The War on Drugs (7)
As the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky over the Far East Maritime Province deepened into indigo, the village's modest tavern buzzed with the lively energy of men who had finished their day's grueling labor. Boisterous laughter mingled with the clatter of tankards and the savory aroma of stew, filling the humble yet warm space. Father Camilo, a middle-aged priest with a kindly face, smiled quietly amid the noise. Since his assignment here, his days had been nothing short of fulfilling. The quiet hours of prayer and meditation in the small monastery had been precious time spent following the Lord's teachings, but they could not compare to these days of directly tending to his flock and becoming part of their lives. Though his body grew weary, his heart remained profoundly peaceful and joyful—especially thanks to the new bonds he had formed here.
“Come now, Father! Master Alchemist! You've both worked hard today—let us buy you a round!” A broad-shouldered man called out in a booming voice as he approached their table, two mugs of beer in hand.
Edward, the young alchemist seated across from Camilo, furrowed his brow slightly. “I appreciate the thought, Ivan, but we'd prefer to pay for our own drinks.”
Edward's tone was as curt and blunt as ever, yet it carried no sting—only awkwardness at receiving such simple kindness.
“Aw, don't be like that! Thanks to you and the Father, the whole village has it so much easier. This is nothing!”
Even the tavern keeper joined in, flashing a hearty grin. “I'd still turn a profit giving it to you two for free! So don't feel burdened—just enjoy yourselves!”
Voices of agreement echoed from nearby tables. “That's right, that's right!”
Camilo offered a troubled smile and waved his hands in refusal. Being treated once or twice was one thing, but this happened every day—it was becoming a burden in its own right. After a round of warm-hearted banter, Camilo and Edward finally relocated to the tavern's most secluded corner, where they could at last have a moment to themselves.
“Whew…” Edward sighed deeply after taking a sip of his heavily watered-down wine. “They're good people, but sometimes it's exhausting.”
“Haha, it just means they care for us that much.” Camilo chuckled indulgently, savoring the red wine in his rough wooden cup.
“That aside, the food here is quite good. Especially this fish stew—better than most fine restaurants back in the city.”
Edward stirred the stew with his spoon, clearly satisfied despite his usually picky palate.
“Ah, did you hear? His Highness Grand Duke Mikhail has been generously sharing famous recipes from the capital with the local cooks. That's how we've come to enjoy such luxuries.” Camilo relayed what he'd heard from a villager earlier that day.
“As expected… I see.” Edward nodded. At the mention of Grand Duke Mikhail, the conversation naturally turned to his recent anti-drug policies—the hottest topic of the moment.
“Have you seen the papers, Father? That drug… it's truly horrifying. I'd almost say the old alchemists trying to make an elixir of immortality with mercury were more humane by comparison. This is just…” Edward shuddered in genuine revulsion, his face etched with contempt and disgust.
“It's a relief there aren't many drug users in a remote place like this. If we'd been in the capital, I'd have had to treat those wretches myself…” He paused, then continued in his usual gruff tone. “But the Church just keeps preaching ‘don't do drugs' every day—what good does that do? If words were enough, they wouldn't have touched the stuff in the first place. Wouldn't it be better to do like His Highness Grand Duke Mikhail—declare it illegal and beat the offenders senseless or sentence them to a lifetime of crab fishing until they come to their senses?”
Frustration laced Edward's voice; he spoke as if it were a personal affront. Camilo did not reply immediately. Instead, he gazed quietly at the wine glass before him. The tavern's dim lantern light rippled across the still surface.
“Even so, we must do what we can.” After a long moment, he spoke. His voice was calm, yet it carried the quiet strength of long-held conviction. “Preach the word; be ready in season and out of season.”
Camilo took a slow sip of wine. A bittersweet, fruity aroma lingered on his tongue.
“Enforcement and punishment have long since become the domain of secular authority. The Church relinquished administrative power to worldly rulers ages ago, and Church law now applies only to priests and monastics. How could we directly police and punish the faithful?” A trace of bitterness crept into his tone. “Even after surrendering that authority… as you know, it wasn't until the Saintess purged the corrupt clergy that the worst abuses finally stopped.”
Camilo shook his head, clearly unwilling to dwell on the subject further. “The times have changed. Our role now is simply to help the fallen rise again and to stand beside them, encouraging them to walk the right path. I… think things are better this way.”
Camilo looked up at Edward with a gentle smile, warmth crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Compared to the old days when people were burned at the stake for heresy or witchcraft, isn't the present far preferable? Thanks to that change, a priest like me can even become friends with an alchemist like you.”
Edward fell silent, staring at Camilo as though struck. Then, flustered, he dropped his gaze and gulped down his watered wine. The sound of his throat working was loud in the quiet corner. The tips of his ears flushed crimson—whether from embarrassment or the mild alcohol, Camilo could not tell.
Camilo tilted the pitcher to refill his own glass and asked softly, “Would you like another?”
