A Warning Dressed as a Declaration
“You all right?”
“Do I look all right?”
A concerned, clipped question drew out a bristling retort before he could stop himself.
Face and dignity be damned — he hadn't cared about any of that to begin with. Sprawled flat on the floor, Arendt was far too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
By contrast, Laios, standing upright on both feet without a scratch, looked as refreshed as a man who'd just finished a light morning exercise.
That damned protagonist.
As usual, they were at the Crown Prince's training grounds, Arendt throwing himself into sword work against Laios.
Impregnable — as if no spear under heaven could pierce it. And at the same time, unstoppable — as if no shield, however solid, could ever hope to hold it.
That was how the old verses described Laios's swordsmanship. Untouchable and unblockable; in a word, supreme.
What Arendt was experiencing right now was exactly the same.
Even grazing the tip of that blade was a struggle. Which begged the question — just how monstrous must the opponents have been, the ones who had once driven Laios to his limits?
Arendt clicked his tongue and pushed himself up.
“Let's go again.”
“Rest enough?”
“Yes, more than enough.”
Arendt gave his sword a showy twirl and dropped into stance.
Laios watched him for a moment, then — before settling into his own posture — tossed a remark at his subordinate.
“The magic stone seems to be doing its job.”
The other knights hadn't noticed yet, but apparently there was no pulling one over on Laios's eyes.
Arendt asked, crookedly, “Why? Jealous?”
“…….”
A twitch.
Laios's brow furrowed briefly, then smoothed again.
“Forget it. I've no desire to get my coffers emptied like Arthur and Richt.”
“With the Commander's fortune, one or two magic stones should be pocket change.”
“If you're that eager to sell them, take it up with the Magic Tower.”
“I'll give it some thought.”
Without warning, Arendt charged at Laios.
But Laios, as though he'd anticipated it all along, swung his sword with practiced ease and turned the attack aside.
Claaang!
Arendt's frost-white blade met Laios's in a brief, hard lock before the two sprang apart.
Arendt spun his whole body around and unleashed a second strike.
This one, too, was parried without effort.
“You improve fast. Fast enough to light a fire under the others.”
“Well, aren't you kind.”
The compliment came back as sarcasm, but Laios paid it no mind. He shoved Arendt back hard and pressed his own counterattack.
BOOM!
Arendt barely deflected it, but the sheer weight of the blow sent him staggering backward.
“That's a technique Richt uses now and then. But you're smaller than he is, and short on strength besides. Against an opponent stronger than you, it could work against you instead.”
Laios assessed him with cool detachment.
A surge of mana rippled around him, and his sword flashed crimson.
He had activated the Shadow of the Strong and raised sword qi in the same breath.
Ah. I'm dead.
The instant the thought crossed Arendt's mind, Laios sent the apprentice knight flying.
KRA-BOOOM!
A single thunderous report shook the training grounds.
And a moment later… accompanied by a comparatively tiny little thud, Arendt hit the floor.
He found himself staring up at the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Stretched out flat on his back, Arendt muttered hollowly, “Damn it.”
Restrained footsteps approached — step, step — and then a stolid face abruptly intruded on his clear view of the ceiling.
Arendt scowled.
“Arendt.”
“What?”
“In the meeting earlier, I said it was merely a hypothetical. A worst case.”
Laios paused, then went on.
“But you seem certain of it.”
“…….”
Rather than answer, Arendt simply stared back at Laios with defiant golden eyes, as if to say, and what of it?
“Do whatever you like. I won't start doubting you just because you won't lay out the reasoning behind that certainty. But I will ask one thing of you.”
Laios spoke with the expression of a man in deep anguish.
“Please, for the love of all that is holy — restrain yourself.”
“…….”
The face saying it was nothing more — and nothing less — than that of a man looking at his most troublesome junior knight.
With that, Laios wheeled around and strode off in the opposite direction.
Arendt blinked blankly after him.
He doesn't doubt me. Was that a man being too good-natured for his own good, or simply a fool?
Come to think of it, didn't someone mention he'd been reaching for the stomach medicine a lot lately?
He half-remembered the attendants whispering about it.
He didn't have to think long about the cause.
And if so, then meeting those expectations was simply common courtesy.
A slow grin curled Arendt's lips, and he answered cheerfully.
“Nope.”
Laios's stride, already carrying him toward the door of the training grounds, stumbled.
The story of the cursed jewel soon began circulating through the Imperial Palace without the slightest difficulty.
The reactions ranged across the whole spectrum — from those merely curious, to collectors and merchants whose interest was genuinely piqued, to those who dismissed it all as idle rumor.
But whatever they thought of it, the one constant was that attention was pouring in.
It wasn't this much of a sensation in the original story, was it?
Well, hardly surprising. In the original novel, no one had the luxury of fixating on a trinket like a gemstone… and besides, Neumann himself had now thrown his hat into the ring.
His mere involvement was publicity enough.
The auction was to be held in a rented mansion, styled like an intimate tea party.
Lodging had been arranged for the guests traveling from afar, and the plan was this: amid the warm conviviality of tea and light wine, the star of the day — the cursed jewel — would make its entrance, and only then would the real auction begin.
That was the account Neumann had delivered, freshly returned to the capital after so long.
“You're an absolute sensation, Guildmaster.”
Arendt remarked between sips of tea.
“I hear quite a few people from the Palace will be attending. And from what I can tell, more than half of them are interested in you, Guildmaster Neumann, not the jewel.”
“Haha. And if that's true, it's entirely thanks to you, Sir Arendt.”
When Neumann across from him burst into good-natured laughter, Arendt added mischievously, “Madam East of the East Merchant Guild must be suffering some sleepless nights over it.”
