Chapter 190: The Meaning of a Disposition (5)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 190: The Meaning of a Disposition (5)
A field reeking of gunpowder and blood.
Military police were already collecting the bodies piled in the pits. The ranks pinned to their bullet-mangled uniforms varied wildly: lieutenant colonel, major, captain, lieutenant, staff sergeant, sergeant, master sergeant. The corpses would undergo heart autopsies before being incinerated, but notably, the lowest ranks—the common soldiers—were a rare sight among the dead.
Maximilian’s executions followed a strict standard.
"……"
The surviving soldiers watched Maximilian. He stood amidst the blood-soaked earth without the slightest flicker of agitation. Even at the scene of a massacre numbering in the hundreds, he projected only a dry detachment, as if this were just another ordinary day.
"Lieutenant Colonel Goetz," Maximilian called out suddenly.
"Yes, Sir Knight."
"Is Edmond doing well these days?"
At the abrupt mention of that name, Goetz quietly bowed his head. Edmond Brwindol was the youngest colonel in the Imperial Regular Army.
"...Yes. He is currently in the North."
"I see."
Goetz studied Maximilian’s expression before asking for his next instruction.
"How... should we report this to our superiors?"
A summary execution of hundreds was no small matter. A knight might be a guardian of the Empire with extralegal authority, but an incident of this scale was on an entirely different level. It was an affair capable of turning the entire military upside down.
"Disclose the facts exactly as they are. That we discovered the embezzlement of military supplies and illicit trade with an enemy nation, and that I made an example of the traitors by executing them..."
The evidence was more than sufficient.
Lieutenant Adel, with his characteristic diligence, had saved nearly all the wiretap records. The fragmented frequencies he had unwittingly collected would now be deciphered by Maximilian’s aides.
"As for you," Maximilian said, slowly turning his head. His gaze fell upon the survivors. "You will be duly rewarded."
A reward from him. A flicker of emotion crossed every face.
"But be warned. This is not a one-time event." His golden eyes swept over them. "I now know your faces and your names." A faint curve traced his lips. "I expect you to strive constantly, to prove that you are worth remembering."
The survivors stared at him blankly for a moment before belatedly saluting.
...Loyalty.
They had earned Maximilian’s notice. Yet the awe they felt was matched by an equal measure of fear.
Today, Maximilian had executed hundreds of Imperial soldiers, but there was no malice in his actions. There was a clear, undeniable reason for the killings. He had simply, dispassionately, done what needed to be done.
And for that very reason, he was all the more terrifying.
An unknowable man.
*
The Weiss family was a famously wealthy house, even by the Empire's standards. The network of connections they had cultivated within the military over the years ran deep. Lieutenant Colonel Eaton had used his personal assets to seize control of the Eastern Borderlands.
It had been a clever choice, in its own way.
The West was dominated by old, established noble families, and the Central District was suffocated by heavy scrutiny and political checks and balances. So, he had sought to enact his will in the East.
The same was true for the late Brigadier General Juken, who had latched onto Eaton for a piece of the pie.
Juken’s direct senior from the military academy was Division Commander Caleb, the linchpin of the Eastern Front. Caleb, in turn, was a particularly favored junior of the Eastern Corps Commander.
In other words, they were a clique that had shaped the Eastern Army for over a decade, bound by ties as thick as blood.
"...Corps Commander, sir."
That once-unbreakable chain of connections had been severed in an instant.
—There are only two options, Caleb.
A single footstep from Maximilian Ebenholtz.
Or perhaps, a light clearing of his throat.
By that alone, the East had been torn out by its roots.
—Either you take off that uniform...
Division Commander Caleb swallowed dryly at the voice coming from the other end of the receiver.
—...or you offer up your neck.
They had sold supplies to the Eastern Union, an enemy nation. No matter how customary the corrupt practice had become, the moment Ebenholtz decided to make an issue of it, it became the ultimate justification for a purge. The excuse that 'it was the independent action of my subordinates' was entirely useless.
—The Weiss family is a shipwreck now. I hear they've all been summoned by the Sentinel, direct line and branch families alike.
The Sentinel. To everyone in the Empire, they were an object of absolute terror.
With a single 'Sentinel summons,' even the great House of Weiss had been dismantled in half a day.
—Give up everything you have and lie low. If you want to keep your life, that is.
"...Understood." Caleb’s voice trembled.
—Mark my words, Caleb.
In truth, the Corps Commander was in the exact same position.
Even after attaining an enviable rank and status, there was still one man he was forced to fear. A nobleman who touched the very ceiling of Imperial society.
—He's not someone we can oppose.
