The Hunter and the Scholar
'Rex von Stadler.' A faint smile flickered across Arendt's lips as he murmured the name. So this was where the interest came due. The man wasn't a big fish yet — not now. But he would be, soon enough. Tall as Laios or Cantares, his long hair neatly combed and gathered into a single ponytail, Count Stadler cut an altogether gentle figure at first glance. But Arendt knew better than to judge this man by his appearance. He was, after all, the noble who had been the first to turn his back on the Empire and side with the rebels when the imperial capital burned. What kind of monster slept beneath that docile face, Arendt knew all too well. Rex von Stadler, researcher of the Imperial Mage Corps. He looked like a perfectly respectable gentleman, but in truth he was a man driven mad by thirst for his own research. 'In the end he fell into the rebels' hands and turned his hand to forbidden studies.' And the Empire paid dearly for letting a genius slip to the enemy. Count Stadler would later die at Laios's hands — but the devastation left in his wake before that day came was unspeakable.
"Sir Arendt?" "......" The Count had spoken up, evidently puzzled by Arendt's silent stare, but Arendt only gazed back at him blankly, offering no response. Whatever he made of that silence, Count Stadler forced an awkward smile and turned his attention back to Marquis Grig. "Marquis, that was rash of you. Whatever the provocation, laying hands on the boy? And in front of His Highness the Crown Prince, no less." "No, Count, that's not—" Marquis Grig scrambled to explain himself. But he never got the words out. Laios's voice cut in without warning. "Forgive the interruption. Have you some grievance with my subordinate?" Count Stadler hastily stepped back, clearing a path for Laios. And Laios had not come alone. Right on the Commander's heels stood Arthur, Richt, and several other knights of the Third Order — with Diana and Kendrick besides, all watching the Marquis in silence. "Even if the young man was being insolent, violence is rather poor form. Wouldn't you agree, Marquis?" Kendrick pressed him with a smooth, concealed blade of a smile. Diana added her own verdict. "And even if the Marquis wished to punish him, he'd hardly find it so easy. The boy isn't the type to take a beating quietly." "The Imperial Knights aren't to be trifled with. And as you well know, Marquis, that one's temper is no joke. If the Count hadn't stepped in, you'd have suffered far worse than embarrassment." Kendrick's eyes narrowed. Cornered all at once by all three Knight Commanders, the Marquis ground his teeth, shot a look at Baron Günther that could have flayed him alive — the man who had shrieked and brought this whole mess down on him — and the Baron, naturally, went white as a sheet.
"It seems age has made occasions like this rather too much for me. I shall take my leave." The words came out sharp as a thrown knife. With a brusque bow, the Marquis stalked out of the hall in great strides. Baron Günther and the rest of his party scrambled after him. No one moved to stop them. Everyone simply stood there, dumbfounded, staring blankly at the retreating backs of Marquis Grig and his retinue. The silence was broken by Arendt's flat voice. "Why is everyone crowding around? It was just a brief argument." "Let me guess — you poked the Marquis's temper. Have you never heard the word 'moderation,' sir?" "Sorry about that." To Diana's rebuke, Arendt responded with a face entirely devoid of remorse. "I should have just kept quiet. I'm worried the Marquis ended up embarrassed on my account..." "Don't concern yourself. Thanks to Count Stadler, it was settled before it grew into something worse." Diana smiled and consoled the Count, whose shoulders had slumped in mortification. Arendt, for his part, seemed to have lost all interest in the commotion he himself had caused. Laios noticed that Arendt's gaze had drifted elsewhere. 'What is he looking at?' He turned his head, following Arendt's line of sight. There stood Cantares. At some point, the Crown Prince had been quietly observing the whole affair. The spectacle of Arendt — having stirred up trouble of this magnitude — staring brazenly at the Crown Prince was nothing short of outrageous. At the face that seemed to ask, Good?, Cantares let out a short laugh and gave a small nod. Zereon had already slipped away to tail Marquis Grig. Cantares was quite satisfied with the results the audacious apprentice knight had produced. But Arendt, apparently, had no intention of stopping there.
Arendt tilted his chin toward Count Stadler. The meaning of the small gesture was unmistakable. 'Still not satisfied, is he.' It was a little curious that the Count had inserted himself so abruptly — the man was hardly one to show his face at gatherings like this, preferring to bury himself in his research. But Cantares gave Arendt a light nod all the same. It meant: dig away. Arendt half-acknowledged the signal, half ignored it, and simply turned away. Before anyone noticed, the young apprentice knight was fixing Count Stadler with a sly, deliberate gaze. Like a hound that had scented its next quarry. Cantares couldn't help but burst out laughing. "What a piece of work." He was beginning to look forward to whatever Arendt would sink his teeth into next. A slightly sorry prospect for Count Stadler, who was about to be tangled up with a creature like that.
