Chapter 67
Chapter 67
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: uly
Chapter: 67
Chapter Title: Interviewing the Donors
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The first people we met were a couple edging toward old age.
They cheered us on enthusiastically when we mentioned our plans to launch a local youth newspaper, firing off answers to our questions with real passion.
I stepped out of the building and climbed back into the carriage before asking,
“How’d it go?”
“Well, the culprits seem to be the next ones? Avin Asman and Genda Asman, those two.”
Looks like he hadn’t picked up any Pleroma vibes from them.
It didn’t matter to us either way whether these folks were Pleroma or the next ones were.
We got out in front of the next house and knocked on the door again.
“Oh, come on in.”
A tall, gaunt old man greeted us with a smile.
They were about the same age as the previous pair. The difference was that these two were siblings.
Unfortunately, the novel didn’t emphasize the relationship between the two Pleroma members much. Elias never cared what it was—he just called them “those with that surname” scum.
Once inside, another person sat there draped in a shawl over her shoulders. Our intel said she was the younger sister.
Even though she was around the same age as her brother, she looked unwell—easily in her nineties, unlike her brother who could pass for mid-to-late sixties at most.
As Narke entered, he murmured to me through his divine power.
“Something’s off.”
I glanced at him, and he continued.
“No signs at all.”
“…That can’t be.”
“Yeah, your guess didn’t seem wrong. I really thought it had to be one of these two.”
Confusion flickered across Narke’s face.
This left two possibilities: either his insight had failed him, or…
There was a time discrepancy with the novel, or things were veering sharply off the novel’s path.
“Let’s start anyway. Talking might jog something.”
“…Right.”
He didn’t seem convinced, but Narke took a seat.
No matter what, we couldn’t just back out now after coming this far.
I’d have to draw out more details to make it easier for him to judge.
“Thank you for agreeing to this interview. I’m Felix Baizel, preparing a youth newspaper venture to condemn the secret police stripping away religious freedom and the government’s media censorship.”
Narke nearly burst out laughing but schooled his face into seriousness with a nudge from my elbow.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Michael Schultz.”
Truth be told, he’d laughed during the first visit too.
Afterward, he explained that my words matched my getup too perfectly to hold back.
The tall old man chuckled and asked casually,
“Nothing dangerous, I hope?”
“Not at all. We’re actually very interested in how the social safety net functions. Of course, our interests can’t be entirely divorced from religion or politics, but I can assure you there’s no risk of trouble on that account, sir.”
It was a bit of nonsense, but luckily they chuckled lightly and nodded.
“First off, I hear you’ve been supporting the Haarigenzi district orphanage for a long time. What sparked that?”
“It’ll be ten years soon. As you can see, we have no family left besides each other. Our business succeeded at the right time, but by then our family was all gone, so there was nowhere to spend the money.”
“War and plague.”
Narke relayed what he’d gleaned with his ability.
Right on cue, the old man continued.
“Truth is, most of our family died from the plague. We couldn’t afford a magic healer back then, but absurdly enough, after they were all gone, we had enough to hire one dozens of times over. That’s when we started supporting poor kids with medical aid, then gradually expanded to the orphanage.”
“I see. It must have been painful all those years, but to rise above it and do such meaningful work—truly admirable.”
“No, no. It’s thanks to those children growing up well that we could stand again.”
As I chatted with him, I steered the topic toward magic—whether any orphanage kids had shown magical talent, how many had benefited from magical medicine, and so on.
About thirty minutes in, I shifted to more sensitive ground to give Narke room to use his power properly.
“So, what are your thoughts on magic itself, sir? Did you ever wish to become a mage yourself?”
For a split second, both old folks’ eyes changed.
To non-mages, asking if they wanted to be mages could come off badly.
‘It’s not like you can become one just by wanting to, and it’s hard for us common non-mages to look favorably on the mage elite who rule us.’
One person’s scraping by day-to-day, while another wastes priceless mana on something frivolous like changing their hair color to stand closer to the gods. It’d just make you laugh.
In a society where mana might as well be money, the only way for them to break class barriers and gain mana was to join Pleroma.
Even that mostly ended in failure and death during revival experiments, so it was practically hopeless.
Reading their expressions, I continued calmly.
“No other meaning behind it. I often think it’d be nice if I were a mage. Especially here in Prussia—don’t non-Protestants face discrimination in public magical medicine coverage?”
The old man liked that, clapping his hands.
“You’re interested in this area! Yes, indeed. I often can’t fathom what those folks are up to. We’re of the same mind.”
*I’m a mage, though…*
Still, a state discriminating against citizens in public services based on religion felt pretty shocking from a modern Korean perspective, so yeah, we aligned there.
