Chapter 235
Chapter 235
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 235
Chapter Title: The Matches' Cipher
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The letters I found today were A, E, E, G, L, L, N, S.
The ones from before were T, A, S.
And...
Amid the screams of rats devouring each other, I slowly picked up a single matchstick. It was the only one without an alphabet letter on the cut end. The tip looked like it had been trimmed a bit.
Instead of a letter, there was a hole drilled into the stick.
Four from the top, then a pause, two more, another pause, then five.
"4, 2, 5... huh."
Were the numbers themselves the code, or was this another cipher needing decryption?
If it was the latter, then starting from the front: D, B, E—the fourth, second, and fifth letters of the alphabet. A classic, standard interpretation.
Or maybe the classic approach of taking the first letters from the beginning of a book or pages. I had no idea which book yet, though.
Or since it was a matchstick, maybe check the periodic table. That would make it Be, He, B in order.
"Beheb."
Beheben. To correct, to remove... something like that. A verb that wasn't bad from a cult's perspective. Though it had two blind spots.
Or maybe...
"Hmm."
"This one's for me, right?"
Heike's words cut through my thoughts.
I'd already found the answer anyway.
I let the smile I'd unconsciously been wearing fade as I muttered.
"Can't say that's entirely true."
It had arrived starting the day after Heike and I had hung out together.
But it seemed clearly related to Heike too. Otherwise, the matches would've been delivered in my name, not his.
I wrapped the matchstick in mana and carefully lifted it. Shifting my attention away from it, I suddenly noticed the musty basement smell mixed with the stench of blood and pus assaulting my nose.
Unidentified machine boxes, controllers, and wires were scattered on the shelves.
There were about thirty cages around. Each was packed tight with rats trampling over one another—roughly fifty per cage, by my count.
"1,500 rats."
I couldn't help but laugh.
What if I released these into the VIP quarters the night before Pentaron? Or dumped every last one into the arena on the day itself?
The games would shut down completely, and half of the 150,000 spectators at the opening ceremony would go berserk. Maybe they'd even calculated the numbers that precisely.
And these rats wouldn't just bite the people inside—they'd spread across Berlin in no time. To Brandenburg, to all of Prussia, and if not contained in time, across the entire Empire. The dead rats' corpses would leak contaminated drugs and vitriol, poisoning the soil and water.
"...So this is their Pentaron terror plan. Not bad."
Simple, yet clean and classic.
Especially since beastkin issues had been a hot social topic until last year, putting everyone on edge—but this year, human rampages had escalated, drawing attention away from beastkin threats.
"A field everyone thinks is guarded, making it safer."
Smart thinking.
Of course, it had its own blind spots, so I wasn't committing yet.
I tapped the artifact to call the investigators upstairs.
"Detective."
[Yes. What is it?]
"Could you look into the occupations of those two who rampaged?"
[Occupations...?]
"Yes. As soon as possible, please."
I lit the room bright with mana, spotting a cluttered bulletin board on a side table in the distance. I approached it. Each sheet listed execution plans by date, though the center one was illegible from spilled coffee.
But that didn't mean there were no clues. I flipped to a particularly frayed page and checked the date at the top.
[2/24] [Saturday]
Saturday.
Pentaron opening day.
What had they planned for the ceremony?
As I'd thought earlier, their scheme was obvious.
I read the mostly smudged execution plan and spoke into the artifact.
"I've found the Pentaron terror plan."
* * *
"I'm so glad you're safe. I apologize for subjecting you to such an unpleasant sight."
7 p.m.
The Imperial Mage Alliance Chairman made a show of regret as he personally greeted the upperclassmen from the French Academy Pruisance.
Antoine Gramont and the delegation had moved from the hotel to the Chairman's estate, far outside.
With the Tees Hotel sealed for security, this place served as temporary lodging and emergency headquarters until new VIP quarters were ready.
Mathieu, who'd rushed over upon hearing the news, shook his head.
"No, it's fine. The kids are safe, but I'm worried about the victims who were hurt. I sincerely pray the Empire escapes this ordeal soon."
"Thank you."
Antoine Gramont glanced at his classmates surveying the estate, then scowled and bowed his head again.
The Chairman must've been filthy rich—his Brandenburg property seemed endless.
Mana lamps lit everywhere made the gardens dazzling. Even as everyone gawked at the vast grounds and chapel-like interior, Gramont's face stayed stony.
He knew his classmates were subtly watching him, but he had no urge to rein in his temper.
The day had started normal, just like yesterday—then everything flipped in an instant.
Even low-threat rampagers could've dragged them all down without Eschet's duo. Threat level was just a gauge for handling mages; it didn't mean the rampager lacked lethality.
In the end, that's all that remained from today.
He owed his life to Ascanien, the guy he'd spent the day sniping at.
None of his classmates seemed to see it as a debt, but to Gramont, being saved by a rival hit harder.
As soon as they entered the briefing room, he spotted Eschet's Ascanien and Ainsidel already seated.
