was easy. But to love with a purpose, to continue on when just love wasn’t enough… that was hard.

A part of Noah wondered why he was even going through this line of thought. He’d dedicated his whole life back on Earth to learning music, and that had hardly been a cakewalk. If he was honest with himself, it had been a shitshow.

Most of his memories weren’t truly worth remembering. Hours and hours of practice. Suffering when everyone told him that his chosen field was worthless. That he should have gone with something more stable. Something where he could really change the world and make money. Music could just be a hobby on the side. Teaching music never got anyone everywhere.

He’d heard a thousand variations of the same shit.

And he’d pressed on anyway. It would have been lying to say it had been great. If he was completely honest with himself, there were far more bad moments in that life than there had been good ones.

But when he looked back on it all — and he’d had more than enough time to do that — Noah found that there wasn’t a single thing that he would have changed.

“Okay, I might have passed on the whole bullshit getting sick and dying bit,” Noah admitted to the tree before him. “If I had to die, I think I’d have preferred an anvil from a 10th story building or a truck. But aside from that…”

Sure, he’d have preferred if he’d somehow magically been a rockstar and had so much money that he could dive into pools of 100 dollar bills, but when it came to the choices he’d made with the hand he’d been dealt, aside from punching a few choice assholes in the face, there was shit all he’d have done differently.

He didn’t love music because it had been a path to power. It had never been something he’d pursued because it would get him something. Noah had followed music because he wanted to. That was it. The full extent of his choices boiled down to the simple fact that he’d loved music, despite all the challenges that chasing after it had caused.

But now things were set up to be different. It wasn’t just something to study because it was a way to express oneself. Music wasn’t something for entertainment or relaxation. Here, it was a weapon.

I’m pretty sure that, if you asked any Formation Master that uses music why they pursued music, the answer would always be the same. They learned it because it was a method to control the Formations.

They didn’t study music for its own sake. It was the paving stones on the path for them. But that isn’t going to work for me.

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Music isn’t the path. I’ll never be able to look at it like some tool that I can use to harness something else. Music is music. The fact that it just happens to align with patterns and magic is nice, but it was never the reason I followed it.

Noah blew out a long sigh.

In a way, that was why he’d never truly pursued making a true pattern with his music. When he made a formation, it was just playing a song. Sure, there were restrictions and methods that he had to follow, but life was never fun unless there was a bit of a challenge to it. Music was the same.

But this was different. Forming music into a pattern almost felt like he was trying to intentionally use it like a weapon. And he’d just never thought of it like that. Music was music. For that reason, he’d never truly tried pushing the limits and seeing what it was capable of.

Noah stood in silence for several long seconds. He watched the clouds as they continued their ponderous path through the sky above him, crossing behind the crooked branches of the trees.

Maybe there was a part of him that felt turning music to a straight up weapon was wrong. It was a thing meant to be enjoyed. The idea of trying to go against that felt like it was going against everything he’d lived for.

Is this what I have to do? Changing my understanding of music to turn it into the weapon that everyone on this world believes it to be? I could do that. I’m more than aware I could. The only thing I truly had to occupy my mind for the years of the Line that didn’t blur together was music. I know for a fact that I could form it into just about any pattern I wanted to make. If I wanted it to be the blade of a sword… then it would be.

The clouds above him continued on their path through the sky. Rays of sunlight, faint at first, broke through the temporary barrier and scrawled across the Scorched Acres until it was fully illuminated once more.

Slowly, a faint smile pulled across Noah’s lips.

Nah. Fuck that.

“I’m not changing,” Noah said. “The world is wrong. Music is what it damn wants to be — and so is the pattern I make of it. It doesn’t have to be a weapon if I don’t want it to be.”

The back of Noah’s mind prickled as something pressed against his domain. Three people — all approaching with drawn weapons. They seemed to be roughly around Rank 5 in strength. Noah’s head tilted to the side and he turned in their direction just as they emerged from the scorched trees.

A trio of men approached him, clad in black clothes. They each wore shields on their chests and masks covered the lower halves of their faces. Noah’s gaze flicked to their sides, where each of them carried a heavy rosary. The bone beads clacked against each other faintly with every step.

