The Puppet's Independence Movement (1)
I, the man-eating witch, quietly contemplated the scene in the Londonderry alleyway where the hunt had just ended. A crimson abstract painting rendered upon the canvas of the walls and floor—a masterpiece bloomed from the paint of human flesh and soul.
The massive, mouth-bearing hand slowly approached me at my command, shrinking in size. The demonic hand, which could easily chew and swallow a whole human, was now barely the size of my forearm. The part where the upper arm should have been was connected to my unnaturally dark shadow. It was impossible for such a deep shadow to be cast by the weak, soot-stained streetlamp nearby.
I held out the ownerless dagger to the hand as if offering a treat. Even in its shrunken state, the hand gaped open, sticking out a black tongue. It began to lick the tar-like black shadow, cleaning the blade, the hilt, and the prey's blood on my hands. The relic that was Mackin's keepsake and the bloodstains on my hands vanished as if washed clean.
Now, no amount of interrogation could ever link me to the evidence of the prey's existence. I scanned the scene of the gruesome feast and thought, Still, I should leave some physical evidence behind. It would be troublesome if there was absolutely nothing left. The death of the human Declan Mackin had to be confirmed not just by suspicion, but by physical proof.
'That way, they'll tear each other apart for my benefit.'
The most important thing was to make the IRA point their fingers at the Ministry of Magic, and the Ministry at the IRA. Leaving bloodstains at the scene would give the forensic experts of the United Kingdom—the pioneer of DNA profiling—room to do their work. Once they successfully identified the victim and the Ministry officials' brains turned to mush from panic, it would be much easier for us to manipulate them using Delis.
Conversely, the IRA needed to burn with rage and a desire to fight against Britain. It shouldn't be a fleeting anger that boiled over and quickly cooled down, but a persistent, inescapable fury. They would probably want to storm the Royal Ulster Constabulary headquarters immediately, but with their strongest mage brutally murdered, they would realize the insurmountable gap between themselves and the Empire. Let them seethe in their unquenchable rage. That would only make it easier for me to approach them. I would reap a harvest several times greater from this move.
There was no need to touch the heavy magical residue left at the scene. Most of it belonged to the prey, and what little of mine existed was buried under his much more violent traces. He wanted to be entangled with me, and he got his wish in death—so wasn't it a happy ending for him? The magic he had poured into his blade with all his might at the threshold of death might have been futilely blocked by my defense, but the trace it left behind was massive.
I finished the initial cleanup by recalling the demonic hand. As the hand vanished into the abyssal shadow with a soft *pop*, I felt the missing piece of my soul return to its place. But at the same time, what assaulted my body was—
"Ugh..."
—a terrible hangover. This body really was weak to alcohol. And that wasn't all. There was likely a headache from using Charm as well. Right now, I couldn't tell which was which or in what proportion they were mixed. I had already made sure this alley was deserted beforehand. Clutching my throbbing head with one hand and holding the dagger in the other, I slid down against the alley wall. Even in my dazed state, it was a stroke of luck that I leaned against the wall using the heel of my palm rather than my fingers to avoid leaving fingerprints.
I had already instructed my subordinates to keep watch around this area. The Head of Security would have already been informed that his leader had successfully completed her first mage hunt. After sitting there for a few minutes, leaning my back against the wall and fighting off the overwhelming drowsiness, I finally sensed someone approaching from the mouth of the alley.
"My lady! Are you alright?"
With my eyes half-closed, I muttered just loud enough for the subordinate standing before me to hear.
"...Carry me."
"Pardon...?"
"Carry me on your back. I'm tired."
At least for today, I didn't want to take a single step further. Through my bleary vision, I saw Pavel smiling awkwardly. It was a particularly annoying smile, so I used my authority to press him.
"What are you doing, Security Chief? I said I'm tired...?"
Only then did Pavel seem to steel himself, obediently bending down to offer his back. Even if I had to pull rank, a win was a win. As I wore a victorious grin, he grumbled under his breath.
"That is why I told you. I was not particularly keen on this."
And similarly, a win in this hunt was still a win.
"Heh, but we won anyway...? Once we finish the remaining cleanup tomorrow, it'll be perfect."
