The Iron-Blooded Heir
Solomon stared at the man who had just announced himself and spoke in a low, flat voice.
“You won’t get to die nicely. Count on it.”
Blood poured from the gaping wound in his chest. The hole looked as if it had been riddled by scattershot; crimson spilled out in thick sheets. It was only thanks to the integrated armor layer that his organs hadn’t been shredded outright. Without it, the damage would have been instantly fatal.
“Heh heh. Well now. How touching. Thank you for guarding my work with your very life.”
“Your… work?”
“Oh, to be precise, it is still an ‘unborn work.’”
Jack the Ripper sneered at the sight. Solomon did not smile. He simply kept his mind colder than ever despite the wound.
This isn’t easy.
The real problem was that he could not finish the opponent cleanly. If he dealt more damage than necessary and drained every last one of the man’s life points, capture would fail and the request would go up in smoke. That was why he had refrained from using weapon-enhancement spells.
The opponent was not soft enough to be fought with half-hearted mercy. Yet he also had to avoid the blunder of truly ending the man while intending to subdue him.
“And seeing you risk your life to protect my work has given me fresh inspiration.”
Paying no heed to Solomon’s pain, the Ripper extended his arm once more. The blood scattered across the floor rushed toward his palm like iron filings to a magnet and coalesced into a single shape.
A throwing spear. An absurdly massive blood-red lance.
“Will you dodge? Or will you protect her? Feel free to dodge. In that case, the girl behind you will finally pass through my fingertips and be reborn as a true masterpiece!”
The Ripper muttered theatrically, brandishing the spear as if showing off a certain checkmate.
“The title shall be A Woman Abandoned by a Man and Painfully Pierced to Death! Or perhaps Dilemma—a short, perfectly postmodern name with just the right flavor!”
“……”
“I shall count to three. So, what will you do?”
The pompous, rambling speech reeked of the naïve arrogance of a scholar unaccustomed to real combat. For Solomon, that was lucky. A scholar was better than a professional fighter, and an idiot was better than a scholar.
“Three.”
Solomon readjusted his grip on the hilt and chose to believe in that fact—the fact that his opponent was an idiot.
“Two.”
The count dwindled. The blood spear quivered, ready to fire. With one number left, Solomon kicked off the ground. The Ripper grinned. Solomon did not.
Invisibility. Blink.
He chained two first-level spells in rapid succession. Just like before, Solomon appeared behind the Ripper. Just like before, the assassin’s blade streaked forward.
Just like before—the descending blade was blocked as a barrier materialized.
A protective spell that hardened blood into an exoskeleton-level shell.
The instant the blade should have bounced off that barrier, something different happened.
Blood Explosion.
As a third-level Blood Mage, Solomon triggered his class trait. He detonated the very blood that had been hardened into the armor protecting the Reaper’s back.
WHOOSH!
The blood ignited. Crimson flames. The armor meant to shield the Reaper’s back became an inferno that consumed him instead. Yet Solomon’s true aim had never been the explosion or the fire.
It was the destruction of the armor itself.
“GYAAAAAAAH!”
The Reaper screamed in agony. His concentration shattered; the blood spear dissolved in midair.
The barrier that should have stopped the assassin’s blade no longer existed. Only soft flesh and bone remained.
CRUNCH.
The blade drove home. It tore through muscle, scraped between ribs, and sank deep into the back.
“Don’t you dare die from something like this.”
Even as he spoke, Solomon prayed. He had deliberately avoided enhancement spells. The only thing behind the strike was the pure, unadorned ambush of an assassin. He had avoided vital points that would cause instant death, delivering the most merciful blow he could manage.
“Kuh… ugh…!”
The Reaper collapsed to his knees, unable to breathe properly through the pain. Solomon left the blade embedded. Pulling it out now would cause fatal blood loss.
Well, keeping him alive until delivery is good enough.
With the mindset of someone scooping a gasping fish out of the water to deliver it alive, Solomon hoisted the Reaper onto his back. He also threw on his tattered stealth coat and removed the wad of cotton stuffed in the bound girl’s mouth.
“M-Mister…!”
“……”
He silently untied the ropes binding her arms and legs.
“Th-thank you! I really thought I was going to die… because of him…!”
“Save your thanks.”
Solomon answered coldly on purpose. After replying, he deliberately turned his head away. Getting any more involved would benefit neither of them.
It was then that he sensed it.
Presence—
Beyond the door, in the hallway, a single shadow appeared. Not even trying to hide, more boldly than anyone had a right to be.
“I came after receiving a tip that the Ripper had slipped in here.”
The shadow stepped into view.
“I didn’t expect another uninvited guest.”
A crisp suit beneath a coat emblazoned with the Sword Watch emblem. Two swords rested in the mechanical sword belt at his waist.
A blond man who looked every inch the swordsman.
“And a contractor from Hotel Snark, no less.”
