Chapter 23: The Undertaker (1)
Chapter 23: The Undertaker (1)
Translation: Godtl
Penelope strode with the triumphant air of a conquering general.
"Good, well done. As expected of me."
Looking back on the day's events, Penelope hadn't recklessly charged at Brighton without a plan.
There were two objectives:
Information gathering and bluffing.
It was already half-confirmed that Brighton was the mastermind.
Now, let's break it down step by step.
Q. What happened before this incident?
A. Brighton tried to coerce Jurgen into betraying him and stealing the cola.
Q. Who stands to gain the most if Jurgen gets scared and hands over the deed because of this incident?
A. Brighton, who wanted the cola.
Q. Is Brighton really that much of a villain?
A. He's a mafia boss.
With this much circumstantial evidence, it's hard to even call it a presumption of innocence.
In fact, Brighton's attitude wasn't that of an innocent suspect.
It was closer to "So what?"
If the cunning Brighton had put on an act of spitting blood in righteous indignation, even Penelope might have been confused.
But he didn't.
Instead, he openly taunted her, even throwing in some flower-arrangement-level teasing.
It was a meaningless act, but this wasn't mere arrogance—it was closer to Brighton's true nature.
Brighton was the representative of Polar Suns, a mafia corporation.
In the underworld, displays of power are directly tied to political influence.
Penelope willingly played along with his nature and, in return, obtained "definitive information."
And the most crucial part—
"Now you're safe. At least as long as you're in this hotel."
Maintaining her triumphant stride, Penelope headed straight to the Litchfield Hotel.
She unlocked Jurgen's assigned room with a master key and strode in, still buzzing with excitement.
"Miss Penelope, I can see you're pleased, but next time, could you knock? What if I'd been in the shower?"
"Ugh, that's a situation I'd really hate."
"Anyway, what do you mean, safe?"
Perched on the edge of the bed, Penelope continued her explanation.
"Strictly speaking, compared to Brighton, my influence is nothing special."
The difference in political clout between Penelope and Brighton was laughable.
All Penelope had was the cola.
Meanwhile, Brighton was a key player in the city's political games.
Unless he made a mistake and handed her justification or evidence, Penelope was in a position to be attacked unilaterally.
No matter how skilled a director of the Grey Council was, laying hands on a Rosemore directly would be suicidal...
Most likely, Jurgen would've remained the next target.
But now?
"Should've put some heat on that balding nouveau riche's forehead."
"What exactly did you do to make that happen?"
Even after being ostracized from high society, Penelope had stubbornly clung to its edges.
During that time, what she'd honed wasn't just the audacity to pretend she hadn't heard the gossip or the bravado of feigning nonchalance.
She'd eavesdropped on all sorts of noble families, corporations, and the way things worked in this world.
"I moved unpredictably."
Not a single one of Penelope's actions would have gone as Brighton expected.
The moment the fire broke out, she went straight for Brighton without a second's hesitation.
She bulldozed through his flower-arrangement act with sheer, unrelenting persistence.
After meeting him, she left behind a ridiculous warning.
Most importantly, all of this was beyond what Brighton would've expected from Penelope's "caliber."
"Brighton isn't a noble. A businessman with shaky footing naturally fears the unpredictable, doesn't he?"
"Definitely makes you think, 'What's she got up her sleeve?'"
Jurgen was impressed by Penelope's unexpected display.
She had quite the resourcefulness.
Penelope knew she had nothing in her hands—and used that fact against them.
She had planted "temptation" in Brighton's heart—a man who stood no chance against her in a head-on confrontation.
She had bought time until the shadow of that temptation faded.
One might say she was born with political instincts.
To be brutally honest, it was remarkable for a young noblewoman.
Though Penelope was now convinced her bluff had succeeded, that alone left her slightly unsatisfied.
After all, a bluff was still just a bluff.
If Brighton dared to take the risk and "call," her hand would be exposed in an instant.
Yet, by sheer coincidence, the situation had unfolded perfectly.
Jurgen had tracked down Brighton's underlings, who had come to seize the patent, and set fire to one of Polar Suns' factories.
The minions who had participated in the threats were sent to a "nice place."
Combined with Penelope's bravado, Brighton must be shuddering to his core right now.
It was as if he had been stabbed by a blade he never saw coming.
But there was no need to tell Penelope that part.
For now, she deserved praise.
"Quite impressive. You've surprised me."
"Well, of course. More importantly, how's the hotel? A rare luxury, isn't it?"
"The room is excellent."
"You should be grateful. If it weren't for me, when would you ever get to experience something like this?"
After some light, slightly boastful banter,
Penelope bid him goodnight and stepped out of the room.
