Patrick Fort felt rather proud—at least he had a few minutes earlier. The fat supplyman shared his elation as they met Sir Harvey atop the wall and basked in his lavish praise.

  "You are our hero, Headmaster," Sir Harvey offered Patrick a respectful bow. "Your magic has saved us all—saved Cynthia itself. I doubt anyone would challenge me if I name you hero."

  "Certainly not!" the supplyman agreed enthusiastically, rubbing his palms together.

  "I merely did what was within my power, my lord," the boy-turned-hero replied with modest discomfort. "I suppose this is magic's purpose, isn't it?" After seeing Sir Harvey off with a sense of collective satisfaction, Patrick Fort decided to remain on the wall a while longer, vigilant against any unforeseen circumstances. Deep down, however, he knew almost nothing could challenge an Asiro Barrier.

  Until the explosion came.

  The fat man's fleshy jowls contorted with terror. "Master!" He hastened to rouse the mage slumped against the crenellation, cradling his staff—the casting had utterly depleted him. "Master!" He shook Patrick's shoulder vigorously, but received no response. In desperation, the supplyman reached for the staff clutched in the young man's hands. That worked—Patrick's eyes fluttered open. "There was an explosion!"

  "Oh?" he mumbled groggily. "And then what?"

  "Then?" The supplyman hesitated, bewildered. "Then... I don't know, Master."

  "Then please, sir, let me sleep. Holding this barrier together is killing me."

  "But there was an explosion!"

  "Where, precisely?"

  "At the barrier! If my ears didn't deceive me, it came from that direction..."

  "I wager your ears did deceive you." The Headmaster leapt to his feet, gripping his staff tightly as he scanned the horizon. "The lens—where is it? Give it to me." The fat man fumbled with his belt before looking up apologetically. "It's not on my person, Master. You never entrusted it to me. I'll go alert Sir Harvey..."

  "That won't be necessary." Patrick had already located the devastating breach—and the seething mass of combatants swarming around its edges. "I don't understand. How could this happen?" He pressed his palm against his forehead. "I truly cannot comprehend it, sir. I have absolutely no explanation for this! Damn it all!" The outburst startled the supplyman, who had always considered the Headmaster of Saint Asini Magic Academy a paragon of gentility and refinement. "How could they possibly create a breach in the barrier? Using conventional weapons would require days of sustained effort. Even with magic—perhaps only a collaborative great spell involving multiple casters might accomplish this. But even that seems implausible! Have Godma's wizards abandoned Crivi and relocated to Wafflo with their army? Even so, they would require several mages and substantial Source." The fat man grew increasingly anxious listening to this muttered analysis. "I already drained nearly all available magic from the surrounding area—they shouldn't possess sufficient power for such a spell... Not even enough to compromise the wall..."

  "What are you saying?!" The supplyman seized upon the critical detail. "What about the wall coming down?"

  "Pardon?" The boy summoned his most convincing performance of innocence. "What coming down?"

  "You just mentioned something about a great spell, and how bringing down the wall wasn't possible."

  "Ah." The Headmaster offered a reassuring smile. "I meant that even if they deployed an exceptionally powerful spell, collapsing the 'Goldbrick Wall' would remain impossible. That explains why they've merely created a substantial breach." (The only possibility is that their mages have exceptionally powerful foci, ones that hold immense reserves of Source. There's no other way, he thought, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. As much as I hate to admit it, this proves one thing: Godma's mages are... truly formidable.) The supplyman appeared satisfied with this explanation. "What course of action should we take now, Master?" He gazed downward with mounting agitation. "Combat has already erupted at the breach!" Horns sounded urgently along the battlements; guards who had barely rested scrambled back to their positions.

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  (Using a medium has its boons and its banes... And now its flaw is laid bare. When I try to channel more Source to mend the breach, the gold powder itself prevents me... Once it sets, its form cannot be easily changed. The defining feature of the Asiro Barrier has just become its fatal weakness.) "Our forces appear to be gaining the advantage, driving the Godmans back from the breach... but our numbers are insufficient! Please, Master, devise some solution!"

