Chapter 242
Chapter 242
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 242
Chapter Title: How to Survive as the Second Son of a Magical Noble Family
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"It's a curse spell."
The forensic expert from Bavaria spread open the corpse's palm as he spoke. Right in the center of the athlete's palm was a small cross mark, just like the one that had appeared on mine.
The smell of formaldehyde mixed with faint traces of blood stung my nose. I was there in the Bavaria morgue with the criminology professor, the Minister of Magic, and a few magical scientists from his department to hear the autopsy results. It had been twenty-five minutes since the suicide.
I stared at it impassively, then glanced down at my own hand. Sea-colored mana rippled beneath the cross mark in the center. Even here in Bavaria, the traces of the curse spell remained unchanged.
'Even leaving the Pentaron district doesn't dispel the curse spell.'
Useful information. Worth remembering.
In the meantime, the forensic expert slid the tip of a short wand from the center of the corpse's palm toward the heart area.
"This wound that looks like stigmata is just superficial. Follow the flow of mana, and you'll see the curse mana has fully taken root in the core."
"Finding a way to dismantle it is the priority. Is there no method?"
The Minister of Magic asked, his face grim.
"Not yet. Just before you arrived, Minister, I consulted eight curse spell specialists from the Empire... but they all said it's a curse spell that's never been reported in academic circles. I've dissected plenty of bodies cursed to death over the years, but this is the first one I've seen that acts more like white magic. On top of that, it's wrapped in something like a barrier that prevents magical destruction. We can't even identify what that protective magic is right now."
"Hoo..."
"You'll want proof. Let me try a basic dismantling spell."
The forensic expert grabbed the corpse's hand with his gloved one and beckoned us over. It meant to hold the arm.
We lightly pressed down on the corpse's arm, and he chanted a short incantation, sending mana flowing through.
His mana passed straight through the corpse's arm without hindrance. But it hadn't encountered any interference at all. It had simply glided through smoothly.
The forensic expert spoke in a troubled voice.
"Even for a corpse, the curse spell here is still very much alive. And even if it's a mismatched type of curse spell, mana should normally clash and scrape away part of it. But you felt my mana just slide forward like it was oiled, didn't you?"
"......"
"...It means there's a protective spell we don't know about—one that's impossible to breach. I have no idea how such magic exists. All we can conclude is that Pleroma's technological prowess has advanced far beyond what we imagined—leagues ahead."
I stood still, looking down at the corpse's arm.
Magic that doesn't break under external attacks. Doesn't that smell familiar?
"......"
The Minister of Magic's face grew even darker. His subordinates looked like they'd been dragged straight to the gates of hell, their features twisted in agony.
Finally, the minister let out a deep sigh and rubbed his forehead with his hand. The thin white glove he wore showed no cross mark like mine. The forensic expert's thin rubber gloves revealed clean palms too.
Why? Neither had listened to the Imperial Newspaper broadcast at the time. They were both issuing on-site orders regarding the suicide victim and had no chance to tune in.
Another piece of information emerged. Those who hadn't heard—or hadn't understood—the voice were unaffected by the curse.
'Hmm... After rewinding time, should I block everyone's ears?'
Not realistic, of course.
I couldn't predict what variables might arise after rewinding time, or when the curse would strike, and I couldn't keep their ears plugged forever. Better to just rewind and immediately cancel the event. An option I hadn't even considered.
Canceling the event came with inevitable problems. First, I'd end up locked in a mental institution.
Second, even if by some luck they listened to me, a terrorist capable of setting up something this massive could create chaos at any large event, Pentaron or not. They might even blanket the entire capital in magic.
Time was short, so we barely said proper goodbyes to the forensic expert before warping to the interrogation room—our next stop.
Unlike the brightly lit morgue, the interrogation room relied on a single light, leaving it dim and murky. A musty, unpleasant odor hit us.
At the end of the table, tied to a chair, was an unconscious man. His head hung toward the floor, mouth agape as drool dripped steadily—likely passing out that way. He twitched his shoulders spasmodically now and then, moaning like he was on the verge of death.
"...Uh... ugh..."
"......"
The interrogation had clearly used divine power to completely scramble his brain. Fresh from viewing one corpse, now we faced another on the brink.
