6-A Disorderly Mob

It was too spacious to be called a hideout.

It was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. An old stone building that looked completely deserted from the outside.

The windows were covered in dust, and the door was fastened with a rusted lock. It was the kind of building no passerby would give a second glance.

The inside was different—or rather, that was only half true.

The moment the door opened, light spilled out. Dozens of magical spheres hanging from the ceiling glowed with varying brightness.

But three of those spheres were flickering periodically, and one dangling at the edge was swaying precariously as if about to fall at any moment.

The walls were crammed with maps and documents.

Things were linked together with red thread and pins like a spiderweb, but upon closer inspection, two threads were tangled together, making it nearly impossible to tell what was connected to what.

And there were people.

As soon as I entered, all eyes turned to me.

Five of them. They had all been working in separate spots and stopped at the same time.

To be exact, four of them stopped what they were doing to look at me, and the remaining one was just sleeping slumped over the table.

(So this is the group that's supposed to upend the world.)

I swallowed my muttering back down my throat. I was newly aware of the collar around my neck.

Leard stepped in first and took off his robe.

"Brought him."

That was it. No explanation, no introduction. Just 'brought ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him.' The five gazes shifted back and forth between Leard and me.

The woman sitting at the far end of the table spoke first.

"The kid who called out a name at the auction house?"

She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her hair was long and roughly tied back, and ink stains spread from the back of her hand up to her elbow.

Papers filled with equations were piled up like mountains on the table, but one side of a stack had tilted and spilled about half of it onto the floor. The person in question paid it no mind.

"That's Riche." Leard said shortly. "Handles calculations."

Riche looked me up and down. It was an appraising gaze.

"Small."

"I'm aware."

"Age."

"Fifteen."

Riche raised an eyebrow then lowered it. "So that's why you're so small." She added as she lowered her eyes back to the papers. "Do you eat well?"

That was unexpected. "...What?"

"Food. Do you eat well?" Riche tried to stick the pen into the inkwell but missed, leaving a black stain on the table. She pretended not to see.

"Being at the auction house means you probably haven't eaten properly for a while. I have no use for someone who can't do calculations. You need to eat well for your brain to work."

I never imagined the welcoming greeting would be about taking care of meals.

"...I'll eat."

"Good." Riche nodded as if satisfied, then genuinely returned to her papers. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she reached out, grabbed a piece of bread from the edge of the table, and slid it toward me.

It was bread with a mark showing someone had already taken a bite out of it. "Eat."

"That's yours, Riche."

"I don't eat much when I'm calculating. Then later I regret why my brain isn't working—it's a pattern." Riche scratched the tip of her nose. "Today I'm giving it to you first. Hurry."

I took it. I ate it. Only then did Riche seem truly satisfied and return completely to her papers. It seemed like it was a universal phenomenon in this world: a person with a good brain taking care of someone else's meal while unable to manage their own.

The man who had been standing by the window approached. He was tall and had broad shoulders. There was an old burn scar on his forearm, the kind that makes anyone looking pointlessly imagine its origin.

He was holding something like a copper part in his hand and dropped it clatteringly on the floor as he came over. He picked it up without any concern and shoved it into his shirt pocket.

"I'm Cael." He spoke first. His eyes were gentle. A gentleness like the calm before a storm. "In charge of weapons."

"That burn scar." I pointed at his forearm with my eyes. "Did your own creation blow up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on you?"

Cael paused. A moment of silence passed.

"...That's a secret."

That explained it. And also how reliable the weapons this person handles were.

"Must've been rough, the auction house." Cael turned the conversation around with a fake cough. There was emotion in his voice. It wasn't an empty platitude.

"Not really."

"What?"

"It wasn't rough. It just was what it was."

Cael looked at me for a moment. It seemed like he was about to say something more but stopped. "...Okay, I get it."

That bothered me more. The look in his eyes that said he understood.

The person half-slumped over the table raised a hand. Purple hair was spilling over the tabletop.

