15. Frankenstein's Successor (1)
It was an open secret that ninja from the Jeuhacheu archipelago had played a part in the founding of the Imperial Intelligence Department. Fleeing the upheavals of their homeland, they had distinguished themselves in espionage during the empire's civil war, and in recognition of their skill and service, they were entrusted with an agency responsible for counter-intelligence across the entire empire.
Given that history, the department's public image as a ninja-like organization was hardly surprising. Yet their actual work had more in common with the staff of a newspaper office than with black-masked figures darting silently through the night and scattering shuriken. They collected information, analyzed it, and wrote reports.
Of course, a few of them did handle genuinely ninja-like assignments. For that, they studied acting and rhetoric, and were required to learn a wide range of skills. The nickname for the Intelligence Department's headquarters in the capital was "the Circus" for exactly that reason. It was a world for acrobats of another kind — acrobats denied a stage.
Senior agent Kazinsky felt the gazes on him now — a muddle of sentiments reserved for ruthless assassins on one hand and multi-talented entertainers on the other. Either way, it was an unwelcome situation for a spy who was supposed to avoid attracting attention.
But in this case, he had no choice. He glanced at the prison wagon in the middle of the column. Inside were criminals whose limbs were shackled in chains.
Days of brutal treatment had left raw, glistening wounds across their bodies, and every one of them could barely hold themselves upright. Still, not a trace of pity showed in the eyes of the soldiers escorting them.
These were the very people who, two weeks ago, had attempted to assassinate the Crown Prince. They were high traitors — undeserving of sympathy, and offering it would itself be criminal. The Intelligence Department had been assigned their interrogation and was now transporting them to the capital.
Kazinsky had no expectation that more information could be extracted from them. Over the fortnight, everything useful had already been wrung out. The political world had largely concluded its discussions on the matter — in other words, negotiations over the list of ringleaders to be punished had been settled.
Under these circumstances, the department taking custody of the prisoners was theater, pure and simple. The fact that they were being transported overland instead of by a perfectly functional train confirmed it.
Public support for the Crown Prince ran deep. Parading the prisoners along the main roads was plainly designed to provoke the masses into a display of righteous fury.
Kazinsky had seen that spectacle unfold in several cities already. The department's operations were not confined to the shadows. Propaganda, they understood, was just another front in the information war.
Considering all the circumstances, he judged it highly likely that the rumors of the Crown Prince's critical condition were true. The prince's two-week absence from official appearances, and now Central's orders for this performance — it all pointed to a regime anxious enough that public sentiment had to be managed even by such means.
Of course, the Crown Prince's faction might be running an elaborate deception against their opponents. But he considered that the less likely scenario. No matter how he turned it over, the gains from concealing the prince's whereabouts seemed far smaller than the gains of the alternative interpretation.
"A ninja!"
A small sigh escaped Kazinsky at the nearby cry. That the Imperial Intelligence Department was handling the prisoner escort was already widely reported in the press. The aim was to project an image of a central intelligence agency unshaken by political winds — one that could not be swayed. It also served to preemptively deter enemy spies from exploiting the current unrest.
But for the agent actually assigned the task, it was far from welcome. Handling a political powder keg like this was stressful enough without becoming the center of public attention. Undoubtedly, Central had chosen him precisely because he lacked patrons and belonged to no faction — making him a convenient sacrifice.
So, as his own small survival tactic, he had opted to wear a mask. Central, calculating that it would also make for effective propaganda, had not objected.
What he hadn't anticipated was that being the only masked man among the entire escort amounted to advertising himself: I am with the Intelligence Department. Every passerby muttered "ninja" in his direction.
He had reflexively dismissed the latest shout as more of the same, but quickly sensed something off. They were moving through a forest track now. The only people on the road were the prisoners and their escort. There was no one else in sight.
A soldier who had marched with them for days would not exclaim "A ninja!" upon seeing him. Kazinsky started to turn toward the source of the cry — and stopped. Similar calls were rising from all directions.
