Infiltrating the Octagon (Part 2)
Most of the buildings were colossal, practically shouting at commoners to keep out. As an administrative district home to the ultra-wealthy, the structures loomed overhead—not merely towering and massive, but draped in ostentatious ornamentation. Lined with symbols of cutting-edge industry, these edifices ensured that the few commoners residing in Mirpark Province wouldn't dare dream of setting foot here.
Late evening.
On the outermost edge, the lights of a certain building began to dim one by one, signaling the close of business until tomorrow. Yet people were still slipping in and out.
"Oh, my Lord! It's been far too long since your last visit."
"Ahem. Well, you know how it is... got an earful from the Principality recently."
"Tsk. The Principality really is crossing the line these days, isn't it? Hurry on in and blow off some steam, my Lord."
The man, who looked like a lord from some outlying territory, grumbled under his breath before slipping past the entrance, soothed by the guard's fawning condolences.
The building was supposedly closed, so what was the meaning of this steady stream of visitors? Normally, guests only came during operating hours. Stepping inside a dark, quiet building after hours was inherently suspicious—and the two men bantering outside were no different. Standing before a shuttered facade, were they not acting precisely like sentries?
"Did the lord head in?"
"Yeah. Managed to smooth his ruffled feathers. Doing this felt like utter hell at first, but like you said, do it enough times and you go completely numb to it."
"By the way, what time does our shift end tonight?"
"Three in the morning. Since it's run as a tournament now, looks like we have to clock out even later."
"Ugh. Pushed back again?"
As the two guards grumbled at the entrance, other soldiers filing out of the building chimed in with sharp retorts.
"Still whining? Time passes and you two never change. Tsk, tsk."
"We told you to stop griping. If you ask me, this gig is a total cakewalk."
"Put everything else aside and just imagine being in the same shoes as the bastards down below. We've got it a thousand times better."
"Exactly. We have family names and status. Without that backing, we would've ended up just like the trash locked in there."
"True enough. Can't argue with that."
There was quite a crowd of them. Every single person walking out of the building was a soldier assigned to guard this place. After exchanging a few words, they broke off into routines identical to the sentries at the gate—patrolling the perimeter or flattering visiting nobles to usher them inside. Even that modest activity was enough to peel back the shadows of the estate, making the situation exceedingly difficult for an infiltrator.
...Security's pretty tight.
I hadn't expected an easy break-in, but the perimeter was far more heavily guarded than anticipated. I had set out for the gambling parlor housing the Octagon with ambitious goals, but simply crossing the threshold was proving to be a formidable obstacle.
Punch through head-on by taking out every guard? Out of the question. Patrolling in squads of three or four, taking them down in a single breath without raising an alarm was impossible for me alone. Even if I subdued them, the next patrol would arrive shortly, and I would still have to confront the sentries posted at the main entrance.
However, my training had focused purely on physical arts, and the guards were visibly sloppy—dull with boredom and yawning constantly. Forcing an entry wasn't entirely out of reach if timed correctly.
Patrol squads typically consist of two to three guards. Interval between routes: approximately three minutes. That leaves a three-minute window, but factoring in the lines of sight and reaction times of adjacent patrols, the real margin is about two minutes and twenty seconds. Blind spots... three viable locations.
The calculations were done. It was time to put the plan into action.
"So listen, right? I beat that bastard to a bloody pulp..."
"Yeah, yeah. Here comes the great daydreamer again."
"I'm serious! You wanna see for yourself tomorrow?"
"Just shut up and patrol, idiot. More guests might show up."
It was always like this. The moment they stepped out on patrol, nonsense poured endlessly from his partner's mouth. Better to just let it drift in one ear and out the other. With that thought, the guard casually dug a finger into his ear.
Wait, normally he'd snap back and demand that I listen properly.
It was eerily quiet today. Had his partner finally grown up and learned some sense?
Yet when the guard turned his head...
"What the...! Hey, what happened to you?"
He realized the silence was born of an entirely different reason. He shook his partner's shoulders to snap him awake, but the man didn't budge.
"This idiot... he's completely out cold...! What the hell..."
An intruder was nearby, responsible for reducing his partner to this state. The next course of action was obvious: call for backup immediately. If he blew the emergency whistle issued to them, every patrolling soldier in the vicinity would converge on this exact spot.
Yet the very instant he brought the whistle toward his lips, the guard suffered the exact same fate as his friend.
Thud.
"Phew."
Catching the falling whistle, Junon exhaled a breath of relief. The greatest virtue of Anti-Cast was, without question, its utter silence.
"Just as I thought. They'd obviously carry something for emergency signaling."
He turned out the pockets of the second guard, retrieved that whistle as well, and tossed it into the open grass where it would be easily spotted later. Taking care of them in advance was essential; even if these two woke up and claimed an intruder had attacked them, their words would sound like absurd excuses. Getting caught without their issued whistles would frame their absence as mere dereliction of duty and slacking off. Even if suspicions were raised, it would buy precious time.
He had secured a guard's uniform and identity for the infiltration. The rest... could be staged using these two.
"..."
Hauling bodies wasn't a first for him, but it was hardly a fond memory. Having to drag dead weight around like this in his second life brought back lingering trauma rather than physical exhaustion. Still, what choice did he have? Failing to do so would ruin the entire operation.
After panting through the chore of dragging the guards into hiding, the disguise was complete. All that remained was putting on a brazen face and walking right past the front gate, but...
