Chapter 93
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 93
Chapter Title: The Scent of Money (3)
Trickle, trickle...
A variety of things flowed through the underground sewers beneath the Imperial Capital.
Sewage mixed with shit and piss, rainwater, mud, cat corpses, and all sorts of trash were swept along in the thick, murky sludge.
In such a filthy, secluded place, human corpses occasionally bobbed to the surface too—mostly vagrants drunk on booze or drugs.
...They'd slip on the steep ditch path, tumble down, and smack their heads on a protruding pipe, knocking themselves out.
Then they'd sink into the filth and never resurface.
But the corpses floating in the muck today were a bit unusual.
Splash!
A well-trained, muscular body plunged into the shit pit.
A fierce-looking man sank into the sewer depths without even closing his eyes.
"Huff... huff... huff..."
The survivors in black clothes raced toward the end of the sewer.
Soon, they reached a dead end blocked by thick iron bars.
A cold-faced woman, a young man, and an elderly man with a long white beard.
The man spoke with a grim expression.
"Master, little sister. You two escape at least. I'll hold them off."
"No, senior brother! I'll stay—I'll stay! My aura blade can cut through these bars easily..."
The woman replied in a frantic tone.
At that moment, the old man let out a low breath.
"Cut the bars now. Then both of you run far away. I'll hold him off."
"Master!"
"Master, no!"
The two young disciples cried out at the black-clad elder's words.
But the old man's resolve was firm.
"You two are the last hope of our clan. Live. And one day, avenge us. Us, who were used and discarded..."
Right then.
"How touching."
A low voice echoed from the end of the sewer.
The old man and the two disciples' eyes widened in shock.
"I-Impossible! How did you get here so fast...?"
"Assassins who get startled this easily aren't worth much."
Then, a face emerged from the darkness.
Black hair, skin so pale it gleamed blue, sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones, dark circles heavy under his eyes.
And two eyeballs burning purple.
"I heard the 'Descendants of the New Moon' were competent. Seems not."
"...Marquis."
The old man spoke, and the man called Marquis smiled faintly.
He waggled a tongue held in his hand.
"True to assassins, their mouths were tight. Took thirty-four tries to rip out a tongue and get your location."
"'Cook the hunting dog after catching the rabbit,' they say. Fits you perfectly, Marquis."
"Come now, Elder Shanshang. Our mouths may be crooked, but our words are straight. Why cook the dog? It failed to catch the rabbit. Useless dogs get stewed—what else?"
"Your mouth's the crooked one, Marquis. The 'Descendants of the New Moon' made no mistakes. We handled every high noble from the capital resettled in Meursault territory, just as requested. Didn't you get the calling cards on their chests?"
"I did. But Levarb and Furosange were disappointments."
"That wasn't our assassins' fault, was it? It was an internal issue in your mage cabal. Do you take us for fools?"
"Hahaha—can't beat your silver tongue, old man."
The Marquis tossed aside the tongue in his hand.
...Plop!
As the long-extracted tongue splashed into the muck, the elder shot forward like a bolt of lightning.
Flash—
A silver gleam streaked toward the Marquis's chest.
But.
Splat!
The crimson rapier drawn from the Marquis's waist was half a beat faster.
The eerie blood-red trail dotted through the air before snapping off.
...Thud!
The old man's body tumbled across the filthy floor.
"M-Master! You bastard!"
"Die, Berserkir!"
The furious duo charged at the Marquis.
"No!"
The elder screamed desperately, but reality was cruel.
Splat!
The Marquis thrust laughing, punching holes through both their foreheads.
...Splash! ...Splash!
The handsome young pair plunged into the shit pit.
"Ooh! You scum, Berserkir!"
The elder wailed, tears of blood streaming down.
The Marquis stood before him, frowning.
"Don't cry, old man. I'm the one who wants to cry right now."
He stood with a genuinely tearful expression, shaking his head side to side.
"To seize the North, I invested a full five years. The money? Peanuts compared to the total cost—what I paid you was pocket change. Manpower too—I burned through it, sending eight in ten of my carefully groomed spies north. All to consolidate imperial power and right the greater cause..."
The Marquis sighed deeply.
"But it failed. Because some crumbling baron's house—not even worth a knight's fief on the capital's outskirts—got in the way."
