The War on Drugs (3)
Mikhail was starting to feel restless. Whether it was the war on drugs, holing up in his study with a novel, or anything else, the itch for something new was creeping in. Laura noticed the shift in his mood and suggested they step out for some fresh air. And so here they were, weaving through the streets of Vladivostok. Beside him sat Laura, her face veiled in light cotton. Both wore expensive silk garments stripped of any family crests or flashy ornaments. From a distance, they looked like nothing more than a young noble couple, or perhaps lovers.
They rode in what Mikhail had personally dubbed the "human cart." Two of his attendants pulled a small wheeled carriage from the front—a rickshaw, really. The polished wood, plush cushions, and sun-shading canopy made it surprisingly comfortable. Originally designed for tourists, it had quickly become one of Vladivostok's local attractions and earned quite a bit of praise.
Clack, clack. The steady rumble of wheels over cobblestone carried the cart into the bustling heart of the city.
"It's changed quite a lot," Laura's soft voice drifted from behind the veil. Her gaze lingered on the passing scenery. "This place used to be so desolate that not even a stray dog would wander the streets after dark. But now..."
She was right. The streets teemed with people. Children's laughter floated through the air, merchants called out energetically, and the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with sweet jam tickled the nose.
As the cart passed near a church, a thin plume of pale smoke rose steadily from one of its side buildings. A sharp, bitter herbal smell rode the breeze.
"That's the alchemists' workshop," Laura explained, pointing. "Dispatched by Your Highness's order. People no longer blindly reach for opium when they're ill. Instead, they go there for medicine or treatment."
Thanks to that, the common folk could afford treatment, worked harder than before, and naturally saw their productivity rise.
The cart soon turned onto a street lined with souvenir shops. The displays overflowed with curious trinkets: wooden figurines modeled after the winners of the "Human Racing" events held in the Tourism Special Zone, colorful bottles of Mikhail Red Label infused with various herbs, and wooden necklaces shaped like casino chips. A street vendor grilled skewered fish over charcoal, drawing a long line of customers lured by the savory aroma.
"All of this is Your Highness's doing," Laura said, a trace of admiration in her voice. "Once money began circulating in people's pockets, new jobs and food stalls sprang up just like this. The hope that tomorrow will be better than today—that's what Your Highness planted in them."
Mikhail remained silent, simply watching the lively street. He felt deeply satisfied. Not because he had changed something, as Laura claimed, but because it simply felt pleasant—like taking a vacation in Europe.
After gazing at the cityscape for a while, Laura suddenly tapped the wooden wall of the cart.
"By the way, Your Highness, how exactly did you come up with something like this?" Her eyes swept over the interior of the human cart.
"It's nothing special," Mikhail replied lazily. "Couldn't exactly make the guests walk across this entire district. Starting a proper carriage business would've meant dealing with horses, drivers, capital, and management—too much hassle."
He leaned back into the cushions. "Besides, any noble or rich guest who bothers to come all the way here would already have a servant or two tagging along. Or, I figured, our own people could earn some pocket money on the side."
"It was certainly an excellent decision," Laura nodded. Curiosity sparkled in her eyes. "But why call it a 'human cart'? The shape does resemble the chariots from old records... Don't tell me you named it that for the same reason you named the races 'Human Racing'—just because it amused you."
"You know me well." Mikhail grinned.
A faint sigh escaped Laura behind the veil, making the cotton fabric tremble slightly.
"It's slower than a carriage, but isn't that fine?" Mikhail looked around. "It has atmosphere, less shaking, and you can enjoy the scenery better."
"That must be why it's so popular. Especially..." Laura's tone took on a merchant's admiration. "Dividing the carts into grades based on exterior materials and decorations, then charging different rental fees—that was truly masterful marketing. Everyone scrambles to rent the flashiest, most expensive ones."
Mikhail shrugged. It was nothing. In 21st-century Korea, plenty of idiots took out loans just to buy Porsches or Mercedes. The nobles and tycoons of this world were no different, obsessing over luxury carriages and pedigreed horses. Owning a winner from the Imperial Derby was every upper-class man's dream, after all. He'd simply applied the same principle here.
The lively streets, the laughing crowds, the peaceful scenery—it all pleased him. Yet something still felt missing. In other words, it was boring.
Hmm...
Mikhail's gaze drifted toward a narrow, dimly lit alley between buildings beyond the main thoroughfare. He turned to Laura.
"Does Vladivostok have anything like that?" he asked quietly. "Back alleys. Shady, thrilling places. Like black markets, red-light districts, or unlicensed... you know, underground gambling dens."
The moment the words left his mouth, the human cart jolted to an abrupt halt. One of the attendants pulling it turned slowly, his face drenched in sweat, pure bewilderment written across his features.
"P-pardon, Your Highness?"
"No," Mikhail said, tapping the side of the rickshaw. "You heard me clearly. Take us to the brothel district."
The other attendant, who had been facing forward, whipped around in shock. He opened his mouth to speak, then shot Laura a desperate look.
