Chapter 52
Chapter 52
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 52
>Chapter Title: Stalker vs. Stalker (7)
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*
From Ivan's perspective, it may have seemed like a terribly primitive, pre-modern society, but that was an outrageous slander. Naturally, the people of this world were competent. (The incompetent could not survive.)
This competence, however, could not always be applied in a virtuous direction, so most capable elites and upper echelons of society built up corruption with surprising delicacy. (For this reason, the Counter-Intelligence Command believed that human nature was fundamentally evil.)
As everyone knows, the corruption of the competent is far more lethal than that of the foolish. This is especially true if it evolves from personal enrichment into a challenge against the societal system.
Such were the ambitious men who had decided to side with the demons and play in the big leagues.
“What should we do with these ones?”
“Why are you asking something like that? Like an amateur. Let's handle this like pros, like pros.”
Dmitry shrugged and turned away. His long coat billowed, its hem trailing behind him. The moment he turned his back, *bang*. Two dry gunshots rang out.
To the accompaniment of the gunshots, Dmitry lit a cigarette. *Sss, haa.* The burning tip glowed red in the dark room.
“Damnable bastards.”
The more sophisticated a social system becomes, the deeper the ambitions of aspiring men bury themselves in the shadows.
In this world, all ‘surviving ambitious men’ were exceptionally competent. As mentioned before, it was because the incompetent ones who had revealed their ambitions during the war had all been culled.
It was tantamount to a worldwide eugenics experiment.
Following the traditional three-part syllogism, it goes like this:
1. All rebels, terrorists, or anti-establishment figures currently active are quite capable.
>2. However, the social system of the Allied Kingdoms remains robust.
>3. Therefore, all agents of the counter-intelligence units who catch these ‘competent rebels’ are even more competent.
It had been only four years since the war ended. The national structures of all kingdoms were damaged to the point where they could not endure another conflict.
On top of that, most of the economic population engaged in livelihood had been lost. They had primarily vanished into the bellies of demons.
A trend very similar to the rise of the common people's rights after the Black Death was unfolding. The only difference was that the nobles who exploited the populace were overwhelmingly powerful—literal wielders of magic, overwhelmingly powerful.
Naturally, conflict between the masses and their exploiters was preordained. It was at a point where it would burst into flames if someone were to fan it.
In any social phenomenon, when a major incident occurs, the one who gains the most is the culprit.
When considering who would benefit most from a nation going up in flames, the list would be something like this:
Demons under the Colonial Administration, neighboring countries, domestic rebels, royalty pushed out of the line of succession, and ideologues infatuated with populist ideologies.
“Hoo…”
Dmitry let out a sigh mixed with cigarette smoke. There were so many. They were spread across various fronts, both domestic and foreign, and to make matters worse, Krasilov was currently on the brink of civil war.
The Krasilov Counter-Intelligence Command would have to pull another all-nighter.
It was a damnable summer night, no different from any other year.
Until Pritzenkaya went up in flames.
*
Ivan was a man who loved peace, so he preferred to solve most problems through dialogue.
A minor issue was that most people in this primitive era would lock up their hearts and refuse to talk.
However, Ivan, being the resourceful modern man he was, easily solved this problem.
A bolt on a door is usually made of wood, and all wood shatters beneath an axe.
Thus, Ivan's axe, among its many uses (bottle opener, can opener, head opener, etc.), was now serving as a door opener, flinging wide the bolted gates of his opponent’s heart.
“I’ll… *cough*! I’ll tell you everything! St-stop! Stop!”
“Shh. We haven’t even started yet.”
“I-I said I’d talk, didn’t I?!”
Ivan shook his head at this amateur ideologue.
Information spoken when the heart’s bolt is not fully open has a very high probability of being mixed with lies.
Therefore, to increase the reliability of the information, a more open heart was needed. When you physically open the location where the heart resides, in most cases, the psychological heart tends to open as well.
“*Guh…!*”
“I’ll heal you now.”
“Kill… me…!”
“Don’t say such sad things.”
Ivan took out a healing potion and gently whispered as he sealed the wide-open heart.
Simply repeating torture is a bad move that lowers the quality of the information. Information is easily distorted, and cases abound where people come to believe entirely different memories as the truth depending on the situation.
Therefore, to completely break down the psychological barrier, Ivan also needed to temporarily abandon his modern intellect and equip himself with the primitiveness befitting this era.
At the end of a short counseling session, accompanied by warm consideration (incisions that avoided fatal organs) and delicate treatment (not sparing the healing potions), the fifth spy he met finally spat out the truth with dazed, vacant eyes.
“Lord Dionard… *ugh*… is already in Pritzenkaya…. The signal for the great cause… it’s not us… Lord Dionard himself will….”
“That bastard is already active?”
“Yes, yes…. The contact is just a front… we too are waiting for his great cause… to begin….”