"Yes, well... from my perspective as an observer, it was indeed a flawless victory."
To drive the point home, I even held out the dagger I was holding and added proudly:
"Look, even if it falls far short of a national relic, it's still quite a rare artifact. This will be very useful."
"Your eye is always sharp, my lady. Please rest. We will arrive shortly."
As I listened to Pavel's voice while barely holding onto my fading consciousness, the world flickered, and the scenery before my eyes suddenly shifted.
"...?"
The situation was so absurd that I sat up and frantically looked around. Judging by the interior, it was the temporary safehouse the syndicate had set up on the outskirts of Londonderry—a small villa rented short-term for this hunt.
'What on earth...'
The mobile phone lying next to the bed insisted that it was now the following morning. Right beside it sat a cup of chamomile tea. Though it had a lid on it, the warmth radiating from the cup suggested it had been brewed less than thirty minutes ago.
Only my shoes had been taken off; I was still wearing the same clothes. Holding the teacup in one hand, I opened the door and stepped out into the villa's living room.
"Are you awake, my lady?"
Naturally, the Security Chief was in the living room. I raised a hand in a vague greeting and shuffled over to the table cluttered with documents. The documents were files containing the profiles of the patrons who had visited the prey's favorite pub that night. I planned to meet them in person and use a weak level of Charm on them. Distorting or completely erasing their memories would cause no small amount of confusion in the investigation.
"You've already identified everyone?"
I asked, taking a sip of my tea.
"The Information Chief provided full support. The sooner we act, the better, but of course, your condition is the top priority, my lady."
Pavel's words suddenly struck me as odd.
"My condition?"
When I asked, he looked even more puzzled than I was.
"My lady, do you perhaps not remember how you got here last night?"
"Last night?"
I frowned slightly, retracing my memories. Yesterday, last night... what did I do? Disguised as a university freshman, I lured my target, Declan Mackin, from his favorite pub into a dark alley, and then successfully killed him. And in the process...
"Ah."
"Did your memory return a bit?"
"Pavel Nikolayevich Tsoy."
"Yes."
"How much did you see?"
Pavel did not answer my question directly.
"In the future, even if it is for the sake of a target, it would be best to stay away from alcohol."
Instead, he offered an indirect response, a testament to his unchanging loyalty.
"Huuu..."
Suddenly, the air felt warm. Right, I actually made him carry me...? While the memory of the magical battle I fought while sober was crystal clear, the embarrassing antics I pulled after getting drunk on a mere half-glass of alcohol came rushing back like a tidal wave. Naturally, I had no choice but to stand up and make an announcement.
"Pavel, I'm going to wash up first. The cleanup... yes, as you said, let's do it later."
I hurriedly headed to the bathroom, slightly covering my burning face. Needless to say, I slammed the bathroom door shut with a loud bang.
Around the same time, though for an entirely different reason, another desk let out a thunderous slam that threatened to shatter it. However, it was impossible for the desk to vent its own frustration—not because it lacked a mouth, but because there was someone far angrier standing right over it.
"Are you out of your mind? An IRA mage is dead! Brutally murdered by those Ministry bastards! And yet, you have the nerve to say, 'We've found out virtually nothing'? Do you honestly think that's an excuse?"
Connor McDermott, the Belfast Quartermaster of the Provisional IRA, was the source of that fury.
To McDermott, this situation was a blatant provocation. A provocation thrown by those imperialist pirate bastards at the righteous souls fighting to reclaim the Irish people's rightful sovereignty. After dismissing the subordinate who had come in to report only to receive a severe tongue-lashing, McDermott felt his soaring anger subside just a fraction. Indeed, there was nothing quite like a subordinate when it came to venting rage.
Connor McDermott now calmly began to think. There was no disagreement that the culprits were the Ministry bastards. It was the unanimous opinion of both himself and the other leadership figures. Even if the Ministry had hired an external hitman to outsource the job, they must have gathered the intelligence themselves. It was true that Mackin was a playboy who couldn't keep it in his pants, hitting on anyone—civilian or fellow operative alike—the moment he saw them. So, it wouldn't be surprising if they had at least figured out that Declan Mackin was a member of the Provisional IRA.
