Winter in Limbus Pit, Part 5

"Damn."

The scene that unfolded was overwhelming. To Wangcho—Tao Chen—it looked less like a battle and more like a slaughter. Shell casings, a rare sight in this gutter, rained down, and the roaring engine of a chainsword echoed as it tore through human bone.

— "Why the hell are guys with guns coming here?!"

— "You bastards! Do you have any idea who's backing us?!"

Occasionally, some tried to stand tall, relying on their hidden sponsors. But Wangcho calmly blew a clown's head off with his hand cannon and replied indifferently, "If you're waiting for the merchant guild backing you, they aren't coming. You crossed the line too far."

"What...?"

"Looks like you didn't know. Figures."

Wangcho sighed and swung his hand axe. That made five. It wasn't that Wangcho's skills had rusted. It was simply that a single hand axe couldn't keep up with the killing speed of firearms.

But the most overwhelming display of all was the performance of the man they called the Director.

What in the world is that? Wangcho's gaze drifted to the weapon the Director held.

To call it a firearm, the muzzle was blocked, replaced instead by a blackened crystal ball at its tip. Yet it wasn't a magic staff either, as it was connected to a mana reactor on his back by a cord-like cable.

He holds it like a gun, but it looks like a magic staff... What do you even call that?

Just looking at its shape gave him no clue. He had heard that all magitech equipment was like this, though.

As soon as the Director entered the theater, he checked the gauges dangling from his back and began scribbling chaotic formulas in a notebook. After spending ten minutes diligently calculating variables under the cover of his subordinates, he finally joined the fray.

"Fall back."

With a short chant, the staff spewed fire. Dozens of rushing clowns were engulfed in flames, and even the white-faced ones who resisted for a brief moment were instantly reduced to ashes.

In the middle of the sea of fire, Wangcho stared at the Director in sheer horror. "Mister, were you a mage?"

"A half-wit like me cannot be called a mage. I cannot cast magic without the assistance of measuring magic tools."

"That's basically the same thing."

Whether someone conjured magic out of thin air or did it with the help of a magic tool, to Wangcho, they were both monsters of the battlefield. The absolute certainty that he would be roasted alive the moment he made an enemy of this Director was an added bonus.

Advancing with that momentum, the Director marched straight toward the boss of the clowns.

"Ohohot! What ill-mannered guests we have! You are—Hieeeek! Hot! So hot!"

The King of Fools, Narenkönig, was introducing himself, his belly fat jiggling beneath a tattered silk vest. But before he could even finish his sentence, the special task force Director blasted him with fire.

"Arghhh! Stop it!"

Still, as someone who had barely entered Tier 1, he endured the flames, transformed his scepter into a mace, and charged. But there was no way Wangcho would just stand by and watch.

"Die quietly, you creepy bastard."

Thwack! Wangcho's hand axe embedded itself in the back of his head. The Clown King pitched forward, his face scraping against the floor.

"Argh! Gyahhh!" Narenkönig rolled frantically on the ground to extinguish the flames on his body. The Director watched the obese clown quietly before snapping his fingers to extinguish the fire.

"Huh? Mister? Are you out of mana?"

The Director didn't reply, merely staring down at the charred King of Fools. Soon, as the smoke rising from Narenkönig's body began to subside, the Director approached the massive lump of charcoal.

"Wheeze... gasp..."

"Narenkönig."

"W-what is it?"

"Do you know the difference between a madman, a human, and a beast?"

The Director knelt before Narenkönig, who was barely clinging to life.

"W-who..."

"Those were the words you once said to me. You told me that if a madman, a human, and a beast are different, I should prove it myself."

As he spoke, the Director reached for his gas mask. With a sharp *hiss*, the pressure sealing the mask to his face was released. The bare face revealed amidst the white steam was horribly disfigured. His cheeks were a tangled mess of burn scars and stitches, and the corners of his mouth had been torn all the way to his ears before being crudely sewn shut.

"N-no way...!"

Just then, the other squad members stepped up behind the Director. One took off his gas mask. He had no nose. Another took off his gloves. He had only three fingers. Another unfastened his neck guard. Where his vocal cords should have been, there was nothing but a massive scar.

With his squad standing behind him like a grim folding screen, the Director pulled the axe out of the Clown King's head.

"I... no, we still haven't found the answer to your question."

The Director pulled a thick magitech grenade from his coat.

"But there is one thing I know for sure."

The Director pried Narenkönig's mouth open by force. There was a sickening crack as the jaw dislocated, but he paid it no mind, shoving the grenade deep into the gaping maw.

"A rope, a gold coin, and a dagger. With just these three things, one can easily become a beast for the sake of a single person."

The Director recalled the small-statured Director who wore a crow mask. It had been a snowy day just like today.