"Looking again?"
Ascanien wiggled his fingers at Gramont. Gramont glared daggers and took his seat. Ascanien just shrugged instead of bristling.
"...The incident concluded at 6:25 p.m., with Lucas Ascanien Eschet Vice-Captain handling everything from report to cleanup. Vitriol levels in the area's air are now 1.8%—safe to breathe. Water quality is fine too. Both rampagers were bitten by contaminated rats, with no further casualties. The Tees Hotel's barrier faced no direct attacks, however..."
Investigators and Imperial Central Hospital mages followed with reports.
Thirty minutes in, the end was in sight. The Chairman himself had taken over, pitching obvious countermeasures to the French team and officials.
"...We'll swiftly establish quarantine protocols and announce them tomorrow. Also, we've assigned Eschet's Narke Farnese—a divine mage—and two of His Majesty's direct priests to your team. Finally, Vice-Captain Lucas Ascanien Eschet and Captain Heike Ainsidel, please step forward."
The Eschet duo advanced without expression.
"You've done a tremendous service. On behalf of the Empire, allow me a humble thanks."
A towering figure—the Chairman himself—nodded to mages freshly inducted into the Imperial ranks. Ascanien and Ainsidel smiled politely and shook hands. As expected, every mage except Gramont applauded.
"We'll now proceed to the main meeting, so we'll clear out. Your new quarters are the old Crown Prince's Palace in Berlin. It's not fully ready, so please wait here a bit. Feel free to explore the grounds."
As the briefing wrapped, Ascanien and others rose and filed out.
The Chairman's attendant offered to escort Gramont, but he just sat silently.
An hour later, perhaps.
Ignoring everyone, sitting alone, the door opened.
"Still here? Your friends are out sightseeing."
Antoine Gramont looked up wordlessly at the intruder.
Ascanien stood before him in audience attire, gazing down. Meeting those shadow-darkened crimson eyes, Ascanien spoke.
"Now that you've seen it yourself, no more curiosity, right?"
"..."
"Seen it yourself." He knew exactly what that meant.
Gramont had prodded hoping Ascanien would catch on during the tour, but now wished he hadn't. Yet Ascanien clearly knew what Gramont had said and wanted all along.
"Or do you still want a direct match? Get permission then."
Gramont's brow furrowed.
After the banquet, rep Mathieu Aubigny had told them Ascanien wasn't suspicious for top honors: "Haven't talked long, but he's no ringer."
That was fair. Aubigny had decades in the French order; they should've trusted him.
Imperial caliber was baseline—but Ascanien was battle-hardened. Eschet was barely two weeks old; how?
Gramont, above average himself, could gauge him easily.
Ascanien's pink eyes, now translucent in the light, met Gramont's, then drifted down.
"No answer. I'm willing, but has your will vanished?"
"..."
After witnessing that, how could he still want to fight? He'd seen Gramont's attitude clearly, yet said this?
Ascanien's lip curled. His gaze leisurely scanned Gramont's crumpled face.
"Then allow me to formally request of His Excellency, the top student of Pruisance High at the Imperial Academy of the Third French Empire. Spare me ten minutes for a spar?"
"..."
Polite, gentle tone—no mockery. But it was a blatant jab. His tilted head and gaze brimmed with easy amusement.
Must've found Gramont's frozen idiocy hilarious. No rebuttal, even knowing everything. His heartbeat hammered his ears. Ascanien scrutinizing his flushed, rage-reddened face grated.
He knew.
Skill-wise, he didn't want to dwell. Even there, victory wasn't assured.
But factoring calm and response? Gramont couldn't beat him no matter how many spars. Battle sense and mentality mattered as much as skill. They'd strutted pride, yet froze against Pleroma scraps—saved by Pleroma's Ascanien, life-debted.
Gramont averted his eyes, swallowing guilt and defeat. Ascanien studied him, then murmured low.
"I already know you're an outstanding mage."
"...?"
Gramont scowled up.
"You're Pruisance High's top. No need to rush, envy, or self-flagellate over not reacting today. You're prepared, and you'll reach the top in that field you're regretting now."
Gramont's lips twitched, eyes blinking.
"...What?"
What was this? Flattery?
No. The next words confirmed it. Ascanien patted his shoulder.
"But if someone with your talent drowns in self-destructive emotions—showing malice to yourself and me like today..."
"..."
"You need to know that future won't come."
Not flattery—admonishment.
Being lectured by a peer was disorienting.
But he knew it rang true. Ascanien was spot-on.
True didn't mean he'd bow easily. Gramont rolled his eyes, silent.
Was this "no more teasing or blaming"? Forgive the rudeness, let's move on peacefully?
Grateful now that fight-will had evaporated, but accepting favors bruised pride. Especially from the one he'd provoked.
Dumbfounded in every way, Gramont swallowed, frowning.
Ascanien watched, then spoke.
"As Imperials, we'll cross paths again someday. You'll have to face me too."
"..."
"Let's smile then."
