War on Drugs (4)
“Anastasia…? You mean Her Highness the Second Princess Anastasia?”
It was only natural that Laura couldn’t understand why Mikhail had suddenly dropped the name. Mikhail clicked his tongue inwardly. According to the original novel Blood, Lilies, and the Double-Headed Eagle, Laura Valeriano should have already become Anastasia’s loyal subordinate by now, happily dipping her hands into every dirty scheme the princess cooked up.
But in this world line, she had long since become his business partner instead. That was information only he possessed because he had read the original story. To everyone else in this world, the Second Princess Anastasia was simply the star of high society. The empire’s greatest beauty. The princess who ran a secret salon. The ultimate object of desire that every man fantasized about spending one night with. That was the extent of their knowledge.
Even most of the men in her faction were just fools bewitched by her stunning looks and the sweet pleasures served in her salon. They had no idea she was the queen ruling the empire’s underworld from the shadows. At this point, the only other person who knew Anastasia’s true identity was probably Dmitri.
In the original…
Mikhail let his body sway with the rattling vibrations of the carriage and dug through the fading fragments of his memory. Dmitri had collected evidence that Anastasia was amassing wealth through drugs and underworld organizations, then handed it over to Saintess Liliana. After receiving that evidence, Liliana, Clement, and Dmitri joined hands and launched a political campaign to topple her.
During the process, a massive drug scandal exploded in the capital, triggering violent riots in its wake. The highlight had been the unforgettable scene of Saintess Liliana disguising herself, storming into the capital’s back alleys, and physically “enlightening” every cartel thug she could find with her holy iron fists. In a romance fantasy novel, the female lead repeatedly attempting “conversation (physical)” with gangsters had left an indelible impression on readers.
It must have left quite an impression on Dmitri too. That was likely the moment he fell for Liliana. Of course, true to his fate as a sub male lead, his passionate advances were brutally rejected. After that, Dmitri began purging people left and right under the pretext of rooting out corruption, consolidating power, and plotting a coup alongside Josepina.
And right after that scene, the novel had plunged into an excruciatingly boring stretch of Dmitri’s past recollections and psychological monologues. The whole melodramatic package—abandoned at birth by his archwitch mother, suffering from crippling affection deprivation, harboring a vicious inferiority complex toward his universally beloved older brother Clement. The moment that flashback arc began, readers immediately dubbed him “Menhera Fascist.”
Mikhail had dropped the novel right around that point, so he had no idea how the coup ultimately played out. He brushed his bangs back with a sigh, shaking off the useless thoughts.
Come to think of it, the earlier tantrum about the construction materials was probably Anastasia’s doing too.
And the smugglers currently crawling their way into the Far East Maritime Province had to be her underworld assets. The fact that Anastasia was the one who killed his mother Alexandra in the original story? Honestly, he couldn’t care less. If anything, he was grateful. Thanks to that, the original Mikhail had shattered, drunk himself to death, and Mikhail had been able to take over this body. In this romantic fantasy world, he had gained the extremely satisfying identity of the Seventh Prince of a superpower empire.
But.
That was that, and this was this.
He had zero interest in the throne. He wasn’t a political threat to anyone, nor did he stand on anyone’s side to grant them benefits. He did plan to eventually declare support for Clement—much, much later—but not yet. All he wanted was to stay buried in the empire’s easternmost corner and live a quiet, comfortable life. So why the hell were these bastards stirring up this kind of bullshit?
“This pisses me off…”
Unfiltered irritation slipped between Mikhail’s lips. If he was going to fuck with this bitch anyway, what would be the most effective way to do it? Spread rumors calling her a whore and distribute some cheap erotic novel featuring her? No, that wasn’t enough. That was just childish venting. In the first place, was there a single noble in the capital—or anyone with ties to high society—who didn’t already know Anastasia was promiscuous? In this insane world, noble affairs weren’t scandals; they were bragging rights. A place where skill at fucking and getting fucked was considered both talent and charm.
Of course there were pure romantics like Clement and Dmitri, but the default setting here was universal infidelity among all people. In that case—
Since Anastasia had taken a shit on his business, the only logical response was to take a shit on hers in return.
How about an anti-drug campaign…?
It was an excellent idea. A sardonic smile curved Mikhail’s lips.
“Laura.”
Mikhail cut off his train of thought and called to the woman sitting beside him.
“Take the full list of those impudent smugglers we caught and bring it to me.”
“…Yes?”
“I’ve got something to take care of.”
“Right now, Your Highness?”
Laura’s voice carried clear bewilderment. He hadn’t even answered her question about Anastasia, and now he was suddenly asking for a list of smugglers. Her confusion was perfectly reasonable.
“No, it’s not urgent.” Mikhail waved his hand lazily. “After we’ve enjoyed today. Tomorrow.”
***
Vincenzo, servant to the successful olive oil merchant Vito Andolini Corleone, had received roughly half a day’s rest from his master and was wandering Vladivostok to kill time.