He looked mid-thirties, meaning he was probably in his fifties—a new human. According to the verbal briefing from the criminology professor, he was the Imperial Newspaper's sound director. And the culprit behind this [Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne and to the Lamb.] broadcast incident—the owner of that voice.
Less than five minutes after he switched the broadcast back to the live feed, he was arrested. His hands showed no traces of the curse spell, but his entire body's mana was flowing abnormally—likely from anxiety or something similar.
Beside him stood Narké holding a wand, and a palace divine magic user recording the interrogation. The Minister of Magic spoke in a voice still heavy with worry.
"Looks like it's gone well."
"You're here."
Narké turned around expressionlessly, then widened his eyes upon spotting me.
He clearly hadn't expected me here; the surprise lingered on his face. Honestly, I was a bit taken aback too. I hadn't realized Narké could use divine power to reduce someone to this state—no matter who they were or the circumstances.
But it wasn't worth mentioning aloud, and there was no need to let him know his real self differed from what I'd imagined. He'd probably read my thoughts anyway.
This wasn't the time to dwell on such trivialities. The clock showed 12:42—thirty minutes after the suicide. The government had cut relay communications everywhere except the emergency committee, so we couldn't check directly, but outside must be utter chaos.
"Is the interrogation over? What did he say?"
"Yes, it's done. But there are no readable memories."
"None?"
The minister's brow furrowed.
Narké nodded, replying dryly.
"That's right. It looks like the memories were deliberately erased."
"How is that possible? We arrested him right from the Imperial Newspaper's sound booth...!"
"Minister, you know how this incident unfolded. Just hearing this man's words cursed us all. A pre-calculated magic formula activated from his utterance. Erasing memories with divine power was likely another pre-set formula triggered later."
Narké answered the Minister of Magic while avoiding my eyes. My hand instinctively reached toward his. He wore black leather gloves, so I couldn't tell if he was cursed. He continued, eyes fixed on the floor.
"The real issue is how divine power was used to cast magic. Either a divine magic user was coerced aggressively, or... there was a divine magic user among Pleroma."
"......"
Another valuable piece of information.
Regardless of its quality, the minister looked ready to collapse.
His trembling hand fumbled inside his jacket and pulled out a cheroot. Lighting it with an artifact lighter seemed even more arduous.
I understood how hard it was to stay sane in this situation. If millions died in this terror attack, he'd be held responsible as the Minister of Magic—fired at best, executed or thrown in an underground prison at worst.
How had the emperor who killed 353 mages in Elsass-Lothringen kept his throne?
He'd executed everyone involved to dodge the blame.
Was the minister lucky not to be cursed? He might prefer dying as a victim. The honor and life he'd built over a lifetime were now sacrificial offerings to bolster the emperor's popularity. Few could stay composed facing social and physical death.
A man who could explode from the curse spell at any moment stood right beside him, but I got it.
"We thought we had it... Memories... erased... Now... Ahem."
Muttering in a shaky voice, the minister covered his mouth, shook his head, then rubbed his forehead. Cold sweat beaded on his brow.
"Excellency Ascanien."
"Yes."
"Ascanien. It's like having Vice Minister Adrian Ascanien beside me—it puts my mind slightly at ease."
"......"
His voice was barely a whisper, like an ant crawling. He seemed to lack the strength to speak louder.
The sole living person connected to the terror, captured by the government. Interrogating the sound director was the most direct, easiest way to get intel on the attack. It had been his last hope, and now that it was dashed, he'd lost his composure.
The minister kept sucking on the cheroot with shaking hands. Exhaling smoke, he said,
"What do you think, Excellency?"
"About what?"
"Unlike other politicians, I've never dismissed you due to your age. Your brother, Adrian Ascanien, was a genius who entered the palace during his time at the 3rd Education Institute. Given that, I never thought it odd for someone like you, on the cusp of adulthood, to have exceptional abilities. And you're blood kin to that genius, after all."
Others apparently dismissed me because of my age.
Irrelevant and out of left field. A cornered man doesn't care how he sounds, so instead of pointing it out, I just stared ahead.
"......"
