The Ghost Story of the Underground Maintenance Garage

Frederica's head snapped around as she scanned her surroundings. Her eyes met mine just as I was coming down the city hall steps.

I stood there in a crisp dress uniform, coffee cup in hand, and gave her a faint smirk.

"……!"

Frederica's jaw dropped open.

She leapt down from her tank and came running to me. Her usual cool composure was nowhere to be found, her face flushed with excitement.

"C-Colonel! My tank, it…!"

"I told you yesterday, didn't I? I'd take care of it."

I replied calmly, taking a sip of coffee.

"Turns out that technician of ours is pretty skilled. Worked on it all night, fixed everything, and slipped off before I could thank him. A shame, really."

"That— that's impossible! A copper gas gasket, heat-treated bolts—no, how did you even pull the transmission in the first place? That punishing job, alone, in a single night…!"

"There are things in this world that defy explanation, Major. What matters is that your beloved steed runs again."

I feigned ignorance and cut her off.

Frederica stared at me fixedly. Her eyes trembled.

It had landed.

For a woman obsessed with machines, a single perfectly torqued bolt was worth more than a hundred words of praise.

"Thank you…."

It took her a long moment to speak. Her voice trembled faintly.

"Truly… thank you. I won't ask how you did it. But this debt… I will repay it with my military career."

She snapped a salute, utterly sincere.

"Good to know you won't forget. I plan to run her hard from here on out, so keep her well maintained."

"Yes, Colonel! Understood!"

Good. That locks my grip on the armored forces, too.

I turned away with a satisfied smile. Perhaps a side effect of the excessive Material Conversion, but the tip of my nose stung a little. I didn't let it show, just dabbed at it lightly with a handkerchief.

After Frederica left, I returned to my office.

And the backlog of civilian complaints I'd been putting off came flooding in all at once.

"Colonel! Resistance movement detected in the sewers of Sector 3! Shall we conduct a sweep?"

The military police captain came rushing in. Without even looking up, I signed the paperwork and answered.

"No need for a sweep."

Instead, I checked my Minimap. The city's underground pipe network unfolded before me in 3D. Five red dots huddled together in the depths of a spiderweb maze.

"Sector 3, manhole number 4. Fifteen meters left of the entrance. Go hit ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them."

"Pardon? B-but that's a sealed section…"

"I said go."

Thirty minutes later, the military police captain returned with a soot-streaked face and saluted.

"Secured, sir! They were in the middle of lighting a fuse! How on earth did you know?"

Next came a fat merchant with his belly thrust out.

"Oh, Commander! This is an outrage! My warehouse is completely empty! Not so much as a handful of flour for a starving rat, and you accuse me of hoarding?!"

He was practically weeping, lunging for my trouser leg.

I drummed my fingers on the desk and spoke.

"Mister Gaston. It seems you've hidden something rather interesting in your home cellar."

"An… an interesting thing, you say…?"

"Yes. For instance…"

I let out a soft chuckle.

"Hmm, say, five hundred sacks of flour?"

Gaston's face drained white as a sheet.

"How— how could you possibly—!"

"Choose. Surrender the goods voluntarily and be praised as a patriotic merchant—or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be hanged from a lamppost for wartime hoarding."

"I… I'll pay! All of it, everything!"

Next.

"The railway union has declared a strike! They're refusing to cooperate with Imperial Army transport requests!"

The workers' representative strode in, defiant.

"We are not slaves! Without a wage increase, not a single wheel of a train will turn!"

I rose from my seat and approached him. Then I whispered low in his ear.

"Mister Pierre. That back-door money from the Republic intelligence agents—you haven't spent it all yet, have you?"

"If your comrades waiting outside knew you weren't a sincere labor activist but a spy, what do you suppose they'd do to you?"

"……I will return to work immediately."

Three days. That was all it took.

Over the span of three sunrises and sunsets, the administrative office of Soissons City Hall fell eerily silent.

The mountains of documents had all been signed off and cleared, and the telephones that had rung without pause fell abruptly quiet.

"Wh… what…?"

Hannah said, dumbfounded. She was staring at an empty approval tray.

"C-Colonel… I'm so sorry. I must have dozed off and dropped some of the paperwork somewhere. I'll go down and fetch it right away—"

"Dropped nothing. You even processed the sewer maintenance proposal you brought me thirty minutes ago."