They won't just let a common patrol guard wander inside without a reason.
He needed a pretext.
"Huh? Why are you heading in instead of walking your beat? Did something happen?"
"Well... my stomach is killing me."
Clutching his abdomen, Junon contorted his face into an expression of agonizing urgency. There was no better excuse in the world while on duty than a sudden, violent bowel emergency.
"A stomachache on patrol? You were shoveling food down your gullet like a starving pig earlier, so serves you right."
"Tsk, tsk. Go handle your business quickly. What did the guy paired with you do to deserve holding the fort alone?"
"Ugh... thank you."
He had bypassed the strict perimeter. Slipping through the problematic main entrance was over and done with. Having visited the building's layout once before, navigating through the corridors to reach the gambling parlor presented no real challenge.
Making his way down toward the basement entrance and stepping into the parlor, sickening roars of excitement crashed against his ears.
— WAAAHHH!
On the outside: money exchanged hands, the price of amusement paid to wager on the outcomes dictated beyond the bars.
On the inside: cold steel held tight, wielded for reasons known only to those trapped within.
An octagonal arena partitioned by iron grating. Across that single boundary of steel, two entirely different worlds clung to entirely different things.
Yet this was no time to wallow in disgust. Today's method of entry was strictly a one-off trick. Even with the precautions he had taken, someone would eventually realize something was amiss. He needed to uncover a permanent, repeatable route to slip into this place again.
Nothing over here either.
Evading the gazes of the aristocrats, he scoured every secluded corner, but no alternative exits presented themselves. As he glanced around searching for any overlooked detail, he collided squarely with someone.
"Ouch... ugh..."
Bumping into anyone here meant bumping into a noble—wretched luck. Yet the reaction that followed was unusual. Typically, an aristocrat would glare daggers and spew venomous curses at a mere guard over the slightest brush of shoulders...
Why was this woman saying nothing of the sort?
"Watch where you are walking next time. Understood?"
"Uh... yes. My apologies..."
Her tone was undeniably noble, yet surprisingly gentle for one of her station. More than that... the height difference was staggering. She was practically the size of a child, and her voice carried the light cadence of a young girl.
Do children even come to a place like this?
From what he had observed while circling the Octagon, the vast majority of patrons were around thirty years old. The youngest appeared to be in their late twenties at the very least. He hadn't seen a single minor. And with good reason—if underaged brats had developed a taste for underground gambling and visited this venue, the students back at the Academy would surely have flocked here as well.
Nobles or not, a child was still a child. Indulging in wine or tobacco might fall under youthful rebellion, but watching a blood arena and placing bets? Even if that were true, it was fundamentally bizarre. Noble scions who feared the sight of blood so deeply that they huddled in the rear ranks studying inefficient elemental magic coming to savor a gore-drenched spectacle was a contradiction in terms.
...Then who was this girl standing right before him?
"Wait a moment."
"...What is it? Touching a guest is exceedingly rude."
Thinking back, the physical weight behind their collision hadn't been particularly light, yet she had barely made a sound when tumbling to the floor. Moreover, while she wore a masquerade mask and concealed her face behind an ornate fan like the other aristocrats, her frame was remarkably compact.
And that manner of speech. He had heard it somewhere before...
"It took a lot of acting, but the only way to get information on the Octagon was to dig it up on the inside."
...!
Could she... possibly?
If his intuition wasn't mistaken, this petite figure was—
"Hey! You said you were heading to the restroom! Why the hell are you wandering into the Octagon?!"
...Damn it. Of all times. Too much time had slipped by, making a confrontation unavoidable.
"Do you see that drunk over there? I had to escort her over and deal with her antics, so I couldn't help it."
"Huh? Ah, that woman..."
The entrance guard's gaze landed on a middle-aged woman sprawled across a sofa, thoroughly pickled in alcohol. Being held hostage by the drunken ramblings of a patron—improvised though it was, it made for a remarkably solid excuse.
"Those ungrateful bastards at the Academy... *hic!* After all my hard work, kicking me out like trash... dammit..."
"..."
"Those bastards in the Alliance are the exact same scum. Treating people like tools and tossing them aside... *hiccup!*"
The middle-aged woman collapsed on the couch was Professor Kyopf. He had made a mental note of her presence earlier, intending to use her as an alibi if things went south. Having a familiar face nearby meant he could fabricate whatever story suited his needs.
Adding a pinch of dramatic flair would wash away all remaining suspicion.
"That's Professor Kyopf. She caught me earlier and went on and on about being ousted from the Academy and abandoned by the Alliance. I couldn't break away while she was venting her grievances. She kept chugging liquor until she finally passed out just now, so I only managed to slip away this very second."
The sentry shook his head in absolute disgust. Good, the lie had landed cleanly.
"Tsk... what rotten luck, running into her right after taking a leak..."
"That's why you need to stop stuffing your face, idiot! Gorge yourself like that and of course your stomach gives out. Don't let yourself get dragged into this building again, hear me?!"
"Haha... understood..."
"Anyway, good job dealing with that drunken patron. The matches are wrapping up soon, so get back outside and walk your beat so nothing else goes wrong."
As he followed the guard toward the exit, a sudden thought struck him. Junon glanced over his shoulder, but the masked girl was already gone.
He hadn't expected to cross paths with her in a place like this... but it seemed she had been conducting her own thorough investigation from the very beginning.