"A ninja...!"
"Is that really one?"
"That, that's Intelligence too, right?"
Kazinsky followed the soldiers' stares. The target of their murmurings was obvious.
Atop a boulder the size of a small house beside the forest path, a single figure stood. A white mask, a straight sword strapped across his back, armored vambraces with shuriken bundles fastened to his arms — his attire closely matched the uniform of the guards at "the Circus."
One detail set him apart: the scarf at his neck. The two-meter length of red muffler fluttered in the snowy wind, and aside from its dramatic flair, it inspired a single question in onlookers.
Isn't that a little impractical?
Up on that high rock, the wind at least carried it at an angle, but on foot, it would undoubtedly drag along the ground. Just as that thought crystallized in their minds, the white ninja suddenly twisted his fingers into a bizarre hand seal.
"Ninjutsu! Dust of the North Wind!"
A loud boom erupted with the cry, and the snow heaped around them burst up in a blinding white cloud. In an instant, the prisoner column was swallowed by the freezing haze.
"Agh, what the—!"
"Ptui! The snow just—!"
Soldiers floundered in the swirl of powder. Even amid the chaos, Kazinsky kept his eyes on the boulder. A seasoned agent's instinct had already fixed on the source of the disruption.
But by the time the crash had forced him to blink, the ninja had vanished. Kazinsky was scanning for the man's whereabouts when the same voice sounded right beside him.
"Ninja Swordsmanship, Chapter 2."
The red muffler streaked before his eyes in a blur. Simultaneously, a thin, chill length of metal touched his throat.
"Blade Strike."
Sharp, percussive impacts rang out in succession as screams erupted from all sides. Kazinsky, trained to reflex, threw his body backward and narrowly deflected the attack. He tumbled from his horse into the snow.
"Ambush!"
"We're under attack!"
"Defensive positions!"
The soldiers seized their weapons and scrambled into combat stances. But the red-scarfed ninja swept through their ranks unimpeded. He conjured doppelgangers, spat jets of fire from his mouth, and somersaulted while flinging shuriken in every direction. He was every inch the ninja of legend.
"It's magic!"
The ninja shook his head at the soldiers' cries.
"No. Ninjutsu."
It took him less than five minutes to subdue the entire escort of over a hundred men. Several soldiers launched signal flares, but the moment he formed a seal, the streaking flames vanished as if swallowed by something unseen. The shouts they raised failed to carry beyond a certain radius, rebounding upon those who bellowed them.
"Nin-nin."
The white ninja stopped before one of the prison wagons. A flash of his blade sheared through the iron bars in an instant.
"Come out."
"Who... who the hell are you?"
The wagon's sole occupant was Ferenc. A landed noble of the Tylops Region, he had led his men in the attempt on the Crown Prince's life, failed, and been arrested as the ringleader. Now, his body reduced to a rag by brutal torture, he had been doing nothing but wait inside that cage to die.
"I've come to rescue you."
Ferenc could not parse the situation. Rescue him? Was the man volunteering to become a fellow traitor? That would require a lunatic. Unless... this was a ruse by the "client" — make it look like an escape, then kill him somewhere quiet.
"I don't know your game."
"Stay here and you're a dead man regardless. Do you really need time to deliberate?"
Ferenc gave a slow nod at the ninja's words. The man was right. Whatever faction was behind this, he had no alternative. Staying still meant he was dead anyway.
The ninja helped him out of the wagon. From his robes, he produced a long ribbon.
"What... are you doing?"
"Space-Time Ninjutsu."
His arm swept out. The white cord traced layered circles in the air, winding around the space they occupied. At that moment, Kazinsky, who had been lying prone and waiting for an opening, drew a dagger and hurled it at them.
The blade pierced straight through where they stood. A beat later, the cord that had wrapped the empty space in a sphere unraveled and flapped loose on the wind. It drifted skyward and vanished into the far distance.
