Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 9
>Chapter Title: These Orphans Need a Director (2)
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*
In the heart of Fritzenkaya’s central garden stood monuments and statues commissioned by Great King Ivan himself.
They were the Statue of the Hero’s Departure, the Statue of the Goddess of Victory, and the Statue of the Nameless Hero.
One day, after the Demon King was slain and the war had ended, a statue vanished from Fritzenkaya’s central garden.
The Statue of the Nameless Hero. In its place, it is said, a small plaque was left hammered into the ground.
-To mourn them is my right.
>-Enrique.
Crown Prince Aleksandr flew into a rage, calling it an insult to the royal family, but Princess Elizaveta reportedly acknowledged Enrique’s right and gave up on retrieving the statue.
Of course, the truth remains unknown.
There was simply no need to antagonize a legendary thief—and a member of the party that killed the Demon King—who had managed to steal a statue overnight from a garden in the heart of the capital, right next to the royal palace.
Elizaveta had made the best possible decision, one that neither offended Enrique nor compromised the dignity of the crown.
“I don’t remember this inscription.”
Ivan stood in a corner of the sewers, gazing at the Statue of the Nameless Hero.
He had found it after three hours of searching, armed only with the information that Enrique’s ‘dungeon’ was located in the southern Fritzenkaya sewers.
-Even when your names are forgotten.
>-Your glory shall be immortal.
>-On behalf of all who are not here.
>-For all who are not here.
>-Elizaveta Kirillovna Krasilov.
>-Enrique Seregeyevika.
Ivan removed his hat, placed it over his chest, and gave a brief, silent nod.
When he had first heard that this statue was being erected, he had felt too awkward to even think of approaching it.
And on the day he happened to visit the central garden, Enrique had already removed it.
Just as he finished his silent tribute, a voice laced with amusement echoed through the sewers.
“Do not mourn those who have departed first.”
>“For I, too, stand in the same ranks as they.”
>“So you still remember. Good. Welcome, ‘Little’ Ivan.”
*Creeak.* The base of the statue twisted with the grinding of metal, and a section of the stone wall split open to reveal a passageway.
It was the corridor of a lavishly decorated reception hall, a world away from the foul, musty sewers he had been standing in just moments before.
Walking down the extravagant, silk-lined corridor, Ivan slowly steeled himself.
Like most members of the Hero's Party, his grandmaster, Enrique, was a madwoman.
Of course, at that very moment, Enrique was thinking the exact same thing about Ivan.
Like most agents of the Annihilation Squad, ‘Little’ Ivan was a madman.
*
“It’s been seven years since we last met face-to-face, hasn’t it? So, have you been well, my student?”
“Well enough.”
Ivan sat in the reception hall, sipping his coffee.
The first sip was very small, rolled slowly around his mouth.
It was a kind of etiquette. And like most etiquette, it was an anti-assassination measure.
No poison. Ivan gave a slight nod and began to savor the coffee—
“Ah, but the chemical poisons they make these days can’t be distinguished by taste.”
“Hm.”
He spat the coffee back into the cup and placed it on the table.
“Just kidding, just kidding! Want me to get you a new one?”
“No need. I didn’t come here for tea.”
“Always so stiff, you are. And at your age.”
Enrique smiled with her eyes and draped herself across the ornate sofa.
A pale white leg peeked through the slit of her silk dress. Of course, that wasn't enough to capture Ivan's attention. The monster before him was an old crone, well over a hundred years old.
Just how many elixirs and pure bloods had she consumed?
Ivan couldn't help but imagine a viper staring him down, its tongue flicking in and out.
After all, this was a vampire’s nest.
Elder Vampire, Shadowblade, Fangs of Darkness. And ‘Traitor’ Enrique.
A century ago, she had betrayed the Elder Vampire who turned her, drank his blood, and put an end to the ‘vampire rampages’ that had plagued Fritzenkaya.
In the century since, she had taken countless lives under the guise of ‘assassination contracts.’ Had the Demon King not emerged, Ivan wondered, would the Hero have been the one to slay her?
Ivan’s hand, resting below the table, gently caressed the handle of his axe.
“Well, you found me faster than I expected. But that just proves you’re still sharp, which I like. Though… being ‘sharp’ isn’t exactly a compliment between us, is it? Right?”
“Where is Priscilla?”
“Aha, straight to the point! You always were like that!”
Enrique chuckled, lacing her fingers together.