"B-but…"

Hannah spoke as if she couldn't believe her ears.

"I heard it normally takes at least a month just to stabilize administration in an occupied territory. And yet it's only been three days. Three days to process the entire administration of a city of fifty thousand—all by yourself? Is that even possible?"

"Why wouldn't it be? It's called working smart."

I gave her a wry smile and turned to the window. Through the glass, the full panorama of Soissons spread out below.

The black smoke that had been rising all over the city was gone. Imperial Army trucks were handing out bread to civilians in the streets, shops were opening their doors one by one, and the military police were directing traffic instead of aiming rifles.

A city that had been a maelstrom of chaos and disorder was beginning to turn like meshed gears. Remarkably smoothly.

Ding— ding—

Ding!

A satisfying notification chime.

I immediately raised the level of Material Conversion. It was now Level 4.

For a week, a ghost story spread through the underground maintenance garage of Soissons.

The rumor was that a phantom appeared every night, repaired the tanks, and vanished.

The mechanics who had dismissed it as nonsense at first couldn't hide their astonishment when they came in the next morning to find gleaming barrels and engines that looked factory-fresh.

"This is… art."

"The tolerances are near zero. Even the Imperial Arsenal couldn't machine something this fine."

It became a daily ritual for the master sergeants—veteran mechanics with over a decade of grease under their fingernails—to gather in front of the maintenance bays every morning and mutter among themselves. They clucked their tongues as they inspected the vehicles I had fixed overnight.

"No weld marks. It's not like anyone poured molten metal into a mold—the steel is just… smooth, like it was born this way."

"The piston was definitely cracked last night, I swear. But when I came in this morning, there was a brand-new one sitting in the block. Still slick with factory oil."

"How in God's name is he doing it? Ever since we were attached to Lieutenant Colonel Jäger's unit…"

One of the sergeants exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke and murmured.

"I hear that gentleman has some kind of 'special channel.'"

But his fellow mechanics were skeptical.

"Special channel, my ass. Where do you think we are—the middle of the Imperial Capital? How is anyone supposed to pull parts from the homeland arsenal in the middle of enemy territory? In a single night, no less?"

"Hey, I know it sounds insane… but reality is reality. Maybe he's tapped into some black market or something?"

"Listen to yourself. Black markets stocked with genuine Imperial military-spec parts—special Class-A quality with zero tolerance? Give me a break."

The mechanics clicked their tongues. Their minds couldn't make sense of it, but the results before their eyes were flawless. That cognitive dissonance plunged them into an even stranger unease.

"But honestly, tell me straight. Since the founding of the 1st Armored Battalion, have any of us ever seen tanks in this kind of shape?"

"Never…. Just a week ago they were a junkyard—blown apart and shattered all over the place after the Sickle Cut Operation."

"Even the engines sound different now. Not just healthy—downright frightening. Vehicles over a year out of the factory shouldn't smell like new cars."

A brief silence settled over the garage. Only the low rumble of idling tanks hung in the air.

"So… does that mean the rumors are true? Some kind of alchemy, or…"

"……"

No one could answer.

"Ah, quit yapping and go grab a wrench. Whether the higher-ups work magic or bargain with goblins, all we have to do is keep 'em rolling."

"Yeah, let's just do the job. Besides, if we get on Lieutenant Colonel Jäger's bad side, we're the only ones who lose."

The sergeants hastily dispersed. But nothing could hide the chill creeping up the backs of their necks as they turned to look at the tanks.

"Ha… still, though. It does give you chills, doesn't it?"

And so, among the members of the 1st Armored Battalion, my reputation was quietly shifting—no longer merely a capable commander, but something beyond their understanding. Something you simply did not touch.

But the occupation governance of Soissons still had a long road ahead.

"Reporting, sir."

Hannah entered the office with a grim expression.

"There's been an incident at the fuel depot. A tank that had just finished refueling, along with your command armored car, are showing symptoms of engine failure."

"Engine failure?"

"They say foreign matter was mixed into the fuel. Deliberately introduced sugar and water."

My pen stopped dead. Sugar and water. A recipe born of a determined will to thoroughly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ruin an engine.

"The culprits?"

"The transport truck drivers are under interrogation, but it appears to be connected to the Central Post Office."

The Central Post Office. Madame Bernard's face flashed through my mind.

"Hm."

I rose from my seat.