Infiltrating the Octagon (Part 8)
"Where... where is it?"
Exposing where the money went would only give them plenty of excuses, and rashly laying bare the truth of this place was impossible without evidence strong enough to round them all up. To nail them once and for all, documents proving that illegal acts were taking place within the gambling parlor were desperately needed.
Thus, Charlotte had slipped into the restricted area all on her own, scouring the room for proof.
"Octagon participant roster...?"
Flipping through a few more pages, a smile finally graced Charlotte's lips.
This was it.
If they could uproot the Octagon—the beating heart of this gambling den—they could round up everyone implicated in its corruption. Securing these papers was the vital first step.
Yet her joy was short-lived.
Thud. Thud.
"...!"
To an intruder, the sound of approaching footsteps was anything but welcome.
The place where she hid was strictly off-limits. Even the haughtiest nobles never dared argue why they were barred from entering, scrupulously observing the rules. For a patron, admission was entirely out of the question.
Her heart pounded frantically—an unavoidable consequence of sneaking in where she didn't belong—but Charlotte was hardly a fool who would simply freeze in panic.
The footsteps halted outside. Someone stood before the door, grasping the brass handle to turn it. Charlotte didn't let the moment slip.
It's only one person anyway. If it's just one...!
Timing her strike for the exact second the door swung open, she primed two ice spikes. The instant the latch clicked free, that was the welcome gift awaiting whoever stepped inside.
My body felt thoroughly stiff.
Being surrounded by enemies on all sides without a moment to let down my guard certainly played a part, but the biggest factor was undoubtedly that the caliber of my opponents had risen noticeably.
Slaves or debtors who had never experienced real combat, let alone picked a fight, posed little trouble. Since they had clearly never engaged in a decent brawl, their movements were clumsy, and fighting in the ring a few times didn't change much. This time, however, the opposition had changed drastically—so much so that it felt blatant and deliberate.
There were no current Academy students, and while there were a couple of dropouts, they weren't assigned to this dirty work—or rather, it would be more accurate to say they might be tasked with it sooner or later if their fortunes worsened. Who were they, then? The men I faced in the ring today were thoroughly accustomed to swinging fists and brandishing weapons. By the looks of it, they were street thugs or bandits who made their living by pillaging.
Sensing that taking them lightly would cost me dearly, I had deployed Anti-Cast, finally managing to stand as the sole survivor in the survival ring.
"Ah."
It was always like this: my sensation of pain tended to run a step behind. Only after leaning against the wall did I realize that a shallow slash across my right arm was bleeding freely. I looked around for something to stem the bleeding, but not a single bandage was in sight. Then again, these were people who watched bloodshed for entertainment or packaged it for profit; if they were thoughtful enough to keep medical supplies handy, they wouldn't be involved in a place like this to begin with.
Regardless, first aid came first. I needed to find a spot with emergency medicine to patch up the cut so it wouldn't hinder me tomorrow. For now, I had to buy time for a certain someone still roaming around this parlor.
"Come to think of it, our master of ceremonies had quite the lavish office, didn't he?"
A man like that was bound to have at least a first-aid kit stashed away for his own neck. I wasn't the sort of hooligan who rummaged through other people's offices and parlors without cause, but since they had already resolved to work me like a dog, there was no harm in acting a bit like a hooligan myself.
Reaching the door, a sign caught my eye, boldly mounted on the wood.
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
A warning of no entry, but to me, it was hardly an obstacle. Yet the moment I reached out to yank the door open, my senses flared at the sudden surge of mana.
Swish!
"...!"
Clang! Clang!
Looks like someone was already here. If not, there was no reason for anyone to throw spikes at innocent old me. It couldn't be the man currently wrapping up the Octagon's finale, nor was there any particular reason for him to send someone else. It made even less sense to hire an assassin to eliminate me now. More likely than not, whoever was inside was an intruder in the eyes of the Octagon and the parlor. Which meant...
I slipped swiftly into the room and shut the door behind me.
"Making a racket in here isn't wise, Charlotte."
