Escaping the Empire Is a Matter of Intelligence

The warm sunlight poured down in a dazzling cascade over the highest-grade private beach in the southern reaches of the Varsha Empire. Beneath the generous shade cast by dozens of palm trees, I lounged with a tropical fruit juice in hand, ice cubes freshly plucked from the premium magic refrigerator bobbing merrily within it.

I slid my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose and turned my head. There she was, elegantly reclined on the plush sunbed beside me—a beauty with flowing silver-blue hair, clad in a luxurious silk gown, her slender legs crossed as she perused the morning paper. My perfect business partner, the one who had been saddled with the absurd false charge of being “the villainess who persecuted the saintess out of jealousy” back in our former homeland: Clotilde Briand, former duchess.

Of course, here in the Varsha Empire she was now perfectly laundered as the millionaire “Chloe,” the woman who had joined me in purchasing a vast estate and trading company with our enormous capital.

“What sort of article has you this delighted so early in the morning? Shall I have some popcorn brought out?”

“Popcorn won’t do. This calls for the finest caviar. Come, listen.”

Clotilde tossed the newspaper onto my lap with a giggle she couldn’t suppress. The front page featured a massive, gruesome illustration of the Lumiere Imperial Palace half-destroyed by monsters. The very Ministry of Finance building where I had once battled mountains of ledgers through endless nights of overtime was now nothing but a roofless heap of ashes. The sight filled me with a strangely satisfying thrill.

I clicked my tongue with a leisurely smile.

“How could the barrier possibly have worked? I manipulated the books under the pretext of ‘disposing of defective stock due to mana degradation’ and siphoned off eighty percent of the high-purity fire-attribute magic stones that powered the entire thing.”

“True. We purchased this entire private beach we’re sitting on with the money we made selling those stones on the black market. Quite the valuable barrier indeed.”

Clotilde lifted her glass and gave mine a light clink. The clear ring of crystal blended beautifully with the gentle murmur of emerald waves, tickling my ears in the most pleasant way.

“So what exactly are those so-called ‘pillars of the empire’ doing? The crown prince, the magic tower master hailed as the strongest in the world, and the undefeated holy knight commander. Don’t tell me they’re still clutching the saintess’s skirts and whining?”

“Shockingly, that is the correct answer.”

Clotilde pointed to a corner of the society page and spoke with genuine disbelief.

“Even while the palace was collapsing, when the saintess complained that ‘dust made her cough,’ the crown prince emptied the last emergency gold bars from the treasury to buy a legendary-grade magic scroll for respiratory protection and rushed off to the black market. The holy knight commander refused all monster subjugation orders, leaving only the troops assigned to guard the saintess’s bedroom; the entire order is on the brink of dissolution. And the magic tower master collapsed from mana exhaustion after running a hot-water magic circle in her room all night long.”

“Good grief, that’s disgusting. It’s a sickness. A genuine sickness.”

I let out a dry ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠laugh and drained the rest of my juice in one gulp. Watching the world crumble from the safety of the finest resort was far more exhilarating than I had anticipated. My secret account at a Varsha Empire bank—held under an alias—contained a fortune I could never exhaust even if I lived in pure luxury for the rest of my days. And beside me sat the only sane partner in this deranged world, the single person whose brain still operated correctly.

How had a mere low-ranking civil servant like me managed to pull off such a colossal national “eat and run”?

To explain, we must turn the clock back exactly one year—to that horribly cold and gloomy winter day when I was still rotting away as Ilario Bern, fourth-class extra secretary in the Lumiere Empire’s Ministry of Finance, pushing a cheap fountain pen across endless documents.

“Ilario… Just now, devastating news arrived from the palace. His Highness the Crown Prince has frozen the entire southern drought relief fund.”

One year earlier, on that very day. The single sentence spoken by my direct superior, Vice Minister of Finance Count Hopkins, as he rubbed his tired face, became the spark that ignited everything.

