Chapter 333
Chapter 333
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 333
Chapter Title: How to Survive as the Second Son of a Magical Noble Family
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Mecklenburg stared blankly ahead, feeling as though something wrapped around his heart had shattered. The man beside him had just driven a monsignor's core to the brink of destruction. The cold eyes peering through disheveled ash-blond hair sent chills down his spine. It felt like all the blood was draining from his limbs. Ascanien pulled out a handkerchief, wiped the monsignor's face clean, and straightened him up.
“Nothing happened to you. You thought you were under attack for a moment, but you just tripped over your own feet. A monsignor of your stature wouldn’t feel pain from something like this, would he?”
“…….”
“Nothing happened.”
Ascanien murmured like he was brainwashing the dazed monsignor, staring into his eyes. It almost sounded like he was speaking not just to the man in front of him, but to other monsignors beyond. That might have been exactly right. When the monsignor’s legs buckled, Ascanien caught him and patted his back.
“It must be tough, right? Let’s turn off the mental communication for a bit. Everything will be fine. Just let go of your thoughts and relax.”
“…….”
“Alright, let’s split up—one, two. I have to make a quick stop somewhere for insurance, so stay here, Senior. If anyone comes, tell them no one was here. If they ask for your identity, say you’re a monsignor sent from the Hamburg Archdiocese at the leadership’s request, and give a commoner surname as an alias.”
Mecklenburg felt his mind go blank for a moment. It was like all the blood in his body rushed out through his heels.
Alone. He feared the man who had cracked another’s core as a threat, but being left alone terrified him just as much. Where was he even going? In a place swarming with enemies, where could he possibly stop? It was too dangerous. And wasn’t his blood still surging backward right now? He should tell him not to go—Mecklenburg’s lips twitched.
“…….”
No sound came out, no matter how hard he tried. In this situation—or any situation—he couldn’t rely on someone else. He couldn’t afford to look that way. Above all, probability-obsessed Mecklenburg didn’t even think he could produce better results than Nikolaus.
Mecklenburg nodded. Ascanien, looking uneasy himself, forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“See you later.”
* * *
Ascanien kept holding onto Mecklenburg’s arm as they walked. He occasionally sent a trickle of divine power through, but it seemed less intentional and more like he just wanted to stay attached. Mecklenburg finally grumbled curtly.
“How old are you?”
Ascanien fell silent, as if he didn’t even know his own age, then answered with hollow eyes.
“No matter how you count, I’ve lived less than you, Senior.”
Mecklenburg didn’t know what kind of counting that was, but even in his half-dazed state, the pointed response showed he’d gotten the point. In any case, it meant he had no intention of letting go of his arm. Mecklenburg glanced at the mysterious scrap-metal carrier Ascanien had picked up from that earlier room and turned his head away. He’d asked sarcastically about his age, but rather than childish curiosity, it felt more like he was being escorted. With Ascanien’s iron grip cutting off circulation to his arm and his left hand pressing on the hostage monsignor’s back, Mecklenburg even felt like he’d become a Pleroma himself.
At this point, it was worth recalling what Ascanien had said to the monsignor in the basement earlier.
[Alright, this is how you’ll respond to what I said before: ‘We’re here on orders to capture anyone crossing into this building; we don’t know His Excellency the Bishop’s location.’ That makes sense. An operation this big wouldn’t be a single archdiocese’s doing on their own, so the bishop must have gone somewhere we don’t know about.]
He’d talked about finding the bishop earlier. Knowing it was impossible, how did he plan to do it? As that thought crossed his mind, light flowed from Ascanien’s hand on the monsignor’s back, and the man flinched. Terror returned to his dazed face. Ascanien stared at him unblinking and continued.
[Let’s head to the control room.]
And so, they were now heading to the control room.
Control room. Mecklenburg had a hunch what he meant, but no certainty. He narrowed his eyes at Ascanien’s blue eyes, which seemed to have lost focus. His condition was worsening. Ascanien, hand still on the monsignor’s back, said to Mecklenburg.
“We’ll have to get in on our own power.”
“…….”
Mecklenburg’s hand skipped past the wand holster at his waist to the revolver holster beside it. Familiar metal fit perfectly in his grip. Shooting something made of vitriol was something Mecklenburg was confident in. Reaching the massive control room door, they spotted two Pleromas. Ascanien spoke to them as they took a step closer.
“Friedrich Schmidt of Görlitz.”
“Are you an auxiliary bishop or a monsignor? We heard support was coming from Görlitz, but….”
Boom—!
“…!”
