Viscount Bjorn's Visit
The purge of the underground alley moved with startling speed.
Given the nature of the affair, the operation was launched in the dead of night and finished almost before it had begun. Jason arrived at the head of his troops while the roosters still slept, wearing an expression of pure reluctance — and from that moment, the sweep was nothing short of lightning-fast.
They kicked in the doors of makeshift hideouts — abandoned houses crudely converted into dens — with armored greaves and crushed every pocket of resistance in turn. The criminals who had nested in the alley had once been thorough about concealing themselves, masking their lairs with all manner of magical tools. But the real credit for the operation's success belonged to the newly inducted Red Fang platoon of the Evergarden household.
The Red Fang syndicate had always lived by the alley, and they were people for whom information was everything. Every last one of them knew the minor landmarks of their own turf by heart — and once they had thrown in with the Evergarden family, they spilled every scrap of it. Gambling dens, taverns, drug markets, main headquarters — they even pointed out the latrines the gangs had dug. With intelligence that thorough, the soldiers swept through without a moment's hesitation.
Most of the criminals surrendered the instant the guards burst in. Outside of a handful of higher-ups, the rest were little more than day-to-day hustlers scraping by in a rural fief's back alleys. At best they wore hard-leather armor and clutched a single dagger — hardly a match for men armed with long, keen spears and swords, helmets, and chainmail vests. A few, still drunk or high from the night before, charged in without the faintest idea what they were doing and promptly became medieval kebabs. After watching that, the rest dropped their heads to the floor of their own accord and emptied their own pockets without being asked. The whole thing went almost too smoothly.
They had grown far too complacent. A criminal organization worth the name needed skilled fighters who could hold their breath in the underworld, out of the law's sight. These people had never bothered. They had never needed to. The Evergarden family had always been incompetent, and the local authorities had always been closer to gold than to the law — slip them a few coins and they would gladly put on their own blindfolds. So rather than strengthen their foundations, most of the gangs had focused on swelling their ranks as fast as possible, determined to swallow the entire alley whole. Once they owned the district, they figured, they could always shore things up later. That was how they ended up recruiting every two-bit thug who had never so much as stabbed a man — hangers-on who showed up the moment someone mentioned pay, men who had never properly swung a blade in their lives. Those were the "criminals" currently terrorizing Evergarden territory.
Of course, that did not make them innocent. Riding on their reputation, they had harassed ordinary citizens and committed every petty crime under the sun. They were trash who deserved every bit of punishment coming to them. But when fully armed soldiers shoved spearpoints in their faces, who among them was going to die for the boss or the organization?
That was precisely one of the reasons Freyja had been so determined to gather troops and purge the alley as quickly as possible. After hearing everything from Red Fang, she had recognized that the underground was nothing more than a swarm of ants puffed up into a larger shape — and that the moment to strike was now, before they could consolidate into something with real substance.
They could not even run. The people who knew every building in the alley, every organization, every scrap of history — did anyone really think they would have missed the escape routes? Those who bolted at the sight of the soldiers soon found more waiting at the exits, and all they could do was throw up their hands and beg not to be stabbed.
Now and then the soldiers arrived to find only cold corpses waiting for them, with no one left to arrest. At first they wondered if some internal war had broken out amid the chaos outside — but the bodies shared a pattern. Every one of them was a boss or a high-ranking member of a criminal outfit, and each bore a faint, razor-thin cut across the throat. Who had killed them remained a mystery. Still, by the time the dawn purge was over, the soldiers' own casualties were so light as to be almost nonexistent.
As sunlight finally spilled into the darkened alleys and the roosters began to crow, the people of the territory woke to news of the night's bloodshed. They startled — then laughed, loud and free, with the relief of the long-oppressed. The criminals had always found the common folk the easiest prey, and the people had suffered for it the entire time the gangs held the alley. For once, they nodded among themselves, the lord had done something right.
After that, everything moved quickly. The moment the purge was finished, Freyja announced a tax reduction from the territory square, along with the hiring of skilled tradesmen and day laborers. The funds raised by selling the mansion's valuables, combined with the haul from stripping every criminal hideout bare, had exceeded even her expectations — and that surplus poured straight into the territory's development.
It was not harvest season, and few people produced specialty goods for sale. The common folk had already been tightening their belts to the last hole. An offer of high daily wages plus meals was enough to make their eyes spin. Applicants flooded in so fast that simply writing down their names was exhausting.
In the space of a single morning, the criminal gangs that had tormented them, the crushing tax rates, and the shortage of work had all been swept away. And among the people of the territory, a rumor began to spread.
The wastrel count's household had changed.
The rumor traveled and traveled, until there was scarcely a soul in the territory who had not heard it at least once.
