14. Melting Point (35)
14. Melting Point (35)
Only half an hour earlier, the hotel had been buzzing with year-end revelry. Now it had devolved into utter chaos.
The cause: masked assailants who had materialized without warning. Their weapons were a motley assortment. Their clothing and gear practically screamed that they were trying to hide who they were.
"Owooo!"
Once the attack began, however, they made no effort to hide their identity as hunters. The kind of thing guaranteed to draw immediate suspicion toward the nearby Tylops Region.
This was a large-scale assassination involving more than two hundred people. Hiding their regional origin had never been an option. They wanted their region in the spotlight. That was precisely why they had ordered their spy to declare their Tylops affiliation before carrying out the attempt.
A common tactic among extremist groups staging terrorist acts. Brand an entire community as the culprit, force its leaders to swear their people would never do such a thing, and the investigation gets entangled in the denial. Politicians, by nature, cannot abide rivals using an incident as a pretext to sink their teeth into them, regardless of where the truth actually lies.
If events played out that way, Ferenc's faction might just slip through the investigative net beneath that political web—even if the assassination failed.
Of course, they knew this was wishful thinking. An attempt on the Crown Prince's life was the sort of cataclysmic event that tore straight through such flimsy webs. No amount of maneuvering could change that. The odds of every last assassin being captured and executed far outstripped the odds of even one surviving.
Revealing their regional origin, then, was aimed less at surviving a failure than at capitalizing on a success. Should the Crown Prince die, the balance of power would lurch instantly toward the Third Consort's faction.
If that happened, the lords of the Tylops Region would be permanently branded as "the province that assassinated the Crown Prince." Any attempt to investigate or manage the fallout could itself be construed as siding with the Crown Prince's camp.
Power would naturally gravitate toward Ferenc's group, the ones who had painted that sign. Not that they could go around openly boasting about it.
So the assassins strove to conceal their individual identities while advertising their regional origin. For the scenario outlined above to work, they needed to stake that claim quickly, early in the incident.
The moment they shed their disguises, they began swinging blades and firing guns at the Imperial Guardsmen they had already marked.
"Who the hell are you?!"
"Enemy attack! We're under attack!"
None of the guardsmen had anticipated an assault inside a hotel in the heart of the city. Their response to the ambush, however, was more composed than the assassins had banked on.
Nika had deliberately fed them expendable personnel, but they were still Imperial Guardsmen by title. Their skill outmatched the average knight's.
Imperial law required the children of provincial lords to come to the capital and serve a fixed term in an appointed post. Those of lesser ability were typically stationed as junior officers on the outskirts of the metropolitan area, but the truly talented could be commissioned as officers in the Capital Guard or the Imperial Guard itself.
Those serving such military duties were usually the second or third sons of lords with no claim to succession. By binding them to the capital, the Imperial Household suppressed any potential rebellion.
The effect went beyond simply holding hostages. Young nobles from every corner of the empire, blended together in one place, meant that anyone plotting something in the capital could not afford to ignore their collective gaze.
Invite them all to a banquet, hand everyone a sword, and set a crown in the middle of the hall—who would dare try to steal it?
The Imperial Household's authority rested upon that kind of intricate web of relationships. And if the Imperial Household was safe, the Imperial Guard was unlikely to see direct combat while on duty.
The system had one flaw, though: what happened when there were two spiders on that web. When the Imperial Household itself was split, the elaborate equilibrium binding the central military unraveled.
That was precisely why the assassins could attack the Imperial Guard without a shred of hesitation.
Their targets were Crown Prince Nikolai's people, after all. To men who had already thrown in with the Third Consort's faction, they were enemies to be exterminated. Killing as many as possible, they figured, was the way to deal a real blow to the Crown Prince's standing within the court.
What they didn't know was that the guardsmen assigned to Nika's current protective detail were all discards.
Every last one of the guardsmen attached to Koka had a foot awkwardly planted in both the Crown Prince's and the Third Consort's camps. There was not a single true loyalist among them.
Even if they all died, the actual damage to his faction would be negligible. It might even serve as a pretext to pull a host of knights he had kept hidden outside the palace into the Imperial Household proper.
It also created an opportunity to fold the dead guardsmen's noble parents into the Crown Prince's camp. "Avenging my child" and "died honorably protecting the Crown Prince" were tantalizing political cards.
In that sense, Nika had already won this game before the first move was made.
Had the Third Consort's side managed to identify the guardsmen currently providing protection, they might have realized it was a trap—precisely because these were not the men they were accustomed to.
But the Crown Prince's camp did not run such lax internal security that assassins could figure that out in a matter of days. Tonight added yet another case study to the pile: in this era, thorough secrecy counted for more than thick armor.