Her dress rippled softly, revealing her alluring figure. (Of course, Ivan was not swayed by a woman seventy years his senior. His acceptable age range was plus or minus ten years, maximum.)
“So, what do you think? Did I bite her, or did I not?”
“You didn’t.”
“Oh? How can you be so sure?”
“If you had, you would have ambushed me instead of inviting me.”
Ivan’s eyes were cold as he stared her down.
“Wasn’t revenge the most important principle you ever taught me?”
“Hmm? Are you telling me that scruffy little girl falls within your ‘scope of revenge’?”
“I took her in.”
He remembered the day he found Priscilla. She was an orphan, scorned even by the other refugees crowded before the military camp.
To be without parents at such a young age is a terrible thing. The only person who can protect you is yourself. Realizing this, the child had always acted bold.
The world was already far too bleak for anyone to help a child who was sad and depressed.
To feel pity for another, one must have the capacity for it. In those days, the Allied Kingdom had no such luxury.
And so, Ivan remembered Priscilla and a few other children. He had decided to take them in, retiring from service to establish an orphanage. To him, they were as good as his own children.
Naturally, if one’s child is harmed, one must seek revenge.
“Don’t be so venomous. It makes you look amateurish.”
Enrique smiled faintly and set down her teacup.
The black tea, untouched, rippled gently on the table.
“Didn’t I teach you? Venom is the domain of the prey. Emphasizing revenge and self-defense, painting your body in bright colors—it’s all the desperate struggle of the weak.”
“Your answer?”
“She’s still alive. I didn’t bite her. She’s perfectly fine. I had her washed, dressed her in pretty clothes, and fed her delicious food. Now, it’s your turn to answer.”
Enrique slowly placed her pale white fingers on the table.
“What are you plotting?”
“…Hm?”
“I’m asking what you’re plotting at your ‘orphanage.’”
Enrique was serious. When she heard he had taken in orphans, she had laughed it off, thinking he was just being sentimental because he’d been an orphan himself. It was rather pitiable. She had even been willing to take in her cute student as family.
Two years passed. Then, an ‘orphan from the orphanage’ appeared, one who knew how to use ambush techniques with startling perfection.
Honestly, she felt betrayed. It wasn’t about leaking techniques—it wasn’t some great secret, nor was it some master-to-disciple art. She could have just taught him.
But to send an agent to her territory, as if to start a turf war?
She felt wronged. After he retired, faked his death, and even had his identity erased, she hadn't gone looking for him. Though he lived just a stone’s throw away, she had never once stopped by for a drink!
And now this?
He was going to operate in her front yard? Send an agent as a form of protest?
This was a declaration of war, wasn’t it?
Honestly, she had been more than generous. She hadn't killed that cheeky brat, instead extending a formal invitation to have a civil chat. She was trying to say, ‘Let’s not do this. We have so many memories, don’t we? Is there really a need to fight?’
And yet this blockhead of a man was standing here, threatening, ‘Touch her and you die.’
She was genuinely hurt.
And what was with that beard? It was driving her crazy. Why was he sporting a style that was popular a century ago? He wasn't trying to pass that off as a disguise, was he? She certainly hadn't taught him that.
Yet, even as a myriad of thoughts raced through her mind,
Enrique maintained the playful smile of a legendary, centuries-old vampire and a member of the great Hero’s Party as she gazed at Ivan.
‘What am I plotting? How much should I tell her?’
Ivan was at a loss.
Elizaveta used him precisely because he was an undercover agent. His past was wiped clean, his name was common enough not to arouse suspicion, and his appearance had (in his opinion, drastically) changed.
On top of that, ‘Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Petrovich’ was officially deceased, his name engraved in the national cemetery.
In other words, by Elizaveta’s decree, his identity and mission were top secret.
Could he tell Enrique any of this?
But then again, didn’t Enrique and Elizaveta have some sort of connection?
Enrique had founded the Annihilation Squad, and Elizaveta had been its commander, hadn't she?
Both suffered from a headache born of insufficient information, yet both, as thoroughly trained agents, maintained their composure and caution, their smiles never wavering.
‘What in the world is this madman thinking?’
‘What is this madwoman thinking?’
Such were their thoughts.
‘This is a betrayal. How could he do this to me?’
‘Is this a betrayal? Could she have switched sides from Elizaveta to Aleksandr?’
The master and student were, once again, deepening their bond in perfect harmony.
>It was a certain night in the middle of a January winter.
*