"...Yes, sir."
Click.
The line went dead. Major General Caleb’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor. Clutching his face in his hands, he silently swallowed the name of the disaster that had befallen them.
*
Progen Republic, a national university research lab.
Professor Jean-Pierre let out a hollow laugh at the intelligence report forwarded to him by Akenji, the Director of Intelligence.
"Ha."
A bloodbath had swept through the Empire's Eastern Borderlands.
Hundreds of soldiers implicated in military corruption and treasonous activities had been executed on a massive scale.
"Hundreds executed, you say?"
The rough estimate gathered by the Progen intelligence agency was close to three hundred.
"That’s right. Dozens of heads rolled, from a brigadier general down to field-grade officers. Summary execution on the spot, without a trial."
Jean-Pierre’s surprise stemmed from who had been executed.
He knew history. He knew the inner workings of the Imperial military.
Usually, in cases like this, the lowest ranks took the brunt of the blame. To keep up appearances, a purge might reach as high as the company-grade officers, but most of the time, the incident would be downplayed and covered up long before that.
For the Imperial military, especially the border forces, that was business as usual.
In a closed society like the military, the top brass always banded together to protect their vested interests and their own necks. Because of that, it was exceedingly rare for a general’s head to roll.
"If military tribunals follow, even more stars might fall. They say the generals connected to the case are going to be summoned one after another."
"……"
Jean-Pierre’s fingertips trembled. He slowly closed his eyes.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, the hazy silhouette of a man appeared.
Neatly combed-back blond hair. Features as handsome as a sculpture.
"...Akenji. Who do you suppose was behind this purge?"
At Jean-Pierre’s question, Akenji replied with a bitter smile.
"Why ask when you already know?"
Suddenly, Jean-Pierre recalled that chilling gaze.
"Someone who can purge so many military figures and remain unscathed."
At the art museum, those two eyes that had smiled while offering a handshake. Before he knew it, the young man’s face had formed with perfect clarity in his mind’s eye.
"No. Someone for whom such a purge feels entirely natural."
It was the monster of Ebenholtz, the one they all knew so well.
"It has to be Maximilian."
Jean-Pierre quietly opened his eyes. He looked out the window. Plink. Plink, plonk. Raindrops formed on the glass and trickled down. The rainy season had arrived, and the sky was stained the color of ink.
"It’s going to rain. For quite a while."
Jean-Pierre let out another bitter smile as he prepared for tomorrow’s lecture.
*
Arte Museum.
Princess Justine stood in the middle of an empty gallery early in the day. She had heard that a large number of new masterpieces had been brought into the museum.
"Hoh..."
Upon the blank white walls, masterpieces steeped in time and history were hung in succession.
March of the Dawn, painted by the great master of the Empire’s founding era, Raffaello von Strauss.
The grim determination of the knights raising their blood-soaked banner was so vivid it seemed ready to burst from the canvas.
Beside it was A Stroll by the Blue Riverbank by Édouard Manet, the progenitor of Progen Impressionism. The soft colors were beautiful.
Next was Portrait of the Fallen, left behind by the southern genius, Titian. His unique, bizarre contrast of light and shadow had gone unappreciated in the past, but he was now recognized as one of the most expensive painters in the world.
Besides these, five or six other classical masterpieces, each fetching millions at continental auctions, were bathed in light at perfect intervals, as if they had finally found their rightful place.
"...You’ve arrived."
Verdi, the museum director, cautiously approached her as she admired the paintings.
"Some truly fine pieces have come in."
"Yes. The number of tourists has increased as well."
Replying politely, Director Verdi studied the princess’s profile, half-visible beneath her robe’s hood.
"You seem to be in a particularly good mood today."
At his words, Justine’s eyebrow twitched slightly.
"...Am I?"
"Yes. You seem much more lighthearted than usual."
The princess turned her head to look at a decorative mirror at the end of the hall.
Her own face reflected back at her.
A smile graced her lips—faint as a watercolor, but undeniably there.
"...I see. I'm not very aware of my own expressions."
The reason, perhaps, was...
"It might be because of the news from the East."
The bloodbath that had swept the Eastern Front.
The corrupt leadership of a brigade and hundreds of crooked soldiers had been summarily executed on the spot by a single knight. The news had already spread beyond the military, reaching the highest social circles of the Imperial capital.
It was a ruthless and precise purge that even her father, Zebestian, would secretly be proud of.
"The East... you say."
Director Verdi’s expression soured slightly. It was probably because he was an intellectual.
Those types—scholars, academics—disliked cruelty. Did knowledge and intelligence merely breed useless empathy and sympathy?