The Pleromas’ faces twisted. A burst of light exploded without warning, stabbing into their eyes like blades. Ascanien cast a sleep spell without even chanting. Their eyes slackened for a moment, then snapped back with horror as their hands, gripping black wands, slowly rose toward him in Mecklenburg’s vision.
Bang—! Thud—
But they were too late.
The same noise repeated five more times. Flesh and blood sprayed. Clear blood flowed briefly before vitriol flooded the floor. Mecklenburg ejected the spent cylinder into his clutch and loaded a fresh one. Ascanien dispelled the soundproofing spell and stared at the control room door.
“How many revolver cartridges did you bring?”
“…36. Didn’t you give them to me? Forgot already?”
He’d insisted on avoiding firearms, then suddenly made him take two months’ worth… With that ridiculous amount, how could he forget? The remaining 30 were probably with Ascanien.
Ascanien stood still, then answered dryly.
“That’s right. How many left?”
“No idea.”
“Gonna forfeit half your Territorial Army officer’s pay?”
“…….”
Mecklenburg smiled faintly, clenching his fist, but didn’t retort to the jab. Unlike Nikolaus, he couldn’t keep track of how many cylinders he’d swapped in a pinch like this. The time since being dragged here wasn’t training—it was all combat. Enemies everywhere, enemy territory. Raw blood scent wafted from the fallen monsignor. Ascanien’s mana churned massively beside him. Yet his face showed no tension, only deep fatigue. Maybe from unwanted tasks or unwanted circumstances. Ascanien put his monsignor to sleep, swallowed twice, and said quietly.
“Perfect timing for heads to roll. How many minutes?”
“12.”
Ascanien had been asking about time nonstop. From their initial drop here to now. He muttered without changing expression.
“Doing well.”
“How much did you expect for that to be ‘doing well’?”
“18.”
The soulless instant reply came before the question finished. Specific enough to embarrass the asker, it was obvious he was tossing out numbers lazily.
Then Ascanien tugged Mecklenburg to a side door and touched it cautiously. Empty room—Ascanien smiled faintly and beckoned him. Three fingers extended, mimicking shooting the doorknob—it meant shoot here.
[Not going into the control room?]
Mecklenburg thought, then shook his head. The control room door was probably sealed with Pleroma magic now. Regretting killing the guards crossed his mind, but since Ascanien hadn’t stopped him, using them wasn’t the answer.
As Ascanien cast soundproofing, Mecklenburg shot beside the doorknob and keyhole.
Bang—! Click—
Boom—!
Ascanien kicked the door, ripping off the knob entirely, entered, then carefully refitted it. Mecklenburg watched incredulously and said.
“…Feels like we’ve been playing hide-and-seek with Pleromas since earlier. So, how do we break through this wall now that we’re here?”
Ascanien smiled silently, positioned Mecklenburg against the wall behind the door, and stood by the entrance. He muttered.
“You don’t look the type, Senior, but you come up with creative ideas sometimes. Tension getting to you?”
Kwaaaang—! Kwagwagwang—
The door flew into view. Ascanien’s mana spread like a net overhead, yanking someone from the hallway into the room. He’d already drawn his revolver, hauled the Pleroma up, wrapped around his neck, and pressed the gun to his temple. Nodding at the now-open adjacent door—the control room—he said.
“Kind of you to open it.”
“You…!”
“…!”
Mecklenburg gritted his teeth at the black air surging before him and aimed his wand. He had no choice. Ascanien’s divine power was blocking the vitriol as much as possible, but it wasn’t enough. As the Pleroma’s foot scraped the floor, Mecklenburg ramped up his wand’s mana output. But the other side was faster.
Bang—! Splurt—
An explosion, then a mud-like burst. A familiar sound.
“Aaahhhh!”
The Pleroma screamed and collapsed. Mecklenburg finally understood. Ascanien had shot the bishop in the back without hesitation. Pleromas don’t die from one bullet. Even hit right behind the heart, he writhed in pain rather than passing out—vitriol replacing the damage. After the shot, Mecklenburg stared at Ascanien in inner turmoil. Yeah, he got it. Ascanien’s opposition to firearms was clearly for civilians. No reason not to use them on the nation’s enemies who put them here. No reason to panic. Hadn’t he himself used them gleefully? Still, seeing it from Ascanien, who’d minimized gun use, felt alien.
Bang—!
—Unless the Lord guards the city, the watchman’s vigilance is in vain!
“Uwaaaah! Aaaah!”