All such political calculations between the assassins and the guardsmen, however, operated at a grand strategic remove. Here on the ground, they swung their swords to kill the enemy in front of them—and to stay alive.
"Die, Crown Prince's dogs!"
"You treasonous bastards!"
Carnage erupted throughout the hotel. The clash of steel, shouted curses, and screams echoing from every direction sent the guests into a trembling panic.
The Monster Circus Troupe was no exception. Most of them, accustomed to staying inside their quarters, had been relaxing when the sudden uproar sent them scrambling into the common room in alarm.
—Where are you?!
—Miss Ella, are you all right?
Only after shouting his name dozens of times did Ella hear the reply and let out a breath of relief.
—Hugh... what on earth were you doing...? I'm fine. I'm in the quarters now. What is going on out there?
Setting aside the complicated context, Wonderstein explained that a group had appeared to assassinate the Crown Prince's party—and that they had used black magic to manipulate the hotel staff.
—And you're going to stop the ringleaders yourself?
—Heh. Worried about me?
—Wh-what nonsense... there are other people for that... b-besides, why would I be worried about you? I'd rather you just dropped dead...
—...
His voice cut off abruptly. Ella waited with a strained expression, expecting a reply. The silence stretched.
No way... wait... is he actually... sulking?
Oh, come on. That insufferably smug man?
Ella dismissed the thought as absurd. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn't entirely shake it.
For better or worse, he had spent three months with her after she lost her memories. She didn't like to acknowledge that time, but the person she had been then had genuinely adored him.
His voice, his smile, his eyes, his hair, his touch, his scent. She had been utterly captivated by everything about him. The mere sight of him had made her smile, and she had always wanted to be at his side.
So how must it feel for him now, when that same person had suddenly turned cold and distant? He never let it show, but she must have stung him badly over the past month—and the remark she had just made was worse still.
Not that his feelings were any concern of hers. The only reason she bothered to gauge his mood at all was because she worried that offending him might get more innocent people killed. It had nothing whatsoever to do with any lingering affection.
—Look... are you angry?
—...
The concern in her voice was nothing strange either. Just her innate talent instinctively layering situation-appropriate emotional coloring into her delivery.
—I mean, considering everything you've done to me... you could at least try to... understand why I said that... couldn't you?
—...
—And what's with sulking like a child, honestly? A man who treats human lives so cheaply... h-hugh, I mean, uh... so, that is... s-sorry... okay? I mean... I'm sorry. I was too harsh.
Her face flushed crimson. It was just a business apology, so she had no idea why she felt so mortified. Pride—her refusal to bend to him—seemed to be running interference.
Then Wonderstein's voice came back, puzzled.
—Pardon? What did you say? I cut the connection momentarily to contact the other members.
—Oh... you did?
—I've told everyone to return to the quarters and wait.
—I-is that so...
—What were you saying? I heard up to "there are other people for that..."
—N-nothing... nothing at all... j-just talking to myself... a-anyway, you're going to catch those bastards, right? Haha, well, we'll be here, so... g-good luck!
Ella cringed at her own choice of parting words and smacked her temple with her fist.
Wonderstein tilted his head after the connection ended. The emotional contours of that conversation had been a mess. She still seemed to be reeling from the aftermath of what had happened a month ago. The system reflected it too: her Affection level remained stubbornly stuck at 46, as if glitched...
He couldn't linger in thought for long. Curses and shouts were being hurled his way.
"What the hell are you?!"
"Th-this is demon's work!"
"Ghhk... how can you... do this..."
The voices belonged to the hunters he had just dealt with—sprawled on the floor and howling in outrage.
The claim that he had been contacting the other members was a lie. While walking toward the control room, he had spotted them about to kill a gray-haired boy, intervened swiftly, subdued them, and pulled the child to safety.
Neither the boy he had rescued nor the boy's parents offered any thanks before fleeing. It was only natural for civilians to want to extract themselves from a scene of bloodshed, but this time felt slightly different: they were running away from Wonderstein.
He had lashed out his tongue like a whip to snatch an arrow out of the air, shot his hair stiff as needles to pierce their hands and disarm them, and finally stretched the fingers of both their hands like rubber bands, binding them into a tangled knot.
To any ordinary observer, the demon in that scene would have been Wonderstein, not the hunters. He left the subdued men where they lay and quickened his pace. Even as he moved, he did not forget to relay the order for the other troupe members to return to the quarters.
The attackers had no quarrel with them. They were likely to stay safe. What worried him were the two people he had left behind.
"They'll figure something out."
He had given each of them two 'Role Name Tags' before parting ways. Clever as they were, he trusted that would be enough for them to navigate the situation.