Inquisitors. Interesting. Not their normal garb. Possibly not with the group that I’ve dealt with before.

“That’s a nice revelation,” the man at the lead of the group said. “I hope you’re feeling in a talkative mood, Professor Vermil. We’ve got a few questions for you about Spider.”

“Generally, you don’t approach someone with questions when you’re carrying a sword,” Noah said.

“That depends on the line of questioning,” the man replied. “Kneel. Hands behind your back — and no sudden movements unless you want to get run through.”

Noah let out a soft laugh, then shook his head. “This is fine, actually.”

The lead Inquisitor’s visible features crinkled in confusion. “What?”

Noah set his violin against his chin and let the bow rest against its strings. “Don’t worry about it. You just have very good timing. After all, you can’t really have a performance without an audience, can you?”

“He’s using a Formation!” one of the Inquisitors yelled, thrusting his hand forward. Shadows exploded from the ground around him and carved toward Noah like a hail of black blades.

Noah’s bow sliced down across his violin’s strings in an impossibly fast movement made possible only by the enhanced powers of his Fragment of Self. Bright, upbeat notes sang out through the air — and the shadows melted away, turning into gentle black mist that coiled to gather at Noah’s feet. The power lingered within the mist, but its direction was gone. It was nothing but raw energy.

The smile on Noah’s lips widened. His hand moved even faster, practically a blur as the notes of a song wrapped through the air like a constricting python.

The Inquisitor took a step back. “My magic! What manner of demonic technique is this?”

“Now, gentlemen,” Noah said, his gaze turning sharper as his bow continued to dance across the strings of his violin. “When attending a performance, you do not speak. You listen. But don’t worry. I had a similar issue when I was a kid. I snuck a squeaky duck into an orchestra performance. Thought it would be funny. You should have seen the look on the conductor’s face when, right in the middle of a rest, I went to town with that thing.”

“What in the Damned Plains are you on about?” the lead Inquisitor demanded. “Lower the weapon, now. You’re not getting another chance.”

“My parents took my duck away, of course. They made me stay after the performance was done to apologize to him. I was ready to get yelled at for an hour,” Noah said, ignoring the man entirely. “But do you know what he did with that squeaky duck? He played a song on it. Squeaked it to a tune. About as good of one as you can get from a shitty duck. Then he gave it back to me and said I had some practice to do.”

“That’s it,” the lead Inquisitor growled. He slashed a hidden blade across his palm. Blood welled against it and he thrust his hand forward, sending a spike of blood streaking through the air for Noah’s neck.

The magic pierced through his domain — and then evaporated into motes of mist that joined the remains of the shadowy mist swirling at Noah’s feet as raw energy. The man’s face paled a shade.

“Thank you…” Noah said, his violin pausing for a moment as he came to a rest in the song. “For the duck.”

The lingering power from the Inquisitor’s magic, held in place by his music, evaporated. It was swallowed whole, consumed by the pattern filling every part of Noah’s body. For everything Noah loved about music, there was one thing he hadn’t acknowledged in a long time.

For him, playing music for its own sake was not enough. Music was the feeling it evoked in those who listened to it. What he loved wasn’t music alone. It was every single part that went into a true song.

My pattern isn’t just music.

“The fuck are you on about?” Blood swirled around the lead Inquisitor’s palm, forming into a twisting vortex. “You’re out of chances. Take the demon-worshipper down.”

The grimoire on his back shuddered. Its pages fluttered and a presence prickled against his domain as Noah felt the monster within its pages manifest itself — but he wasn’t about to stop now. If he could have seen his own eyes, then he would have known they shone as brightly as a star in a clear, moonlit night.

A single new note joined Noah’s song — but it didn’t come from the violin. It was the angelic strumming chord of a harp.

“Shit!” An Inquisitor hissed. “What the fuck is that?”

“The Herald has awakened,” the abomination whispered, delight dripping from its words.

“Settle down, please,” Noah was caught within the pattern thrumming within him like a second heart to address the arrival of the monster. His lips pulled apart into a full-toothed grin. “The show is starting.”