"...Senior? Why are you here...?"
"No time. This isn't the time to swap stories, so grab what you need and get out."
I knew she had infiltrated the place to dig up evidence. But shouldn't she be wrapping things up by now? She wasn't one to waste time carelessly and get caught. Where was the girl who used to smugly snatch the documents and tell the others to spring the trap as if nothing had happened?
What a mess.
She had left far too many traces of a frantic search. At this rate, they would catch on and scatter before we could pin them down. I had no choice but to clean up after her.
"I didn't tell you to help tidy up."
"B-but... if it stays like this, you'll..."
"Don't worry about me right now. Didn't you hear me tell you to get out? Before they get here, right n—"
—The matches definitely need to be tighter if they're going to stay entertaining.
—Quite right. It's a massive hit this time. Unrivaled. We should send out more men to round up fresh participants.
Damn it, too late. Their voices were right outside.
The second they stepped inside and surveyed the room, they would tear through our net, disperse, and set up shop somewhere else. And what about Charlotte? Slipping past this heavy guard without triggering a Mana Rampage was practically impossible for her right now. The moment she was caught, her perception-disrupting mask would be stripped away, exposing her identity, and she would vanish without a trace. That would be the worst possible outcome.
On my own, I might find a way to break out, but escaping while dragging Charlotte along was next to impossible. Time had run out. The footsteps drew closer.
I had to think of a way to make this scene look completely natural, rather than the work of an intruder caught red-handed stealing documents.
...That's it!
There was one way. Exactly one way to make all of this make sense.
"Charlotte. Are you completely sober?"
"Pardon...? Of course. It's not like I've touched drugs or alcohol..."
"Great. Then from this moment on, you are completely out of your mind. Do that, and you can walk right out of here scot-free."
"What do you mean by that...?"
What else could it mean? Time to put on a masterclass in method acting.
The number of patrons frequenting the parlor had swelled noticeably.
With new blood in the ring and tight, nail-biting matches replacing predictable stomps, the spectators were getting their money's worth. For the man acting as host and master of ceremonies, business had never been better. He had stopped by his office to review potential Octagon contestants, intending to ride this golden wave for as long and as profitably as possible.
Yet, as he pushed the door open, he was greeted by a spectacle he could never have anticipated.
"Bring that bastard here right now-w-w! Huh?! Did you hear me-e-e?!"
"..."
"..."
Some noblewoman, slurring her words heavily, had Junon by the scruff of his collar.
The man's expression soured instantly the moment the door swung open. His office, which should have smelled of old books, paperwork, and perhaps the faint trace of tobacco smoke drifting beneath calming aromas, was an absolute disaster. It looked as if a rampaging bull had torn through the room. Books and documents were strewn carelessly across the floor, while shattered liquor bottles and smashed vases drowned the entire room in a suffocating stench of alcohol.
Junon shot back with an irritated grimace.
"Look, lady, asking me to find him isn't gonna do any... Ugh, damn it all."
This... was unmistakable.
A disruptive customer.
The classic nuisance patron, frequently spotted in gambling halls and most common in their early days. Given the nature of a gambling parlor where fortunes were won and lost in an instant, not a day went by without at least one such fool throwing a tantrum. Clicking his tongue, he could only leave it to the guards.
"Throw her out. And fetch someone to clean this up."
The man didn't bother hiding his thoroughly disgusted expression. It had been a while since he last had to deal with such an obnoxious scene, and a heavy sigh slipped past his lips.
"Let me go! Le-e-et go of me-e-e! If that bastard hadn't won against the guy I bet on—!"
"Now, now, my lady. The lad didn't do anything wrong, alright?"
"Ugh, the stench, damn it... Broken bottles everywhere."
"Potent stuff, too. How much did she knock back? She even ransacked the stash kept here..."
With the guards stepping in, the noblewoman's grip on Junon's collar was pried away. Her shrill, drunken squawking echoed down the hallway as they dragged her off.
