Chapter 28
Chapter 28
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 28
Chapter Title: Something Special
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A man was walking down the corridor under the escort of a soldier.
A stylish top hat with a brim sat atop his head,
and he held a cane with a T-shaped mallet head in his hand.
His cleanly shaven face made it hard to guess his age,
and the softly upturned corners of his mouth added a boyish charm.
The faint dimples that appeared made his roguish side stand out even more.
As for his attire—
he wore a light formal suit like the simplified dress uniforms children often wore,
yet it was formal enough that it wouldn't be worn in everyday life.
The overall look felt mysteriously poised on the boundary between old man, young man, and boy.
"What a drab corridor."
"......Shut up and just walk. Con artist."
"Isn't that a bit harsh to a man with a cane? No need to rush—let's take it slow and easy."
"......"
Con artist Kraus.
Having transformed into an appearance befitting his new venture,
he had come to House Riddle's slave dormitory.
"What's your name?"
"......"
"We'll be seeing a lot of each other, so don't be so standoffish. Say something."
"......Crouch."
The soldier assigned to escort and guide him
was none other than Soldier Crouch.
Kraus.
Crouch.
Names so similar that anyone overhearing might mistake them for brothers.
"Oh! What a coincidence. This man's name is Kraus. Just one syllable off from yours."
"I know. Con artist."
"We'll be working together for your master from now on, so can't you be a bit friendlier?"
"I'm not a slave. That man is my employer, not my master."
"For someone who says that, you act awfully deferential, like a slave."
"......"
Soldier Crouch and con artist Kraus.
Two villains divided by a single syllable in pronunciation.
This was because the 'original author,' grown lazy from a long serialization and tired of naming more villains,
had recycled names.
But in the original story, the two men never crossed paths.
Having two similarly named people in the same scene would surely confuse readers, after all.
However, the possessor had boldly shoved the two into the same place.
It was a declaration of intent to break free from the original fate.
Of course, neither man had any way of knowing this.
"You seem to dislike con artists."
"Who wouldn't?"
"I figured as much, but it turns out some people do! Like your master who called me here, for example. What kind of man is he?"
"......"
"The head of a great merchant house... Rumors say he's a heartless, tearless money demon, but it seems rumors aren't to be trusted."
"......"
As they walked the corridor of the slave dormitory,
the con artist kept his mouth moving nonstop, chattering away about anything and everything.
The soldier silently guided the con artist along.
Their atmospheres didn't mesh at all.
But unlike the third-rate villain that was the soldier, the con artist was a first-rate villain.
An overwhelming gap in caliber existed between the two!
"So, you were in a similar position to this man once, huh?"
"......"
"Were you originally a slave? Your posture screams military drilling, but it's not Imperial Army standard. From an enemy nation? If you went from slave to freeman... you probably sided with the Empire quick as a flash. Got your status and wealth guaranteed, but no real respect. In times like these, every reform probably chipped away at that shaky status and wealth. In the end, it's a man's reputation that protects him, right?"
"......Don't speculate on your own."
"So, I got it wrong?"
"......"
"Nailed it, then. So, while you were drifting along in isolation, your current master 'picked you up,' huh."
Cold reading bordering on mind-reading.
In the end, the soldier let out a groan and responded to the conversation.
He simply couldn't ignore it anymore.
"That's a nasty hobby."
"I'm just trying to make conversation. It's my con artist nature—when my mouth's idle, I get depressed."
"Digging into someone's past without permission is 'conversation' to you?"
"Isn't it because you won't engage? For conversation, we need a shared topic, so I picked you. I'm the aggrieved party here."
"You must feel terribly aggrieved......"
The soldier let out a smirk and trailed off.
Truly a first-rate con artist—
in that single exchange,
he felt his guard slipping without realizing it.
"So, what kind of man is the master you've seen?"
"He... was born with exceptional talent. When it comes to discerning value, no one surpasses him."
"You trust your master's eye."
"Of course. He became head of a great merchant house on talent alone."
The soldier praised his master's discernment with an oddly fervent tone.
The con artist, who had been staring fixedly at the soldier,
probed his heart with a voice that gripped the soul.
"Or... are you desperately hoping your master truly has perfect discernment?"
"......What?"
