France Needs Its Élan, Part 3
The man, stabbed right through the center of his chest, muttered stupidly. "Why...?"
"Well, you said if you didn't return safely, it would mean immediate war, right?"
With a soft grunt, I stood up and slowly approached the traitorous bastard. As if responding to my movement, the shadow that had torn through his flesh spun and wriggled its way into his mouth. His bewildered muttering quickly dissolved into a muffled, choked gurgle.
"Don't move. Stay perfectly still. I deliberately avoided your vitals, and I have no intention of killing you."
Of course, the only response was a muffled, gagged scream. Not that I was particularly eager for an immediate answer anyway.
As the shadow wriggling from the wound began to wrap around him from all directions, I suspended the traitor in midair and leisurely dragged him over to the mattress I had spotted earlier.
"Pavel, let's begin the surgery."
Pavel nodded, though he couldn't help but grumble a cautious complaint. "Still, Milady, that was a bit too risky. If you had accidentally pierced his heart, it would have been immediate war, just like this bastard said."
"Well... you're not wrong, but I trust myself more than anyone else in the world. I never doubted my aim against a target who wasn't even trying to dodge."
I meant it. Besides, considering all the other risk factors, neutralizing him with one decisive surprise attack was by far the superior option. What if he had brought a magic-infused gun and suddenly initiated a full-scale magical duel? There was no need to drag things out; my current response was the most convenient for me.
I secured the traitorous bastard to the mattress as he spewed incoherent, venomous screams. I drove four pickaxes rolling around nearby into each corner of the mattress, then ordered the shadow beast wrapping the traitor to hold him down tight. It felt almost like looking at a patient strapped down in a psychiatric ward.
Is it really that different?
Charm is a magic that interferes with the human mind and eventually corrupts it. In that sense, my very existence is a kind of truth serum—a drug that turns people into psychiatric patients.
"Did you really think that paltry safety net of yours could save you? And did you think I'd tremble in fear of the Ministry and meekly scurry back to London?"
I let out a cold smirk.
"You were naive. The current me is not the greenhouse flower of a princess you used to know."
All the Marseille traitors knew about me was that I was a sickly girl who used to follow her father around and stay confined to her room. A mediocre existence, only half-stepping into the magical arts. Furthermore, they didn't even know for sure if I had become a mage after the syndicate half-collapsed. Even if that incident happened at the British Museum, they didn't know if I had done it myself or if it was the work of mages still loyal to the syndicate.
My father himself wasn't a mage. There was no guarantee that the leader of an organization employing mages was a mage themselves. Therefore, it wasn't strange that this man, currently struggling and soaking the mattress in blood, had treated me so lightly. How could he know that the magical trace that led him here was actually left by Pavel, not by me?
But that naivety led to his own ruin, so in the end, he brought it upon himself.
I said with a broad smile, "But what to do? The truth is, I am a mage too."
"...!"
"So... everything that happened wasn't done by my subordinates. It means I acted personally."
His eyes were filled with confusion and fear—a complex web of emotions that was hard to describe in a single word. I whispered to him as if comforting a patient before surgery.
"Don't worry too much. Once you wake up from a deep sleep, all this confusion will vanish as if it never existed."
"That's right. You just have to answer a few questions, and tell your superior, 'Yerina Bronska decided to return to London.'"
Today, yesterday, and even over the past few days, I hadn't activated Charm at maximum output. The catacombs ticket booth employee? Using it on someone who wasn't even a mage was barely a challenge now. Much less for a mage whose understanding of the soul had reached an unrivaled level through hundreds of baptisms.
I urged him with a cold smile. I had no intention of keeping his mouth shut while questioning him, so I naturally loosened Schattenmaiden, which had been constricting his neck inside and out.
"Your name."
"Anatoly... Anatoly Pushkov..."
So that was his name. It meant he wasn't a local recruit like Durand, but someone dispatched from the Soviet mainland. Then, responding to my will, the shadow beast spat out a knife from its wide-open mouth. It was a knife coated with sticky black shadow instead of saliva.
"Good, Pushkov. It's going to hurt a little—just a tiny bit—so you have to bear it, okay?"
I let out a warning that wasn't really a warning, and slashed the Northern Irish blade horizontally.
"Gasp...!"
Anatoly Pushkov woke up with a start in a shabby apartment in the 18th arrondissement of Paris. Immediately after sitting up so violently the bed creaked, Pushkov began to grope his chest.
No wound...?