With the banquet drawing the crowds, the Imperial Capital was unusually quiet. Listening absently to the distant strains of music drifting from the hall, Count Stadler let out a short sigh. "Haa..." He was, as ever, ill at ease in settings like this. Besides, he'd promised the Marquis a private discussion on entirely different matters, and the unexpected scene had thrown everything into disarray. He had stepped in on pure impulse when he saw the man raise his fist... 'I should apologize properly later.' He'd heard the rumors now and then — the apprentice knight of the Third Order who was more than anyone could handle. But tonight was the first time he'd seen the young man with his own eyes. He was certainly the sort of young man anyone's gaze would linger on. And that personality of his. One could search the whole Empire and struggle to find a temper to match it. It was little wonder that Marquis Grig — a man prone to boiling over at the smallest trifles — had fallen so helplessly into the boy's provocation. Just then — tap, tap. Cautious footsteps sounded behind him. And with them, a listless voice slipped into the quiet garden. "I take it I owe you my thanks?" What a crooked question. There was exactly one person who would open a conversation that way. Count Stadler turned with an awkward smile. "No, there's no need. I intervened of my own accord — you owe me nothing." "I thought as much." Arendt shrugged indifferently and sauntered over until he stood right beside the Count. "You look troubled." "Haha. Well, it's nothing serious. I was only wondering whether I ought to smooth the Marquis's feathers somehow." "And would an apology actually soothe a man like that?" At Arendt's flat reply, Count Stadler cast a wan smile and nodded. "Fair point, I suppose. The Marquis does have a temper like a wildfire. As you know well enough, Sir Arendt." "Hmm." 'The way he says it, you'd think he was a perfectly normal human being.' Arendt murmured to himself, sneaking a sidelong glance at the Count's profile. Stadler's personal strength was, decidedly, nothing to write home about. He had spent his whole life on research and never even learned the basics of self-defense. Nor had he any particular gift for battle magic.
Count Stadler studied the mana harbored within living things. He had devised a technique for extracting the mana core from a living body, and for that achievement he served as an advisory researcher within the Imperial Mage Corps. Later, after defecting to the rebels, he would use that very technique to resurrect magic that had been forbidden since ancient times. It was Count Stadler's research that had plunged the Empire into chaos. As the memories surfaced, Arendt shuddered despite himself. 'The Ghouls — that was the word, wasn't it.' He had birthed legions from corpses. Monsters, beasts, humans — stripped of reason and slavishly obedient to command... and in the end, he had even fused the corpses of powerful monsters into abominations beyond all reason. Each of those creatures had been so absurdly durable that nothing short of sword qi could cut them down. At the very last, a Ghoul crafted from a dragon's corpse — heaven knew where he'd gotten it — had appeared and kept Laios and the knights locked in a desperate struggle for ages. Even as his body was torn apart, Laios had held his ground on two feet. The last cries of dying knights, the wailing of the Empire's helpless citizens — it all flooded back, filling his skull. Rex von Stadler had howled with laughter amid the wreckage of the creations he had made. And beneath that madness, one might just have glimpsed something pitiable. 'And yet...' An odd, lingering unease settled over Arendt as he studied the Count. Fitting for a man who spent most of his days shut in a laboratory, his complexion was pale to the point of sickliness. Moonlight fell across it, making him look so frail that a single shove might send him toppling. And his eyes, unable to settle in one place, wandering restlessly — they seemed to lay bare the anxiety beneath. It was hard to believe this was the same man who had inflicted massacre-level casualties on countless civilians, who had cost the knight orders several of their own. The way he'd blocked Marquis Grig earlier looked almost brave, in retrospect. "Haaaah..." "Is something the matter?" "No. Nothing at all." When Arendt suddenly loosed an enormous sigh, the Count asked, puzzled. Arendt brushed it off vaguely and buried both hands deep in his pockets. Either he was hiding his true nature behind a respectable front, or... 'He hasn't let his guard slip yet.' He didn't seem like a madman deliberately playing sane, either. But then there was the way Marquis Grig had been dancing circles around Count Stadler today... and the Count's anxious bearing now, on top of it. From that, Arendt could roughly piece together what situation Count Stadler was in. 'It's a gamble, isn't it.' If he mishandled this, he might be the one in trouble. The Count might already be entirely in their hands. But this was the last chance to prevent the catastrophe. After a brief deliberation, Arendt settled on his course of action. Lure him in. That was step one.
"Count." "Yes?" Startled by the sudden address, the Count turned his head with a flinch — he'd been fidgeting in the awkward silence. The young knight who had seemed lost deep in his own thoughts for so long was now looking straight at him. Moonlight settled on an expression that was impossible to read, and his golden eyes cast off a strange glimmer. Arendt, having feigned a moment's hesitation, finally spoke. "Have you some trouble weighing on you?" "I beg your pardon?" "You've looked weighed down with worry for some time now. Some great concern, perhaps?" God, what a line. Straight out of a snake-oil salesman's script. Watching the Count's eyes go round, Arendt allowed himself a small, private satisfaction. And yet this sort of thing worked surprisingly often. The question 'Is something troubling you?' was something like a magic incantation for opening the floodgates of conversation. And besides... "How did you know?" To someone genuinely drowning in worry, it could look like a single open doorway — a place to set down their burden for a moment. The Count, who had let out the startled words before he could stop himself, faltered. Arendt feigned ignorance and shrugged. "I can't promise I'd be any great help, but it's often better to unburden yourself to someone than to wrestle with it alone. And besides..." A short pause. Then Arendt added, with artless plainness: "I thought perhaps the Count might be in circumstances rather like my own." The Count's eyes, which had been staring at Arendt as if bewitched, grew wider and wider.