However, he was only a museum director.
For a man in his position, such a delicate disposition was tolerable.
"Yes. The East."
Maximilian had mercilessly slaughtered the vermin that deserved to die. He had butchered the exact type of trash Justine despised most, without a single thought for his own reputation.
"For the first time in a long while, I've heard some very welcome news..."
The princess was genuinely pleased by his decisiveness and resolve.
A strange sense of anticipation filled her eyes as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror.
*
I returned from the East. However, I made my way not to the Knights Order headquarters, but to the Underground City.
Out Studio.
It was the workshop of Filty, a survivor of the Outcast, set up on the outskirts of the Underground City. Inside, Filty was sitting in a chair at her desk.
"The comic is selling quite well."
I picked up one of the graphic novels stacked on the table.
As I had expected, the comic Outcast had been wildly popular from its first printing.
A second printing, a third, a fourth... It would soon move beyond the back alleys of the Underground City and capture the readership of the Imperial capital.
"It was entertaining."
The first volume covered the tragic pasts of the Outcast members and their escape from the T24 Laboratory.
The second volume, which I now held in my hand, was as yet unreleased.
[Meden: Ugh, I'm sleepy. Can't we stop working for a bit?]
[Elze: Stop what? Don't you know time is life for a mercenary? The moment you rest, you're finished!]
It was a series of omnibus-style episodes about them settling in the Underground City and building their reputation as mercenaries.
[And so, one day, as the "Outcast" was making its nest in those depths...]
Near the final pages of this second volume—I appeared.
[In the deepest, most splendid place in the Empire.]
[On a square where a platform rose high and many people had gathered.]
[Amid the applause and cheers of the masses...]
[Hurrah! Hurrah! Clap, clap, clap, clap!]
The spectacular induction ceremony of the Sentinel Knights. Filty had depicted the scene with chilling accuracy.
['Max Eben']
[He joined the Sentinel.]
She had cleverly altered the actual name, but it was clearly me for anyone to see.
"...The presentation isn’t bad, either."
Filty watched me quietly as I flipped through the pages of the comic.
"If you have something to say, say it."
Given permission, she finally opened her mouth.
"Just one question. Why did you let me live?"
Thump.
I closed the book, raised my head, and met her eyes.
"...On the contrary, I’d like to ask you something."
The future installments of Outcast would be drastically shorter than in the original story.
The ending, too, would conclude not with hope, but with the miserable deaths of the protagonists.
Therefore, to be perfectly honest...
"Why are you still alive? Is it just to finish this comic?"
I had expected Filty to commit suicide.
Hector Mason was dead, T24 was shut down, and to Filty, the Outcast had been more precious than her own life.
"...I became curious."
Filty clenched her fists.
Staring straight at me, she spat out the words.
"I’ve become curious about your end."
...My end.
My end.
"I want to watch with my own two eyes what kind of end you’ll meet. Picaresque stories don't usually have happy endings, you know."
Filty was waiting for the demise of the man who had annihilated the Outcast.
I gave a small smile.
"What a coincidence. I'm also curious to see how I’ll end."
I casually pulled up a chair and sat down across from her.
Filty pressed on, "Now answer my question. Why did you let me live?"
"……"
I clasped my hands and sank into thought.
Jacob. The first Izenheim I had killed.
The entire Izenheim race seemed to operate with the shared, singular purpose of destroying humanity. But even within that hive mind, there were bound to be individuals who deviated from the average—mutations that were significantly inferior.
"Filty. The 'possibility' that you might be able to see the same things I do."
Jacob was one such case, and he had been a massive stroke of luck for me.
If, out of a thousand—no, ten thousand—of them, just one more...
If just one more like Jacob appeared before my eyes.
"It's because I want to believe in that possibility."
"...The same things as you?"
She furrowed her brow, not understanding.
I leaned back deep into my chair and murmured softly.
"Yes. You can just think of it as a comic-book fantasy."
Filty’s gaze was fixed on my lips.
"Izenheim."
Her shoulders flinched at the word.
"They aren't actually a sub-species. They aren't human at all."
Her expression froze. It was the look one gives a madman spouting nonsense.
"Their ultimate goal is—"
But, if she truly possessed clairvoyance...
If her supernatural ability could genuinely peer into all the hidden cracks of the world...
"The destruction of humanity."
Then someday, she might be able to catch the tail of this truth that only I knew.
"Therefore, my cause is to slaughter every last one of them and save humanity. And that is why..."
I looked her straight in the eye and uttered the real reason I had let her live.
"I want you to watch me."