  "I am deliberating." He endured the fat man's anxious chatter while recalling contingency plans he had formulated for precisely such a catastrophic scenario. (That was my theoretical approach then—and it seems the only viable option now. He shook the perspiration from his fingers, forcing himself to maintain composure. At this juncture, I must gamble. This represents the worst possible outcome; nothing could be more devastating than what I'm about to undertake.) "I'm going to—" "You've developed a solution, Master?!"

  "Yes, I have..." Patrick Fort mastered his emotions once more. "I must shrink the barrier."

  "Shrink... it?"

  "Indeed," he explained simply. "Otherwise, repairing the breach remains impossible."

  "Can't you simply—as when you initially cast it—seal the breach immediately?"

  "No." The Headmaster was surprised the man didn't even inquire why.

  "But Master, if you contract the barrier, won't you abandon the Cynthian soldiers currently pushing outward?"

  Patrick hesitated momentarily before nodding. "That would condemn them to die for nothing!"

  "I know exactly what it means," he said, his voice heavy with a sorrow he could no longer hide. "This is not a rash decision. I considered this very outcome—the worst possible outcome—before I ever cast the spell."

  "Those are our countrymen, Master!" The supplyman gestured emphatically toward the soldiers fighting near the breach, accidentally knocking a freshly repaired longbow from the wall in his agitation. "How is that any different from betrayal? We'd be watching them march to their deaths! I'm begging you, Master!" he beseeched the young mage. "Is there truly no alternative approach? Wait—" His eyes brightened with sudden inspiration, spittle flying as he spoke. "Couldn't you expand the barrier instead? So long as you modify its current configuration, you could mend the breach, correct?"

  "...I regret to inform you that approach is unfeasible. Without a proper medium, the greater the area a barrier encompasses, the more its integrity diminishes. Were I to expand it, the Godmans would need only apply a battering ram three times to create another aperture—smaller than the current breach, but effective nonetheless."

  "...Master." The fat man's voice had become hollow, filled with disbelief. "Is this truly the extent of your magical capability? Nothing beyond this? No broader possibility exists?"

  "Yes. And I hold myself entirely accountable. Due to my limitations, this represents the full extent of my ability." His tone conveyed genuine sincerity, weighted with profound remorse. "But sir, you must understand this fundamental truth: magic is not omnipotent. Currently, its applications remain severely restricted, as are we who wield it. Perhaps you witnessed how Godma's mages deployed their great spell against the barrier—the thunderous noise and blinding illumination momentarily infiltrate your mind, creating the illusion that mages possess unlimited power. But can you comprehend how extensively they prepared for that casting? How much Source they accumulated? What precautions they implemented against the spell's inherent dangers? Consider my situation—after establishing this barrier, I collapsed here and slept for two full hours. They cannot have rested any more than I did. We are mages, yes. But we are men first. And men are mortal."

  "...Indeed. Mortal we are, and the inevitable end awaits us all," the fat man sniffed, wiping his eyes with a grimy sleeve. "I shall deliver these repaired bows to Sir Omar, the quartermaster."

  "One moment, sir." Patrick Fort halted the supplyman as he turned to leave with his burden. "Please also inform either Sir Harvey or Duke Pafaheim. Request that they alert the frontline commanders to withdraw as many men as possible—specifically the Cynthian soldiers positioned near the barrier."

  The supplyman nodded with solemn dignity. "Certainly, sir. It is my duty—and the only service I can render you now." He paused briefly before continuing, "Even though you emphasize magic's numerous limitations, today I witnessed your extraordinary achievement, Master. Perform what lies within your capacity, as shall I. Let each of us fulfill our respective roles and thereby preserve our nation."

  He walked away with a steady, determined stride. But in truth, he left a trail of tears on the stone.

  Patrick Fort raised his staff skyward, feeling Source gradually emanate from the yellow diamond. He commenced his secondary plan, despite knowing it would demand countless lives.

  Never before had he experienced such profound helplessness.