"The world treats you like an untrustworthy traitor, and failing to adapt to the times has eaten away even at your wealth. You'd have despaired at your own lack of ability. Then, thanks to that man's eye alone, you could believe you still had 'value'."
"......"
"But if his eye isn't perfect, the 'value' he saw in you might be a mistake too. Unsettling, isn't it?"
"......So what if it is?"
"No. Just... you remind me of this man."
"What?"
The con artist's mouth corner remained softly upturned.
"Like you said, this man's just a con artist. No talent for creating anything, survives only by fleecing others. A proper merchant with a good eye wouldn't touch a con artist. What rich man likes con artists? The richer you are, the more you guard against them—that's the way of the world."
"......"
"Yet your master saw something else in this man."
"......Something else?"
"That's what I'm here to find out. And it looks like we've reached the last room. Am I being guided right?"
"Ah."
Only then did the soldier realize they'd reached the end of the corridor,
nodding awkwardly as he pointed to a door.
"This is the room. Where they keep the worthless defectives."
"Where he stores the 'special goods' he discerned value in. Like you or this man."
Defectives.
The slaves bought by Count Riddle, who acknowledged their value.
Did those things have value too?
Perhaps he bought them out of mere pity.
If so—
could he be sure of his own value?
The soldier was afraid.
Afraid to open that room's door.
"......"
"You gonna open the door or not?"
The soldier slowly opened the dormitory door.
It was the place where defectives were gathered.
With so many slaves unable even to control their own bodies properly,
hygiene issues were inevitable.
So he expected a stench the moment the door opened...
But surprisingly, the interior was cleaner than expected.
There was a smell, but only the kind you'd find in any slave dormitory.
"......Mophin?"
"Oh. Soldier Crouch?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Ah. I was cleaning. Every little thing adds up in talants, you know. Haha."
"......"
"......Um. Sorry for laughing."
"......No. You'll be working here, so get out."
"Yes, sir!"
The soldier's tension melted away.
Monster.
The word the Frederick brothers heard from the moment they were born.
Of course, they didn't remember the words spoken at birth,
but the two had no need to make a point of remembering it.
No effort required—the word followed the brothers everywhere they went, every single day.
"Hungry." "Thirsty."
"Dark." "Cold."
The two brothers were born physically attached to each other.
Each had one arm, each had two legs, each could feel sensations, eat and drink—
and yet, the two were one.
Their personalities were worlds apart, favorite foods different, tastes and talents all distinct,
but they were called by a single name.
Frederick.
So the two decided to share that name.
"Fred."
"What, Rick."
"I'm cold. Come a little closer."
"We can't get any closer......"
At the words of the boy called Rick,
the boy called Fred burst into incredulous laughter.
Because of the body they'd been born with,
they'd been abandoned by their parents, wandered the streets, and ended up slaves.
But thanks to that body,
they hadn't been separated from their brother and could rely on each other.
So they could still laugh.
Even if it was only mocking or cynical laughter,
plenty of slaves couldn't even manage that much.
The two felt fortunate to have each other.
"Fred... what'll happen to us?"
"We'll probably die."
"Why?"
"Look at the other slaves. All defectives born under curses like us."
"......"
"Collecting slaves like this... probably to offer as sacrifices in some horrific ritual."
"......I don't want to die."
"It's okay, Rick. We're one. Our souls are probably fused too... So we'll be together in heaven."
"I don't want to die."
"Stop. Don't whine."
"Scary. Cold."
"If they catch you whining, you might get the whip."
"I wish I'd been born alone like everyone else......"
"......"
"S-sorry. I didn't mean it like that......"
"Sorry, Rick."
"......"
"......"
As the two huddled in the corner of the slave dormitory, sobbing,
suddenly, a slave entered their dormitory and began cleaning the room.
Were they finally being offered as sacrifices?
Maybe to be devoured by a demon.
As the two sank into such worries,
a man clutching a cane arrived, escorted by a soldier.
He looked important.
He looked cool.
That's what each brother thought.
And then.
The man, surveying the defectives left in a mess in the dormitory,
opened his mouth with a smile.
"You two are the most special slaves in this dormitory."
Special.
It was the first word he'd uttered, one the brothers had never heard before.