With an incoherent murmur, he looked around and felt a deep sense of relief for some reason. Even though he had clearly had a vivid dream of being stabbed. He didn't even know if the reason for his relief was because he was in his shabby but cozy apartment, or because he had safely completed yesterday's perilous mission.
Mission...?
Ah, yes. His mission was to monitor Yerina Bronska, the second leader of the Northern Covenant Syndicate. If necessary, it included tailing her or delivering Marseille's firm stance.
Criminal organizations like theirs operated on mutual benefit. To put it bluntly, it was like medieval feudalism. Loyalty was offered to the top, and crumbs were thrown to the bottom. Though the details differed, in the grand scheme of things, the laws that existed in Europe 500 years ago still applied. However, the current syndicate was clearly unable to keep this prerequisite. If the roots of the tree could no longer supply nutrients, the branches had no choice but to seek their own survival. That was the law of this world.
Pushkov clutched his aching head. He hadn't even drunk strong alcohol yesterday, so why was he like this? What on earth had happened yesterday?
"Suka... now I can breathe..."
Pushkov slowly recalled yesterday's events. He had definitely met Yerina Bronska and clearly delivered "our" organization's stance: "The two organizations have completely parted ways, so let's go our separate ways on good terms." It would have been nice to just talk normally, but he remembered talking in the catacombs to avoid prying ears. Yes, that woman. Yerina Bronska had clicked her tongue but expressed her intention to back down quietly. No matter how he looked at her, she wasn't someone who could lead a massive organization... no, she was just a girl.
He didn't know how she had managed to win over the now-separated London members, or how she had moved them to steal the Rosetta Stone from the British Museum, but she certainly wouldn't last long. Of course, Pushkov himself had been loyal to her father, Willo Bronsky, the first leader of the organization. Walking a tightrope with the Magisters of the Council and establishing his own march across Europe was indeed a respectable achievement. But that was no reason to swear loyalty to that pretty, greenhouse-raised young lady. This wasn't the Middle Ages; did she expect to inherit everything her predecessor achieved? At any rate, one thing was certain.
He, Anatoly Pushkov, was better at choosing the winning side than anyone else.
When the tragic news first arrived from Kaliningrad, the syndicate branch here in Paris was in absolute chaos. No one knew that back then, as a middle manager, he had partially resolved the chaos while embezzling a massive amount of public funds, and when he switched sides to Marseille, the funds he carried away were just as large. The reason he was guaranteed a middle manager position later was because he handed over the public fund accounts in Swiss vaults to Marseille. Although he was branded a traitor and temporarily kept away from key positions, relegated to tailing people in a corner of Paris, if this job went well, his path to success was practically guaranteed.
In this situation, how could he feel any affection for that young lady who had barely managed to clean up her own backyard and was now running around Paris trying to pick up crumbs? If she was going to return, she should have done so earlier. His loyalty would certainly not be directed toward London anymore.
"Ah...!"
Come to think of it, since there had been no contact since yesterday, the people in Marseille were probably getting anxious. He had to report that the negotiations went smoothly and that the woman had decided to give up on Paris and return to London. Although he had felt uneasy upon waking up due to that shitty nightmare of being stabbed in the chest, thinking about the key position he would soon secure made him feel better. What was that young lady thinking right now? If she had come with the vain hope of swallowing up all of France's interests without putting in any effort, she must be quite disappointed.
"Here, Durand. I found out everything. This should give us some breathing room."
"Truly... amazing. How did you get all of this in just one day..."
"I haven't done much for you lately, so I had to do at least this much to save face for both of us, right?"
I thought Anatoly Pushkov, whom I met in the catacombs, was just a small fry, but it turned out he was quite a big deal in Marseille. Apparently, when I first arrived in London, he was guarding the Paris branch, but as the hope of salvation faded, he was the malicious type who ran off with the public funds. Of course, I wondered if it was my fault for not reaching out sooner, but on second thought, that didn't seem entirely true either. I should bury all the opportunists this time. Since I gave the eels in the Thames a feast, wouldn't it be fair to do the same in the Seine?
Anyway, thanks to Pushkov being in a higher position than expected, the information I obtained from him was quite substantial. Among them were quite a few leads that could speed up the conclusion of my French business trip.
"When are you planning the raid?"
"The sooner, the better, right? I think we'll head out as soon as I receive the fake identity I asked Durand to make."
