The Beginning of the Subjugation
I executed the kidnappers. I collected their blood for the transaction with Bathory. I met my contact and reviewed the plan. There was no need to leave evidence behind, so I read every page of the subjugation blueprints and burned them. I had carried out every step of the grand design with meticulous care, yet not all items on the schedule were complete.
“Daddy!”
“Oh, my beloved daughter!”
The moment the distinguished gentleman stepped out of the car, he ran toward the police station. The little girl who had been under protection burst out with a face on the verge of tears and threw herself into his arms. They clung to each other desperately, as though they would never be parted again. It was the reunion of a father and daughter who had been torn apart by force.
For a long while, rebukes and apologies for their separation, relief and gratitude at finally being together, tears and sobs poured endlessly from their eyes and lips. But they could not remain like that all night, so the pair eventually climbed into the vehicle still sniffling and finally headed for their home.
Watching the scene from the shadows at a distance, I turned away. The final item I had deliberately left open—just in case—had concluded without incident. A happy ending for the father and daughter. The sight of two people among the city’s countless residents regaining their joy. No one would ever recognize my part in it, but I was satisfied simply that their family had been restored. I felt a small yet certain sense of reward.
Using that rare happiness as fuel, I returned to daily life. For a time I suspended my nighttime vigilante activities and repeated my routine as a diligent businessman. I knew the Metropolitan Police Department was tracing my movements at the harbor, but I took no special action. All preparations had been completed long ago; there was no need to draw attention now. I moved through my usual packed schedule, waiting only for the moment of harvest.
Time flowed by meaninglessly, and Friday arrived.
“For the prosperity and peace of humanity!”
I attended the event known as Night of the Entrepreneurs. A social venue where only the foremost companies in each sector could participate. Nominally it was a gathering for fellowship, but in truth it was closer to a battlefield. Unlike banquets where expensive clothing could conceal one’s true face, this was a place where hard numbers represented human worth.
Representatives took the stage to announce their annual operating profits and targets—a simple enough event on paper. Yet because only the most arrogant gathered here, every variety of nonsense and bravado ran wild. Fools engaged in pointless mind games. Their business cards might be impressive, but real networking was unlikely and practical gains nonexistent, so I would normally have declined even the Finance Ministry’s invitation. This time, however, I attended in person to review the plan one final time.
I looked toward the stage. A scientist in a spotless white lab coat was loudly proclaiming his vision.
“Ladies and gentlemen! The age has changed! Farewell to the world that merely waited obediently for its end! Through countless trials and errors we have discovered new possibilities, and their fruits will lead humanity into a new realm! A new era has come!”
The speaker was none other than Slain Pavlov, head of Slain Biotech. A young entrepreneur occasionally compared to me—the leader of the steel and weapons industry—and a scientist showing terrifying results in biotechnology. The type commonly called a genius. Everyone present possessed some exceptional quality that had lifted them to high positions, but even among them he stood out as particularly brilliant. After all, he announced new technologies every few years that other scientists would spend lifetimes researching.
“I will open a new world! By elevating humanity’s innate capabilities, we shall build a healthy society where no one is culled! A fair society where no one need be sacrificed!”
And he was exceptionally skilled at spouting nonsense. Quite the talent for bullshit.
Shaking my head at the pretty packaging of his drivel, I rose from my seat. It was my turn next.
I left the audience and ascended to the area behind the stage. It was a moment I had long anticipated.
As I reached the wings, I saw Slain descending the stage, having just finished his presentation. He spotted me at the same moment, paused, then immediately put on the delighted expression of someone greeting an old friend and waved his slender arm.
It was the typical build of those who claimed they would surpass human limits yet spent their lives locked in laboratories. Still, his steps were light.
Slain Pavlov quickly descended the stairs, twisted his weasel-like face into a smirk, and spoke.
“My word, Cloud. Our turns overlapped, so I’m only greeting you now. It really has been a long time, hasn’t it? You rarely appear at these things.”
I hated events like this where people simply boasted inflated figures before leaving, and Slain avoided noisy banquets far removed from securing research funds. In any case, he was a scholar whose public activities centered on obtaining investment. Our spheres of activity rarely overlapped, so encounters were infrequent.