Ascanien gripped Gramont's shoulder, saw the raw confusion in his eyes, smiled, and rose.
* * *
I'd probably be the only one smiling. Even if we met those guys again someday.
Still, some things needed saying.
I left Gramont's room and beckoned Heike by the door.
"No wonder that Gramont guy's top of high school."
His mindset mirrored Philip's, but skill likely matched mine, unique ability impressive too. Talent domain, not pure skill—but indispensable for leadership.
Meaning, if not me, Lucas would deal with him for decades. No crime, no Imperial firing; upward trajectory ahead.
"Didn't expect him to look ready to cry after I just mirrored it back."
Kid was a kid. Face ballooning with rage surprised me a bit.
But despite that personality, no attacking or smashing? Commendable. If rotten to the core, I'd have hammered sense in—but no need. Personality beyond my control; hierarchy set. Diplomatic run-ins inevitable pre-retirement.
Heike said flatly.
"That guy's handled."
"Handled?"
"He kept dissing our country. You too."
He knew?
Heike knowing felt miraculous.
I nodded.
"You noticed, huh."
"Of course. Kept yapping at you."
Heike's stoic face. Hearing this from him was shocking. But how to respond?
"...Yeah. You knew. No need to mind now. Most'd act like that. Neighboring countries won't think kindly of Empire or me."
Gramont just showed it overtly; inwardly, they'd all want to probe. Honestly, as a neighboring high school mage, I'd be curious too.
'Pleroma rumors aren't new.'
"Can't show off daily like today."
Heike voiced my thought. He smiled unusually, spouting nonsense.
"All-Nations Friendship Tourney on opening day'd solve it quick. I wanna enter. Curious about other mages' skills."
'Enter that?'
Heike's dreamy eyes; I gave a vague smile, grounding him.
"Good chance, sure. But Heike, we're not athletes. Can't."
"True. Shame."
The All-Nations Friendship Tourney was an opening event—rep mages sparring. Reps from Pentaron athlete squads, obviously.
Wanting in? Didn't seem the type, but like Helene Ainsidel said, magic-passionate.
'That competitive fire lands top ranks at Imperial 2 Academy.'
I smiled lightly, walking silently in search of rest spots.
Chatting with friends felt normal-ish, but no relaxing now.
Could I, with the Pentaron terror plan uncovered?
Beyond rampagers, neither French team nor press knew. Fearing Pentaron ruin, gag order hit post-Emperor report.
So all smiled peacefully; I, knowing truth, couldn't.
Pleroma wouldn't stop at that. That shop the only storage? Doubtful.
In thirty minutes, another countermeasures meeting—with Crown Prince. Terror on opening day warranted it.
Problem: they were insane. Still, rig the board at this meeting to thwart Pleroma.
Same resources mishandled couldn't avert known incidents.
I feared the worst-case.
Thud—
Then, something small dropped through a large side window.
A familiar blue note, folded origami-style.
"...Huh."
Heike inhaled, halting. I checked no one around, approached the window, picked it up, unfolded.
[Read now.]
"..."
I suppressed a smile.
Obvious sender.
Freiburg Archbishop calling. Two days early.
"...Can't leave here."
Can't barge onto someone's roof.
Waiting still, another note fell outside.
[Sending pigeon. Come just that far.]
Pigeon? Why go this far?
'Hmm.'
Worth meeting.
Fitting his timing anyway, but this urgency meant reason.
"Lucas. There."
Heike pointed outside. White pigeon circled. Follow it, obviously.
I nodded; Heike turned blankly, vanished. Eschet rule: no reaction to confirmed stalkers.
Even better—Heike knew stalker summoned me; issues now, easy handling.
'No.'
Wrong angle.
Sent note despite knowing teammate nearby—plans to return on time, no trouble.
I checked watch, headed to estate gardens.
Pigeon didn't check if following, flew to on-site gallery. Vanished ahead.
I memorized path, went to gallery rear—last sighting.
'Here?'
Gallery blocked estate windows. And...
"...!"
Ground dropped. Like dorm before. Vision blackened, light returned.
Nearly lost balance.
Someone caught my back—no head-crack.
"Ah, sorry."
Familiar ancient voice.
I slowly opened squeezed-shut eyes.
Stalker—masked like opera night, hair up—hovered over my face from behind. Here...
His estate. Same prior scenery, moon beyond window alien to our world.
Gloved hand over my nose/mouth, he asked stiffly, rapid-fire.
"Time to next schedule?"
"..."
"Too hasty. I'll say options; nod. Over 6 hours? 5? 4? 3? 2? None. 1 hour? 50 min? 40? 30... Ah, 30 minutes."
Bang—!
I swung arm, mana-flinging him, slumped to floor. Whatever, he muttered half-dazed.
"Good. 30 minutes here is half-day. Soon Thursday there, so rushed. Need to ask you."
He scanned wildly, sat eye-level.
Never thought sane, but eyes more unfocused than usual.
"Seen any weird phrases or letters?"