Tampering with the soul of the traitor Pushkov in the catacombs was more successful than expected. The soul dwells in the brain, the brain is directly connected to the mind, and Charm twists the human mind. In the end, it all leads to the same path. Recalling the baptisms I had performed and utilizing Charm, I was even able to distort a person's memory to my advantage.
Even so, the sooner I moved, the better. It was uncertain how long Pushkov's perception distorted by Charm would last, and even if he didn't notice anything strange, there was a possibility that those around him would. If Charm were any more versatile, I would have approached the heads of state of major powers one by one by now and controlled the entire world from the shadows.
During the short time before receiving the fake identity, I spent a true vacation. You could say I refreshed myself by visiting various famous spots around Paris. Although I came to reclaim France, deceiving the eyes of the Ministry was just as important.
"Here are the fake identities for Lady Bronska and Chief of Security Choi. Everything went through legal procedures, and we have secured VIP memberships for both of you at the Marseille casino."
I wondered what "legal procedures" meant for a fake identity, but since the moral compass of people in this industry was usually missing a screw or two, I just brushed it off.
"That was faster than I thought. I expected it to take about three weeks."
"If it weren't for the funds you provided and the information we got from the traitor Pushkov, it would have taken much longer."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that. This will be over even faster than six weeks."
"Besides, while we lost our money, businesses, and people, our information network is still relatively intact. As long as we have money, there are plenty of people willing to do this kind of work for us."
If we lost money, businesses, and people, didn't we lose everything...? Anyway, I decided to brush this off too. Since the identities were perfectly laundered, there was no reason to question it further. After completing all preparations, I took the TGV to Marseille with an account loaded with cash.
"I'm Irene Varez. I'd like to exchange about 500,000 francs."
Not everyone in the casino taken over by the Marseille traitors knew my face. Needless to say, the guards at the entrance or the staff in charge of exchanging cash and chips certainly didn't. I approached the poker table wearing an evening dress that brought back vivid memories of Northern Ireland. Since I had intentionally set my fake identity's age two years older, no one stopped me. Well... even if my age was sixteen as it originally was, who would refuse a cash cow throwing 500,000 francs into the air?
While sipping apple juice instead of whiskey or champagne and scattering hundreds of thousands of francs, the atmosphere around me gradually began to turn hostile. The guards stationed throughout the casino exchanged meaningful glances, and their eyes gradually converged on me. Proof that the Marseille traitors had realized my presence. Since it had come to this, there was no point in dragging it out. I spoke to the dealer in the middle of a game.
"I'd like to raise the stakes by a few digits now. Could you guide me to the VIP room?"
The fake identity also came with a VIP membership to the casino. Whether the atmosphere turned hostile or not, it meant I could make this request at any time. How could they refuse a VIP member's request when there were so many eyes watching? Doing so would instantly tank their credibility.
I followed the guidance of the guard who had been glaring at me earlier—though I couldn't tell for sure since he was wearing sunglasses. On the way to the VIP room, there was a large hall. There was a wide circular hall with six pathways branching out from it. Excluding the front and back paths, the remaining four led to individual VIP rooms.
I pretended to follow quietly, then stopped briefly in the middle of the hall and looked around.
"I've changed my mind. Instead of poker or blackjack, let's play a slightly different game."
I slowly spun around in place, observing my surroundings once more. The hem of my dress fluttered as I spun. The guards had already formed a perimeter, surrounding Pavel and me in the center. Seeing how they blocked all six pathways, it seemed they had no intention of guiding me peacefully from the start.
Instead of hesitating, I walked forward confidently, heading toward the man who looked like the highest-ranking guard among them. The suited men forming the perimeter flinched. Their hands moving toward their waists was so obvious that I couldn't help but laugh internally.
They probably plan to draw their pistols and shoot the moment I make a suspicious move.
But my overly confident attitude made them hesitate to act. Successfully reaching the highest-ranking guard, I leaned forward, grabbed the tie of his well-tailored suit, and questioned him softly.
"Could you call your boss? I have something to say."
"Are you really prepared to go to war? Who the hell do you think you are...!"
It would have been nice if he had just called him quietly. Acting so hostile like this is truly upsetting. Even if I plan to take it back anyway, look at how much money I poured in here today. They shouldn't treat a VIP like this. I poked the guard's chest with my finger and replied.
"Me? Your boss."
Boom! The telekinetic force concentrated at my fingertip pierced through my satin glove and struck the guard's chest, sending the human bullet flying into the far wall before he could even react.
"Fire! Everyone—!" At the same time, the other traitors who had drawn their pistols began to pour bullets toward me.