“After your father and mother passed away, I thought you’d stay buried in the company forever and we’d never meet again! Yet when I think about it, we actually see each other quite often, don’t we?”
And our relationship was particularly poor. There existed a horrific distance between us when it came to asking after parents who had long since departed. To be exact, I had originally felt nothing in particular, but he had unilaterally barked at me. Of course that was how it began; now I too was filled with hatred.
“Slain.”
With an expressionless face I stared at the smirking visage before me. I wanted to beat to death the bastard who dared mention my beloved family. The urge to clench my fist and drive it into that face burned like fire. A violent impulse to kill him on the spot rampaged inside my chest.
Yet I endured.
There had been a time when I agonized over the meaning of justice. If I beat someone simply because my mood was foul, what sort of justice was that? Did I truly possess the right to punish evil? Was I nothing more than a murderer who killed according to whim? I had internalized the truth that punishment must not follow momentary emotion.
I had therefore established strict criteria for evil so that I would not lose my reason. And by those standards, Slain Pavlov did not qualify as evil.
So I endured. One should not beat a man to death merely for running his mouth.
Slain Pavlov’s personality was garbage, but he was a good man who devoted himself to humanity.
For that reason I had swallowed his provocations until now. If I did not want to render everything I had lived for meaningless, I could not judge others arbitrarily.
Yes. That was how it had been—until today.
Now his sins were no longer light enough to be ignored in this place.
Facing the repulsive creature before me, I squeezed out the last of my patience. Anger made my fist tighten. My short nails dug into my palm, drawing blood.
“I suspected it might be the case, but to think you are worse than a bug—nothing but waste.”
“…What did you say?”
Had the demon not been at my side, I would have learned the truth far later. It was fortunate I discovered it quickly. An unexpected justification to punish him had appeared, yet I felt no joy whatsoever. The moment I learned of his atrocities, I had placed him at the top of my elimination list. Slain Pavlov was filth beyond imagination, and countless victims already existed.
“I’m talking about you, you piece of shit.”
He was a villain who had to be punished without fail.
“…Haah, what is this?”
Slain Pavlov frowned and tilted his head. Even his brilliant mind could not unravel the question.
Demian Cloud—the only man in the current era capable of rivaling him. Though he usually displayed no emotional disturbance, the moment his parents were mentioned he would instantly grow furious. He never resorted to vulgar swearing, yet the reaction was plainly visible. Trauma. The switch that could turn a businessman who maintained perfect composure into a raging fit in an instant. For Demian Cloud, it had to be the family that was already gone.
And sometimes he wondered whether Demian would become angry enough to strike him. Poking that reverse scale with a pounding heart every time they met was one of Slain’s hobbies.
‘Yet today there was almost no reaction.’
In the end he had even spat out curses, but the atmosphere was fundamentally different from usual. Normally the sight of him trembling like a wounded child had been adorable; today it was the gaze one might direct at horrible filth. Enough to wound even me.
“Children, could it be that I’ve been unfaithful and that’s why?”
So had the lovely Demian grown jealous?
Slain chuckled, rested his chin on his hand, and appraised the lovers displayed before him. Hmm, I suppose I am rather promiscuous. After all, I live surrounded by this many beautiful and adorable children.
“Ah, it would be wonderful if Demian lived with us too!”
Whining, Slain Pavlov rose from his seat and went in search of an alternative. He strolled among the countless hanging glass tubes. Then he suddenly stopped before a nameplate marked No. 15382 and looked up.
A body exceeding 180 kilograms of obesity, fused with the face of a young boy, floated gently in the solution. Slain’s face brightened. He stroked the glass tube and murmured.
“Shall I enjoy this one today?”
Kwaang!
The iron grate that had been forcibly ripped away rolled across the floor with a thunderous clang. Ellyse Bertman, the one responsible, glanced back to check the reactions of those behind her, then turned her gaze once more to the sewer entrance before her. She declared,
“A1, commencing entry.”
Its meaning was as follows.