The Tsar Bomba That Fell on the Republic's High Society

Dance practice didn't require a glittering hall or a proper indoor room. A reasonably wide space was enough—anywhere with nothing underfoot to get in the way. So the two of them climbed onto the roof of the hotel where they were staying. The sun was sinking, and the sky was slowly bleeding red.

"With social dancing, the first thing you need is the beat of the music."

Music was one of the few drugs still permitted to the people of Lupin's homeland. She, in particular, was the sort who always had to lay down a separate soundtrack before she could game. Ordinary game music had worn her out completely, so she would kick things off with a song that suited her taste, hand the cue to almighty GodTube Music—fountain of all truth—and the preparations were done. Then she would listen to whatever the algorithm deigned to bestow, cracking open chests for two hours, three hours, until sleep came looking for her on its own. Decide it was time for bed, and under the algorithm's blessing, which kindly put on a lullaby, she would slip softly under.

Which was why Lupin was the god of rhythm. Self-proclaimed.

Yegor must have read that confidence shining in her eyes. He skipped the complicated explanation and went straight to the point. There was no time for digressions about the history of dance anyway.

"Three-four time as the base. One, two, three. Two, two, three."

"Oh. A waltz? That's so old."

Lupin jabbed in a tactless remark, and Yegor brushed it off without effort.

"On one, you step with the left. On two, the right. On the two-three, the other foot comes along and becomes the supporting axis for the next beat. If the ballroom is wide, and there's plenty of space between people—and if you're the star of the party—this one step is all you need."

"Huh? That's the whole thing?"

"If it's crowded and you have to keep your feet busy, you do it like this. Use your feet on every beat of one-two-three and travel a long way, then on two-two you set your direction, and repeat. Everyone in attendance will be moving like a single whirlpool. Follow that current, and it's easier than you'd think."

It looked easy, and it wasn't. Which was to say, it was the sort of thing you couldn't really understand until you'd actually set foot in a ballroom. Lupin never understood anything from words alone in the first place. She had to throw her body at it once before it stuck.

She was just about to ask for hands-on instruction when Yegor scowled all by himself and waved her off.

"...Ah. Sorry. Reverse everything I just explained."

"Reverse?"

"I explained it from the man's side without thinking."

Lupin took it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in stride, but said to an ordinary young lady, those words would have earned him a slap on the spot. Phrased in the aristocratic manner, it amounted to a roundabout insult: as a woman, you haven't a scrap of charm—you're a majestic beast of a lady. Of course Yegor wasn't apologizing for having roasted her. He was only apologizing for passing along the wrong information. In practice, Lupin really was a little beast.

"So. I start... with the right foot. Oom-pah-pah. Oom-pah-pah.... This right?"

"Yeah. Try the steps and take a turn around."

"Oom-pah-pah. Oom-pah-pah."

In Lupin's head, a waltz from an orchestra she had heard exactly once swelled up—or else the merry-go-round that had scored a certain animation studio's stroll through the sky. And so, with Grade VIII aristocratic etiquette and heaven-sent physicality watching over her, Lupin drew a single line of dance in no time at all.

A waltz had never been that difficult a dance to begin with. Nobles danced it to trade information in secret, to scout for prospective grooms and brides, to mingle between houses. That was what a waltz was. The music around them was loud enough that there was no fear of the conversation leaking outside, and there were even people who treated the dancing as mere window dressing and put the talk first.

Lupin's skill turned out better than expected, and even Yegor couldn't help being impressed.

"You're better at this than I thought."

Lupin grinned and shrugged.

"How lamentable. Only now do you recognize this body's true worth."

"You didn't already learn it somewhere and come here just to mess with me, did you?"

"Why would I do that? Waste of time."

Anyway, once the steps were ready, the rest was easy. A man and a woman simply took each other's hands and matched their breathing so they didn't step on each other's feet. That was all. Usually the better dancer adjusted to the worse one—or else took a firm lead and dragged the worse one along.

"That's enough prep."

Yegor lifted his left hand to head height, dropped his right below his waist, and spread both arms wide. Then he crooked a finger and beckoned Lupin in.

"Come here."

"Hm? Why."

"You won't get a feel for it until we try matching up. Focus on dancing by yourself and all you'll do is turn your partner's feet bright red."

"Aha. Don't worry. This body's a ten-dan master. Absolutely zero chance I step on anybody's feet."

Yegor looked at her with open contempt.

"If you're planning to hop around like some lightweight, restrain yourself. The dress will flap, and the whole thing will be given away."

"Hey. What do you take me for? I am absolutely confident I won't get caught. Just watch. See whether my hips sway or not. I'm telling you, only the legs move."

And then—tat-tat-tat-tat. She drummed her feet at speed, and sure enough her hips stayed locked so tight they might as well have been frozen in midair, not moving at all. Vulgarity aside, the sight was so uncanny, as if time had stopped for her hips alone, that even Yegor rubbed his eyes and looked again.

"...Right. At that level, there's nothing to worry about."

"But if someone asks me to dance, do I have to say yes no matter what? What am I supposed to do? I can't tell what's polite and what isn't."

By modern sensibilities, accepting or refusing was entirely up to her. Respecting another person's will and freedom was, after all, the supreme virtue of the modern human. But this was, by Lupin's standards, a barbaric world where a mere adventurer could be cursed out for daring to refuse a dance. She had no wish to disgrace her one true god, her parent, her king-god-emperor of a master, and so she found herself fretting over it anyway.