"Meur... Meursault... Cough!"
The elder spat blood as he spoke.
Hearing that, the Marquis clapped.
"Yes, old man. You've succeeded in displeasing me for the first time."
"Meursault..."
"Right. That name alone sours my mood these days. Worse than when your thirty-four underlings dirtied my clothes and dulled my blade. Feels like they raped my eardrums."
"Meursault! They'll be your ruin...!"
But the elder's words didn't finish.
Spurt—
The Marquis's blade had pierced his throat.
"Enough, old man. Stop defiling my eardrums' purity."
But the Marquis's warning was pointless.
The elder soon sank into the shit pit too.
"Hmm, is that the end of the Descendants of the New Moon? A shame. They were useful puppets."
The Marquis clicked his tongue, staring at the ripples in the shit from the elder's corpse.
"Why side with Meursault and bite the hand that fed you?"
Long ago, the Marquis had ordered the Descendants of the New Moon to stir trouble in Meursault territory.
They'd carried out schemes in the North as requested.
But at some point, they'd started acting independently beyond his orders.
The Marquis learned Meursault had caught wind of their northern activities, contacted them, and turned the tables with a counter-commission.
"Meursault's got a sharp one. Who figured out the capital's eyeing the North?"
The Marquis pondered in the darkness for a while.
But with no intel, all he got was the stench.
"Number Five failed too. Lower levels' signals cut off—probably dead. Nothing's going right lately."
The Marquis sighed deeply and climbed the stairs to the surface.
Step— step— step— stab— stab— stab—
After stabbing a few passed-out drunks for fun, he melted stickily into the alley shadows and vanished.
Leaving only stench and darkness behind.
Splash—
Federback stepped out of the bathtub.
The scalding bathwater had cooled to where thin ice floated on the surface.
"Even time for a bath. Nice."
Rorschach greeted Federback emerging from the bath, waving a stack of documents.
Federback narrowed his eyes.
"What's the matter this early in the morning?"
"Budget draft's done. Here for approval."
"Leave it there."
"If you're okay with it, review it now? Time's short for both of us. Oh, I'll dry your hair—check the papers first."
Rorschach snatched the towel from Federback's hand.
Federback silently sat at the table and scanned the documents.
Meanwhile, Rorschach dried his hair with a fresh towel.
"Uh, put something on at least?"
"You said review it now."
"Still, naked paperwork in front of a lady? At least a robe."
"You barge into my room at dawn unannounced, then nag about clothes."
"Anyway, first time seeing you with wet hair. You know bad drying leads to baldness? Fine now, but later—lid fights await. Manage it early."
"Fights are with swords, not hair."
"Women's hearts work differently. Anyway, dry properly next time, save the disheveled look for loyal me?"
Rorschach deftly changed the subject.
Federback donned the robe and resumed reviewing.
"Kapkas expedition costs finalized. Good work."
"Another expedition? Last was 'Beauvoir Abandoned Mine,' then 'Flood Devourer of Nightmares,' now 'Tombs of the Mad Kings'?"
Tombs of the Mad Kings, Kapkas.
This place had its nickname for a reason.
Rikeion Empire proverb: "Mad kings march to Kapkas."
Even history's mightiest conquerors avoided it.
Blazing sun melts iron like wax; endless desert of salt and sand.
Its myriad tribes—survivors of genocides by countless empires—clung to ancient savagery and belligerence.
Many nations marched to conquer this hardy wasteland and perished.
Hence, "Graveyard of Empires."
"Nominally Rikeion territory now, but really, they gave up fighting the barbarians."
As Rorschach said.
Kapkas was Rikeion land, but barbarian tribes warred within unchecked.
"Free cities" at best, "lawless wastes" at worst.
Federback drawled lazily.
"Shedioldis hails from Kapkas. Black magic experiments and human sacrifices there, no doubt."
"So you're investigating personally?"
"No place in the North I can't go."
"Northeast is a stretch for 'North.'"
"Hence the fat budget."
"When do you leave?"
"When this hair dries."
"..."
Rorschach furrowed her brow.
The towel in her hand slowed abruptly.
Federback said with his usual blank face.
"Joking."
"Didn't know you did that. Give prep time at least."
"Of course. Depart in a week—finish papers by then."
"..."
Rorschach's towel hand froze solid.