The Perfect Stage for a Villain
Bringing Count Stadler into the information brokerage business had also been Arendt's idea.
It was Arendt who had first raised the matter as they discussed the venture.
"Information passed along by word of mouth has a real reliability problem. Even written documents can be stuffed full of fabricated nonsense."
In his previous world, video had been overflowing everywhere — but this one was different.
In a world where the very concept didn't exist, any means of preserving a scene exactly as it happened would inevitably become a massive advantage for anyone dealing in information.
And Arendt happened to be well acquainted with one particular genius who could build such a thing from nothing.
That genius was Count Stadler.
"Just as Guildmaster Neumann and Sir Arendt suggested, I've produced a prototype. It's a device capable of capturing both image and sound."
Count Stadler placed a single pure-white cube on the table.
"It works on a principle similar to a communication crystal ball, though two-way communication isn't possible. I crafted it from stone taken from the magic crystal mine — please, try it yourself."
"Hmm, interesting."
Curiosity piqued, Guildmaster Neumann's eyes glittered as he picked up the cube and turned it over, examining it from every angle. A small shard of magic crystal was set into the white, carved-stone surface.
"And this is…?"
"I thought it best to make it usable even by people who can't handle mana. I carved a low-grade magic crystal down to a tiny fragment and set it in. It isn't transmitting anything, and it works perfectly well with just that much."
Count Stadler explained with visible enthusiasm.
"Of course, the unit cost has skyrocketed, but a man of your resources should manage it easily enough, Guildmaster."
Neumann's expression turned briefly complicated. Even a low-grade shard of magic crystal was expensive — expensive was expensive.
"Hm. Manageable, yes, certainly… but if we do put these into use, I'll need to warn my couriers very thoroughly about carrying them around."
Muttering his displeasure, Neumann activated the cube. The pure-white surface began to glow faintly, and then — floating gently into the empty air — a rectangular image appeared, one after another.
"Ohh…!"
A gasp of wonder escaped the guildmaster's lips.
The bluish image showed the scenery near Count Stadler's laboratory.
"Looks like it's working properly now."
"Count, this is remarkable!"
The recorded voices of the Count and an excited young woman poured out of the cube.
Arendt asked, "Is that voice your assistant?"
"Yes. A friend that Guildmaster Neumann introduced me to. She's been an enormous help."
The Count beamed with pride as he answered.
Neumann, meanwhile, was wholly absorbed in testing the cube's capabilities. By the time he had looked this way and that, the image had already faded away.
Neumann burst out in admiration. "This is excellent. Sir Arendt is right — with things like this available, the quality of our intelligence will improve dramatically."
"There are a few issues, however. In our testing, the length of what it can hold proved limited, and it can only be activated four times before it stops working. We could use larger, higher-quality magic crystals to fix that — but then commercialization would be impossible."
Because magic crystals were fantastically expensive.
Neumann nodded in understanding. "Then it's best reserved for handling only the very highest grade of intelligence."
"I'll keep working to improve it further. Ah — by the way, our laboratory has decided to call it a Record Storage Stone."
As Neumann nodded with satisfaction, Count Stadler replied with equal pride.
The Count pressed two Record Storage Stones into Arendt's hands, insisting he show them to the Crown Prince as well.
After parting ways with Count Stadler and Neumann — who had declared that dinner wasn't complete without a drink or two afterward — Arendt set off alone on the road back to the Imperial Palace.
He had left the palace grounds around sundown, and before he knew it, the world around him had sunk completely into darkness.
Walking at a leisurely pace, he opened the small leather pouch the Count had given him, and from within it a silver bracelet glinted into view.
"……"
He didn't do this on purpose, did he?
A slightly uneasy look crossed Arendt's face.
It had only been a short while ago that a bracelet of nearly identical design had held his life hostage and put him through absolute hell. Suffice it to say, the design was not what anyone would call cheerful.
The finely crafted magic crystals set at intervals here and there, looking for all the world like ordinary violet gemstones, were the only thing distinguishing this bracelet from its summary-execution counterpart.
Chewing over the bitter memories, Arendt slipped the bracelet onto his wrist.
It should be about time for her to make her move.
The investigation Laios had been running had yielded fairly meaningful results. After turning over countless gambling dens, black markets, and trading houses, several of them had been confirmed as the property of one 'Rebecca'.
But that was precisely where it ended.
Not a single clue beyond the name had surfaced. Even the managers and staff who'd been arrested gave the distinct impression that none of them truly knew what she was.
Whenever a deal was to be made, she always sent a proxy instead. The people who came were different every time, and each one would handle only the matter at hand before vanishing — so no one had ever actually laid eyes on her.
But her business doctrine, every manager without exception had burned firmly into their skulls.
Betray her, and you die. Make a mistake, and you die.
That was the unanimous testimony of the managers thrown into prison over this affair.
In fact, the terrified criminals all told the same story: that was exactly how countless people had died at the hands of Rebecca's band of killers to date.
According to them, the bodies that were found had been left in a truly gruesome state — as if deliberately meant to serve as a warning.
But with everyone now dragged into the palace's custody, her hands were tied. There would have been no way to retaliate properly.
And yet sitting idle would have wounded her pride far too much — hence the petty little stunt of sending a threat letter to a mere apprentice knight.
