Chapter 108
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 108
Chapter Title: Prep Work (2)
The northern night deepened.
Whiiiiiing...
The frigid night winds battering the land had to take a long detour around the walls of snow and ice piled high by the men of the North.
Crack! Snap! Rumble!
Thick coniferous logs, snapped barehanded by the knights, crackled as they burned in the mud hearth.
Scarlet resin bubbled and oozed from the split wood grain, soon transforming into a sharp, tangy aroma that wafted through the air.
Bear and reindeer meat, butchered by the knights, lay spread out on the ice.
"Alright, let's get to it!"
Hunding grinned as he drew his dagger.
Hot steam rose from the guts of the game.
"Time to grill some up?"
Scolseiji yanked out the intestines, squeezing out the contents by hand.
Soon, the soft innards were skewered on pine branches and sizzled away.
Crimson chunks of flesh, finely sliced, went onto the searing hot stone slabs.
Dvorbak, among the knights, grumbled.
"You gonna serve this to fancy ladies at a tea party? Why chop it so fine? Just hack off a hunk and chow down."
Frustrated, he snatched up a hand axe and slammed it down on a bear's hind leg perched on the log.
The thick bone snapped, meat tearing free.
Red blood swirled along the tree's growth rings before trickling down the bark's grooves, melting the snow scarlet.
The feast of fire and ice began.
The knights sprinkled salt, pepper, and dried herb scraps over the raw slabs on the stones and grates.
Sizzle-sizzle-sizzle...
Thick cuts browned, filling the air with spicy herb scents.
Hot fat bleeding from the meat pooled in the stone's depressions.
"Let's fry some in this."
Hunding pulled out a massive sturgeon he'd buried under the snow.
"Oh, I've got a good haul too."
Scolseiji dragged out leg-sized shrimp from a pile of sawdust.
Fizzle-crackle-pop!
Sturgeon chunks and shrimp fried in the meat fat.
Dvorbak dumped beast bones and shellfish shells into a massive pot.
Water laced with birch sap and spices bubbled into a steamy broth.
"Alright—cups full?"
Dvorbak raised his tankard.
Honey-and-resin mead sloshed blood-like in the horn-carved cup.
"To all the glory of House Meursault! And to Young Master Federback!"
Dvorbak led the cheer, and Hunding, Scolseiji, and the knights roared in response.
"Long live Meursault! Long live Federback!"
The men of the North threw back their drinks.
Empty cups passed to the next man to refill, then emptied again, passed on, refilled once more.
The burly men belted out songs.
Snow melted from their beards in the alcohol's heat, dripping wet.
Stomping cheers shook distant branches, dumping snow.
Meanwhile.
"..."
Rorshach watched the scene with a strange expression.
A massive bonfire blazed in the snowy field's center, pots bubbled furiously, meats sizzled, potent liquor chased away the cold, and northern men sang drunk.
It felt like a fairy tale scene, almost dreamlike.
...And one more thing.
Another presence making this reality feel dreamlike.
Rorshach glanced by the fire.
There sat a face flushed crimson in the firelight.
Federback.
Having ascended to peak 4th Circle, burning away another layer of outer and inner self, even his looks had changed.
He'd always boasted flower-like beauty that entranced viewers, but now... what was it?
'Chilling.'
They say unreal beauty in a person breeds unease.
Federback, lost in thought by the fire, was beautiful enough to feel eerie.
Like a succubus from legend?
Who else could wield such looks and aura as a weapon to harm others?
'Never thought I'd feel this.'
Born in deep underground dungeons, Rorshach figured she'd never grasp the world's beauty standards.
She felt nothing watching other women swoon over handsome men.
She chalked it up to missing proper aesthetic imprinting at birth.
But no.
'Having someone like this next to me just raised the bar too high.'
Rorshach stared at Federback's face, entranced for a while.
No matter how long, it never bored, never grew familiar.
Meanwhile, Federback was replaying Sancho's letter from earlier, which he'd read and promptly burned.
—Young Master. I've arrived safely in the capital. The mild weather here makes me oddly nostalgic for the North's bone-chilling cold. Your unworthy servant spends sleepless, meal-skipping days worrying if you're well, no inconveniences. Ah, writing these thoughts about you has filled the page—I’ll need another sheet. The capital's prices are steep; even buying paper takes ages...
The first page was over two-thirds fluff.
Federback recalled only the essentials.
1. Portia and Sancho arrived safely in the capital.
2. Bought a suitable mansion on the outskirts as a base.
3. Legally established a trading company.
4. Turned profitable through small deals past break-even.
5. Steadily building as a solid mid-tier firm.
Portia was capable, sure, but Sancho was surprisingly competent too.
Federback recalled the next page.
Sancho finally got to the point.
—We avoided District 9 as you warned, but recently our firm's survival was at stake, so we had no choice but to pass through. We treated everyone we met there amicably, as ordered. Some connections formed... That's what I'm reporting today.
Federback rested his chin on his hand.
—The 'her' we met by chance in District 9 seemed utterly ordinary... or maybe not? Anyway, she appeared perfectly normal. No, unnaturally kind, perhaps. She runs an orphanage there. To cut taxes, we pledged monthly donations—unconditionally friendly, per your orders.
Sancho had found the right target.
Federback thought.
'Yeah. She was running that orphanage at this time. It shuts down soon after.'
And sure enough, the letter shifted tone.
—But no. She wasn't ordinary. Extremely dangerous.
Sancho's account solidified Federback's certainty.
—We saw it: an orphanage girl playing in the street, hit and killed by a low noble's carriage. Then 'her' immediate reaction.
The handwriting shook badly from here.
Sancho must have written in sheer terror.
—She slaughtered everyone in the carriage right there. Not just killed—one-sided butchery. How do I know? I was heading to confess my love at first sight, sneaking via back alleys to surprise her at the orphanage. Stumbled on the horror instead.
Low noble or not, still a noble—and a capital resident.
To kill openly like that...
'She must be confident she won't get caught. Gutsy.'
Federback continued recalling.
—Her true form was pure terror. I scrapped all plans, swore off District 9. Cut donations too—afraid of entanglement if that monster's caught. Aah... She won't come raging over the cutoff, right? It's scary. Can't sleep or eat lately...
Now the whining from page one made sense.
Anyway.
'...Matches my pre-regression memories, more or less.'
As expected, 'she' was still there.
A live fuse to the capital's bomb.
'Saintess of Orphans, Lisieux. Lurking on the capital's outskirts right now.'
Her other name: 'Murder Ghost Lisieux.'
Utterly mad, highly dangerous lunatic, human butcher.
'Perfect gift for Berserkir, who claims the capital as turf.'
Federback dug deeper into pre-regression memories.
The Saintess's earnest warning surfaced.
'...Handle Orphan Saintess Lisieux carefully. She's a bladeless knife—wielder and victim both get cut.'
With Meursault conquering Levarb and Purosange in succession, solidifying northern influence—and marquisate ascension underway—it'd be wings fully spread.
No way Marquis Berserkir in the central capital would sit idle.
He'd surely extend his claws north.
'What if chaos erupts in his own backyard then?'
He'd lose bandwidth for the North.
Federback would disrupt the Berserkir marquisate, splitting focus between North and capital.
And the key to that scheme: the woman Sancho mentioned, Lisieux.
'Just a tiny prod, for now...'
Federback mentally drafted his reply to Sancho.
Tonight promised to be quite enjoyable.