Chapter 152: Turning Point (2)
Chapter 152: Turning Point (2)
Pitter-patter... Pitter-patter...
A heavy rain continued to fall over Progen.
Some called it the sorrow of the nation, while others sang of it as a cleansing joy.
Minister Louis Marceau was dead, assassinated by a bomb. It was an act of violence that could never be justified. Yet, upon deeper reflection, the tax hikes perpetrated by Marceau and the Socialist Party were their own form of violence. When taxes snatch away the bread a starving citizen needs for tomorrow, it becomes nothing short of state-sanctioned robbery.
“Minister Louis Marceau was a steadfast shield and a great warrior for our motherland, Progen.”
Professor Jean Pierre attended the memorial mass dressed in a somber black suit. As it was the funeral of a national minister, the crowd of mourners was massive. The security provided by the military and police was equally stifling in its strictness.
“The noble blood he shed shall serve as the foundation for protecting our nation's freedom...”
Ideology and partisanship in Progen had somehow become akin to religion, reaching a point where opposing sides could no longer acknowledge one another. Now, even his death would be wielded as a weapon for the party.
“...Louis Marceau will now find eternal rest in the embrace of his motherland.”
After a brief moment of silent prayer, Jean Pierre quietly slipped out of the funeral hall.
Conspiracy theories regarding the mastermind behind the bombing were rampant. Although the investigation was ongoing, the authorities had all but concluded it was an inside job by someone within Progen.
Jean Pierre suspected as much. Wall posters condemning the minister's death had already been plastered across the city...
He returned to his office and picked up newspapers from various countries.
[Crown Prince Alonso Leads the Miracle of Zerpa!]
[Reconstruction of the Zeronica Mine: The Result of Crown Prince Alonso's Persistent Negotiations and Dedication to His People.]
The least likely scenario Jean Pierre had envisioned had come to pass. It was nothing short of a miracle. This year's incident would likely be recorded in Zerpa's textbooks as the 'Zeronica Agreement,' and students would spend years memorizing its dates and details.
“The public consensus that labeled him incompetent was the incompetent one.”
That was the title for his next lecture. Jean Pierre admitted he had been wrong.
Crown Prince Alonso—the feeble prince who used to evade reality, hiding in the shadow of his ailing king. Had he discovered a new side of himself when the nation was pushed to the edge of a cliff? Had he finally enlightened himself for the sake of the monarchy?
“...”
Slide.
Jean Pierre pulled a piece of paper from deep inside his drawer. It was the nameless answer sheet that Louis Marceau had angrily demanded he tear up while the man was still alive.
「A leader with a bloated ego and pride will ultimately break, but...」
He massaged his temples. A leader with a bloated ego and pride. He reread the sentence that seemed to perfectly evoke the late Louis Marceau. A strange intuition coiled in a corner of his mind.
“One person...”
There was no one who hadn't written their name on his pop quiz. All 400 enrolled students had submitted an answer sheet, which meant this single one was an extra. Was it an outsider? Or perhaps...
“One person.”
Why did they appear at that exact moment? Just one person.
Jean Pierre mulled over the events of that day before standing up from his chair.
...I sink into my deepest depths. A bottom so impossibly dark that nothing can be seen. I grope for myself within the void. I crave only a single existence.
My sword.
—The secret arts of Ebenholtz stem from the endless refinement of mana.
Priya's voice flows in quietly.
I need strength. I must not die. My death would mean the annihilation of humanity. Therefore, I must bear this responsibility. I must temper myself so that no bomb, no dagger aimed at my back, can ever claim my life.
—When you truly desire the sword, the sword too will answer your call.
I slowly open my eyes. There is nothing in my grasp. Empty air flows between my fingers.
—To tell the truth... come to think of it, because it's cumbersome and unbecoming of dignity...
A soft moonlight shimmers in my grip.
“—Nobles do not carry weapons around.”
The moment I murmur those words and spread my palm, a ripple like a heat haze resonates.
Whooosh!
In an instant, my longsword—which had not been there—carves through space and flies to me. Scattering silver mana, it lands perfectly in my grasp. For a moment, the air currents rise with an aloof elegance.
Swooosh.
I let the sword hang at my side.
“Good.”
Clap! From the edge of the training ground, Priya clapped her hands in satisfaction. “It seems you've finally formed a certain level of communion with your armament.”
The mana of the Ebenholtz values the 'accumulation' of time, built up over a vast period. It does not fight nature; rather, it is a natural and infinitely serene resonance of mana.
“When you spend a long time with a single weapon, the sword naturally comes to know your aura, and you, too, come to know the weight of the sword.”
Sitting quietly beside me, Leo had his ears perked up, earnestly auditing Priya's lesson. Leo didn't have a sword, but the silver mana armor Lorenzo made served as his armament instead.
“An Ebenholtz does not throw things away easily. We place great importance on the accumulation of time and the resonance of the soul dwelling within.”