"Phew..."
Only then did the breath she had been holding escape.
She hadn't realized it until now, but she was utterly exhausted.
Come to think of it, she had been on her feet since last night.
"What a rollercoaster."
But it was too soon to relax.
Though she hadn't shown it, not wanting to spread her unease to Jurgen, Penelope knew the truth.
A bluff was still just a bluff.
The greedy businessman Brighton would surely stretch his claws toward the cola again.
Her task now was to use the time bought by her bluff to prepare the best possible countermeasure.
As she pondered how to find a way out, Manager Ritz approached her.
"Miss Penelope, do you have a moment?"
"What is it?"
"You asked me to gather information on Polar Suns' movements. Something just came up."
"What happened?"
"They say a Polar Suns lemonade factory caught fire."
At the mention of Polar Suns, Penelope's senses sharpened instantly—only to go blank as she processed Ritz's report.
"When did this happen?"
"Almost immediately after you returned to the hotel."
"...?"
What in the world?
Dumbfounded by the sudden news, Penelope quickly mulled over the implications of this fire.
"Heh, how does this line up so perfectly?"
Right after she bluffed Brighton, something like this happens.
"Um... What do you mean...?"
"Well, it just goes to show—people should live virtuously."
In front of the bewildered Manager Ritz, Penelope giggled like a little devil.
"Puff..."
Smoke from the pipe in his mouth stung his eyes.
Brighton inhaled deeply as he stared at the charred remains of the lemonade factory.
"Haa..."
He recalled Penelope's warning from last night.
"Try laying a hand on my people again."
"Then you'll find out just how far someone with nothing left to lose can go."
Right after that, an entire factory building in the suburban industrial district had gone up in flames.
The five operatives he had sent to seize the patent and trademark certificates had vanished without a trace.
Only a fool would dismiss this as mere coincidence.
Yet he couldn't bring himself to believe it.
When? How?
Hadn't Penelope only just barely returned to high society?
How could she—a woman with nothing but her family name and the hollow title of a hotel owner—pull this off?
Was her threat not just a bluff?
Had she made new allies in that time?
No, she was a 4th-Rank Alchemist.
She might have set the fire herself.
"Representative Brighton, the forensic results are in."
As he struggled to organize his bursting thoughts, an elderly man with stiff-looking red hair approached him.
Just by appearance alone, the old man didn't seem the type to be easily swayed. His name was Basil Hargreaves.
An 8th-Rank Alchemist, a baron, the senior professor of the Northern Alchemy Guild, and the 'Red Sage'—unrivaled in Nortaris when it came to handling flames.
To be precise, he was a figure of such status and power that Brighton couldn't order him around.
But Brighton had decided it was better to spend money and confirm the truth rather than leave an unknown threat unchecked.
He had shelled out no small sum to summon Basil, hoping to uncover evidence of arson and clues to the perpetrator.
"You already have the results?"
"Spontaneous combustion. No traces of artificial intervention. My assistant will send you the forensic report."
"Are you absolutely certain?"
"Certain?"
"There are too many suspicious circumstances. If you could just examine it a little more thoroughly..."
At Brighton's pleading, Basil's temper flared.
"You don't know your place. The only reason I personally came here to conduct the examination was due to the guild master's earnest request. Did you think throwing around a few pennies made you my master?"
Damn bastard.
And he wasn't even doing this for free.
Suppressing the trembling at the corners of his eyes, Brighton forced himself to placate the man.
"Oh, heavens! I know, I know! But how could someone as ignorant as me possibly comprehend Baron Basil's wisdom? I merely humbly ask for a slightly more detailed explanation."
"Hmph. Whatever you may think, I didn't conduct a careless inspection. Arson always leaves traces."
"So you're saying there truly are no traces in this fire? Could it have been alchemy...?"
"If it were, it would have been even more impossible to escape my notice. Or do you doubt my skill?"
"Not at all. How could I? That's not what I meant. It's just... in case."
If even the Red Sage—whose temper was foul but whose abilities were undeniable—couldn't detect anything...
"...Could it be the work of a Black Mage...?"
Could it be the handiwork of those demons wearing human skins?
"Hah! A Black Mage, you say?"
Basil burst into a scornful laugh at Brighton's sweating, desperate speculation.
The sheer absurdity of it even cooled his earlier anger.
"If that's what you suspect, why not contact the Church instead?"
"No, of course not. That couldn't be it."
"Don't fret too much. Even if this was arson, uncovering it would be meaningless anyway."
"And why is that?"
"Isn't it obvious? It would mean you've made an enemy of an alchemist skilled enough to deceive me perfectly. Either that, or you've crossed someone powerful enough to command such an alchemist as their subordinate."