Even as his eyes closed, the Pleroma thrashed vitriol everywhere, trying to rise. Despite distraction, wariness or something kept it from working instantly. Vitriol surged wildly. Holding like this would break Ascanien’s soundproofing and bring reinforcements. As Ascanien purified amid the pitch-black air obscuring vision, Mecklenburg aimed at him.
“That’s enough.”
Ascanien’s voice came from below, as if reading his plan. The Pleroma’s noises faded.
Thud—
Ascanien tossed the syringe aside and stood. Vitriol cleared, revealing the scene. He’d injected the Pleroma with the drug from the first priest. Did he know what it was?
“Seemed better to save divine power with the drug. Needed time to transfer it.”
Ascanien said expressionlessly. Unclear what he was explaining, but Mecklenburg realized it was about the gun. Whatever, Ascanien was different now. His patience waning, replaced by fatigue. Mecklenburg bit his lip, sensing the decline.
Ascanien glanced at the unconscious control room Pleroma and nodded.
“High enough to be in the control room—probably the bishop. Auxiliary or vice or whatever, but… we can achieve our goal clearly.”
Our goal. He almost demanded how, with the guy already out cold, but guessing, Mecklenburg nodded and entered. After Ascanien followed, he layered locking spells he knew on the door. No spatial magic on the furnishings—good. No casual portals meant it was important.
As Mecklenburg surveyed, Ascanien inspected iron pipes, inlets, buttons. Strange mana emanated from the walls—runes or artifacts?
Observing the room sourly, Mecklenburg patted his back.
“I’ll take some more cartridges.”
“Go ahead.”
Ascanien tossed his clutch. Rummaging, Mecklenburg pulled a small box.
‘Hm?’
Was this here? Thumbing the lid revealed a red-gemmed earring. Glancing at Ascanien, he asked.
“What’s this earring? Artifact? Use it now.”
“…….”
Ascanien snatched it silently and tucked it into his inner pocket. He resumed checking inlets, muttering oddly.
“Pleromas are trying to secure influence over the Empire. This is their second activity, or maybe the first full push.”
“Don’t some people know?”
“Crises are still opportunities.”
It sounded self-directed—Mecklenburg reflexively looked. No anxiety in Ascanien’s voice. Calm and clear, he continued.
“An opportunity to inflict massive damage on the Brandenburg Archdiocese and friendly ones. If they’re prepping war, cut off limbs before it starts. Right?”
“…….”
Mecklenburg paused at the sudden topic, then nodded.
“If you say so.”
What did it matter? You’re Nikolaus Ernst. Ascanien smiled softly. Turning, he said.
“One of my friends can read minds. Once, he pitied how I build closeness alone…”
Ascanien stared ahead blankly, then muttered.
“But turns out I’m not in a position for that. Anyway.”
Thud—!
He slammed the bag he’d been carrying onto the desk. Leaning on it, he glanced around.
“Look, Senior. So much stuff here, huh? Honestly, I don’t know what to touch.”
“Why so brazen? What even is this place?”
Ascanien shrugged with a knowing smile.
“Where we touch Pleroma world’s air. Interferes with air in every space created by Brandenburg Archdiocese Pleromas.”
As expected. Mecklenburg eyed him seriously. Glancing at the huge iron tubes and inlets behind, he said.
“You know that drug we got earlier? I’ve been injected with it before. Pleromas developed it to mimic mind-control magic via drugs.”
Injected before? Mecklenburg panicked but calmed, asking.
“…No label on the vial. How’d you know it was the same before injecting that Pleroma?”
“…….”
Ascanien stared, then replied indirectly.
“Pleromas put in real effort. Same drug in IV, oral, even aerosol forms. Lucky I escaped before gas, but knowing it exists is good intel.”
As Mecklenburg stared silently, Ascanien smiled and explained.
“If the bishop’s not here, call him. Or we go to him.”
He opened the bag. Solid mana drug chunks filled it. Tearing packaging, he dumped into inlets—they vaporized. Not gone, but…
Bang—
Ascanien slammed his staff, deploying purification, pouring into every inlet. So, into every space-magic site in Brandenburg Archdiocese… Mecklenburg chuckled incredulously, hand drifting to his gun unconsciously.
“First time casting mind-control magic over an entire Pleroma archdiocese. Nice to return what I endured.”
Laughter lit Ascanien’s face. Ecstasy? Not just revenge. Mecklenburg intuited. This is…
Kwaaaaaang—!!
An ear-splitting roar.
If the bishop’s not here, call him—or we go. They got the latter.
Countless clergy in bishop robes appeared. Ascanien, as if he’d seen this before, showed no surprise. Satisfaction spread across his face.
“All here.”