Slurp. Leo licked his own armor. I quietly repeated her words.
“...The accumulation of time.”
“Yes,” Priya continued, swishing the branch in her hand. “Everything follows the natural order. An Ebenholtz does not force themselves against nature's flow. We merely instigate that flow.”
I had been gradually embodying the essence of the Ebenholtz arts she had imparted to me.
Chapter 1: Connection (聯). A trajectory where one links movements together like flowing water without forcing the cut.
Chapter 2: Mana Assimilation. Erasing the blind spots of sight and hearing to assimilate mana, expanding one's senses to the very tip of the sword.
Chapter 3: Communion. Completely synchronizing one's mana wavelength with their armament, allowing them to wield or retrieve the sword regardless of distance.
At the foundation of all these secret arts lies endless self-refinement. Steeped in elixirs since childhood, the body of an Ebenholtz is like a precision mana factory. It infinitely repeats the process of filtering, tempering, and purifying the mana within.
“Maximilian. You, too, must build your own natural order.” Priya pointed at me with the tip of her branch. “The time layering itself within your body. The experiences you will face on the battlefield. All of those things will refine your mana to be even sharper, eventually forging you into a true Ebenholtz.”
Without a word, I threw the longsword into the air.
The blade spun like a boomerang, carving a wide arc across the training ground. At the end of its trajectory, it twisted and returned right to my hand. Throughout the entire process, there wasn't even the sound of air being torn. If one were to listen with their eyes closed, it would merely sound like a gentle night breeze.
“I suppose there's no longer any need to carry it on my back.”
That was the part I was most satisfied with. Priya chuckled.
“Then give me that Lilac Vita thing so I can go eat.”
I handed the reservation ticket to Priya. It seemed I would have to set up a private room specifically for her.
“Keep at it.”
“...However. Master.”
I called out to her retreating back. Priya dug her pinky finger into her ear as if the title tickled.
“What?”
“Master, what are your thoughts on the segregation of races?”
The 'Imperial Citizenship Act for the Protection of the Aran Bloodline.' That evil law wasn't far off now, and my name would likely be recorded alongside history's worst war criminals when it was proposed.
Priya stared at me intently before chuckling. “Maximilian. I do not make value judgments about you. The one who will judge you is yourself; I neither deny nor affirm any version of you.”
I am merely staying by your side for a moment before I leave, so consider me just a passing breeze...
The woman who might very well be my aunt left me with those words.
...
Crunch— Crunch—
It was a winter where heavy snow accumulated as if to crush everything beneath it. I visited the Kaiser Institute once again. I had been personally offered an advisory role by Institute Director Wilhelm regarding the 'Imperial Citizenship Act,' a highly classified imperial matter.
“First, the Aran people are the topmost [Dominant Bloodline] that leads the continent,” Wilhelm began, seated at the head of the round table. The scholars and bureaucrats around him held their breath. “Beneath them are the [Related Bloodlines], which bundle the Progen Republic, the Zerpa Kingdom, and the Autonomous Region into one—”
“No.” I lightly waved my hand, cutting Wilhelm off. “A more detailed and strategic classification is necessary. Even if they are of the same Aran-related bloodlines.”
I looked steadily around the table.
“Because, depending on the situation, there are bound to be those who are of more assistance to the Empire.”
A bloodline capable of becoming 'friends' who would willingly shed blood for the Empire.
“'Friendship bloodline' is too sentimental. Johann?” I glanced at Johann.
“How about [Quasi-Bloodline]?” Johann proposed, pushing up his glasses. “It implies they can receive treatment equivalent to the Aran people, depending on their loyalty and contributions to the Empire. The clause 'depending on their contributions' is crucial. For instance, the citizens of the Autonomous Region and the royal family of Zerpa are currently firm allies; they should be included as a Quasi-Bloodline and enjoy benefits equivalent to Aranians.”
Wilhelm and the scholars nodded in agreement. The hierarchy was becoming more intricately divided.
“Hmm. It is an excellent concept that will lend flexibility to the Empire's rule. It is worth adopting. Next are the [Alien Bloodlines] that threaten the purity of the Empire.”
Director Wilhelm moved to the next agenda item. The 'vulgar breeds' who supposedly tainted Aran blood. Those with dark skin. Minorities such as the Merin and Kensi. The Sub-species. The uncivilized Sled who comprised the Eastern Union.
This time, I was the one to break the ice.
“However, the Yaken Race must be classified by a different standard.”
The Yaken, possessing the 'potential' to distinguish the Izenheim, were absolutely necessary for the coming war.
“Um, Sir Knight, but why the Yaken...?”
Several scholars harbored doubts, but I already had the supporting data.
“Because I am a Knight. I have experienced their utility firsthand. Do you know the arrest rate of criminals for the Yaken employed at my Knight Annex?”
At my signal, Johann distributed the statistics.