But.
"How on earth did they know he was a mage?!"
*Clang!* A glass ashtray thrown carelessly against the wall shattered with a sharp ring. Not that he cared; his subordinates would clean it up anyway. Regardless, under normal circumstances, his identity as a mage should have remained unknown. While Mackin the playboy was public knowledge, Mackin the mage had never stepped into the spotlight. It was common sense in this business that openly flaunting oneself as a mage was a quick way to get one's head blown off by an anti-materiel sniper rifle. It wasn't much different from why soldiers on a battlefield didn't salute officers. *Always hide high-value targets like mages.* That was the golden rule of utilizing magical forces.
'Of all times, it had to be now...!'
He bit his lip. The plan to launch a massive offensive against the Royal Ulster Constabulary headquarters and Belfast City Hall was only a month away. Yet, a major pillar of their combat strength, a mage, had been killed so meaninglessly. To make matters worse, the lunatic who did it had practically flaunted the deed by splattering blood all over the crime scene. Although the Constabulary was superficially investigating the case, leaving his men with very little time to secure evidence, it was utterly deplorable that they had discovered absolutely nothing when the scene was practically overflowing with clues.
Should they delay the offensive? To prepare more thoroughly? The bombs they had delivered just a few days ago flickered in McDermott's mind. Damn it, why did they have to sweep up all the inventory right when it was needed? Disguising bombs as general cargo and shipping them would take a considerable amount of time. Should he try to arrange for the ship to turn back? How much would he have to pay in breach-of-contract fees? ...It was a day where such worries endlessly piled up, one after another.
Summoned by her superiors, Delis Bloomfeld was walking down Whitehall in Westminster, London, a street famous for being lined with government offices. From Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster, which first came into view after stepping out of the tube station, to Downing Street and Trafalgar Square as she headed north—every single sight was overwhelming. In the past, she had felt a quiet pride that her homeland possessed such grand places. After all, when her father was alive, this was the very street visible outside the windows of New Scotland Yard.
But now, it all seemed utterly vain. Ever since she met the master of her soul, the one who truly guided her, such things no longer mattered. Delis would never be able to forget that day. The day she had personally avenged her father, and asked if she would use her talents for her sake. The day she had placed her warm hand on her head and personally baptized her soul. For her master's purpose, everything else was merely a means to an end, fully justified.
'Is this not a treasonous act of deceiving my country?'
Such questions held absolutely no meaning. What of it? Her master, Lady Yerina Bronska, had commanded it. Thus, Delis was infinitely confident and unashamed. Even when she fabricated and reported the fact that an individual presumed to be a high-ranking IRA mage had died in a Londonderry alleyway without leaving so much as a corpse.
"Yes, to summarize, this incident appears to be the result of a power struggle between internal factions of the IRA."
"As you gentlemen are well aware, although they are lumped together under the name of the IRA, they are actually a collection of countless interest groups that repeatedly align and splinter."
"The Provisional IRA (PIRA) also eventually split from the Official IRA (OIRA), and if you look at it, the current independent state of Ireland has its roots there as well. There are already other groups that have split off from the Provisionals."
She had no intention of debating historical context. It was merely a task to make herself look professional to the brain-dead old men of the Ministry of Magic. Frankly speaking, what did it matter whether they were Provisionals or Officials? In the end, they would all be nothing more than children playing house under her master's feet.
Near the end of the report, Delis continued in a tone that urged a hardline response. This, too, was an instruction from Lady Bronska.
"Therefore, now is the opportune moment. While they are in disarray due to countless internal conflicts, we could take this opportunity to castrate their magical capabilities."
"We could execute a decapitation strike utilizing our own magical forces, or even wage a preemptive war to block any terror threats entirely. There are many options."
It was a gathering packed with heavyweights, including Lord Dunhaven, the head of the Ministry of Magic. Thus, Delis had to finish her report with a humble posture until the very end.
Yet, though her body bowed, her soul did not.
Please, use me as your sword and shield to strike down your enemies. Use this country as your bridgehead to fulfill your designs. As for me, I shall watch from your right hand with boundless loyalty.
This was her new prayer. This was the new covenant she had forged with the savior who was the master of her soul.