"Hmph. Every time I visit this place, the stench of rotting beggars never quite goes away."
Viscount Bjorn leaned back against the carriage seat, his face faintly wrinkled in distaste.
The guards at the entrance to Evergarden territory spotted his carriage at once and bowed their heads in greeting.
"The armor, the weapons… all of it second-rate scrap. Is this a proper fief or a bandit den…?"
Watching them through the carriage window, Viscount Bjorn allowed the corner of his mouth to curl upward. The chainmail and helmets worn by Evergarden's soldiers were crude but serviceable gear, made for cost-efficiency — yet to his eyes they looked no better than the wretched kit of mountain brigands. And when he compared them to the equipment of the escort he had brought from his own lands, his self-regard soared to the heavens.
Perhaps servants truly do grow to resemble their masters. The escorts astride glossy, well-bred horses — their armor polished to a shine, their iron plate gleaming — looked down on the gate guards from the saddle and, one by one, let the same smirk tug at their lips.
Knock, knock—
"My lord Viscount, we have arrived at Evergarden territory."
"Drive straight to the mansion."
"Yes, my lord."
After a brief inspection at the gate, the carriage rolled into the territory. One of the escorts rapped politely on the door, and Viscount Bjorn ordered them toward the Evergarden estate without a moment's hesitation.
"Hmm…"
From inside the moving carriage, Viscount Bjorn surveyed the land.
"Something feels… off."
He felt a strange sense of déjà vu — different from his last visit. The commoners still ducked their heads and trembled at the sight of a noble's carriage, that much was the same. And yet something was subtly, unmistakably different. On his previous visit the people had been gaunt, hollowed out by hunger. Now they looked merely a little thin. And faces that had always worn the dull cast of the half-dead now held a spark of life.
"The overall atmosphere has shifted a bit, but… nothing to be concerned about, I suppose."
He tilted his head, studying them, then looked away. Commoners were commoners — not worth fretting over. The odd feeling never quite managed to hold his full attention.
The carriage pressed on toward its destination.
"…Tsk. What a waste of size…"
Arriving at the count's mansion, Viscount Bjorn stepped down and took in the grounds, then clicked his tongue. However poor Evergarden territory might be now, they were still a count's house. The grand estate, built to impress since the first head of the family, was larger and more magnificent than the mansion on his own lands — and that fact had always pricked at his pride.
Well. It will all be mine eventually… so enjoy it while you can.
Even so, the purpose of today's visit rose in his mind, and the corner of his mouth lifted once more.
"We have been expecting you."
At the entrance, the count's elderly butler spotted Viscount Bjorn and came forward to offer his respects.
"Ah, the head butler. I trust the Count is well?"
"Ah… His Lordship is still asleep, I'm afraid. He had a bit to drink last night…"
The old butler approached with an awkward air, beads of sweat forming as he explained that Darian was still in bed.
"Dear me. The Count is quite the hearty drinker, isn't he? I've brought some teas excellent for a hangover — do pass them along."
"Yes, thank you very much. Allow me to show you to the drawing room first."
"Very well. Lead the way."
He had sent formal notice of his visit, and he had arrived in broad daylight rather than at some ungodly hour — yet the master of the house was still dead drunk. It was a disgrace for any noble. Viscount Bjorn, however, handed over the hangover teas as if it were the most natural thing in the world. This was hardly the first or second time. He had grown used to it.
Still the same idiot of a drunk… That swagger of his won't last much longer.
Inwardly he sneered at Darian without restraint; outwardly he played the considerate, well-mannered noble to perfection. Following the butler's lead, he arrived at the drawing room.
"Please wait just a moment."
"Of course. Take your time. I shall wait."
The old butler seated Viscount Bjorn, closed the drawing-room door, and withdrew.
"…Something feels rather bare. Was it always like this?"
Alone, Viscount Bjorn turned over the hollow impression he had felt since first stepping into the mansion. The corridors leading to the main hall on the first floor, once lavishly decorated with precious ornaments, now held only modest candle stands and potted plants of a more reasonable design. The large painting that had dominated the wall along the way to the drawing room was gone as well. The mansion had always been packed with rare and expensive things — yet today, though the overall atmosphere remained, every truly valuable piece seemed to have been quietly removed, replaced by simpler, cleaner furnishings.
He did not touch the refreshments or tea that had been set out in advance, still trying to pin down that strange sense of unease — when the door opened.
"Ah, it's been some time, Viscount Bjorn. I trust you have been well?"
"Oh — my word. Countess Evergarden!"
A woman stepped into the room. Soft, luminous silver-white hair. A perfectly fitted white dress hung with glittering jewels. The noble lady who appeared before Viscount Bjorn was none other than Freyja Evergarden herself.