There were deep dark circles under his eyes, and his shirt was inside out. He had been asleep since I came in, and he was still sleeping even now. Even raising his hand was slow, like someone doing it in a dream.

"Ori." He raised and then lowered his hand. "Information. And sleep."

"Is sleep part of your role?"

"I process information while sleeping. Efficient."

"You were already sleeping when I got here."

"I was working."

"With your eyes closed?"

Ori opened his eyes halfway and looked at me. The dark circles were so deep that it was hard to tell if they were properly open. "You've got a mouth on you."

"Thank you."

"Wasn't a compliment." Ori pressed his cheek back onto the table. "Victor, was it? I heard from Leard. Said you called out a name at the auction house."

"I did."

"Why?"

It was a short question.

"Do I have to say?"

Ori narrowed his eyes for a moment. "You're honest."

"You asked."

"Usually people beat around the bush." Ori closed his eyes again. "Well, I'll find out later."

It wasn't unpleasant. Rather, it felt comfortable. That there was at least one person in this place who didn't pry.

The two people who had been quietly standing in the corner remained.

One was an old man. His back was bent, and his white beard reached his chest. He held an old book in one hand, which occasionally trembled faintly. It was to a degree unnoticeable unless you were paying attention, but I was paying attention.

"I am Harlan." The old man said. His voice was low and slow. "Magic theory. The longest-running one in this field."

It was hard to tell if 'longest-running' was meant as a boast or a warning. I also wondered if he was aware that his hand trembled like that.

"How old are you."

"Seventy-three."

"..."

"You have the eyes of someone wanting to say something." Harlan smiled slowly. "All the young ones have those eyes. Wondering what an old codger is doing here.

It's a question that naturally comes to mind. As for how useful these old bones are, you'll see in time."

His tone was gentle. It wasn't one of anger or trying to prove something. It was just the tone of someone who had lived long and learned from living long.

One last person remained.

He was a man who looked to be in his early twenties. From the moment I entered until now, his gaze had not changed once.

He was observing. Expressionless, meticulously. That wasn't a bad thing. The problem was that the wall shelf he was leaning against was tilted, and he alone was unaware that the box on the shelf was slowly, very slowly sliding off.

Just as Leard was about to introduce him.

Bam.

The box fell. Ser reflexively stepped aside. The lid burst open when the box hit the floor, scattering bolts and screws everywhere.

Some rolled under the table. One even rolled all the way to Ori's feet. Ori didn't even open his eyes.

Ser, completely expressionless, picked up the box. He picked up each scattered screw one by one. No one laughed. It seemed like this wasn't the first or second time.

"Ser." Leard finally said. "Tell me when you need something."

Ser gave a short nod. Then he looked at me directly for the first time.

"Victor."

"Yes."

"The auction house. Which number slot were you in."

It was a random question. "...Number 7."

Ser nodded once and fell silent again. He didn't ask anything else. That was it.

(Was that really a necessary question.)

=======

Leard walked to the center of the table.

"Sit."

There were seats around the table. Some were normal chairs, others were overturned wooden crates. Ori, still slumped over the table, considered that state to be his seat.

Only Harlan was sitting upright in a chair with a backrest. There was one empty seat at the end of the table. I sat. The moment I did, it tilted with a creak, as if one of the chair legs was short.

Riche looked at me.

"I heard from Leard. That you called out your own name at the auction." She spoke while fiddling with the pen between her fingers. "Why did you bother."

"Because I wanted to get out."

"In a state where you didn't know where you'd end up?"

"That place was scary too."

Riche paused for a moment. She looked like she wanted to say more but closed her mouth. This person seemed quick with calculations. It seemed like she also calculated which words fit a situation and which didn't. "I see." That was all.

Cael folded his arms. "Have you used magic before?"

"No."

"What about originally? Do you have mana?"

"I do."

"What affinity?"

"I don't know."

That was a lie. I knew. But I had no reason to reveal it yet. Not until I came to trust them. Cael looked at me briefly. It was an expression hard to read, whether he believed me or not.

"Well, alright. We can figure it out later."