But that threat letter had backfired spectacularly, and Arendt had no doubt the woman was furious from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet by now.
That must have stung her pride pretty badly.
Lost in thought, Arendt's steps slowed a little.
Judging by the 'character' the novel had painted her as, being humiliated this thoroughly would mean…
"Right on schedule."
A faint smile curled across Arendt's lips.
The surroundings were quiet.
Apparently he'd wandered, without noticing, into a stretch with hardly another soul in sight. A few fences over, the bustling market district would be in full, riotous swing.
Even at this late hour, the Empire's flourishing capital flaunted its splendor without shame.
But the spot where both his feet now stood was nothing more than an alley where thick, settled darkness pooled.
Only the cold stars and the moon looked down upon the world.
A zone of shadow set against the light.
Truly, the perfect stage for a villain to make his entrance.
At the rush of movement behind him, Arendt drew his sword by pure reflex.
CLAAAANG!
Before he could even get both eyes on his opponent, a crushing weight bore down hard on his blade.
Rather than force a stand, he flung himself backward, and the ambusher likewise pulled back to create distance.
An assassin with a body like a mountain stood tall, the moonlight at his back.
The deep hood swallowed his face entirely, but the thick calves and broad shoulders revealed beneath his long cloak were impossible to hide.
The massive curved blade held in a hand large enough to snap an ordinary man's neck one-handed gave off a sinister gleam.
"Lurking about as if you've been waiting for me, are we?"
"You're the one who showed up at such a laughably obvious moment, no?"
As Arendt let out a short, mocking laugh, the assassin's eyes flashed in the darkness with naked hostility.
A low growl scraped up his throat, and he lunged at Arendt once more.
The speed was absurd for a body that size.
He barely managed to leap backward and open the distance, but he couldn't quite avoid the blade's tip grazing him — the front of his uniform shirt split open along its edge.
Even in that instant, his opponent was striding the gap closed, step by heavy step.
Arendt glanced briefly at the torn fabric, then calmly measured the distance between himself and the man.
"Sending you of all people just to get rid of one apprentice knight — isn't your mistress a bit of a cheapskate?"
"The warning was given. Ignoring it was your choice."
The taunt didn't shake him by so much as a hair. From him came nothing but the flat intent to eradicate his target on orders.
But Arendt knew exactly how to shatter that composure.
"I said the same thing to Merlin once. If you're going to run a business that makes enemies, you ought to be prepared to take a beating now and then… Isn't that right, Warren?"
"…!"
The next instant, the assassin kicked off the ground and came hurtling forward.
His sword closed the distance in the blink of an eye, brushed past Arendt by a hair's breadth, and blasted the wall behind him to pieces.
With no time even to breathe, the next strike came crashing down toward his head.
KWAAANG!
The moment he flung his body clear, an enormous crater yawned open in the ground where he'd been standing.
It was enough to make the hair stand on end.
Had he not grown accustomed to sparring with Laios, that force alone would have left him more than a smear of meat.
Until now, Warren had regarded his prey with the dispassion of a hunter watching game. But in a heartbeat, his entire bearing had transformed. The naked hostility and killing intent radiating from him made Arendt's fingertips go numb.
"How do you know my name."
"Did a little digging."
It wasn't as if making a hobby of research was his style, but there was no helping it.
Once you stepped onto the stage, you had no choice but to give the performance everything.
"An assassin syndicate, was it? At the end of the day you're nothing but a well-trained beast. One wearing a collar at that, snapping at whatever prey your owner throws you. Frankly, it's quite the spectacle."
Within the hood, the man's face began to twist, little by little.
"The way you keep flapping your mouth, I'd say you have the gall to actually fight."
"Nope. I'm running."
"What?"
At the entirely unexpected answer, a baffled sound escaped Warren.
But Arendt followed through on his declaration to the letter. Wheeling around, he bolted at full sprint.
Warren stared blankly at the retreating back for a moment — then clenched his jaw with a low growl.
"I'm not letting you live."
He closed the distance in an instant.
At the rush of pursuit behind him, Arendt let out a groan.
"Madness — how is he that fast?!"
Before the curse had even finished leaving his mouth, Warren drove his foot into the ground and launched himself upward.
Instinct screamed that there would be no dodging it. Arendt twisted his body and took the attack head-on.
KAAANG!
The crushing impact shook him to his core, so heavy he momentarily forgot how to breathe. Gritting his teeth and holding on, Arendt immediately activated the artifact.
An explosive wave of cold erupted around him, and Warren's sword and hand began to freeze over, turning bone-white.
"…So it was the Frost-Tinged Touch, after all."
At that brief murmur, Arendt's brow twitched faintly. But he schooled his expression and immediately started running again.
Warren glared at the figure shrinking into the distance — then shifted his gaze down to his own hand.
When he forced the frozen fist to move, his rigid muscles shrieked with a cracking sound.
How does he know my name?
The only people who knew of his existence were the subordinates Rebecca commanded directly. There was no way information could have leaked from the low-level thugs dragged off to the palace this time.
"I can't let him go in peace, then."
Not that it mattered much — one could simply catch him, ask right before killing him, and be done. Twist those slender arms until they tore from their sockets, and the boy would sing.
Warren gave chase at once.