“Nothing to be done about that. If anything, I'm grateful she's content to treat me as a competitor in good faith.”
“A competitor in good faith… though for that, you did seem awfully lucky right out of the gate, didn't you, Guildmaster?”
“That, I can't quite deny either.”
But Neumann only kept on beaming.
Frankly, it would have been stranger if he hadn't.
With the Imperial entrusted the mine's management to him as well, the Neumann Merchant Guild was riding a favorable wind to ever greater heights.
He's even got the guild's main office set up this handsomely already.
Taking another sip of tea, Arendt glanced around.
While wrapping up his duties as branch manager of East Vault, Neumann had purchased an entire three-story building outright.
He'd only just finished renovating it, and the smell of fresh, stiff wallpaper still drifted through the air.
The first floor was a shop, the second a warehouse, the third office space. And where Arendt sat now was Neumann's study, up on the third floor.
“The mine's operations are running on rails now. I've hired fresh professionals for the workforce, and there are people to manage things in my absence. You can rest easy, Sir Arendt.”
“I'd expect nothing less from a Guildmaster. I wouldn't presume to meddle that far. And the Count?”
“Completely lost in his research. Sometimes he forgets to eat, which is a problem. So I've hired him an assistant — trustworthy, and discreet. At minimum, she'll see that he keeps regular meals.”
Meticulous to the last detail, as expected of him. Arendt nodded in satisfaction.
“And the auction preparations?”
“Proceeding without a hitch. We'll send invitations to everyone who's declared their intent to attend, and verify them at the entrance.”
He'd clearly taken the warning about possible intruders to heart.
Besides, the people in question had already tangled with him once at East Vault — it was hardly strange that Neumann was shoring up his defenses.
“Accompanying guests will be limited to one person each, with confirmed identity. Personal servants will be barred from entry.”
Having said his piece, Neumann arched an eyebrow and lowered his voice.
“Should you require anything further, you need only say the word. I'll spare no effort within my power.”
“Full of ambition today, I see. Planning revenge on the ones who nearly ruined your vault?”
“Not revenge, Sir Arendt. This is business. If this auction collapses into farce, the credibility I've only just begun to build will come crashing down.”
Neumann answered firmly.
“And having swaggered in and made such a show of it, if I ended up obstructing you and the Imperial Knights, nothing in this world would cost me more.”
“Why is that?”
“Because my single greatest customers are the lot of you. In your terms, Sir Arendt — my money line. A merchant who seizes the chance to partner with the finest allies available, then fumbles it, doesn't deserve the name.”
As the Guildmaster added this with a twinkle of humor, Arendt broke into a short laugh.
“Customer, money line, and business partner all at once. Impressive. I'd wager you're the only man alive who could say that about the Imperial Knights to their faces.”
“A true merchant must have gall as much as anything.”
“That's what it takes to become a magnate, I suppose?”
“Precisely so.”
Neumann flashed a playful smile and added, “So if there's cooperation you need from me, ask freely — hold nothing back.”
“I was planning to anyway, but now that you've said it so nicely, I'll be even less inclined to hold back.”
The Guildmaster's smile stiffened slightly.
“About that errand I asked you to pass to Count Stadler?”
“As it happens, the Count asked me to deliver something to you as well.”
As if he'd been waiting for precisely that, Neumann dug into his coat and produced a small pouch. When he opened its mouth, a single pearl-white bead rolled into view.
“Oh. Prettier than I expected.”
“He cared enough about the appearance to bring in a craftsman specially. He spent days fussing over nothing else.”
Neumann said with the pride of a man showing off his own handiwork.
Arendt picked up the bead, turning it over this way and that. “How many can he make?”
“He says he crafted these from the byproducts of the mine, so he can produce as many as you need.”
“Then don't spare the cost. Pass that along to Count Stadler as well.”
The Crown Prince would be footing the bill anyway.
Arendt nodded, satisfied. “So what am I to do with these?”
“Have them made into accessories. Shape doesn't matter — so long as they can be worn.”
“I'm sorry?”
“You know the tastes of those noble lords better than anyone, don't you, Guildmaster?”
It was an utterly out-of-nowhere commission.
When a baffled question came back, Arendt crossed his legs at his leisure and went on.
“Have accessories made — pretty enough that those high-and-mighty types will positively preen over them — and hand them out to every single guest at the entrance.”
“…Understood. And then?”
“Then inform everyone that they must keep wearing them for the duration of the event. In place of an entry pass, you see.”
“By 'everyone'…”
Neumann, who had been listening with a blank expression, caught on quickly.
“You mean to include the servants and cooks working the venue as well?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
“Understood. It will be arranged.”
Still without the faintest idea of the point of it all, the Guildmaster nodded for now.
“Oh, and one more thing. Something will be arriving at the guild before long.”
“…Pardon?”
A sudden, prickling premonition swept over Neumann.
Arendt smiled, slow and wide, and added, “Don't be too startled. Whatever I said is a secret, all right? You didn't hear it from me.”
“A—a secret, you say…?”
“Consider it my conscience working overtime, warning you in advance. So as far as anyone knows, this stays between you and me.”
If you can't be sure an enemy will come, then you simply make one come.
And while he was at it, he'd hand the players on stage a proper justification to perform their roles to the fullest.
For tension to tighten around this soft, pliable setup, the cursed jewel and a single well-loved theatrical device were more than enough.
And then, the next day.
A single messenger bird of unknown origin came hurtling down upon Guildmaster Neumann.
The message it carried was short.
On the day of the auction,
I will steal the jewel.