“Their acute senses are of immense help in routing out ideological criminals—which is to say, they are helpful to the Imperial Aran people. Therefore, they deserve special treatment even among the Sub-species.”
Because they were useful to Arans, I was leaving open the possibility of them being elevated to the Quasi-Bloodline.
“Hmm. Certainly...”
“Oho. To think such statistical data existed.”
The scholars nodded as they read. Real performance records were included, though the statistics had been manipulated for a year in advance to reflect favorably on the Yaken.
“By the way, regarding these Sub-species, there is something I've been curious about.” I tapped the table, drawing every gaze. “The Yaken are descendants of Beastmen. The Yedlem are a branch of Elves. The Dromon are descendants of Dwarves. Each Sub-species possesses clear roots. However...”
I paused, focusing on the final race.
“The Izenheim.”
An unidentified race that no one had suspected thus far, yet they had been incorporated into the continent's history hundreds of years ago.
“Despite being classified as a Sub-species, they have no connection to any ancient texts. They are a race that popped up out of nowhere, as if they sprang from the ground.”
The academic world explained them as the result of complex crossbreeding or as an ethnic group originating from a religion called 'Izent,' but I had one unresolved question.
Why did they go out of their way to expose themselves and band together? If they hadn't deliberately defined themselves as a single 'race' and just lived among the other Sub-species, it would have been far easier to hide.
“In modern times, the Izenheim are primarily engaged in trade and finance. While many are in specialized professions like medicine or law, the majority are parasites. They contribute nothing to labor or value creation, sucking the lifeblood of Aranians, stealing the commoners' money, and obsessing solely over speculation.”
My hypothesis was this: Even the Izenheims themselves cannot recognize their kin purely by outward appearance—not until they speak that bizarre, otherworldly 'language' of theirs. Thus, to distinguish friend from foe before speaking their 'true language,' they branded themselves with the label of Izenheim to forge solidarity.
“And yet, both inside and outside the Empire, they are a cancer-like race with an overwhelmingly high rate of ideological crimes.”
I nodded to Johann, who passed out more documents.
“Please refer to these statistics.”
Wilhelm and the members of the Institute read with grave expressions. The racial proportion of ideological criminals in prisons showed the Izenheim rate was astronomically high, whereas the Yaken were near zero percent.
“Looking at the statistics, this is certainly logical. Then, shall we place the Izenheim at the very bottom of the Sub-species?”
If possible, I wanted to set up a completely separate [Disposal] category, but I couldn't afford to cross that line just yet.
“Let's do that,” I said with a smile.
If I rushed, it would create uncontrollable backlash across the continent, and I still hadn't fully grasped Princess Justine's capricious thoughts.
“Yes. Now, let us categorize the next item: 'mixed blood'...”
Wilhelm continued the meeting, carefully gauging my reaction.
Progen National University, Faculty Office.
“...Felix Renoir?” Professor Jean Pierre frowned.
“Yes. I believe that was the name. I'm not sure if the surname was Renoir or Renual, but he said he took a three-year leave of absence from the Department of Military Science and had just returned. It was an uncommon story, so I remember it.”
It was the statement of the mercenary-turned-security guard who had been on duty at the main building on the day of the pop quiz.
“Felix Renoir...” Jean Pierre muttered.
Progen National University was a vital state institution. All guards were veterans, meaning they would wave through familiar faces and only verify the identities of those they were seeing for the first time. In other words, this guard remembered a face he had never seen before that day.
“Professor? Is there a problem with that student?”
“...Follow me.”
Jean Pierre made his way to the underground archive where student records were kept, bringing the guard along.
“A third-year in Military Science, three-year leave of absence.”
He rummaged through the dusty binders, scanning the register from three years ago. The guard helped him search. After all, Jean Pierre was a prestigious professor at a university where only the nation's top talents gathered.
“...Ah! Here, I think this is it.” The guard found the name. Jean Pierre hurried to his side. “Here. Felix Renoir.”
Hailing from Sendia, a rural town on the outskirts of Progen. Felix Renoir.
It was a real person. Not a fake identity fabricated for an operation, but a student who had actually enrolled in the past—only to die in an accident years ago.
“But why is this student...?” the guard asked, confused.
Jean Pierre’s expression hardened. “As a scholar, I do not believe in baseless intuition, but...”
There were far too many coincidences. A man who appeared right before the assassination of Minister Louis Marceau. The nameless answer sheet submitted at that exact time.
「A leader with a bloated ego and pride will ultimately break...」
The sentence about a leader's ego, which read like a metaphor for the Marceau incident.
「...The foundation of imperialism is the Philosopher-King Ideology. The belief that only the most superior and perfect philosopher-king can correctly rule the masses...」
And the language that seemed to revere the Empire.
“You—do you remember that student's face?”
“...Yes. He had a flat cap pulled down low, but I definitely remember his features.”
“We must draw a composite sketch immediately. Hurry, follow me!”
Jean Pierre led the guard away, his heart racing with the focus of a detective.