Having lived in this reality for over twenty years, my thinking leaned more non-mage than mage anyway.
“When I was young, I envied mages’ friends sometimes. But… I no longer wish to be one.”
“Could you share why?”
“Obsessing over what wasn’t given to me means missing the happiness I could have had.”
Narke nodded at me.
No oddities from him, it seemed.
I smiled and turned to his sister.
“Thank you for that wisdom. Do you feel the same, ma’am?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Don’t you find it unfair?”
It was for Narke, but the question was genuine for me too—even as a mage and high-ranking noble.
The one who looked especially aged clasped her trembling hands and spoke with effort.
“Young man, you might’ve already noticed how unreasonably this world runs. You’re not wrong. You see it clearly. They climb into public office effortlessly just for knowing magic, blind to pains they’ve never endured and never will, throwing tantrums because they can’t imagine lives they’ll never touch.”
She paused to catch her breath.
I waited for her to continue.
“My husband was dragged off to die in a war mages started. All my children died because the mage who was mayor that year slashed public magical medicine funding for street beautification costs and they couldn’t get treatment. How do you think we stay sane in this world?”
“…….”
I stayed silent, waiting.
She stared right through me, then spoke again.
“It starts with knowing we’re whole as we are.”
“…That’s enough, Lucas.”
Even through Narke’s power, no Pleroma signs from her.
We could tell what kind of people they were without his input.
Would folks declaring they could live with dignity in this absurd world without becoming mages fall for Pleroma’s temptations?
“I understand, sir. I’ll take it to heart.”
I said that, looking at them.
“You’ve been a great help. Thank you sincerely for your time.”
“No trouble. It was fun, thanks to you.”
The tall old man laughed heartily as he saw us out.
We caught a carriage the moment we left and sank into the seats.
‘…No way these are Pleroma either.’
Same with the first house, of course.
‘Let’s think. Why the discrepancy?’
The leading theory: the timeline didn’t match.
In the novel, it happened about half a year to a year from now.
They wouldn’t frame innocents as Pleroma in the novel, surely.
‘Something definitely happened in between.’
But even if no Pleroma among them, something still nagged.
The Pleroma stuff here was diverging from the novel.
Yet Elias hadn’t changed. Far from it—he’d noticed the missing people in this area a full year early.
Meaning the factors driving Elias were the same here as in the novel.
Thus, there were at least three Pleroma involved.
The novel just hadn’t caught them all.
I drew the carriage curtains shut, pulled the donor list from my bag, and handed it to Narke.
He scanned it, muttering,
“…Weird. This shouldn’t be. Your hunch was spot on.”
After that, with time to spare, we visited other prime suspects from the list, but no Pleroma among them.
Two days later, on Wednesday, we learned why our predictions didn’t match.
[Carriage Overturn Accident in Northern Capital’s Haarigenzi District… All Passengers Dead]
Narke and I were both speechless.
Haarigenzi was the area we’d visited Monday, home to the orphanage. All the donors we met lived there.
And the names under the article…
Avin Asman and Genda Asman—the people we’d met two days ago.
That evening, I headed back to Haarigenzi alone.
I checked their house, but aside from folks clearing it out, no one was around.
On the third day after the accident, I showed up at the house with Narke as planned.
Knock knock—
“Anyone home?”
No sound from inside.
The neighbors were starting to eye me and Narke suspiciously.
They probably took us for fortune hunters after the old couple’s wealth. Obvious without asking.
I knocked once more.
To make matters worse, rain started pouring. The accident was blamed on slippery roads from a downpour—guess the clouds hadn’t cleared.
‘If the novel’s plot still holds…’
This was just the beginning.
No—the moment before everything truly kicked off, and I was witnessing it.
Creak—
“Who’s there?”
I hadn’t expected the door to actually open, so my breath caught.
The person inside was a young woman I’d never seen before.
‘…Or have I?’
She looked vaguely like one of the old folks we’d met.
I kept staring at her face as I spoke.
“…Pleased to meet you. I’m Felix Baizel. If it’s not too rude, may I have your name?”
“Where are you from?”
“We’re prepping a new local paper. Feel free to verify if needed.”
I handed over the business card I’d whipped up days ago.
“Youth New Press? What brings you here?”
“I came to see Mr. Asman. Is he in?”
“Which Asman?”
That inexplicable sense of déjà vu from seeing her face made my heart race as I replied. I’d name just one here.
“I’m here to see Genda Asman.”
Halfway through, another thought struck me, and I added,
“You wouldn’t be her daughter, would you?”
I focused on her expression.
The young woman tilted her head at my words.
A curious smile spread across her face.
“Genda Asman’s dead. What’s this about?”