Chapter 88: You Are Truly Shameless
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 88: You Are Truly Shameless
Night fell as the sun vanished completely beneath the western horizon.
Leaving behind the group of refugees led by William, Ferda returned to the castle.
Seated on a sofa in the drawing room, Ferda studied the man sitting across from him. It was Stephan. The haggard look of a man driven into a corner had faded slightly, but his eyes remained hollow.
Ferda looked at him and spoke. "I have good news."
"W-what kind of good news?" Stephan asked, his face tight with anxiety.
Ferda slowly relayed the information he had gathered. "Stephan, the mercenaries you hired harbored intentions far more malicious than you imagined."
They weren't mere third-rate sellswords; they were organized assassins deployed specifically to sow chaos. They had murdered every merchant and laborer at the rendezvous point, then ransacked the cargo, pulling out specific items to make the scene look like a common robbery.
"However, making it look like a robbery carried too much risk."
"Because of the anti-theft magic, I assume," Stephan muttered.
As a branch manager, Stephan knew the protocols well. Anti-theft spells were placed on all valuables. The moment an unauthorized hand touched them, the thief would be branded as a criminal—the worst possible outcome for professional assassins. For the ruse to work, the valuables had to disappear, but if they remained untouched, the irony would only highlight that the incident was actually a targeted assassination.
"So, two of the mercenaries laid the groundwork."
"How so?"
"They likely forced open the crates and pulled the items out themselves."
"But that would still trigger the tracking magic. Why would they do something so stupid…?"
"They were probably caught in a trap of their own making. Whether they weren't given the full details or were simply blinded by greed, they were likely meant to be purged along with the rest."
Stephan nodded slowly, finding the explanation plausible. "You said pulling out those valuables was groundwork. Groundwork for what?"
Ferda moved a pawn on the board between them. "Groundwork to involve the refugees in the looting."
Refugees moving through the early winter chill, shivering and desperate. Since the mercenaries had come from the Empire, they would have known that refugees were heading to the Far East in search of hope. They had tracked the group led by William. Following their plan, they lured the refugees with the promise of food, dangling a glimmer of hope before their eyes.
"The refugees had no choice but to go. They were starving."
Even if it were a lie, for those on the brink of death, it was a gamble worth taking. They had moved in haste. But what awaited them was not a distribution center, but a scene of horrific slaughter.
"All the refugees had to do was rummage through the scene that had already been set for them." Ferda tapped the pawn with his index finger. "What would they see? Food, weapons, and treasures of gold—things they might see only once in a lifetime. Everything they needed to survive, everything they desired, and everything they could never hope to own was laid out in one place."
It was as if they had stepped into a temple of pure desire.
Stephan could see the shape of the scheme now. By involving the refugees, the assassination would be disguised as a mass looting. Since the refugees would have done the bulk of the "theft," everyone would assume they were the culprits. The authorities would simply slaughter them all to make an example of them, and no one would bother tracking down any troublesome survivors.
However, one thing felt off. Everything discussed so far described an assassination attempt that tried to look like a robbery. That meant the plan had failed.
"The refugees… they didn't touch the jewels, did they?"
"There was a variable." Ferda nodded. "No one could have predicted it. It was so improbable and nonsensical that it shouldn't have even been considered. It was like being struck by lightning from a clear sky."
Ferda placed a knight next to the tilted pawn. "A knight who lives by his convictions was the leader of that group."
William. The man who possessed the soul of a knight knew the meaning of duty and honor. He had looked upon the gold before him as if it were mere stone; he had recovered the bodies of the fallen and prayed for them. Though they did take some supplies, they took only what was absolutely necessary for survival, keeping the total value under a single golden. It was a minor act that could be overlooked with mercy.
"Because of his restraint, we can now firmly conclude that this was a targeted assassination."
That was the summary of the tragedy. The conversation naturally shifted to the next logical question.
"Then… who exactly commissioned this?"
"This man is the most likely candidate." Ferda handed over a personnel file from the Pascal Trading Company. "A man named Frank Fontaine. He is the only one missing among the twelve merchants."
"Frank Fontaine." Upon hearing the name, Stephan reflexively grimaced.
"It seems he wasn't a man you liked very much."
"He worked here for ten years, always complaining that he never became a branch manager and was stuck doing grunt work like a coachman."
"And the reason for that was?"
"Nothing grand. He just lacked the talent to be a merchant. Poor performance, through and through." Stephan ground his teeth as he stared at the face in the file. "He acted like a stubborn old fool more than once, and we clashed quite a bit. I thought about firing him because I couldn't take his attitude anymore, but I decided against it."
"Why?"
"He had five children to support."
"You’re soft."
"So it seems."
Crinkle.
The personnel file was crushed in Stephan's grip. "Did this man… really commission the murder of eleven of my merchants?"
A small act of compassion. Was it because of that soft-hearted mercy that this disaster—the slaughter of other families—had occurred?
"Not quite." Ferda shook his head. "I am certain Frank Fontaine is involved, but he couldn't have been the mastermind."
"May I ask why you are so certain?" Stephan needed a reason he could accept.
"Excluding the refugees, the report states that the footprints of twelve people came and went. That means thirty-two mercenaries participated in this assassination, correct?"
"That is correct."