At the time I was rubbing bloodshot eyes after an all-nighter and doubting my own ears.

“…Pardon? Frozen the relief funds? Your Grace, the southern region has suffered three straight years of severe famine. Tens of thousands of residents will starve to death next month if we do nothing. They’ve already eaten every scrap of dirt and stripped the trees of bark. Besides, the five hundred thousand gold allocated from the treasury has already received full approval from the imperial council!”

“I know. But what can we do? It is His Majesty’s command.”

Count Hopkins glanced nervously at other officials walking down the corridor, then leaned in close and whispered in a hushed, defeated voice.

“They say Saintess Fiora shed tears while strolling through the imperial palace garden yesterday. ‘Ah, if only I could see blue roses blooming in winter just once, the sorrow in my heart would ease…’ is what she supposedly said.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Therefore His Highness has decided to divert the entire five hundred thousand gold meant for southern relief into constructing a massive ‘Crystal Greenhouse Palace’ in the central garden of the imperial palace. The empire’s finest alchemists and mages have been mobilized to run top-grade magic heating devices at full capacity so blue roses can bloom even in midwinter. The order to begin construction tomorrow has already been issued to the Ministry of Finance with full budget execution authority.”

That was the moment I heard it clearly—the sharp snap of reason breaking inside my head.

A saintess who shed a few tears. A crown prince so deranged by a single droplet that he would hurl a budget tied to tens of thousands of lives into building a flower garden. Inside this incomprehensible madness, a sliver of déjà vu from my previous life floated to the surface.

Ah, that’s right. This was the world of a romance fantasy novel. And not just any—the kind that had abandoned all plausibility in favor of the cheap, stimulating picaresque trope where everyone went insane for the female lead.

Commoner-born idiot saintess Fiora. Three male leads completely obsessed with her, rewriting the empire’s laws and systems on a whim to suit their tastes.

Crown Prince Ludwig treated the nation’s hard-earned taxes like the saintess’s personal pocket money. Magic Tower Master Elias sacrificed strategic artifacts—core assets of national defense—to serve as a bedroom heater. Holy Knight Commander Cael, even while monsters tore his subordinates apart at the border, kept the entire order stationed in the capital on night watch because the saintess had pricked her finger on a rose thorn.

When matters reached this stage, a typical transmigrated protagonist would resolve, “I shall fix this rotten world!” or “I will reform the tyrant crown prince into a wise ruler!”

But I was a bitterly realistic commoner and a mere secretary. The calculator in my head produced an entirely different answer.

Those lunatics can level mountains with a sword swing and call down meteors with a wave of a staff. What can a secretary who doesn’t even know the first stance of swordsmanship possibly do against them? Reform can freeze in hell. If I get involved, I’ll be the only one marching to the guillotine on treason charges.

The conclusion was obvious. This country was finished. It would collapse thoroughly, perfectly, and without hope.

On a sinking luxury liner, common sense does not tell you to bail water with a bucket. It tells you to stuff the lifeboat with valuables and jump overboard before anyone else.

Before this nation completely bankrupted itself and was trampled by monsters or rioters, I would use “perfectly legal paperwork” to strip every valuable asset from the treasury, then flee to a safe neighboring empire under cover of night.

But a lone secretary could not possibly embezzle, liquidate, launder, and smuggle such an enormous sum across the border alone. I needed a powerful back channel and an influential collaborator who controlled both high-society intelligence networks and black-market smuggling routes.

And inside my head rose the face of the single person in the entire empire who met those conditions perfectly.

“Vice Minister. I will take personal charge of organizing the budget for the crystal palace construction. I shall draft a plan so spectacular and special that it will remain in the records—perfectly aligned with His Highness’s wishes, of course.”

I offered Count Hopkins the most loyal bureaucratic smile in the world.