He deliberately avoided the Tourism Special Zone. Being crammed between glittering buildings, nobles in expensive clothes, and well-dressed gentlemen didn’t feel like rest—it felt like an extension of work. Besides, he didn’t have the money to enjoy himself there anyway.
Vincenzo headed for a street stall famous among servants for its clean hygiene and excellent taste. After all, while he was employed, a servant’s body belonged to his master. If he ate cheap food somewhere random during his break and got a stomachache, he would receive a severe scolding, lose several days’ wages, and in the worst case, be fired outright. That was why the servants’ network of good cheap eateries was more reliable than any gourmet guide in the empire.
“One fish sandwich, please.”
The stall owner skillfully lifted a fish grilled to a perfect golden brown from the charcoal. A savory, slightly fishy aroma hit Vincenzo’s nose. He wasn’t sure if it was sardine or herring, but it didn’t matter. If it tasted good, that was enough.
The owner sandwiched the hot fish between whole-wheat bread, piled on a mountain of crunchy onions, then generously sprinkled salt and vinegar before handing it over. Vincenzo took the paper-wrapped sandwich and took a large bite. The harmony of crispy bread, tender fish, and sharp onion was superb.
As he chewed and looked around, something odd caught his eye. People were steadily moving in the same direction, as if by some unspoken agreement.
Hm? What’s going on? A festival?
Vincenzo tilted his head. As far as he knew, there were no festivals or events scheduled for today. If his master asked about any interesting spectacles and he couldn’t answer, it would be proof of incompetence, so he had memorized the schedule thoroughly.
He stopped a passerby walking nearby and asked, “Excuse me, but where is everyone headed? Is there some kind of festival going on?”
The man glanced at him, shrugged as if it were nothing important, and answered, “Yeah, something like that.”
Something like that?
Curiosity piqued, Vincenzo started following the crowd while still chewing his sandwich. The procession’s destination was the central square of Vladivostok. A massive crowd had already gathered, buzzing with excitement.
In the middle of the square stood a fairly large platform. On it, several men wearing signs around their necks stood with their heads bowed like criminals. At the highest point of the platform hung a giant banner.
Hm. An execution? Definitely a festival.
Vincenzo nodded. Public executions like this were the greatest entertainment for commoners. This was nice. It brought back childhood memories. He stuffed the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth and crumpled the wrapping paper tightly in his fist.
Looking around for stones to throw, he asked the man standing beside him, “Hey, is there a good spot nearby to pick up some rocks?”
The man looked at Vincenzo like he was crazy, then let out a small laugh. “Ah, we don’t need that sort of thing here in the Far East Maritime Province.”
Vincenzo’s eyes widened in confusion. At that moment, several prisoners wearing identical signs around their necks struggled onto the square carrying a large wooden box. They set the boxes down in various spots around the square before returning to the platform and lowering their heads again. The boxes were filled to the brim with stones—not large enough to cause serious injury, but perfectly sized to give a satisfying impact when thrown.
Afterward, a man in a guard’s uniform climbed onto the platform, raised a magic loudspeaker to his mouth, and shouted, “Attention everyone! We will now begin the stoning! Feel free to take stones from the boxes provided! Ten per person! Take them fairly!”
The crowd cheered and swarmed the boxes. Vincenzo excitedly joined them and collected ten stones in his arms. This was different from the chaotic stonings in other territories. It had order and rules, like a well-rehearsed play.
“Listen carefully! Do not throw too hard! These men must not die or suffer serious injury! They have to work hard for the rest of their lives!”
The guard’s words triggered bursts of laughter across the square. Once everyone had their stones, other guards approached the prisoners on the platform and placed something over their heads—crude iron helmets shaped like jars. They covered the entire face but were riddled with tiny holes for breathing.
“All right! First row, begin!”
At the guard’s signal, the first row hurled their stones in unison. Thud! Thwack! Dull sounds rang out as stones struck the prisoners’ bodies.
“You got a mother, you bastards?!”
“Filthy whore sons!”
Insults and jeers flew freely. When Vincenzo’s turn came, he threw with moderate strength rather than full force. One stone struck a smuggler’s shoulder dead-on.
“Ugh!”
The smuggler staggered with a scream, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
“Ohh! Nice shot!”
“Guy’s got good aim!”
Vincenzo’s shoulders squared with pride as he threw the rest of his stones with even more enthusiasm. The crowd’s reaction changed depending on where the stone landed and how dramatic the prisoner’s reaction was.
Soon his supply ran out. Feeling a twinge of regret, Vincenzo even threw the crumpled sandwich wrapper. Then he asked the man beside him, “By the way, who cleans up all these stones on the ground afterward?”
The man jerked his chin toward the platform. “Those guys do.”
“Oh…”
A quiet sound of admiration escaped Vincenzo’s lips. As expected, the Far East Maritime Province was the best.