Right after those words ended, Cael took the copper part he had picked up earlier out of his shirt pocket. He fumbled with it and was about to put it down on the table when he bumped into the stack of Riche's papers next to him. The papers came pouring down.

Riche's eyes flashed up.

"Cael."

"Sorry, sorry." Cael hurriedly gathered the papers. "Do these have an order?"

"Of course they do!"

"What order."

"The order I know!"

"What does that—"

"Save it, just give them here." Riche snatched the papers and began restacking them herself. Her hands were fast. Her eyes to discern the order were also fast.

However, the speed at which she was stacking them was so fast the tower began to lean to one side again.

No one said anything. It seemed like that was just the natural form of that paper tower.

"How did you end up here, Cael?" I asked in the lull.

Cael answered as he put the copper part back in his pocket. "Long ago I was at a church-affiliated magic research institute. As a technical worker."

He glanced at the scar on his forearm for a moment. "I left when I found out what the things I made there were being used for."

"What were they used for?"

"On people."

It was a short answer. He didn't say anything more. There was no need to say more.

Harlan slowly turned a page of the book and spoke. "I'm someone who studied church magic..."

"What did you study."

"Memories." Harlan spread out his palm. It was a trembling hand. "Things like reading, implanting, or erasing memories. Originally it was for therapeutic purposes, they say.

For soldiers suffering from war aftereffects. But the church wanted something else."

"Brainwashing."

"Brainwashing." Harlan repeated the same word. His hand slowly clenched. "Yes. Making believers believe not by choice but by making it so they had no choice but to believe. That was not what I had wanted."

The table fell quiet for a moment. In the midst of that quiet, Ori randomly spoke up.

"I was just born into this life."

Everyone looked at Ori.

"What does that mean." Riche asked first.

"Exactly what I said. My parents were on this side, you see. I've been doing information work since I was little. Things like passing letters, tailing people."

Ori blinked slowly. The boundary between whether his eyes were closed or open was ambiguous. "And before I knew it, I ended up here. I didn't choose it, I just drifted here."

"You have an issue with that?"

"I don't know. Since I've never lived any other life, I have nothing to compare it to."

Those words oddly stuck in my ears. Since I've never lived any other life.

(I have, though.)

But I didn't say anything.

Ser quietly picked up the teacup on the table. It was a teacup with a brown stain from dried tea water.

Either someone had been drinking from it and forgot, or it was just left there. Ser looked inside and then put it back down.

"What about you, Ser." I asked. "How did you end up here."

Ser looked at me. He wasn't the type of person who chooses words. He was the type who chooses whether to speak or not. Those two things were different.

"Debt."

"To Leard?"

"Yeah."

He didn't say more. Leard didn't help him out either. No one asked any further about this topic. It was a familiar silence, as if this was a story that had already been passed around once.

Riche looked at me. "What about you, Victor? Why for you."

"I had no choice."

"Is that all?"

"For now."

Riche narrowed her eyes briefly, then returned to her papers. "You're honest."

"Lying would be weirder, wouldn't it."

"No, usually people in that situation fabricate some kind of reason for themselves." Riche said, spinning the pen on her finger. "Like thinking that this work is righteous, or hating the church." She stopped. "But honestly, even if I heard something like that, there'd be no way for me to check if it's true anyway."

"Then what criteria do you use to take someone in."

"Brains." Riche said simply. "First off, their calculations have to be right."

"Calculations."

"There are variables needed to bring down the church. Brains that can calculate and act on those variables. Without that, no matter how plausible their cause is, it's hard to work together."

Riche lightly tapped the towering stack of papers with her finger. It miraculously didn't collapse. "Well, you're the one who made an escape route ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on your own while wearing a collar in the auction house. So I guess you're someone who can calculate."

"Is it that connected?"

"It is." Riche said with a face that thought it was obvious. "You read the situation, grasped the resources, and chose the best among the possible options. That's calculation. It's not just done through formulas."

It was hard to argue with those words.