Dmitri's gaze lingered on the social affairs section of the newspaper. An enormous illustration dominated nearly half the page: a former knight, once powerfully built, now reduced to a skeletal figure lying on a church sickbed. The hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, and emaciated limbs conveyed a chilling realism even in stark black and white. Beneath the drawing ran a sharply worded editorial—a scathing indictment of how drugs destroyed human beings.
Dmitri set the paper down and leaned back deeply in his chair. Only the soft tapping of his fingers against the desk broke the silence.
Mikhail…
The recent wave of anti-drug policies and public opinion campaigns unfolding in the Far East Maritime Province—there was no doubt who stood behind them. And toward whom that blade was aimed was equally clear, at least to Dmitri.
His target is Anastasia.
Could he possibly have uncovered that Anastasia was the one who poisoned his mother? It seemed nearly impossible. Aside from Dmitri himself, no one knew Anastasia's true face. Those with real power had never cared, while the incompetent fools who had tried to avenge Empress Alexandra lacked the ability. More than anything, Anastasia had been thorough. If even Dmitri had struggled to gather evidence, only suspicion would have remained.
Perhaps…
Dmitri's eyes narrowed. Perhaps Mikhail had known everything from the very beginning. That Anastasia was the culprit. Even without physical proof, he might have seen through to the truth on suspicion alone and deliberately chosen exile to the remote borderlands to bide his time and gather strength for revenge. Yet even that explanation felt incomplete. The fact that Anastasia controlled the underworld—and that she maintained that control through drugs—was the highest-grade intelligence, far beyond what ordinary information networks could obtain. How had he discovered it? Dmitri could not fathom it.
His methods are excellent, regardless.
At any rate, this form of attack left Anastasia with almost no room for retaliation. She could hardly wage a territorial war against the distant Far East Maritime Province, and politically pressuring Mikhail was difficult when he had no meaningful connections to exploit. A battle of public opinion was out of the question—who would dare criticize someone doing the “right” thing by condemning drugs? Even during the Prohibition era, despite all its side effects, the cause had made repeal painfully slow.
What remained, then… economic retaliation through her forces, led by the Kimberly family? Or sabotage using the underworld's manpower?
Neither will work.
Dmitri snorted. Anastasia's influence was limited to the luxury goods market and high society. External economic pressure would have little effect. That left only sabotage through underworld operatives—but the Far East Maritime Province was too far away, and with its casinos and tourism special zone serving as a playground for the wealthy and nobility, even that seemed impossible.
He truly is remarkable.
A faint smile touched his lips. Perhaps he should lend a hand. If his previous support for the legislative reform had been pure goodwill, this would be different—an investment to eventually bring Mikhail to his side.
Dmitri rang the small bell on his desk. Moments later, the office door opened quietly and a mage from the Magic Tower entered, bowing his head.
“You called, Your Highness.”
“That project the Church proposed. Accept it without reviewing the terms.”
Dmitri's voice was ice-cold.
“Pardon? But Your Highness, our review showed it would barely cover labor costs. And with our current manpower shortage—”
The mage began to protest, but Dmitri's frigid gaze pierced through him.
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
“Ah… my apologies!”
The mage paled and hurriedly withdrew after a deep bow. Dmitri closed his eyes briefly, then reached for the crystal orb on his desk. Infusing it with mana, the sphere's surface began to glow faintly and ripple. Soon, the image of a young man appeared within it—Friedrich, a regular at Café Voltaire, the social hub of the academy, and a doctor of philosophy.
[Your Highness! You summoned me?]
He offered an exaggerated bow.
“The Church's joint medical welfare project proposal should have reached the academy as well.”
[Yes, yes! It's been quite the commotion lately. Since I'm in philosophy, I haven't received any direct offers myself, but…]
“Tell your friends to accept it. Especially gather the doctors of medicine and pharmacology and have them begin research on drugs. What do you think?”
Friedrich's eyes widened.
[But I understand there are already quite a few experts on that subject among the alchemists participating in the Church's research. Is there really a need for us to—]
“The more money and manpower poured into research, the better. Approaching it from different perspectives and focusing on different aspects wouldn't hurt. I'll provide some budget and support.”
[Oh! How magnanimous…!]
Gratitude and excitement warred across Friedrich's face. He was already imagining boasting to his friends that he had secured a major research project thanks to his connections. But that would be the extent of it—there would be no place for a philosophy doctor like him in this research. Still, Dmitri was not so cold as to disappoint his subordinates entirely.
“And you,” Dmitri continued. “How about publishing a book? You earned your degree in ethics and legal philosophy, after all. Tie that into the drug issue and write a scathing critique. I'll cover the publication costs.”
[If that is Your Highness's wish, then of course! It would be an honor!]
Friedrich cried out, overcome with emotion. Dmitri quietly severed the connection with the crystal orb. In his mind's eye, he could already see Friedrich strutting about Café Voltaire with the newly published book, loudly praising him. The image was deeply satisfying.