The Power of the Press
The power of the media. In other words, the battle for public opinion is this important. I had already taken note of the newspapers' ability to deliver only favorable results, so I made sure this story spread as well. It worked beautifully. Of course, such a method would never succeed in a world where everyone is illiterate, but at least the central regions of the empire had a low enough illiteracy rate for it to work. Even though the world was barely past the pre-modern era, the Karlank Empire—lacking any real threats besides the demon army—had embraced a degree of civilian governance. The game's setting notes that basic public education was already in place, and it seemed the developers' convenience had paid off.
'Though I suppose they only set it up that way for narrative convenience… I'll just ride the wave.'
Since the imperial capital was where all technology converged, finding early printing methods wasn't difficult either. The speed at which information spread was a stroke of luck. Well, when things align this neatly, it's probably just the faceless creators of this world bending the rules for their own convenience. In any case, if it worked, that was all that mattered.
Anyway, Hilken had followed my instructions perfectly—collapsing dramatically and playing the victim to channel the students' resentment toward the chairman. That created the perfect environment for the young lady to unleash her fury on Montgomery. I had no way of knowing exactly how my request had turned out, but at least one thing was clear from where I stood.
"Come out! Apologize or resign!"
"Did you think I enrolled just to deal with this?"
"Just die already—!"
Across the entire Sigmund Academy grounds, student discontent had erupted into something dangerously close to a riot. That much, I could tell.
"…It's chaos incarnate."
Still, there was nothing to worry about. The young lady would have pushed as hard as the situation allowed. These days she only showed me her gentle side, so anyone who only knew that version of her might be shocked. But in the North, she had always been like this. At the very least, I believed in her.
That was why I had asked the two of them to handle it. Meanwhile, Crown Prince Cryan—his body finally recovered—had set out to secure the most critical piece of the puzzle: supporters for his ascension. Even while laying every other foundation, without Nonedon on our side, all our plans would remain nothing but empty talk. If this recruitment failed, our backup option was Babalk, but while he would have no trouble becoming chairman, he was neither suited for the role nor possessed any real advantages.
"Yohan."
"What is it?"
"When we came down last time, that disgusting sewer stench made me feel like I was going to throw up for hours. Not anymore."
"Did you turn into a sewer rat?"
"…No. Saying it's 'gone' would be inaccurate. I was always this kind of person."
"That's rather self-deprecating…"
So we descended once more into the Bruised City. Whether it was an illusion or not, the dead, lifeless scenery we had seen before had melted away like snow. We had only been gone a little over two months. Could such a short span of time truly transform an entire city? For the first time, I felt that this place—once wrung dry like a rag before any light could enter—might actually hold some vitality.
"…That man really meant it when he said he wouldn't return."
"He really did…"
Above us, where Karlangk stood, a massive golden glowstone light had been installed like a second sun. It was the same light that had once illuminated the entire ship and its surroundings during the arena's slave fights. The very thing Jurchen had once described to me had now become a proud beacon for everyone—powered, no less, by high-technology hydraulic generation.
Moreover, the mold that had once bloomed damply in the streets was gone from all but a few places. The walls that had always been wet were now dry. Best of all, the people wore genuine smiles on their faces.
"Boss, if we finish the tiling on this side today, we're done. Just the corner left, and everything the Fist Market Lord asked for will be complete."
"Don't slack off."
Construction workers labored day and night regardless of whatever chaos was unfolding in the capital. They looked exhausted from the grueling work, yet they carried themselves with a quiet sense of purpose. However, they soon noticed us watching. When two men who clearly belonged to the upper city stood idly by, the man called "boss"—dressed in whatever clothes he pleased—spoke to us. The bright lights revealed every detail of his skin. A faint anchor tattoo, symbol of the shipboard arena, still marked the back of his hand. Now, though, he was simply a laborer with a hammer slung across his back.
"Hey, what brings you two down here? You don't look familiar around these parts."
"…We came home."
"Yeah? This is your hometown. Nice… You picked a good time to visit."
When Cryan smiled faintly, the man judged there was no hostility and visibly relaxed.
"This is how things are around here these days. Quite different from what you probably remember, right?"
"What exactly happened?" Cryan asked. The man answered with easy cheer.
"The mad king of the arena suddenly came to his senses. I don't know why, but he's been overhauling the entire city for the past few months."
"…Is that even possible?"
"Normally, no. There were plenty of nobles and local powers here, so any reform touching people's livelihoods would've been impossible. Since you said you're from here, you know how it was. At some point, we all gave up on improving our hometown and anyone with ambition left for the upper city."
He wiped the sweat from his nose with a gloved hand.
"But once the Fist King appeared, the old power structure collapsed. He suddenly started running the arena and personally beat every annoying power broker to death right in front of everyone."
"So… if he's carrying out these reforms with a clear head, there's no one left to stop him."
"Exactly. People are still confused that the man who used to be obsessed with the arena is acting like this now, but good things are good, right? That's why I left the arena and started working out here."
So that was what had happened. The words "I have a reason to stay here" that had once puzzled me were, it seemed, his resolve to rebuild his hometown—the place filled with memories of Mow and Cryan. With my curiosity satisfied, I took a small coin from my pocket and pressed it into his hand.
"Sir, the person we're looking for is the former owner of that arena. Do you know where he might be?"
"Oh, you didn't have to…"
The man's eyes widened. What followed was a surprisingly warm, emotion-filled laugh and genuine kindness—something that, only months ago, would have been met with "Why are you even asking?" and a dismissal. It was a remarkable change in atmosphere.
"He's a busy man, but he's probably at the old arena right now. Construction's still ongoing, but if you say it's urgent, they'll let you through."
"Thank you…"
With that, Cryan and I moved on. Though he was usually quiet, his silence this time felt unusually heavy. When I glanced at him, his face was tangled with complicated emotions—joy, bewilderment, or perhaps simply eyes reddened at the edges. But there was no need to ask. He spoke first.
"So this… is the world my uncle wanted."
The Bruised City, rebuilt by the hands of a broken man. The structures rising upon it were not yet sturdy, but they were undeniably alive. The smell, the light, the water, the voices—everything. The stillness of a "tomb of living corpses" that I had felt the first time was gone.
And finally, a massive vessel spanning the river came into view. More island than ship in size and structure—the shipboard arena. The former pinnacle of violence was now clearly undergoing renovation. All the gambling signs had been removed. At the entrance hung only a single sign: "Temporary Office of the Technical Training Center."
Workers in tear-resistant maintenance uniforms milled about carrying tools, and the rhythmic clang of hammers echoed from within. As we approached, one of them removed his helmet and greeted us.
"Excuse me… Are you here to see Lord Nonedon?"
"…Yes, we are."
He nodded with slight surprise, then pulled out a radio and made a call.
"His Highness the Crown Prince and his accompanying knight have arrived. I'll escort them to the entrance!"
It seemed he had known we were coming. …How?
We climbed to Nonedon's old office. There, unchanged, stood the red-haired, powerfully built middle-aged man adorned with ornaments from head to toe, his back straight as a rod. He was holding a sword.