"The amount looted, at most, would be two hundred goldens. If thirty-two men split that, it would be about three goldens and twenty-five shillings each." Ferda leaned back. "Three goldens and twenty-five shillings is a fair amount of money. But it is a pittance for work that requires staining one's hands with such heavy blood. If they were cheap labor, that might be one thing, but these men were skilled at erasing their tracks. Do you know how much professionals like that charge?"
"I do not."
"They start at a minimum of fifty goldens per person. Even at a discount, the total would exceed one thousand goldens."
"One thousand… With Frank’s financial situation, he couldn't scrape that together even if he sold his soul." Stephan set down the file. "If there is a mastermind behind this trying to break me, then who in the hell could it be…?"
"That is the good news." Ferda reached into his inner coat pocket. "I was able to identify the mastermind."
Ferda pulled an object out and placed it on the table. It was a green scarf—the item that had been in the hands of the young refugee boy.
"This is…" Stephan recognized it instantly. "This belongs to my brother’s company employees… Why is it in your hands, Regent?"
"One of the refugee children saw one of the conspirators drop it and picked it up."
"Surely… the mastermind… the mastermind is…" Stephan couldn't finish his sentence.
Both Ferda and Stephan knew exactly whose name was hanging in the air. Overcome with shock, Stephan finally dropped the glass he was holding.
Shatter!
The glass broke, spilling its contents across the floor, but he didn't care. Ferda, too, ignored the mess. Stephan buried his face in his hands, his expression a mask of disbelief.
"…Are you certain?"
"It appears so."
Stephan reached out and took the scarf. His pupils, constricted from shock, scanned the embroidery. His gaze fixed on the Pascal family crest. Behind it, two swords were crossed. He checked it several times, but there was no mistake. It wasn't a fake; it belonged to the Pascal Mercenary Agency.
"My brother’s company…" Stephan whispered, staring down at the fabric. "There is a saying that a contract with the Pascal Mercenary Agency is like a contract with a devil. Do you know what that means?"
"I do not."
"It means that once you sign, you can never escape." A hollow laugh escaped Stephan’s lips, quickly twisting into a grimace. "They say that as soon as a contract with the Pascal Mercenary Agency ends, bands of bandits immediately target the carriages. As if someone had tipped them off on purpose."
Stephan’s voice trembled. "It was always strange. The first merchant expedition after a contract expired always ran into trouble. Whether they were robbed, the mercenaries turned into bandits, or the guards simply fled… eight out of ten times, disaster struck. And out of those eight, seven would return to sign a new contract with my brother."
"Do you think those were Murchit’s own staged incidents?"
"There is a saying that necessity creates demand. In the security business, you have to make the client feel that necessity." Stephan recalled his recent friction with Murchit. Murchit had told him: Let’s see how well you eat and live without me.
This went far beyond the petty raids mentioned in rumors; this was pure, unadulterated malice. Those merchants had been like family to Stephan. They were mentors, brothers, and friends. Murchit had taken them all away simply because Stephan had crossed him.
The scarf in Stephan’s hand was crushed. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he wanted to scream, but his throat was tight. The agony was suffocating.
Just then, Ruri entered the room and stood beside Ferda.
"Lord Ferda. You have a visitor."
"At this hour?"
Her eyes flickered toward Stephan, who was still clutching his head. "Yes. Specifically, someone who wishes to see both Lord Stephan and yourself."
"Me?" Stephan asked, looking up.
"Who is it?"
The name that left Ruri’s lips shocked them both.
"He asked me to announce him as Murchit Pascal."
* * *
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Regent."
Murchit Pascal sat across the drawing room and greeted Ferda. Looking at the two brothers, Ferda wondered if the same blood really flowed through their veins.
Stephan was refined, with skin as fair as white jade. He exuded the aura of a wealthy merchant—a studious man who looked like he belonged behind a desk.
Murchit, however, had bronzed skin and a rugged, slicked-back pompadour. With a thick neck, broad shoulders, and a muscular frame that strained against his formal uniform, he felt more like a mercenary captain or a mob boss. If their hair and eye colors were different, no one would ever take them for brothers.
"Welcome, Sir Murchit."
"‘Sir’? I’m just a lowly captain leading a bunch of grunts." Murchit acted humble, his face looking bashful. Far from the entrance of a cold-blooded villain, he seemed full of vigor.
Ferda could feel it clearly: this man had no idea he was currently the prime suspect. Or rather, he was acting with the absolute confidence that such a thing would never cross their minds.
"I heard my little brother was going through a hard time, so I came looking for him and ended up at the castle. Thank you for such a warm welcome so late at night."
"Not at all. It is only right to seek out family in times of trouble."
After the light small talk, Murchit shifted his gaze toward Stephan. Stephan’s eyes were ice-cold. Whether he noticed his brother’s mood or not, Murchit offered his condolences.
"Stephan. I heard the news. I heard your Eastern caravan was wiped out?"
"…"
"It’s truly tragic. I know how loyal those fellows were to you. The void they leave behind must be immense."
"…"
"I’ve already had my people break the news to their families. I’ll have the funerals prepared on our end as well. For now, just try to pull yourself together."
He sounded like the perfect brother. But that was only to those who didn't know the truth. Stephan was neither blind nor deaf. He knew exactly what was hidden behind that thick-skinned mask.
"You are… truly shameless."
"Hmm?"
While his resentment boiled over, Stephan spoke again with forced, trembling composure. "How can you sit there acting like a good man after you sent people to kill them all?"
"…What?"
One of Murchit’s eyebrows shot up. The spark in Stephan’s heart finally erupted into a violent flame.