In that regard, Solomon himself looked no different from any other contractor of the hotel.
“You’re late,” Solomon said, as if speaking of someone else’s problem, the Reaper still draped over his shoulder.
“The police who uphold the city’s order arrive this late?”
“I am not late.”
The blond swordsman answered Solomon’s jab.
“Sword Watch Second-Class Blade, Mikhail Cromwell. Having arrived at this place, I declare—”
His voice carried neither hesitation nor tremor.
“—that evil shall vanish and justice shall stand upright.”
Solomon let out a hollow laugh at the absurdity. In a situation where even a second’s delay could create another victim, the man’s calm declaration was ridiculous.
Yet Solomon could not miss the name that followed. Unconcealable bewilderment flickered across his face.
Cromwell…?
One of the Five Great Families that stood at the pinnacle of Guild City.
Veil — Shadow Binders
Arrowhead — Prismatists
Haunting — Soul Binders
Lancaster — ■■■■■
Cromwell — Iron-Blooded Flesh Incarnators
A noble who should belong to that august circle was standing before him, acting as a hound for the bourgeoisie and a member of their police force.
The High Council—forces opposed to the bourgeoisie and their “City Council.” The five ancient families that had ruled the Kingdom of Camelot since antiquity, the very symbol of the old regime.
The man who bore that name stood before Solomon’s eyes.
“Sword Watch Second-Class Blade, Mikhail Cromwell. Right here, evil shall vanish and justice shall stand upright.”
Solomon knew the weight that name carried. Setting aside the question of why someone with that name was even present, his question was simple. It had nothing to do with evil or justice.
“Why is a Cromwell of Uptown playing lapdog for the bourgeoisie?”
Forgetting the Reaper still slung across his back, Solomon asked.
“Lapdog of the bourgeoisie? Mind your tongue.”
The man who bore the name Cromwell—and who was also a Second-Class Blade of the Sword Watch—replied.
“I am merely fulfilling the duty of nobility, noblesse oblige, by serving the order of this city. I do not take orders from the bourgeoisie.”
“I see. So these days, showing up after the victim is nearly dead is what you call noblesse oblige?”
Shing.
“I am not late.”
To Solomon’s sarcasm, Mikhail Cromwell placed his hand on the hilt at his waist.
“—Because I truly am not late.”
He really wasn’t. At least that part was factual, absurd phrasing aside.
“Yeah. Thanks to someone rushing in first and doing all the dirty work.”
“For that, I shall offer proper gratitude. Because that is what gratitude looks like.”
The Second-Class Blade of the Sword Watch glanced at the Reaper on Solomon’s back.
“Then may I take custody of the criminal now?”
“……”
“Compensation will of course be generous. You may even receive a commendation. Commendations look quite fine when displayed in one’s room. The sense of pride from having contributed to society wells up from the heart.”
A short silence.
“I refuse.”
Solomon’s answer came after the pause. The offer had never been worth considering.
“Unfortunately, I’ve already taken the request.”
“I expected as much.”
Mikhail Cromwell nodded.
“Even so, I cannot allow it.”
“Because you’re police?”
“Correct.”
Solomon stayed silent, utterly dumbfounded. The man wasn’t even lying. He had never expected the noble to step aside politely. Nothing had changed.
Fighting here and now won’t be easy.
After weighing all the information, Solomon reached a single conclusion.
Click!
“Oh?”
Without hesitation, Solomon leveled the Nightfall automatic crossbow at the man before him. The Second-Class Blade drew his sword without a flicker of panic.
“Severing Iron—”
The Iron-Blooded Flesh Incarnator, Cromwell. True to his name, even the simple act of drawing steel carried ridiculous destructive power and weight, slamming down like heavy machinery.
Yet where that iron-blooded slash should have landed, there was only darkness.
Invisibility. Blink.
Solomon’s shadow, now wearing the stealth coat and melting into the air behind the curtain.
“!”
Fortunately the invisibility spell extended beyond Solomon himself, enveloping the surrounding area like a barrier. Both he and the Reaper on his back vanished from sight. Without any intention of fighting—without even lingering inside the curtain—he widened the distance.
Whoosh!
The blade cut empty air. Solomon had already leaped from the third floor to the first without looking back. The impact of landing made the wounds from the fight with the Reaper throb fiercely.
“There!”
Drip. Drip.
The blood flowing from his wounds finally revealed its red trail once it left a certain range.
Ah, damn it all.
A sudden chase along Raspberry Street. Beneath the pale night sky, Solomon ran with everything he had, wiping away the blood to leave no trail for pursuit.
Above all, the body of the captured Reaper was growing colder by the second.
He’s going to die at this rate.
Swallowing his anxiety, Solomon cut through the darkness of Raspberry Street. Though not as numerous as before, he still searched for the hidden “doors of the hotel” scattered throughout the district.
A lone door standing in an empty back alley.
