We've Decided to Call This a Catastrophe
We've decided to call this a catastrophe.
Indeed. This was no politely extended request.
Nor was it some subtle appeal for cooperation.
"This is a notice, Lord."
Any ordinary imperial official, or anyone carrying the Emperor's orders, would have fretted over whether their actions might sour relations between the Empire and the southern independent territories.
They would never have contemplated, let alone committed, something this insane.
"…Does the Empire truly mean to swallow even us?"
"No? The Empire has nothing to do with this. I already told you, didn't I? I came on personal business."
But he was different. John Nassen was different.
He had no reason to care about the Empire's opinion. If something pleased him, he simply trained in peace. And if it did not, he simply picked up a bar and stepped forward.
"Hand over our juicers."
People cursing him, looking down on him? Fine. He could let that slide.
He could generously write it off as the pitiful self-consolation of those who possessed neither strength nor effort, and endure it with a charitable heart.
But he would never tolerate anything that spat on that effort itself.
How dare anyone, from any place of safety, render sacred training meaningless?
"Do you realize how extremely rude the words you just spoke are?"
Kyle considered the lord's remark for a moment, then answered with complete confidence, "Yes."
The lord's face twisted in utter disbelief, yet Kyle remained unflappable.
Of course he did. He was being rude only with his words, never with his actions.
"The one bright side, Lord, is that I'm the one standing here."
Just imagining his older brother or sister in this position sent a chill down his spine.
Unlike him, who trained out of a sense of duty, those two truly loved training. If the bastards who wanted to snatch away the fruits of their sweat with a single bottle of drugs had been nearby—if the one sheltering and shielding those hateful creatures had been standing right in front of them—
They'd turn him into pulp on the spot. Or maybe into a piece of gum stuck to the floor.
Kyle quietly waited for the lord of Pardal Island to answer.
If he cooperated willingly, fine. If he refused, that was fine too.
If things went smoothly, great. If they didn't and a fight broke out, that was also great.
"…"
Meanwhile, the lord of Pardal Island was racking his brains at a frantic pace.
I heard this young man named Kyle defeated Mathieu Philibert, one of the Coalition's Three Heroes.
That meant he was on a level comparable to the Imperial Ten Strongest the Empire so loved to boast about.
By contrast, the lord himself was merely someone who handled mana a little better than average.
There was only one option left: stall until the Wave Catcher arrived.
It can't be true. I even heard rumors that Mathieu Philibert had already sold out to the Empire and threw the fight on purpose. Right. It doesn't make sense. How could a youth like this defeat one of the Three Heroes?
The lord recalled the words of the hardliners who had fled this far. He decided the claim was plausible enough and waited for the trump card he held in reserve.
It was truly unfortunate. The hardliners had only spouted that nonsense because they hated Mathieu. They had simply wanted to say something spiteful—claiming collusion, claiming he lost on purpose. And the lord of Pardal Island had taken it all as fact and folded it into his judgment.
The human instinct to keep the hopium circuit running, combined with distorted information, had produced the absolute worst possible choice.
…Somehow I get the feeling he just made a really bad decision.
The frantic thoughts, the uneasy eyes, and Kyle watching it all.
He could see everything—what decision this man was making, what scheme he was hatching.
It was the kind of situation where if Kyle snapped his wrist for dealing from the bottom of the deck, the man would have no right to complain.
Yet Kyle simply waited. He waited for that scheme to finish cooking.
From far away he could already sense it faintly: something approaching that would entertain him.
It felt exactly like a swelling wave about to crash over him. No wonder the man was called the Wave Catcher.
Same tier as Mathieu. About the same as that Logan guy from last time—one of the Ten Strongest.
Honestly, truly honestly, this was exactly what he had been hoping for.
He had been half-afraid the lord would just say, "Understood! I'll hand them over at once!" and cooperate.
Catching the juicers would still have been a win, but it would have felt like a half-finished set—leaving him smacking his lips in disappointment and watching irritation bubble up.
Here he comes, here he comes. Oh my. He's practically flying in.
True to the John Nassen name, Kyle looked at the lord with a thoroughly satisfied smile.
"Lord. For reference, this is the mercy of His Majesty the Emperor."
"…What did you say?"
"I won't kill him. But things will be breaking left and right. He won't be doing any more wave impressions."
Arcane, the Wave Catcher, had been making a quick circuit of the surrounding waters when he sprinted back toward the lord's castle as fast as he could.
He had received word that a suspicious figure from the Empire had arrived, and something about it felt ominous.
Lately the Empire's moves have been taking on that old domineering flavor again.
Pardal Island was the central pillar among the independent lords who did not look kindly on the Empire.
Until now the Empire had shown little interest in seizing the entire south, so they had maintained quiet trade and relatively peaceful days.