That night, the moment I left the office, I slipped one thick imperial finance ledger into my coat and stepped out into the cold night streets. My destination was the old, desolate Briand Duchy on the outskirts of the capital—the place where Duchess Clotilde had been confined after her entire family was placed under house arrest. All for daring to say the perfectly reasonable thing to the crown prince: “Tens of thousands of people are starving, and you speak of luxury? Have you lost your mind?”

Security at the declining ducal estate was laughably lax. I scaled the garden wall under cover of darkness and carefully slipped through an open second-floor terrace window.

Swish.

In that instant, a cold dagger blade shot out from the shadows like lightning and pressed firmly against my throat.

“A clumsy thief. Kneel before I summon the guards. Or would you prefer to lose your life?”

Moonlight broke through the clouds, revealing the cool face of Duchess Clotilde, her long silver-blue hair cascading down. Contrary to high-society rumors that she would be emaciated and weeping daily after her broken engagement, the eyes glaring at me burned with the fierce vitality of a venomous beast.

I ignored the dagger at my neck, raised both hands lightly, and smiled.

“Since you haven’t called the guards, I assume you’re willing to hear me out. A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. I am Ilario Bern, fourth-class secretary of the Ministry of Finance. I’ve come tonight to propose a very profitable business.”

“Business?”

A cold snort escaped Clotilde’s lips.

“I thought the crown ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠prince’s hunting dog had come to watch me, but it seems I’m dealing with a mad peddler instead. What possible business could remain for a ducal house falling into ruin after earning the imperial family’s hatred?”

“Hunting dog is rather insulting. I’m simply an ordinary salaryman who would rather die than continue serving under that brainless fool whose head contains nothing but flower beds.”

My resolute and utterly sincere choice of the word “brainless” made Clotilde’s frown twitch faintly.

Without hesitation I pulled the heavy bundle of documents from my coat and set it on the table.

“This is my business.”

“What is this? A household ledger?”

“An empire bankruptcy prediction report. A top-secret document I compiled myself based on the Ministry of Finance ledgers. Your Grace, this country will be completely destroyed in at most two years. The insane crown prince, the deranged magic tower master, and the fanatic holy knight commander are taking turns ripping out the nation’s foundations and feeding them to the saintess as kindling.”

Clotilde kept the dagger raised but picked up the document with her free hand and scanned it rapidly. As expected of a wise woman who had received the empire’s finest elite education, the moment she saw the catastrophic deficit figures and absurd budget diversions, her pupils shook violently.

“…The imperial emergency reserves are already gone? They’re pouring every defense-grade magic stone from the tower into the saintess’s room? These lunatics… they’re truly shoving the entire country off a cliff…!”

Watching her hands tremble, I seized the moment and whispered like a devil offering the sweetest temptation.

“After being falsely accused and watching your family collapse, don’t you want revenge? Before those fools finish ruining the country with their love games… let us be the first to suck out the juiciest parts ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the national treasury and flee to the neighboring empire.”

“…What?”

“Revenge doesn’t have to be complicated. We cannot defeat those monsters by force. Instead, I will use my authority over the ministry’s working-level operations to manipulate the books and inflate budgets, pocketing the difference. Your Grace will use the last remnants of your high-society information network and the duchy’s secret smuggling routes to launder the funds cleanly.”

I took one step closer to the table and looked directly into her eyes.

“The most perfect and satisfying revenge we can show those madmen is to sit in the safest, warmest southern land in the world, sipping juice and laughing while they roll in the pit of their own destruction. Don’t you agree?”

Heavy silence filled the room. Clotilde stared at me blankly. Then a small chuckle escaped her red lips. She tossed the dagger onto the table, and her eyes gleamed with a perfectly rational yet intensely greedy light as she smiled.

“How interesting. You called it a profitable business, and you were not wrong. It is an exceedingly practical and attractive proposal.”

She extended her hand first. I grasped that cold yet soft hand firmly.

“Very well, Ilario Bern. I gladly form an alliance with you.”