The Perfect Analysis! The Returned Legion Commander of Betrayal — Who Could They Be?
“Th-that’s an interesting read.”
Simon forced a smile and pointed at the newspaper.
“Mind if I take a look myself?”
“Of course.”
Fitzgerald folded the paper without a second thought and handed it over, then opened the book he’d been reading and plunged back into it.
Simon settled onto a nearby sofa and read the article from beginning to end.
The 7th Legion, long believed to have been utterly destroyed, has risen again. The Legion’s core—the Managers—are known to hold their own unwavering standards when choosing the next Legion Commander. As a result, whichever Commander they select, a particular disposition tends to define the Legion for generations. This latest 7th Legion, too, carries what one might call the DNA of Betrayal…
This is nothing but fake news!
Simon could tell the outlet was opposed to the 7th Legion outright. His head felt like it was heating up as he read—the article was a pile of baseless conjecture, speculation dressed up as established fact. He itched to march straight out and demand an interview, anything, to slap the whole thing down.
[Keh-heh-heh!]
Pier’s clone, dangling from Simon’s uniform like a badge, was rolling its eyes across the paper as well. The Ancient Undead’s cutting laughter reverberated through Simon’s skull.
Doesn’t this make you angry, Pier?
Simon grumbled under his breath.
[Why would I bother? Humans never change! They believe only what they want to believe, so trying to persuade them is a wasted effort. Treat every last one of them as an Ever Kire who simply hasn’t committed murder yet!]
…That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?
Since the paper was already in his hands, Simon read on. Everywhere he looked, it was 7th Legion this, 7th Legion that.
Candidate Legion Commanders of the 7th Legion
- Balack Whitley.
- Gordon Zetajones.
- Ceyli Beckers.
Whatever these journalists were doing, they hadn’t managed to grab a single thread of the truth. All of them were impressive necromancers, to be sure—but every one of them was wrong. They were just force-fitting conditions together until a plausible shape emerged.
There was one name on the list of candidates that Simon actually recognized, though.
- Eisel Bringer.
Word of Eisel, the top-ranked third-year, becoming a Legion Commander had spread like wildfire through the entire student body. Simon had assumed it was just a rumor drifting through the halls, but the reporter was treating it with surprising seriousness.
While countless theories have placed the 7th Legion Commander within Kizen, some hold that they may be neither a Crow agent nor a member of the faculty, but a student whose training is not yet complete. Notably, the Witch of Death’s defense of the 7th Legion supports this view—she is known to cherish her students dearly.
Eisel Bringer, the current top-ranked third-year, has vanished from the school under the pretext of a long-term mission. Some suggest that he may have been investigating Ever Kire in his capacity as Legion Commander, and having felled her, it is widely believed he will soon return to the academy.
It was a shockingly sharp guess—Simon’s heart hammered against his ribs. Perhaps because the story touched so close to home, he lost all track of time reading.
Every article was about the Legion Commander. The camp demanding that the Commander be found and recruited to their side stood in sharp opposition to the camp insisting on elimination first and questions later. And scattered throughout were wild, reckless guesses as to the Commander’s true identity.
I can’t breathe.
Simon yanked loose his tie with urgent fingers and loosened his collar. It felt as though the entire continent was hunting him, and his throat was closing up.
Among those hunters, there were surely necromancers like Magnus—ones who would gladly hunt him down and steal the Legion Commander’s seat for themselves.
Thank goodness I’m inside Kizen, at least.
In the other Dark Alliance territories, people would be tearing their hair out searching for the 7th Legion Commander—but Roke Island sat apart from the continent. Safe.
The Dark Festival was over, and outsiders had no business coming in for a while yet. Simon steeled himself and kept reading.
And then, among all those reckless columns speculating about the Commander—
Candidate Legion Commander #2: Simon Polentia.
His own name.
Feeling the blood drain from his entire body, Simon focused on the text.
Simon Polentia, the current Student Council President of Kizen, was admitted last year as Special Admission #1.
Some may consider it obvious that a student council president once held the #1 slot. But at the time of his enrollment, he had undertaken no preparatory study whatsoever, and is known to have opened his core mere months prior.
Herein lies the question: why was a novice who had only just opened his core chosen as #1? No one has ever explained why he was selected over Special Admission #2, Serne Eindark, and #3, Chatel Maer.
But what if Simon Polentia was, in fact, already a Legion Commander—and the Witch of Death, recognizing it, chose him as #1? His absurd growth rate, rising to the summit of his year in a single year, and his genius-level talent for summoning suddenly make perfect sense.
The hand holding the newspaper was trembling.
Granted, he’d become a Legion Commander right after entering Kizen—but of everything he’d read so far, this was the closest anyone had come to the truth.
Who wrote this?
He checked the byline of the column.
Reporter Wedian Bencinio.
All tips accepted.
Beneath it was a mailing address—she appeared to be stationed in Langoustine.
Screeeech—
His concentration broke at last when the clubroom door swung open.
“Molly!”
“Oh, you’re back?”
The one who entered was Princess Molly. Like Sasha, she had been absent for several days after the Dark Festival. After exchanging greetings with her classmates, she also gave a polite bow to Simon and Fitzgerald, the second-years.
