Chapter 51
Chapter 51
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 51
>Chapter Title: Stalker vs. Stalker (6)
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>*
Guns and bombs, weapon systems collectively known as ‘firearms,’ were a class of weaponry utterly despised in this pre-modern fantasy world.
They were called the ‘weapons of the poor.’ And it was true. In a world where mana existed and one could sense the line of fire, ranged projectile weapons were never crafted from fine materials or by the hands of master artisans.
No matter how well they were made, they were only ever used by those of mediocre skill against others of a similar caliber. Most shots missed. They lacked romance, chivalry, and spilled blood without a shred of justice.
Therefore, one could gauge an opponent’s skill simply by the fact that they carried a gun. The use of explosives was an even clearer sign.
The materials needed to create a sufficient quantity of high-quality magical explosives were managed by the state as strategic resources. Thus, preparing enough to incinerate an entire building was next to impossible.
At best, they could cause minor casualties. Was there any need to be afraid?
Dozens might be killed or injured, but to put it another way, it meant that human assets, cultivated through such an arduous process, would be expended for such a meager exchange.
But just as even a kitchen knife could kill if plunged into a body, firearms that were useless against superhumans were no different from the grim reaper to civilians.
This simple tool of murder, which sowed death with a mere pull of the trigger, had a way of bestowing an inexplicable courage and elation upon its wielder.
“Hoo… hoo…”
“Why are you back already? You were supposed to stay put!”
“What was I supposed to do? That damn knight kept wandering around! If I’d lingered any longer, I might have gotten stabbed just like last time!”
“You coward… The knight at that house can’t chase you far anyway, he has to protect the kid. All you had to do was run!”
“If it was so easy, you should’ve done it. You haven’t seen that bastard’s swordplay up close.”
The man grumbled, his body trembling. His mission was to watch the house where Isabelle, the Hero’s daughter, was staying.
No matter how great her talent, she was just a kid. Tailing or spying on her should have been easy.
But it was a different story if she had a guardian. And it was an even bigger problem if that bodyguard was a well-trained knight.
Bullets were meaningless against a knight. This was common sense.
To have to creep within their range armed with only a single gun was no different from sticking one’s head into a lion’s mouth.
“So, the day of the operation is almost here. Why haven’t we heard anything from the higher-ups? I really can’t take this anymore. It’s been a week already.”
“Sir Dionar will arrive in Pritzenkaya today or tomorrow. So, I guess we’ll start the day after.”
“I don’t know how many times I’ve heard that guy’s name. Is he even coming?”
“They say he’s almost here. Apparently, the border checks have been tight, so he had to walk.”
“My god, all the way from Droan?”
The men moved through the alley, whispering amongst themselves. Keeping an eye on Isabelle’s whereabouts didn’t matter for now, as long as she didn’t suddenly move today.
All that mattered was that she was there on the day of the operation.
“I see. Dionar Eriksson.”
The two men, walking through the deserted alley, stopped dead in their tracks.
Their eyes met.
- We’ve been tailed?!
- No, I was extremely careful on the way here.
- Then what the hell is that, you bastard?
The men exchanged a conversation through glances and then broke into a run.
Who their pursuer was didn’t matter. Only two things were important.
That the person knew the name ‘Dionar Eriksson,’ and that they hadn’t noticed him approaching close enough to overhear their conversation.
In other words, this mysterious man was strong. In such situations, the weak always resorted to the same tactic.
“You son of a bitch!”
- *Fwoom!!*
The man in the lead pulled a small bead from his pocket, threw it behind him, and bolted out of the alley’s mouth.
The bead exploded, and a thick cloud of smoke filled the alley. A smoke bomb—a cheap, non-toxic one.
Ivan smirked and followed the fleeing men at a walk.
He was in no hurry. He knew that a pursuer who, despite the difference in speed, inevitably closes the distance inspires far greater terror than one who simply runs to catch up.
Interrogation is a delicate art. Mindlessly shouting, torturing, and threatening were poor moves that only blurred the quality of the information.