Yegor read that thought, at least in part. In that case, the correct play was actually to refuse as many dances as possible. She might have practiced, but there was no telling what would happen the moment Lupin opened her mouth.

"Did you study the guest list?"

"I did."

Lupin produced the cheat sheet she had hidden in her sleeve. On a small slip of paper, letters no bigger than ants were packed dense.

Yegor narrowed his eyes, confirmed what it was, and muttered.

"The Prime Minister, and Speaker Dmitri. If those two offer, you accept."

"Ack. Don't tell me young girls are their type? I had them pegged as respectable."

"You seem to think a dance is prostitution."

That atmosphere isn't a thing in this era? Lupin carefully pictured a middle-aged man and a teenage girl social-dancing together back in the modern world. Oof. Straight to the police station. The man would feel guilty and refuse first.

"Yeah, whatever. Those two and that's it?"

"Unless you're shopping for a husband, there's no need to dance with the young ones. It'll only drag your value down."

"Aha. Copy, copy. Huh, that was simple. But value? What value?"

Lupin had to choose her dance partners with care. When a young man and a young woman took the floor together, it was read as a sign that each was keenly interested in the other. And if she accepted every offer that came in and danced with all of them? It was, in effect, a declaration of war on the other young ladies: she meant to take every man at the party. Of course Lupin, ignorant of all this complicated business, was simply a big old I don't know, please tell me.

Even Yegor, by this point, was having a thought of his own. She had handed the whole of the judgment over to him, yes—but he didn't even know her tastes, her inclinations, her preferences. Wasn't he meddling far too much in someone else's life? In that case, there was only one method.

"Just don't dance if you can help it. It's a hassle, isn't it."

"Fair enough."

Lupin agreed wholeheartedly. She wanted to get the party over with, roughly and quickly, and meet this thing called the Holy Ark. One way or another, she figured she had done well to ask Yegor. By her standards, he really was the king of common sense, and a true intellectual.

"Knew I was right to ask you. I thought you and the arts didn't even speak, but you can actually play?"

"...? Play what?"

"No, I mean, watching you explain the dance earlier, it just poured out so smooth I could feel the veteran hours on you."

Lupin jabbed Yegor's shoulder with her elbow.

"You're not, like, secretly some noble's kid or something, are you?"

"..."

"We've gotten pretty close, haven't we. Be honest, even now. You're running that sob story about ten little siblings, right?"

Yegor's heart gave a hard lurch. He didn't let it show.

"I just had an older sister I knew. I learned it from her."

"What's she do? Is she pretty?"

"She is pretty, but......"

Yegor started to speak of Emelin, and stopped. Lovely to look at—and yet a sister as savage as any beast.

"You're probably better off never getting tangled up with her."

That same night, Speaker of the Assembly Dmitri found himself with his first stretch of free time in nearly two months. Protests and everything else—the country was noisy inside and out, so he hadn't had a moment for hobbies, and dust had piled on the new mystery novel he had bought. Tomorrow there was yet another party at the Prime Minister's residence. The work waiting after that would be a mountain, so this was, in practice, his last chance to read.

"...Why is this episode so uncharacteristically shocking right from the start."

But for a work by Sir Conan, whom Dmitri loved, the opening was a shock. A massacre in an isolated cabin called the Scavenger? Lately, so he had heard, newspaper serials published every day had become the fashion and tanked sales of the standalone volumes—and it seemed even Sir Conan had finally started hunting for sensational material. Dmitri had loved that calm, composed, cynical atmosphere. For him, it was a shame.

"Honestly. Hunter series are all the rage these days, but put an Aura User in a novel and the mood gets far too light."

Dmitri grumbled, and still he concentrated on his reading. His mouth poured out complaints, but his curiosity already knew the answer.

And so, right at the tail end of a crucial deduction—just as he was about to plunge into the climax—

Knock, knock!

"Your Grace! Forgive the late hour!! This is a matter of extreme urgency!!"

It was the head steward. Past eleven at night, and he hadn't even been able to clock out before running over. What with citizenship and the rest of the recently enacted laws, Dmitri had ordered that unless it was an emergency, everyone was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to leave before ten. He clicked his tongue and slipped a bookmark between the pages.

"Come in."

Creak. The bedroom door opened, plainly in need of oil.

"What is it?"

"A message arrived for the Prime Minister's residence, Your Grace. The Prime Minister instructed that it be conveyed to the Assembly and the Cabinet as a whole."

The Prime Minister himself?

What on earth could be so enormous?

Soon the head steward mentioned a young lady. A flower steeped in the poison of Blumang—bewitched by the pretty face, lay a hand on her, and ruin followed.

"The Third Imperial Princess of the Blumang Empire is scheduled to attend tomorrow as a special guest."

"Suddenly? That's truly out of nowhere."

"It is, but the visit itself presents no particular problem. He asked that the Assembly and the Cabinet prepare thoroughly."

Emelin. Until now she had left the palace exactly three times, and each time she had summoned a tremendous wind that set the entire continent shaking. In a word, a living bomb was walking in.

"I'm already busy enough handling Lupin, and now Emelin."

Dmitri's head throbbed. The thought of reading had vanished without a trace some time ago.