“I had some business at the royal palace.”
“What kind of business?”
At Simon’s question, she closed her eyes wearily.
“The 7th Legion Commander, of course.”
Simon flinched inwardly.
“Dresden suffered direct damage, so the palace’s official position is that the Legion’s very existence cannot be tolerated. They’ve filed a formal protest over Nephthys’s remarks, tightened the wanted decree, and proposed a conference to the other kingdoms. I imagine there’ll be serious, high-level talks about the 7th Legion before long.”
The Legion Commander in question was sitting right in front of her, and Simon could not open his mouth to say a word.
Once again, he was grateful he hadn’t revealed his identity back then.
Simon left the clubroom. No matter how hard people were searching for the Legion Commander, Roke Island was safe.
Or so he’d thought.
“Excuse me, student! May I trouble you for a quick interview?”
“Just a moment of your time, please!”
Reporters were prowling the campus. Notepads in one hand, mana recording devices hung around their necks, they were cornering students left and right, desperate for any scrap of information about the 7th Legion Commander.
What? How did reporters even get in here?
Simon ducked behind a pillar—only then noticing a banner strung across the plaza.
Worldwide Grand Poison Draft — Hosted by Pentamonium
Come to think of it, there was an external event scheduled. It was one of Pentamonium’s regular affairs, and this year it was being held on Roke Island itself to encourage participation from Kizen students.
The reporters had come to cover the contest, no doubt—but no matter how he looked at it, they seemed far more interested in setting the competition aside and chasing the hottest story of the moment: the Legion Commander.
I should get out of here.
Simon turned and began slipping quietly toward the building on the opposite side—
“Pardon me.”
At that very moment, a woman came striding up from behind him.
Sharp features, small round spectacles. She wore a crisp business suit and carried a notepad and a mana recording device. One look told you everything: a journalist.
“Who might you be?”
She adjusted her glasses and gave a small smile.
“You’re Simon Polentia, aren’t you? Or—no, perhaps I should address you differently.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Legion Commander of Betrayal.”
“…”
Simon’s heart pounded like a battering ram. The reporter’s eyes were wide open, as if determined not to miss a single flicker of reaction. Ordinarily he would have flinched—but by sheer luck, he’d already read papers like hers back in the clubroom, and he managed to hold his composure.
“Quite the thing to open with, on a first meeting.”
“Ah, allow me to introduce myself.”
She extended a business card.
Reporter Wedian Bencinio
All tips accepted.
Simon’s heart beat even faster.
It’s her!
The very reporter who had written the column naming him as a Legion Commander candidate in the paper he’d just read.
Wedian stared into Simon’s eyes for a long moment before speaking.
“Did you happen to read my column?”
Simon produced the smile of a model student.
“I’ve been busy studying.”
“I see. Well, getting straight to the point—I…”
She flipped her document case wide open. Photographs and interview transcripts were clipped across its entire outer face.
“…believe that you are the Legion Commander of Betrayal. No—I am certain of it.”
“…”
“You were originally my second candidate, but having come here to Roke Island, my conviction has only hardened. I intend to publish a new column very soon.”
Closing the case, she curled the corner of her mouth into a knowing smirk.
“So why not come quietly, even now—hm?”
Simon was already walking away at a distance. She jolted in surprise and reached out a hand.
“Wait—student! I’m talking to you—!”
“I am not,”
Sims smiled gently,
“so idle that I would waste my time on someone who does nothing but spout nonsense.”
At the cold flash in Simon’s eyes, Wedian flinched despite herself.
“And as Student Council President, let me offer a warning. If you came here to cover the contest, I expect you to conduct the interviews that entails.”
“…Ahem.”
Wedian cleared her throat. It was an accurate reprimand, and on that point at least, she had nothing to say.
“Then I’ll take my leave.”
Simon walked on, and she had no grounds left to stop him.
But—
“Just you wait!”
she shouted at his retreating back.
“I will uncover the truth that you are the Legion Commander of Betrayal—on this very island, no matter what it takes!”
Simon dismissed it with a shrug and entered the student hall. His direct subordinates were guarding it, and no outsider—her included—could get inside.
Click.
Wedian drew out the locket she wore around her neck and opened it.
Inside was a photograph of a middle-aged man and a little girl.
“Please watch over me, Father.”
Clutching the locket, she murmured the words like a prayer.
That night, Simon lay in his dormitory bed with the blanket pulled up over his head.
Sleep would not come.
—Just you wait! I will uncover the truth that you are the Legion Commander of Betrayal—on this very island!
He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his side.
I’ll have to be as careful as possible for the duration of the contest.
A suspicious person had set foot on Roke Island. He should cut back on his visits to Pier’s Ruins for a while, too.
Simon buried his face in the pillow, trying by any means to drift off—
Rustle, rustle.
Suddenly, the blanket was thrown back. Simon blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him—then bolted upright in shock.
“Wh-what—?!”
Whoosh!
Out of the covers popped a tiny silver-haired girl.
She thrust both hands up in the air and beamed.
“Hiya~!”
“Lady—Lady Nephthys?!”
Looking at Simon’s saucer-wide eyes, she pointed out the window.
“Shall we have a little chat?”