The moment he stepped through, the scenery warped and the interior of Hotel Snark welcomed him.
The Door Room.
And another uninvited guest waiting for him there.
“Welcome back.”
A girl spoke the instant she saw him, as though she had been waiting.
She wore a blood-red gothic dress. Long, wavy crimson hair cascaded all the way to her feet. He immediately recognized the deathly pallor of her skin, the vivid red of her lips, and the sharp fangs that glinted coldly between them.
“The Chairman is waiting for you.”
“……”
She was clearly a vampire dispatched by Wallachia Co.
“He’s still breathing. Barely. Let’s move.”
“Hehe. No need to worry about that.”
When Solomon answered with a trace of impatience, the red-haired girl grinned, baring her fangs.
“I brought ice for the fish out of water.”
She reached toward the Reaper on Solomon’s back. At the same time, an unknown chill raced from her fingertips. The Reaper’s body began to freeze. It was not the cold of death. Just as she had said, it was closer to suspended animation meant to preserve a fish taken from the water.
“Now, let’s go.”
She spun gracefully, the hem of her dress fluttering elegantly, and strode toward the door leading to Room One.
Solomon followed her in silence.
In a sense, they were heading toward what could be called the most difficult part of the entire request.
* * *
“Ah, welcome.”
The empire of Chairman Vlad Tepes—Wallachia Co. Yet the place the red-haired girl led Solomon was not the chairman’s office.
It was the dining room.
It bore no resemblance to an ordinary kitchen or pantry.
The walls were draped in dark crimson velvet. A chandelier scattered an eerie glow where blood-red and crystal light intersected. Upon the black-and-white marble floor sat an obsidian-smooth black table.
Chairman Vlad Tepes was seated at that table.
“Please, sit. You have endured quite the ordeal on your way here.”
He offered Solomon a seat.
“Leave the preparation of the ingredients to my chefs.”
At the same time, unidentified men dressed in full sanitary garb from head to toe received the “ice-preserved” Reaper and carried him toward the cooking facilities in the corner.
Cooking facilities?
Strictly speaking, the area resembled an operating table stocked with every sharp instrument imaginable for surgical procedures rather than a kitchen counter.
“Ilya, you sit as well.”
“Yes!”
The red-haired girl called Ilya beamed like a child at Vlad Tepes’ words. Candles on the obsidian table ignited by themselves, without any visible manipulation.
“Bon appétit.”
Vlad Tepes spoke. Solomon frowned.
“I have no interest in eating human flesh.”
“Oh, have no fear. For Sir Solomon, we have prepared a dish suited to a ‘child’s palate.’”
Every instinct screamed at him to leave immediately, yet he could not. Perhaps this, too, was part of the request.
Soon a waiter approached and set a plate before Solomon.
“Filet mignon accompanied by Perigueux sauce generously infused with black truffle and celeriac puree to enhance the umami.”
Words that meant nothing to him.
“In other words…”
“It is exceptionally delicious beef.”
Chairman Vlad Tepes answered with a smile.
“By the way, you carried out the request most splendidly.”
“It was a bit of a hassle.”
Solomon cautiously reached for the fork and knife on the table. Or tried to.
“GYAAAAAAAH!”
A scream loud enough to rupture eardrums rang out.
“Ah, our meal is finally ready.”
Chairman Vlad revealed his fangs in a cold smile. An ugly, unconcealable desire lay bare on his face.
Clatter.
What was brought was not a plate. The Reaper had been brought strapped to a surgical frame, limbs bound to an iron lattice.
“Hiiik! W-what the hell is this?!”
Bound to the frame, the Ripper could not hide his terror and confusion. Solomon watched him in silence.
“Now, now, Mr. Red Artist. There is no need to be so frightened.”
As if he had been waiting for this moment, Vlad Tepes rose from his seat. The red-haired girl in the blood-colored dress giggled.
“I hear your slaughter was carried out for the noble cause of ‘art.’ As a fellow artist, I have certain thoughts on the matter.”
“Y-yes, art… exactly!”
Even while bound, the Ripper grinned. Vlad Tepes took something from his breast pocket—photographic evidence of the crime. Images of victims with grotesquely twisted limbs and organs pulled out to form bizarre objets.
Solomon frowned at the nauseating sight.
“These… were your works, were they not?”
“Hehe, yes!”
The Ripper laughed.
“How rude of me.”
Vlad Tepes glanced at the Ripper’s body. The wound that should have been fatal had healed cleanly.
“Uh… my wound…”
“Our chefs are first-rate. We have mended the unsightly injury.”
“So… you healed my wound…?”
“Indeed. Moreover, I am quite fascinated by your art.”
Chairman Tepes smiled softly. The moment the Ripper realized the man had healed him and expressed interest, his fear and confusion vanished as if they had never existed.
“So… someone who finally understands my art has appeared…!”
He looked overjoyed, as though he had met a true connoisseur of art.