"..."
"So pray that my judgment isn't mistaken."
Having collected his payment and even thrown in some sarcastic remarks as a bonus, Basil swirled his cloak and left without a moment's delay.
Brighton stared blankly at his retreating figure before kicking a pile of dirt at his feet.
"Damn it...! That fucking old bastard!"
Separate from his rage, Brighton felt fear creeping in.
If the old man was right, it would be easier on his mind if this were just an accident.
But no matter how he looked at it, this was Penelope's warning.
"Boss, if it's just a warning, doesn't that mean we don't have to worry anymore?"
"Who the hell said you could spout such naive nonsense?!"
"Well, isn't it true? We'll have to take some losses, but Polar Suns isn't going under just because one factory burned down. If we just back off from the cola business from now on—"
Brighton's fist, swift as a flash of light, slammed into the lawyer's nose once more.
"Gah! Boss! Use your words, not your fists!"
"You little shit! What about Clarice?!"
"Th-that is... Ah, Mr. Kopi..."
"Do you really think Clarice would just say, 'Oh dear, is that so? I understand the situation, so take it easy' if I told her that?"
Until now, Clarice had been like the joker in a deck of cards for Brighton.
Holding that joker, he could bluff his way through with a hand worse than what he actually held.
But the moment Brighton outlived his usefulness—
The game would change genres.
From poker to a hunt.
Clarice would never let Brighton live—a man who had outlived his purpose and knew all her dirty secrets.
"I'll die. Without a trace."
From the very beginning, he had taken her hand knowing that risk.
As Brighton mulled it over, he arrived at the worst possible conclusion.
"Wait a minute..."
What if Clarice and Penelope had reconciled?
No matter what anyone said, they were blood sisters.
Even if Clarice had emotionally tormented Penelope all this time, noble families were known to suddenly rediscover their sibling bonds when it suited their interests.
Given what he knew of Clarice, her next move would likely be—
Placing Brighton's severed head on a platter as a peace offering to her younger sister.
"No. That can't be."
Wiping away cold sweat, Brighton forced himself to breathe steadily.
This was just baseless speculation.
His anxiety was making him fixate on the worst possible outcome.
He was faltering.
The moment he realized it, Brighton regained his composure.
"Guess I've gotten too comfortable lately."
He'd weathered crises like this countless times before.
He'd clawed his way up from the very bottom.
Brighton was the kind of man who made his sharpest judgments precisely when adversity struck.
He eliminated all uncertain variables.
"This is just a coincidence. At the very least, it has nothing to do with Penelope. She hasn't had enough time to amass this kind of power yet."
"Clarice wouldn't have made a move either."
"There's no reason for her to suddenly reconcile with her sister now. No reason to sacrifice me."
"As for the missing subordinates... I've got more than one or two enemies."
"Maybe they just took the cola and ran. That bastard Liam was always eyeing a big payout."
He constructed a narrative based only on the most plausible hypotheses.
'Lay a finger on my people again, I dare you.'
Suddenly, yesterday's scene flashed through his mind.
"My people... huh."
Penelope had called Jurgen her people.
A mere commoner, nothing more than a small business owner.
Yet the cola patent and trademark were registered under Jurgen's name.
Why?
Before, he'd assumed Penelope had set up a front man to evade her sister's interference.
But now he knew better.
She still didn't realize that her social ostracization had been orchestrated by Clarice.
So why would she entrust such a crucial part of her business to a commoner?
"Keh heh heh."
"Have you lost your mind all of a sudden?"
"Amusing. Truly amusing. To think she was that naive."
Brighton burst into uproarious laughter.
The reason he'd been wary of Penelope was because she had carried herself like a true noble.
But if the premise changed, so did the story.
She wasn't acting like a noble at all.
Penelope had moved not for business, but to protect someone.
By the time his laughter subsided, all hesitation and doubt had vanished.
"Call the Undertaker."
"B-Boss, have you lost it?! Y-you can't possibly mean Penelope—!"
The lawyer's face drained of color in an instant.
If the city had its mafia, the Demon Realm had its outlaws.
Unlike the mafia, who at least wore the facade of legitimate business, these were nothing but brutal, deranged criminals.
The outlaw known as the Undertaker was the Polar Suns' dirtiest, sharpest blade, buried deep in the Demon Realm.
"No. The target's the commoner."
In that case, he'd handle it cleanly and quietly, just as he always had.
"Let's teach that foolish girl the true stakes of gambling."
The image of Penelope screaming in despair before the death brought on by her own reckless bluff was already forming in his mind.