This restricted area was strictly forbidden to everyone except the organizer's inner circle; no one was supposed to set foot inside. Naturally, his mood was foul. If she had been a spy planted by the Principality, he would have had to catch wind of it and flee immediately.
Which was why Junon chimed in.
"Seriously, do people like that always wander all the way back here? I'd rather not get grabbed by the throat every time I step into this room."
When it comes to acting, even if one person gives a stellar performance, a slip-up from the other results in a blooper. Junon played along, straightening his disheveled clothes while letting a deeply exasperated tone color his voice. As the shrill shouting down the hall faded, a brief silence settled between the two men.
Whether suspicion would take root hung entirely on the very next words spoken.
The verdict:
"It happens from time to time. A parlor like this attracts all kinds of crazies, young man."
"Ah. Right."
"When money's on the line, people lose their minds. I'll compensate you for the trouble, so don't take it to heart. Understood?"
Suspicion had been completely deflected. Setting down his hat and crossing his legs on the sofa, the master of ceremonies showed not a trace of doubt toward Junon.
"Don't you dare think of setting foot in here again!"
"Flag this one as a nuisance patron. Record her face, and don't let her back in. Got it?"
"Understood, sir!"
Though she was kicked out and blacklisted as a troublemaker, Charlotte had accomplished her goal. There was no reason for her to return to this parlor under disguise anyway. To a merchant who clearly weighed gains against losses, this was an absolute victory.
"Phew..."
Having put a safe distance between herself and the parlor, Charlotte let out a breath of relief. Knowing how close she had come to mortal danger, her sigh ran deep. She checked the documents in her hands once more, making sure nothing was missing.
Her merchant's intuition told her: these papers, obtained without suffering a single casualty, would dismantle the gambling parlor by its roots. Riding this momentum, they would cleanly uproot one of the corrupt pillars upholding noble privilege.
Yet, rather than savoring the joy of securing the documents, her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
"Senior Junon..."
He was still in there.
By following Junon's instructions in that den of crime, she had managed to escape cleanly without raising suspicion. But the very man who saved her had stayed behind—trapped in a position where he had to step onto the brutal sand of the Octagon. There hadn't been time to ask questions or talk things through, but Junon surely had his own reasons for stepping foot into this wretched place. Having seen what transpired inside with her own eyes, she knew those reasons were far from positive or upright.
Was she supposed to just walk away, having taken his help?
No. She couldn't do that.
"...I'll wait for you, Senior."
Charlotte shook her head firmly, choosing to wait. Dragging him down and being a burden like during the Start-of-Semester Evaluation was a mistake she would only make once.
Around the same time, a scout patrol returned to Schytz Province.
"Good work today, everyone. Nothing unusual?"
"None at all. Just crushed a few rats, and that was that."
"Is that so? Then why are you all caked in that muck?"
True to his words, the scouts' uniforms were filthy. They were splattered with a vile purple fluid—enough to make anyone recoil instinctively. A few who were worse off had it smeared on their bare skin, making them look as if they had been infected with deadly venom.
"Ah, this? I was worried at first too, but when you smash the beasts without paying attention, they burst from the inside. In short, it's just bodily fluids. Definitely not acid or corrosive bile, let alone poison. It's not a pheromone that attracts other demonic beasts, either."
"Hmm. Really...? Still feels unsettling."
"The other scouts said the exact same thing. We already confirmed there's no issue, so stop backing away! It's not like more beasts are going to swarm us anyway. Aside from getting a bit dirty, didn't we finish the job cleanly?"
"Well, fair enough. You worked hard, so head inside and get some rest."
In Schytz Province, vigilance had slackened after the subjugation of the Canolatl swarm—the mole-type demonic beasts that had been put down in a single concerted push. Demonic beast waves usually took time to rebuild after breaking. Unless something truly unprecedented occurred, it was rare for a subsequent surge to escalate into a crisis.
Consequently, their precautions weren't particularly strict—at most, routine patrols like today's, meant to ease the anxieties of the local populace. To those scouts, the beasts they encountered didn't seem all that threatening.
...Not yet, at least.