What are they so surprised about? Mikhail clicked his tongue inwardly. Back in America, there were even tour packages that took people through gang-controlled neighborhoods. He had two guards with him, and if anything happened, he could always call the sturdy men from the Valeriano Trading Company. More than anything... he was curious. Places like that only existed in novels or movies. He wanted to see what they actually looked like.
Just then, a soft, warm sensation landed on his thigh. Laura had placed her hand there. Behind the veil, her eyes stared at him—sharp, yet pleading.
Please, stop.
Mikhail read her gaze and spoke calmly.
"A truly great ruler must be able to look down even into the lowest places."
"......"
Laura couldn't bring herself to argue. She simply stared at him with suspicious eyes. The attendants, however, reacted differently.
"Your Highness...!"
"We didn't realize you had such profound intentions...!"
Their faces were filled with deep emotion, as if they might burst into tears at their lord's benevolence in personally inspecting even the lowest depths. Or perhaps it was simply the survival instinct of commoners trying to navigate life in this world.
The human cart began moving again with its familiar clatter. This time, its destination was the darkest, most secretive corner of the city—the red-light district.
As the cart entered the entrance of the district, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The lively chatter died down, replaced by wary, fearful glances cast from a distance.
Strange, Mikhail tilted his head. He recalled the nights he had walked through Kabukicho during a trip to Japan before his possession. The place had been swarming with persistent touts. Here, it was eerily quiet.
"Why are they acting like that?"
"Because of the large-scale drug crackdown not long ago. We made an example of them," Laura answered quietly. "We made it very clear that if they so much as lay a finger on the esteemed guests visiting the Tourism Special Zone, they'd spend the rest of their lives catching crabs."
The cart slowly rolled through the heart of the red-light district. Mikhail's eyes scanned the buildings on either side. Signs with crude names like [Peach] and [Tits] stood out. Seductive paintings of voluptuous women hung carelessly in the windows. Laura kept her head down, staring only at her knees.
Of course, there were plenty of gambling dens too. The sight of these back-alley joints putting on airs about "trust" and "reliability" was rather comical.
Not bad, Mikhail thought, looking around with interest. It would have been better if there were graffiti scrawled on the walls, but apparently dye was still too expensive in this era for such culture to exist. A shame.
Then his gaze stopped on one spot. A narrow, dark alley between two buildings. Something lay sprawled in the corner.
"Stop for a moment."
Mikhail stepped down from the cart.
"Your Highness! It's dangerous!"
"It's filthy! You mustn't go near it!"
Laura and the attendants cried out in alarm, but he strode into the alley without hesitation. Up close, the "something" revealed itself to be a person. A skeletal frame, unfocused eyes, dried foam at the corners of the mouth. A textbook case of a drug addict, the kind you'd see in documentaries.
"This is..." Laura, who had followed, swallowed hard. "It seems the crackdown wasn't thorough enough."
She looked down at the human wreckage with cold eyes.
"We're managing the internal checkpoints and the harbor train station reasonably well," she continued, a hint of shame in her voice. "The problem is the territory is simply too vast to monitor every border. So these strange people keep sneaking drugs in."
"Strange people?"
"Yes. Most of these smuggling cases involve employees from other trading companies who bring small quantities in for pocket money while passing through on legitimate business."
Figures. That was why he'd left the smuggling crackdown to Laura in the first place.
"But the ones we're dealing with now don't seem to be that type. They're far more... professional and organized. Like professional smugglers or criminals."
She pressed her temples as if nursing a headache.
"As I reported before, we've conducted several raids and sent some to the islands to catch crabs, but there are simply too many of them."
"Too many?"
"It may sound like an excuse, but it's true. No matter how many we catch, more keep crawling out from somewhere. As you know, the Far East Maritime Province is enormous, and our manpower is severely lacking."
"Where there are buyers, there will be sellers," Mikhail said, his eyes never leaving the corpse-like addict.
"That's exactly the issue. Some of the guests visiting the Tourism Special Zone have been sending their servants to these smugglers for cocaine or opium. But most of them are high-ranking nobles or influential figures, so it's extremely difficult to crack down on or punish them."
Her voice carried deep fatigue.
"To begin with, such guests are only a tiny minority."
Mikhail let out a hollow laugh, half in disbelief.
"Why the hell would these bastards come all the way here just to do something they're told not to? Drugs are legal in most parts of the Empire. They could just go somewhere else and indulge all they want."
Were they perverts who got off on breaking taboos? Or self-proclaimed freedom fighters who hated being controlled?
"You said the buyers are only a tiny minority?"
"Yes. That's what makes it even stranger."
Mikhail's brow furrowed. It didn't add up. The purchasing power in this region was mediocre at best, aside from the noble guests from the capital. And the capital was ridiculously far away. Besides, drugs were legal elsewhere. The Far East Maritime Province wasn't a market worth the legal risks of smuggling. It wasn't economical.
Which meant...
It was clear.
This isn't about money.
Behind irrational behavior like this, there was usually something other than profit. Political power. Influence. Or... pride, honor—those kinds of things. In this hopelessly "romantic" world, plenty of people would stake their lives on such worthless values.
But if the person connected to drug smuggling was...
Only one name came to Mikhail's mind.
"Is it that bitch Anastasia?"