The space it had enclosed lay exposed. It was empty. No white ninja, no Ferenc, ringleader of assassins, and no sign of the dagger Kazinsky had thrown. Nothing remained but a few drops of blood scattered on the snow.
Kazinsky pulled off his mask. For a foolish instant, he entertained the hope that the two men had somehow fallen to the ground at a perfect blind spot created by the mask. But even barefaced, scanning in every direction, he could find no trace of them.
In the distance, he spotted the guard corps rushing toward him. He let out a hollow sigh and collapsed onto the ground.
***
The moment the ninja's cord coiled around them, white light flooded the space the two men occupied. When they opened their eyes, they were somewhere else entirely.
"Where... is this?"
Ferenc looked around. They stood in an open yard as large as a city plaza. Beyond its boundary, blue-green wheat as tall as a man stretched densely in every direction.
One look around confirmed the same scenery extended on all sides. This clearing was unmistakably in the middle of a wheat field. At one end of the yard, a broad, straight road cut through the crop, bisecting the sea of wheat toward the horizon. Opposite that road, on the other side of the clearing, stood a huge building.
It was a five-story mansion that could fairly be called a palace. Looking more carefully, the area he had taken for an empty lot was actually the mansion's garden. Well-kept lawns were dotted here and there with ornamental trees.
"You've arrived, young master."
A neatly attired middle-aged man with a black eyepatch over one eye emerged from the mansion's main entrance. He bowed deeply to the white ninja, who was still supporting Ferenc.
"I see you've returned safely."
"Lady Viola?"
"She will be out shortly—ah, there she is."
A young woman who seemed barely past her teens hurried out behind the man. She wore a dress that was modest yet clearly expensive.
She caught her breath briefly and spoke in a composed voice.
"You've returned."
"I have, my lady."
The ninja removed his mask and prostrated himself before her. He pressed his lips to the back of her extended hand. A satisfied smile touched her face — then stiffened the moment her eyes found the wound on his shoulder.
"You're hurt."
"Such things can happen on any mission. Don't worry, my lady."
At his words, she caressed his cheek.
"Before you are my subordinate, you are my fiancé. And you've been like a brother to me since we were children. Of course I worry. Please, value yourself above the mission."
"Nin-nin."
The ninja bowed to her once more, then lifted his head to meet her eyes. The next moment, they rushed into each other's arms and exchanged a deep kiss.
From their brief exchange, Ferenc pieced together their relationship. Not long after, maids emerged from the mansion and guided him inside. He received basic treatment, washed himself clean, and then faced the man who had rescued him.
"I understand you once clashed with a subordinate of the Black Magician and lived."
"The Black Magician?"
Ferenc tilted his head at the unexpected name, then recalled the Miletus Madosa he had fought. That man had mentioned someone he "served." Was that the so-called Black Magician?
"He is my sworn mortal enemy. He annihilated our ninja village."
"...So ninja villages really do exist."
"It was a hidden village, until a traitor emerged. A woman. She sold out our comrades to him."
Ferenc thought back to the man's earlier display of skills. That had clearly not been magic. If not ninjutsu, he couldn't explain it.
"I think I see your proposal. You want my help to take revenge on this Black Magician."
"Correct. Your weapons and tools — I've already had them spirited away. The master of this estate is trustworthy. With time to recover here, you should be able to regain your former prowess."
Ferenc paused as if deliberating, then exhaled.
"It seems I have little choice. I'm a hunted traitor across the whole empire as it is. And that's exactly why you extended your hand to someone like me. Fine. I'll lend you my strength. As it happens, your enemy also played a part in engineering my downfall. I'll take it as a quarry fate has marked for me — a gift from the God of Hunting."
Ferenc clasped his new ally's hand.
"So, what's your name?"
"A ninja uses a ninja-name rather than his true name while on a mission. Mine is Mysterious. But to a comrade who shares my purpose, it's only right to reveal my true name."
He offered a casual salute.
"My name is Charlie."