The Death of a Certain Hostage (2)
Imperial Magic Division's third-floor break room, dedicated to monitoring hostages and controlling information from neutral third countries.
Normally, this would be a space reeking of stale sweat from mages pulling all-nighters and drained of mana, where they'd sprawl out rolling around, chug coffee while catching up on backlog, or crash on the sofas for a quick nap. But today, the air in the break room felt entirely different.
It was because of the three low-rank mages huddled in the middle of the room, biting their nails bloody as they anxiously awaited the disciplinary committee's verdict.
Bang!
"It's here!!"
The colleague who'd been acting as messenger burst through the break room door, panting for breath.
The three mages, pale as ghosts, sprang up from their seats like coiled springs.
"W-what happened? Am I really getting shipped off to the frontier guard?"
"Salary cut, right? How many months? Please just three—I can't handle half a year…!"
"Be grateful, you idiots. His Majesty the Emperor said no need for a full committee—just write up a proper letter of apology and submit it, and you're done."
Stunned by the unexpectedly lenient ruling, the three mages started jumping around the room, cheering wildly.
"Wooooaaah!! We're alive, fuck yeah! We're really alive!!"
"Long live His Merciful Majesty the Emperor! Long live the Empire!!"
Mages were among the Empire's most elite personnel, requiring massive investments of time and money to train. So even for major screw-ups, execution was rare—the worst punishments were usually salary cuts, formal reprimands, or reassignment at the extreme end.
But these guys had neglected their duty by flouting a direct imperial order on surveillance, so they'd braced for at least six months' pay docked, missed promotions, or worst-case, years exiled to a forward fortress monitoring the Northern Archduke.
Getting off with just a single sheet of paper? They burst into sobs, hugging each other tightly, while the other mages in the room watched with disbelief, snickering and piling on the mockery.
"Crazy bastards. Even during festival season, getting sloshed and playing card games on duty? No wonder you ended up like this."
"Exactly. If you're gonna drink, know your limits—at least rotate so one's sober enough to stop a suicide in time."
"Right? It wasn't like an assassin broke through defenses. How hard can monitoring one hostage be that you miss it entirely? The logs showed that princess hanging there for over twenty minutes, dangling from the ceiling. Not one of you noticed her vitals dropping? Your heads must just be for show."
Under the barrage of teasing, the mage who'd been shift leader scratched his head awkwardly and protested his innocence.
"Look, we know we fucked up with the slacking, but… it's festival season! Who the hell kills themselves during a festival, the happiest time of the year?!"
"Yeah! We had a few drinks 'cause of the festival, but who knew she'd ghost us and off herself like that."
"Exactly. She stuffed her face at the banquet, downed some booze, so we figured she'd just stumble back to bed. This is bullshit…."
"Let's be real—they starved 'cause they couldn't hack it, couldn't read the room and crashed like idiots. Why keep blaming us? Did we hold a knife to her throat and make her hang herself?"
"Fair point. Got the guts to die but not to survive? Pathetic fool."
His grumbling drew nods from the surrounding mages, who smirked with thick disdain.
Empire mages were selected purely on merit, regardless of commoner or noble birth—plenty came from rock-bottom origins. Street rats from slums who'd eaten mice to survive, slaves sold off to debt collectors. They'd clawed their way up enduring bone-grinding agony on raw magical talent alone.
So to these imperial mages, the hostages from defeated nations—born into lucky bloodlines but useless otherwise, wallowing in past glories and whining—were the most pitiful, incomprehensible scum on earth.
"If they wanna live in the Empire that bad, they gotta thrash around somehow. Look at that new prince from the Sterling Kingdom, Ian or whatever, dragged in just two months ago."
A veteran mage in the corner of the break room, puffing on a pipe, tossed out an intriguing topic.
"Where's the Sterling Kingdom?"
"Way down south. Like, the Empire's southernmost."
"South of the Rice Noodle Kingdom?"
"Where's the Rice Noodle Kingdom… Oh, the Nyeokmam Kingdom? Yeah, even further south. Anyway, why skip normal country names for 'Rice Noodle Kingdom'?"
"That's all anyone remembers about it."
"The fruit's good too, asshole."
Ignoring the juniors bickering over nonsense, the veterans dove into chatter about Prince Ian.
"Why's he treated so well anyway? Sterling's just a backwater speck in the southern boonies. Easy to annex, nothing worth taking—hostage value should've been tapped out ages ago."
"Kid's just that good on his own merits. Pretty face, sharp as hell, so the Emperor and all the royals dote on him. Word is he even schmoozed with nobles at this social gala."
"Yeah. Yesterday at the main hall, he challenged Count Gros to a booze battle with 40-proof rotgut and actually won."
"Count Gros?"
"Yup! Total poison resist, that one."
"Damn, impressive. Scrapping like hell to prove his worth, demanding top treatment outright… Feels like one of us mages."
Another mage slammed the desk in agreement with the veteran.
"Exactly! Fuck, if you got no skills, chuck that fragile pride in the trash. Think we became mages easy?"
"Sure for us, but even among hostages, some hustle hard. Take that prince from the Torbe Kingdom. Scrapes every coin to survive—dresses as a woman every night, whoring for fat old nobles."
"Eww, couldn't do that."
"Pfft, on death's door and you can't? Let pride starve you into hanging yourself? Too pathetic to watch."
"That's what happens when you grow up like greenhouse flowers on bloodline alone. In the Empire, incompetence is the greatest sin."
"Gotta sell your body? Nah, just do business. That Rice Noodle Kingdom spot's run by the Nyeokmam prince, right? Lines out the door, total hit."
"Yeah. Capital prices are insane, but a steaming bowl's just one silver."
"Smart guy. Low-price, high-volume strategy's gold."
"And it's legit tasty—business booms. Remember when the Crown Prince got hooked? Ate rice noodles every damn day for a while."
"Who told you that?"
"My buddy in the Crown Prince's office. Puked after ten straight days."
One of the chuckling colleagues clapped the still-pale mages on the shoulders with a mischievous grin.
"Anyway, congrats on dodging the pay cut and reprimand. That's at least six months' salary saved—instead of sucking your thumbs broke, you pocketed it. Since you saved that cash, drinks are on you tonight!"
"True! Free money, basically? Hit the bars tonight!"
"You crazy fucks! That's my blood-sweat paycheck! …But fine, to celebrate keeping our heads, I'll splash out big tonight!!"
"Wooooaaah!!"
"Where to?"
"Eh, street stalls should do? No need for fancy spots."
"This guy's still pinching pennies even now."
"You nobles wouldn't get it, but to buy a place in the capital and save up, I gotta grind another ten years!"
"I'm a bastard too—no fancy shit like you think! The dump I'm in ain't even mine!"
"Speaking of houses, buy in the capital, no question. Capital's eternal. Empire's good for another millennium—prices are lowest now."
The mages dissolved back into their usual banter and daily grind.
Forgotten by the Emperor himself, reduced to light bar gossip fodder even among the watchers who held her lifeline—deemed pathetic. The Goti Kingdom princess's unjust, wretched life—torn from her lifelong homeland, dragged to a distant empire's clutches, swallowing tears amid brutal hunger and humiliation, until she hanged herself from a cold mansion ceiling—vanished utterly from everyone's minds.
Her sole trace in this world: a single sheet of the mages' apology letter, soon to be callously filed away in a dusty corner of the Imperial Intelligence Division's archives days later.