"You—you can find answers even when everything's blocked, can't you? I believe in your abilities."
"You're expecting too much of me."
I replied impassively.
But I didn't say I couldn't find answers. I'd already found them; I couldn't lie.
I couldn't tell this world's Minister of Magic everything I knew.
"No, not at all."
His firm, arbitrary declaration left me staring down at him silently. He slowly turned his head, looking up at me with eyes that would sell his soul to the devil for survival.
"You know what I mean. I trust what you've shown us so far. So please, anything at all—your deductions on this terror attack, right now, as detailed as possible."
* * *
[Why won't they let us out?! Let us go!]
[What is this?! We need explanations, not this crap! Aaaah!]
The sound of something burning crackled. They were likely collecting and burning Imperial Newspapers to prevent secondary incidents.
From the artifact on the strategy room table poured endless cries from new and old humans trapped in Brandenburg New National Park. Wails formed a grim backdrop.
The government announced that 1.37 million of the 2.31 million at the event site were cursed. Those sobs came from people like me, marked on their palms.
As soon as the marks appeared, the government hurriedly evacuated the crowd from Brandenburg New National Park checkpoints. But the curse didn't vanish, so they all returned and were locked inside.
The Imperial Newspaper now just parroted that they were seeking a solution.
'Anyway.'
With the second piece of intel secured, the first crucial one was taking shape.
I'd found the answer to 'Why did the athlete have no choice but to suicide?'
Now, another question to address.
The suicided athlete and the Imperial Newspaper sound director.
What did they have in common?
The emergency committee was focused on that too; it was their question now.
Looking down at their compiled data, I said,
"Both spoke in trembling voices. That's the commonality."
"......"
"It might sound like a joke. But you all know what I mean."
I glanced at Leo, seated here, then surveyed the scattered remnants of the committee—not even half remained.
The Minister of Magic was too panicked to think straight, but the others would have caught on.
"Both were cursed by the perpetrator. We confirmed traces on the athlete's corpse. The sound director's hands are clean now, but you said the mana flow around his core was unnatural, impossible without interference."
"Yes, that's correct."
A doctor from Bavaria, here at the Magic Department's request and on the committee, nodded.
"And right before dying, the athlete said 'I can't do this' three times before killing himself. Up to here, I assume we're all on the same page."
"......"
"The athlete and sound director were both blackmailed by the terrorist. Something like: 'Recite Revelation 7:10, and the curse spell spreads to everyone who hears your recitation. Recite it to spread the magic to all, and your curse lifts—but refuse, and you die alone...' That sort of thing."
In other words, the athlete clearly knew the consequences of uttering that specific phrase.
He'd said he couldn't curse everyone present and survive alone.
Disobeying meant the curse would spread and kill him anyway, so he suicided publicly to resist the terrorist and heighten national vigilance—or the perp gave a deadline like 'Fail to recite by then, and the curse spreads fully,' prompting him to end it early.
The dead can't speak, so the exact truth remains unknown.
"In short, the athlete and sound director were hosts and triggers exploited as tools."
A senior official from the Magic Department nodded at my words.
"...Yes. Well said. No objections, I assume. The problem is that the athlete's sacrifice was in vain. Why the stigmata shape too... It's a real headache."
"The real priority is we still haven't found a dismantling method."
People cornered too tightly resort to mental victories. Reminding them of reality drew all eyes to me.
The committee had tried dozens of methods so far. Checking the magic's range across borders, pumping the core with drugs near death.
All failures.
"Isn't discovering the dismantling method more urgent than confirming they were blackmailed?"
Fact. Knowing the exact blackmail details was useful only to me, with the power to reset everything— not to those doomed to wait and die.
I raised my ungloved right hand and said,
"You know if this curse activates fully, we all die the instant it does."
"...We know. Then why hasn't it exploded yet? They could have killed us all right away."
The minister's brain was truly rigid. He kept smoking his cheroot with trembling hands, taking deep breaths.
Why the terrorist held our lives hostage yet did nothing more.
Why, indeed?
The retry was imminent. I'd gathered the two initial pieces, and securing this last one would complete my desired picture perfectly.
Looking at him, I said quietly,
"They must want something from us, Minister."