======

A quiet time passed. Everyone returned to what they were doing. Riche wrote equations, Cael took the part out of his pocket and fiddled with it again, Ori closed his eyes. Harlan read his book, and Ser stood in front of the map looking at something.

While blankly staring down at the table, I discovered something strange.

Next to the copper part Cael had been fiddling with was a small glass bottle.

The stopper was open. The liquid inside was exposed to the air. It was a dark orange color, and a very faint steam was rising from its surface as if it was slowly evaporating.

"That bottle."

Cael raised his head.

"The stopper is open."

Cael looked at the bottle. "Ah." He hurriedly closed the stopper. "Thanks."

"What is that stuff."

"Contact igniter." Cael said nonchalantly. "When exposed to air for a long time, its flammability increases. It's a bit dangerous."

"Inside a warehouse."

"...Yeah."

"This place has a wooden floor, you know."

"...Yeah."

"And Riche's pile of papers is right next to it."

Cael stealthily moved the bottle to the other side of the table. Moving it farther away didn't change anything, but from this person's perspective, he had taken some kind of measure. Riche seemed to notice and pulled the stack of papers into her arms.

"Cael."

"It's fine, I closed the stopper."

"That doesn't mean it's fine."

"Well, it hasn't blown up so far."

"Does that make sense to you?"

Harlan looked at the two from over his book, then looked back down. Ser didn't take his eyes off the map. Ori still had his eyes closed; it was unclear if he was listening to this situation or asleep.

It was a miracle these people hadn't blown up in this warehouse so far.

"What happened last time." I asked.

Cael averted his eyes.

"Last time."

"...The ceiling, a little."

"A little?"

"Not a lot."

"Did it burn?"

"It burned."

Riche closed then opened her eyes. "That's why that one sphere up there is dangling like that." She pointed with her chin at the precarious magical sphere on the ceiling. "Because the fixture burned up with it then."

"Shouldn't it be fixed."

"Who's going to fix it."

No one. It seemed there was no one among these five who could repair the fixture for magical lights. Harlan specialized in magic theory, Riche designed circuits but I didn't know if that applied to that sphere,

Cael was on the explosives side, Ori was asleep, and Ser—I still didn't exactly know what Ser did.

"What if it falls."

"We can just dodge it then." Cael shrugged. "Everyone knows the spot. We don't stand directly under that sphere."

It was a natural statement. As if it had already been absorbed into their way of life.

(Taking on the Papal See... with these people.)

Ori opened his eyes halfway. "Your expression is funny."

"I didn't change my expression."

"You did. Subtly." Ori said with his cheek still pressed to the table. "Are you looking at us and thinking: how can a crew like this upend the world?"

I didn't answer.

"Right?" Ori smiled faintly. It was the kind of smile where only the corners of his mouth went up. "Everyone feels that way at first. I did too."

"Even you."

"Yeah. But you know." Ori said while closing his eyes completely. "Turning the world upside down isn't the sole property of competent people. You can tell by looking at history. The scariest ones are the people who don't stop."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"It's not comfort." Ori muttered as he drifted back into sleep. "It's just the truth."

The table fell quiet again.

Riche paused in the middle of writing her equations and lightly tapped the table with the tip of her pen. "Victor."

"Yes."

"If you see something weird in this equation, tell me."

She pushed the paper over. It was dense with formulas. It seemed to be calculating the transmission path and error margin of magical signals. The knowledge I had accumulated in my previous life slowly unfolded behind my eyes.

I looked at it for about thirty seconds.

"The mana absorption rate of the stone material is missing."

Riche's hand stopped.

"When magic signals refract inside a building, the coefficient changes depending on the stone material. The Papal See is made of thousand-year-old granite. Its absorption rate is higher than regular stone."

Riche snatched the paper. She scanned it quickly. Then scanned it again from the beginning. She fell silent.

"...Keep talking."

"Keep?"

"If you see more. Tell me."

Riche's eyes had changed. They weren't the appraising eyes she had looked at me with earlier. They were calculating eyes.

To this person, that meant she had started looking at the same subject in a completely different way.