“What is Dionard after? Is kidnapping Esidis the end goal?”
“No….”
The spy, who was known to be the contact for Dionard, stared blankly at the sky with unfocused eyes, then suddenly tapped the floor.
As if that was the answer.
As Ivan's eyebrows twitched, the man coughed up blood and barely continued.
“This place.”
“…This place?”
“Pritzenkaya…. Long live the re-revolution…. The sword of the people to the p-people… Above man… only God exists…. Beneath the Kingdom of Heaven…. *Cough!* Ah, ahhh….”
He’s broken.
Ivan clicked his tongue and stood up.
If Dionard, who was supposed to arrive tomorrow or the day after, was already hiding in this city, would he postpone the operation now that his retinue had been cut down?
No, he wouldn't. Now that he was exposed, he had no way back. Returning to Droan would only mean meeting the blade of Einar's axe.
Pritzenkaya was a metropolis with a vast metropolitan area. Therefore, finding a foreign spy who had smuggled himself in, one whom he had never met, was a bit more difficult than finding a needle in a haystack.
But to find a snake, you must beat the grass.
Realizing his base had been exposed and that several of his attendants and agents had been left alive after obvious torture, Dionard must be feeling extremely anxious.
“Esidis should be at home by now.”
Mulling over what it could mean to target Pritzenkaya itself, Ivan started walking.
He would first ensure Esidis’s safety and, if possible, preemptively stop Dionard from ambushing her, then he would ask.
He was quite curious about the psychological basis for the delusion that attacking the Hero's Party's child could somehow be a method to conquer Pritzenkaya.
*
Esidis and Mord walked quietly through the night streets.
“Wow, I really can’t get used to this. You too, right, Uncle? How can there be so few people on the streets?”
“This is what happens when a nation is incompetent, Esidis. Do you see now what a great king your father is?”
“Ah, yes, well. I suppose so….”
Krasilov had endured the last war as a single monarchy. Naturally, nationwide martial law had been declared, and the country had operated on a war footing for over a decade.
Even though peace had returned, a militaristic state like this was unlikely to change in just four years. But Droan was different.
During the last war, Droan had maintained a loose confederation where a dozen Jarls governed their own lands.
In this tribal nation, there was no centralized, singular power. Naturally, the rights of individual citizens were far more advanced compared to other countries.
Even a random warrior on the street, if you went through enough six degrees of separation, would turn out to be the brother-in-law of the paternal cousin of someone who was on a first-name basis with a Jarl. That’s what a clan-based society means.
The scary part here was that warriors were littered all over the streets, but in any case, public safety had developed in a more modern fashion because of it.
Unlike in civilized societies, in a tribal society, those who lack manners get an axe to the head. When everyone is polite, why would the night streets be frightening?
My goodness, the man next door got robbed? Surprisingly, the robber is likely to be the man from two doors down. It’s a closed society. Then the next day, that robber-neighbor loses his head or a wrist.
Coming from such a society, the night streets of Pritzenkaya seemed desolate and harsh.
Even after nearly three months in this city, it was an environment Esidis still found difficult to adapt to.
“Oh, Uncle. Have you been to that shop? The waffles there are really delicious.”
Usually, a waffle shop near a university was not a place one went to alone. After all, it was the ruthless domain of the popular crowd.
Therefore, Esidis had never eaten a waffle from that shop. Though she had often stared blankly at people eating there before returning home.
With a voice full of longing, Esidis passed the closed waffle shop and continued to introduce her uncle to nearby famous eateries (meaning, places that looked delicious).
“Ah, right. The waffles with strawberries there are quite good.”
“…?!”
What Esidis had overlooked was that Mord was incredibly popular.
The Knight Division was, by default, a department of men who operated according to the law of the strong—survival of the fittest.
It was impossible to dislike a man from Droan who prided himself on being a man among men. On top of that, Mord was magnanimous, wealthy (it was Great King Einar’s activity fund), and, in most cases, even kind.
Esidis, who was ostracized for the exact opposite reasons, now looked at Mord with a deeply wounded expression.
Traitor.
The world is full of traitors.
The twenty-year-old university student, who had just realized this harsh truth, hung her head low and muttered quietly.
“Let’s just go home. This isn’t fun anymore.”
“Should we grab something to eat on the way?”
“I’m fine!”
And so, they had just started walking back home.
When a sudden, yet familiar, person appeared before their eyes.
“It’s been a while, brother.”
“…What are you doing here?”
“What reason would I have to be here other than His Majesty’s secret order?”
“Uncle!!”
“Oh, Esidis. Have you been well? It’s only been three months since you left, but it feels like ten years have passed. The palace really feels different without our niece around.”
“Hehe, Uncle. Have you been well too?”
Appearing under the magical lights of the night street was a large man with wildly spiky hair brushed back in a feral style.
Einar’s Huscarl. Dionard Eriksson.
*