Mental attack 1

He entered the sole academic building. The high school classroom was
the one closest to the gate.
Without knocking, he opened the rickety door. Instantly, countless eyes
focused on him.
“Well, do come in. I haven’t seen you for a while.” Chalk in one hand,
Mr. Meyer bowed a greeting.
At someone’s command of “stand for our guest,” the students rose in
unison. “Bow.” Each head dropped simultaneously, without the slightest
flaw in timing, then came back up again. Every one of them had Lina’s
face.

No one told them to take their seats again.
D’s pupils emitted a weird and beautiful light.
A psychological attack. And I walked right into it. Reprimanding
himself lightly, D tried to focus his senses on the source of the force field
covering the area, but couldn’t find it. Perhaps having learned a lesson from
the failure of the attack on the rainy night, the enemy was concealing its
position by using diversions on a multitude of levels.

It’s not that the field couldn’t be penetrated by a concerted mental effort,
but the effort itself would consume a great deal of time and psychic energy.
“Are you here to observe the class?” asked the Lina holding the chalk.
A forced smile skimmed D’s lips. Somewhere in that gelid psyche,
capable of freezing all thought, there might have been a trace of the
innocent lass after all.

Linas beyond number approached him. In their right hands, each held a
rough wooden stake. Surrounding D, they swung their stakes in unison. D
tried to leap away, but his feet were stuck to the floor, and a number of
stakes drove into his chest, spraying blood everywhere.

In extreme pain, but without changing expression in the slightest, D
leapt to the corner of the classroom. Since he’d weathered that first attack,
much of the efficacy of his opponent’s spell had been lost.

That’s not to say there were really stakes stuck in D’s body. This whole
battle was taking place within D’s mind. If his body—which was equivalent
to his will—were to surrender, the real D could die without a single
physical wound. Conversely, if he could hold out, the result would be a
trenchant blade to turn against his assailant. It was a quiet battle.
Lina, Lina, and Lina hurled their stakes. Two were deflected, but the last
one stuck in his shoulder.

With especially long pickets clutched at their waists, Lina and Lina
rushed in. D drew his longsword and hacked through both of their necks.
The blade met no resistance, and the two pickets sank into his abdomen.
Letting go of the pickets, Lina and Lina laughed sweetly.
D gazed at the blade of his sword. It was just an ordinary tree branch.
Even if on the surface his consciousness was ordering him to butcher her,
his subconscious was trying to save “Lina.”
Swiftly growing ever more enervated by massive blood loss and
scorching heat, D grinned bitterly.

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