But it was entirely possible the Empire had suddenly changed its mind and decided to claim everything that remained.
They had already received reports from the castaways—more precisely, the Coalition escapees.
The Empire had finally drawn its sword against the Coalition, and traitors had caused it to collapse from within. They had resisted with all their strength, but the decisive defeat had already been sealed and there was nothing more they could do!
The Empire that had finished cleaning up the west. Next would be the east… or the south.
And in that situation, someone claiming to be from the Empire had gone straight to the lord's castle?
No matter how strange the man supposedly was, no matter that he claimed to be conducting an investigation, no matter that the lord himself had given the order—!
How could they simply escort an unknown individual all the way into the lord's residence?
You idiots! What if he's an assassin?!
Arcane had spent quite a few years as a pirate.
Which meant he knew dirty tricks better than anyone.
In times like these you had to be careful of everything, and the sheer denseness of it all was driving him insane!
"Lord Arcane? Wh-when did you return?"
"Where is the Lord?!"
"He's with that young man we brought earlier."
"Alone with him?"
"I-I'm not sure. But they put him in shackles and there are knights right beside him…"
Arcane clicked his tongue and hurried his steps.
He could feel it. Faint, yet unmistakably the aura of a powerhouse.
He had half-expected a stealthy assassination, but were they planning to eliminate the lord out in the open?
He shoved past every knight and soldier standing in his way and flung the door open.
"My Lord!"
Arcane roared at the scene that greeted him.
Even at a glance the young man was no ordinary person. This was someone who could tear the lord apart with a smile.
He thrust himself between them and faced the man who had been threatening the lord's life.
"So that was your plan all along. You filthy imperial dogs."
"Huh? No, look, right now…"
"You incited betrayal in the Coalition, stirred up internal strife until it collapsed on its own—and now you intend to assassinate key figures in the south and devour us in the chaos?!"
At Arcane's thunderous accusation, Kyle blinked a few times, then broke into a smile.
"What the fuck is this asshole even saying."
The words that left his mouth could not have clashed harder with the smile on his face.
What? Assassination? I walked in broad daylight, completely out in the open, and he's calling it an assassination? Has this bastard lost his mind?
What kind of insane assassin would try to assassinate someone like this?
Anyone with half a brain wouldn't spit that kind of garbage. No—anyone with a brain simply wouldn't.
Until a moment ago he had been filled with pure anticipation; now irritation surged through him all at once.
It felt like he had come with good intentions only to get a whole bucket of insults dumped over his head.
Kyle quietly turned his body. Then he started walking.
"You bastard! Where do you think you're—"
"Shut your mouth."
Normally he treated elders with proper manners.
He was from a country that prized eastern courtesy, after all; the least he could do was use honorifics.
But if someone insulted a John Nassen like this, it stopped being respect for elders and became assault on elders.
How could anyone dare to throw around a word as vile and despicable as "assassination"?
A real fight was something you settled head-on, fair and square, with a clean crash of force!
"Come on. Let's trade some hits."
Fighting Mathieu had been genuinely enjoyable.
In a Coalition crawling with juicers—where even his own comrades had been on the juice—Mathieu alone had refused as a man of conscience.
And the way Mathieu had treated him had been thoroughly proper.
He hadn't looked down on him for being young, nor reflexively treated him as an enemy just because he was from the Empire.
He had been wary, he hadn't understood, yet he had still acknowledged him as a strong man.
He had shown the minimum respect due to the unmistakable aura of someone who had put in the work.
But this bastard starts with casual speech and a whole lecture the second he sees me.
Maybe he had simply imagined Mathieu's attitude onto this guy. The disappointment was severe either way.
He had hoped for another splendid fight and to witness the bearing of a true strong man that matched it.
What he was looking at now was nothing but the purest specimen of an old fogey.
"The Empire's filthy… how dare you use such a despicable method as assassina—"
See? Even now he was scowling and ranting about the Empire this, assassination that.
The sheer ability of the act to generate rage made Kyle empty his mind.
Ah, whatever. Starting now, His Majesty's mercy was officially off the table.
"…And so! I will never forgive you!"
"Oh for fuck's sake. Look at this clown monologuing."
Anyone watching would think they had tuned into a magical-girl show.
What, was he going to strip and transform next? That would complete the picture.
Whatever personal history made him hate the Empire this much, Kyle neither knew nor cared.
He had arrived with full courtesy. What he received in return was pure rudeness.
So as repayment, he intended to shove a fistful of violence down the man's throat.
Shiiing—!
"Haaaaah!!"
Watching the man charge with sword in hand, Kyle slowly clenched his fist.
And into that fist he poured just a little of his true sincerity—the wounded heart of a warrior race.