Acquiring accurate information must begin with breaking down the subject’s psychological foundation.
Ivan walked through the smoke, continuing in the direction the men had fled.
- *Swoosh…*
- *Hoo.*
He took a deep breath, reminiscing about the past.
*
Esidis was staring blankly at the night sky from her bedroom terrace.
“Uncle is dead.”
Even her father had paid his respects at her uncle’s death. Though the political situation at the time was too precarious for him to attend the funeral in person, her father had spent a long time afterward drinking morosely.
She dazedly raised a hand.
To about where it would cover her mouth. Hesitantly.
“But, still.”
If you ignored the beard, he did seem similar, but she hadn’t been able to look at him directly out of fear. At the same time, he seemed like a completely different person.
Piercing blue eyes, neat eye-lines, sharp eyebrows and a high-bridged nose.
Yes, they did seem similar.
Or maybe…
“Ah.”
Esidis shook her head. This was a wicked thought.
Uncle Ivan had died a great warrior. He had slain one of the Seven Dragon Generals and taken them down with him. She had heard that his sacrifice allowed a few of his squad members to return alive.
It was a tremendous feat. The Seven Dragon Generals were foes so powerful that even the Hero’s Party of that era had to face them together.
To confuse such a noble man with someone else just because they ‘looked alike’ was nothing short of an insult to his memory.
Besides, there was no way Uncle Ivan would be seducing Isabelle, sleeping with Professor Enrique, and stalking university students to satisfy his sexual preferences. (Of course not.)
The very act of equating such a lowlife with Uncle Ivan was something to be sorry for, and Esidis bowed her head with a solemn face.
While Droan’s religion followed the common faith of the United Kingdom, the ‘God of Light,’ it was mixed with traditional customs, resulting in a strangely altered view of the afterlife.
They believed that great warriors, after death, continued an eternal struggle by the ‘God of Light’s’ side.
The enemy of light is always darkness, so in the dead of night, warriors take up their swords against the darkness on behalf of the god.
The stars were the traces of their battles. The countless stars in the sky were the warriors who had departed to the god’s side.
So, figuring Ivan’s star must be up there somewhere, Esidis bowed her head respectfully and whispered.
“Uncle, I miss you. A little more, these days. You told me to learn an instrument, so I picked one up. It’s not easy, but I’m trying my best. I’ve made a lot of friends, too. I’m doing well.”
The stars don’t come out during the day, so he probably wouldn’t know what had happened.
“So please watch over me. When I graduate, once I’ve gotten good enough, I’ll play an epic poem for you at your gravestone. I’ll tell you how your sacrifice was not in vain, and how the world has remained so beautiful because of it.”
Her eyes welled with tears as she clutched her fiddle and sniffled.
She didn’t dare think of playing at night. She couldn’t let her uncle hear her clumsy, unrefined skills.
So, Esidis resolutely wiped her tears and stood up.
The chaotic events of the day had made it impossible to fall asleep early. Since she had no classes tomorrow anyway, she decided to go for a night walk.
“Uncle Mord! Let’s go out for a bit!”
“Where to?”
“Just because!”
“Alright, let’s go.”
Mord, who had been tending to his weapons downstairs, shrugged and got to his feet.
Dressed lightly, the two of them stepped out into the summer night of Pritzenkaya.
*
Great King Einar had numerous sworn brothers. The Huscarls, the king’s confidants. They were slaughtering machines who willingly obeyed the king out of bright and happy emotions like loyalty, friendship, love (not in a strange way), and hope.
These vibrant killers usually resided in the king’s palace, dedicating their lives to feasting every night, consuming meat and ale, and fighting amongst themselves.
From Ivan’s perspective, they were an organized crime syndicate. They were organized and violent, so it wasn’t an incorrect assessment.
But even thugs have their own code. And their law was singular: the ‘Big Brother.’
As long as he consistently provided meat and ale and maintained a level of martial prowess they could respect, there was no more loyal and powerful military force on the continent than these thugs.
Therefore, a Huscarl’s betrayal was extremely rare. The key point here is that it was extremely rare.
