War on Drugs (5)
At the southern edge of the Imperial Academy stood Eagle House. Once a storied sanctuary reserved solely for graduating male students, it had long since been claimed as a private hideout for Erika Cage and her circle. Erika had won the usage rights in a single, ruthless game of Texas Hold'em—along with the senior boys' pocket money as a bonus.
Afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows, stirring lazy motes of dust that drifted like tiny galaxies across the room. The ancient leather sofa sagged with the comfortable weight of decades, and on the low table sat steaming teacups beside a plate of biscuits that filled the air with warm, sugary sweetness. It was the very picture of cozy tranquility.
Yet today the atmosphere inside Eagle House felt strangely heavy.
The topic dominating the conversation was, naturally, the novel that had just detonated across imperial high society: Metamorphosis.
Metamorphosis
“Hic… Marta is just so pitiful… I stayed up reading last night and ended up sobbing my eyes out.”
Charlotte dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, sniffling. She had always been the sentimental type, utterly defenseless against tragic tales like this.
“The part that destroyed me most was after she miscarried… when she spent her last coins on drugs and just… wasted away.”
“I know exactly what you mean. My heart nearly shattered right there,” Victoria agreed, gently rubbing Charlotte’s shoulder. Her voice carried genuine sorrow.
“No matter what, how could anyone beat a woman that badly? Especially one carrying a child…”
“Actually… I was a little scared,” Isabel murmured. She was usually the quiet one. “I’ve… occasionally used a bit of hashish myself when my head felt too cluttered. But after reading this, I just…”
She gave a small shiver. In the novel, Marta’s entire downfall had begun with a single puff of hashish.
“Same here. I’ve had opium wine or cocaine wine at parties without thinking twice… I never imagined the side effects could be so horrifying. To think a person could change that much… it’s terrifying even to imagine, isn’t it?”
Erika lifted her teacup in silence and took a sip. The bittersweet bite of black tea spread across her tongue. Her friends’ conversation washed over her like distant background noise. Her mind was somewhere else entirely.
Metamorphosis. Sponsored by the Seventh Prince Mikhail and the Valeriano Trading Company. Written by the same author who had penned the script for Catarina and Henrietta. A massive anti-drug crackdown launched in the Far East Maritime Province. And now this novel, timed perfectly to sweep the Empire and shape public opinion against narcotics.
…How obvious.
None of it was coincidence. The real problem was that Erika couldn’t guess the endgame.
He’s not the type to wave around morality or ethics as a banner.
Mikhail. The man who ran the Empire’s largest gambling den—the casino—and had shaken the entire nation with that addictive lottery scheme called the Draw. Would someone like him really launch a sincere “drugs are bad” campaign? Only an idiot would believe that.
Then was it political warfare? Using morality as a weapon to strike at his enemies? A classic, almost cliché tactic. So obvious that even a commoner student like her at the Academy could see through it.
But that didn’t fit either. The Grand Duke of the Far East was currently in exile from the capital. He had no major faction backing him, nor any clear political rivals to crush. True, Crown Prince Clement and Saintess Liliana had visited his Tourism Special Zone recently, but that seemed more like good-natured Clement simply encouraging his younger brother’s business. Their relationship appeared limited to helping repeal one outdated law. Hardly enough political capital to justify a campaign of this scale.
Most of all, if Mikhail wielded morality as a sword, the blade would inevitably point back at himself.
Gambling is fine, but drugs aren’t?
It was sophistry. His customers weren’t stupid enough to swallow that. The Mikhail who had toyed with Erika Cage would never play such a shallow hand.
Just what is he aiming for?
Erika found no answer. It felt like wandering through thick fog. She couldn’t see his cards, couldn’t read his intentions.
Something… something is happening.
“Miss Cage.”
A gentle voice pulled her back. She looked up to find Victoria watching her with worried eyes.
“What are you thinking about so deeply?”
Erika set her teacup down, face carefully blank as always. “Just… wondering about the author’s intent.”
“The author’s intent?”
“What they wanted to tell readers through such a tragedy. That drugs are bad? Is that really all the writer wanted to convey?”
It wasn’t a lie. Erika genuinely wanted to know what the true architect of this board was thinking. She simply hadn’t voiced every suspicion swirling in her head. That was all.
On the outskirts of the capital stood the cabaret “White Windmill.” The name might sound romantic, but in truth it was a cheap, third-rate imitation of the famous high-class “Red Windmill.” The self-proclaimed “gentlemen” who frequented the place were mostly nouveau riche who had struck it rich overnight rather than actual aristocrats.
It was still early for the dancers’ can-can show (the one that famously dispensed with undergarments), so the establishment was quiet. A few customers sat at tables, killing time with mindless chatter.
Among them, one man stood out: Hans, who appeared to be in his forties. Utterly at odds with the cabaret’s sleazy atmosphere, he sat reading a book with a deadly serious expression.
“Hey, Hans. You reading some kind of erotic novel over there?” his friend Johnson teased with a snicker from across the table. He was a pot-bellied middle-aged man whose expensive silk clothes seemed to be screaming for mercy around his bulk.
“You’re almost fifty, man. That stuff’ll rot your bones. Rot ’em right off.”
Hans silently lifted the book and showed him the cover.
Metamorphosis
“Ah, Metamorphosis?” Johnson sounded disappointed. “Why the hell are you reading that? Isn’t that a book for women?”
Hans slipped a bookmark between the pages, closed the volume, and leaned forward with the air of someone about to reveal the secrets of the universe.
“Exactly, you idiot. That’s why I’m reading it.”
“Huh?”
“So I can pick up women, obviously.”
Hans continued with a smug grin. “Haven’t you noticed the vibe at the recent salons and banquets? Whenever women gather, all they talk about is how terrifying drugs are, how tragic Marta’s story is. That novel’s everywhere.”
He shook his head in exaggerated disgust.
“You just sidle up and say, ‘I read that book too. I really understood how Marta felt,’ and act all sympathetic. After a little conversation…”
A sleazy smile spread across Hans’s face.
“The night ends very, very hot.”
“Ooh…”
A low whistle escaped Johnson.
“Not bad. Never figured you for the type to read that kind of thing. Even if it is trendy.”
“Ah, but here’s the thing,” Hans said, lowering his voice. “I started reading it to chase skirts, but damn… drugs really do seem scary. You see those editorials in the papers lately?”
“Papers? Who has time for that? I’m too busy running my business to death,” Johnson boasted.
“Those alchemists apparently injected rats with the stuff for experiments. The ones given opium just lay there like living corpses, twitching. The ones given cocaine went berserk and started biting the other rats to death.”
Hans paused, giving Johnson a meaningful look.
“You know how your old man used to whip you with a belt whenever he got drunk? Apparently it’s worse than that.”
Johnson’s face stiffened. He stayed silent for a moment, then forced a loud, dismissive laugh.
“Hmph… that bad, huh? Probably just a matter of weak willpower, right?”
He leaned back in his chair, puffing out his chest.
“Someone like me is different. A man who rose from a humble farmer’s son to become the great Johnson you see before you… I’m on another level from those pathetic losers. You get me?”
Johnson snapped his fingers at a waiter with a triumphant grin.
“Coca wine, one glass!”
He turned back to Hans.
“You read that other book? The one about survival of the fittest or whatever. People who ruin themselves with drugs are just naturally selected out.”
Johnson took a sip of his coca wine and added, as if it were a good thing.
It was exactly one hundred days before Johnson would become hopelessly addicted to opium and turn into a pathetic, crippled wreck.