Cael folded his arms and muttered. "He really uses his brain."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Yeah." Cael nodded. "But you know what? You're talking while eating right now."

I had finished eating the piece of bread. I hadn't noticed when I finished it.

"Riche gave it to me."

"I know. When Riche starts making ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sure someone eats, it means she's acknowledged you." Cael smiled. This time his gentle eyes smiled too. "Welcome, Victor."

====

I didn't know how much time had passed.

There was an empty space in the corner. Two old wooden crates were stacked, and next to them was a folded blanket. I picked up the blanket and put it on the crate. I sat down. I leaned my back against the wall.

My eyes were heavy. This body of fifteen years old was still unfamiliar. My twenty-year-old body wouldn't have broken down from this much—...no, come to think of it. I had just known how to not show the signs.

Sounds came from the direction of the table. The sound of Riche writing equations, the sound of Cael touching parts, the sound of Ori mumbling something,

the sound of Harlan turning the pages of a book. The sound of Ser pulling a pin out of the map and sticking it in another spot. Everyone was continuing in their own way.

In my last life.

These people in the records had looked like strategists. Like people who were meticulous, calculating, and perfectly carried out their respective roles.

But what I saw now was a calculator spilling ink, someone burned by his own weapon, an info agent sleeping with his shirt inside out, an old man with trembling hands, and an enforcer about to get hit by a box.

Yet these people had reached the very gates of the Papal See.

I still couldn't fathom how it was possible. Even less so seeing them now. But the fact that they had gone there was true.

Ori's words about them being people who don't stop rolled around inside my head again. It was also a fact that they ultimately fell, but that was also the reason this time could be different.

Something touched my shoulder.

I opened my eyes. It was Leard. A hand was placed on my shoulder. There was no force in it.

"Come out."

"Where to."

"Outside."

"I was going to sleep."

"I know."

"So."

"Come out anyway."

My body didn't feel like getting up. I tried to shrug off his hand from my shoulder, but it didn't move well. Leard grabbed my wrist and pulled me up just like that.

"Hey."

My legs had no choice but to follow. Moving my feet was better than my wrist being dragged along.

The back door of the warehouse opened. It was an empty lot between the buildings. Since it was behind the abandoned warehouse, there were no people. It was night, but the moonlight came down brighter than expected. The ground was dirt.

"What are you doing."

My wrist was released. Leard walked to the center of the lot and turned around. His eyes moved up and down once.

"You look frail."

"That's not something I want to hear from someone I just met."

"I'm not someone you just met. I bought you without paying 2 billion Ahn."

I had nothing to say. It made me angrier because it wasn't wrong.

"Three laps around the lot."

I was at a loss for words for a moment. "Right now?"

"Right now."

"At night?"

"There's moonlight."

I started to consider whether this was logical or not, and then stopped. This person was the type to push if he decided he was right. I already knew that. I tried to go back inside the warehouse.

"I'll put the collar back on."

I stopped. My body still remembered the electric shock from earlier. The sensation of my muscles contracting uncontrollably. I hated that. It was the kind of sensation I hated most. The loss of control.

I slowly turned back toward the empty lot.

My feet moved. Under the moonlight. Weeds caught on my feet. Dirt shifted under my shoes. My breath ran out faster than expected.

By the time I had gone around twice, my side had a stitch. Leard stood there with his arms crossed, watching.

I finished the three laps and stopped. I put my hands on my knees. My breathing was ragged.

Leard approached. "Five laps tomorrow."

I raised my head and looked at this man's face. The moonlight was shining on his profile. His eyes were staring somewhere beyond the empty lot. He wasn't looking at me. I tried to read those eyes, then gave up.

"Damn it."

I said it quietly. Audibly enough.

Leard didn't react. He started walking back toward the warehouse. Whether he heard or not. He probably did, but.

My breath gradually settled. The moonlight was cold. There were no calluses on my palms. My legs were heavy.

Even so.

Tomorrow, I would run five laps. And I would see for myself this time how this motley crew had made it to the gates of the Papal See.

Under the moonlight, on the dirt, I thought only of that.