The word ‘rare’ implied that it had happened before in history.
And as history proved, what happens once can happen again.
Is not the betrayal of one who is trusted the most painful of all?
*
“Spring for the Citizens?”
“Yes!! Th-that’s all! I don’t know anything more…! Damn it… th-that, stop with that…”
“You mean the healing potion?”
“Don’t fuck with me! How is that a healing potion?!”
Ivan looked down at the poor man, delirious with pain, before straightening up.
Even that small movement made the man flinch with a sharp gasp and curl into a ball.
“Spring for the Citizens. Rather poetic for a rebel group’s name.”
Ivan smiled bitterly. Unbefitting of this barbaric, pre-modern society, the group this man belonged to had the characteristics of a multinational human rights organization.
Of course, that was just on the surface.
‘A single general and a single sword should not hold sway over the absolute majority of the masses… huh.’
Wasn’t this the slogan of a democratic revolution?
But Ivan knew this was nothing more than sweet propaganda.
Unlike Earth, this world had mana. This all-purpose resource was, quite literally, a special material that could be anything you wanted it to be.
It could enhance an individual’s martial strength to the point of splitting mountains and cleaving the sky, and it could heighten a person’s hearing, smell, and sight to an animalistic level.
Weave it into magic, and it could destroy fortresses and slaughter entire armies—that kind of special material.
The overwhelming power an individual could achieve through mere talent and effort alone rendered democracy meaningless.
This was something he, having lived in a democratic society, could be even more certain of.
Contrary to common misconception, rights do not stem solely from duties. They are built upon a social system that allows one to seize and maintain those rights.
And that social system is, naturally, maintained by force. Overwhelming force. It is the driving power that allows a state to impose duties on individuals.
As long as mana exists, people cannot be equal. It was a sad but true fact. In a world with demons, elves, and dwarves, this was even more so.
Therefore, this was a malicious piece of propaganda designed to deceive the world with pleasant-sounding words.
And one more thing.
‘An international organization in a world where the only means of contact are telegrams and letters.’
Establishing an international organization was extremely difficult even in a world where telephones and video calls were commonplace, yet here was one in a pre-modern era.
It naturally meant that a powerful figure capable of maintaining an organization of that scale was behind it.
Wasn’t it paradoxical? A democratic organization created by a person of power. At first glance, it might seem like a beautiful ‘revolution from above,’ but the world was no fairytale dreamland.
All powerful people act rationally for the sake of their own ambitions.
“Aleksandr. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re certainly using your head.”
Ivan chuckled and shook his head.
‘Targeting the children of the Hero’s Party was part of the propaganda itself.’
Their slogan was ‘the salvation of the masses ruled by a powerful few.’
And the symbol of the old-world power representing that powerful few was, without a doubt, the Hero’s Party. They were individuals whose martial might rivaled that of a nation.
Therefore, if the very reason for targeting the children of the Hero’s Party was an act of terror against hereditary individual power, it made sense. This was a tangible achievement they could show to the masses they were trying to deceive.
Ivan nodded, the events of the past few days finally falling into place.
‘The field training terror attack was no coincidence.’
Ivan’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the demon remnants who had, with astonishing accuracy, identified the location and nature of the field training to assassinate the children of the Hero’s Party.
Someone in the Krasilov royal court, military command, or administrative office had sold the information.
And this was likely just a prelude to countless more acts of terror to come. An organization of this magnitude wouldn’t be thwarted by just one or two failures.
‘Aleksandr.’
Ivan smiled bitterly. What was that ever-smiling young royal thinking now, and what was he trying to achieve?
What did he want? What benefit could come from dismantling the monarchy, collapsing the United Kingdom, and turning the nobles’ authority and public sentiment against Ivan?
And why was Veolgrin chasing Aleksandr?
Where had Maximilian disappeared to?
Thoughts piled upon thoughts. Ivan let out a sigh.
The simplest way to untie a complicated knot is to cut the knot itself.
Ivan lifted his axe and rested it on his shoulder.
“Where do I need to go to contact Dionar Eriksson?”
*