— "You choose the dagger? Hmm... Very well. If revenge is what you seek."

— "You truly... keep your promises."

"Mmph...!! Mmph!!"

The Director drew the dagger he had received that day from his breast pocket and drove it straight into Narenkönig's heel.

"Mmph...!"

"With this, the debt is paid."

The other squad members also drove daggers into the tendons of the targets they had dragged along. Engraved on their daggers was the word Vergeltung.

Having finished their tasks, they returned to the squad members who hadn't removed their gear.

— "Good work."

— "Is it not our turn yet?"

— "We just have to wait. Where did you say you were from?"

— "Rotmund."

For some reason, Wangcho got the impression that the expressions of the squad members who had removed their masks were bright.

Meanwhile, the Director twitched his scarred lips a few times.

"Why don't you prove it this time? Let's see just how hard it is for a madman to hold back his laughter."

He spat coldly at the fallen clown and turned around. The Ironclad squad members, and Wangcho, who was standing there dazed, followed behind him.

Step, step. As they walked out to the entrance of the theater, the fishing line looped around the Director's fingertip pulled taut. From the stage, Narenkönig's desperate groans echoed as he realized the existence of the line.

"Mmmph...!!"

Without looking back, the Director yanked the fishing line. Along with the sound of a pin being pulled, a clear metallic ring echoed from deep within the theater.

Ting.

It was the third day since the heavy snowfall began. This year, without fail, I was cooped up in the mansion, killing time.

Man, I really want to have a snowball fight.

Unfortunately, not only did I have no friends to play with, but there was also no romance to be found in snow saturated with filthy smog. If you got hit by a stray snowball here, you wouldn't just catch a cold—you'd end up crippled. You could literally get an other-world version of Minamata disease from a snowball fight. I'm not even joking.

Above all, the character concept I had established was quiet and melancholic... If anything, my role would be getting pelted with snowballs by tomboys like Eri, not throwing them.

To be even more precise, I shouldn't be going outside at all. My character was supposed to just sip tea in his room and occasionally review reports brought by the butler.

"Young Master. The matter has ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been resolved successfully."

Just like right now. ...Wait. What was resolved?

"Perhaps because they were cleaners handpicked by you, Young Master, the cleanup was exceptionally thorough."

"Cleaners... you say?"

I thought I understood what the Nihilite family butler meant. He must mean they made an example of those clowns who dared to touch me. Well, considering their gear, that was only natural. I never doubted for a second that they would succeed in their mission.

As I nodded, the butler continued his report.

"We have already notified the Guard Academy in advance, so there will be no troublesome aftermath to deal with."

I froze for a moment at that report. Oh, right. I forgot. Calling my private soldiers through the butler was all well and good, but I hadn't thought about the cleanup. My head had been too hot at the time.

Fortunately, it seemed the butler had taken care of that part on his own. Thus, acting as if I had trusted him from the very beginning, I naturally continued the conversation.

"As expected of you, Butler. But may I ask how you handled it?"

"Yes. We decided to make a donation to the Guard Academy in the form of a special scholarship."

The butler's handling of the matter was flawless. Even for a noble, killing people inside the walls at whim was forbidden. This was a society where laws existed, at least nominally.

Even in the medieval era, where barbarism and romance coexisted, nobles couldn't just go around killing people as they pleased.

But there is an exception to every rule. A rather peculiar 'custom' existed in this empire.

"In return, the Guard Academy agreed to turn a eye to a certain degree of 'Opportunity for Honor Restoration.'"

Nobles received their titles because they possessed the power to protect people from the magic beasts outside the walls. But if a noble who received such a title was beaten up somewhere and left crying, it would bring immense shame to the empire that granted the title. Thus, this macho empire presented nobles bitten by commoners with two choices: live as a disgraceful, super-coward who relies on public authority for revenge, or prove the macho nature latent within a noble. The latter, which had become a custom, was called the 'Opportunity for Honor Restoration.'

"You went to a lot of trouble. How much did the donation cost?"

"It wasn't a significant amount. Since it was an incident in H-Sector, the Guard Academy didn't show much interest either. A five-year scholarship was more than enough."

And to carry out this custom, one had to show enough 'sincerity' to temporarily blind the Guard Academy. In my case, that sincerity was shown through a donation that served as bail.

"You did well."

"You flatter me, Young Master."

Thanks to him, I didn't need to worry about the aftermath anymore. Now, what I had to consider was the reward for the subordinates who had successfully completed their mission. I toyed with the handle of my teacup, pondering what reward to give them.

I should reward them so they don't feel neglected...

The higher you climb, the more you must avoid hurting your ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠subordinates' feelings. Especially when those subordinates hold blades. In countless stories and history, how many third-rate side characters have we seen fall miserably after mistreating or being stingy with their subordinates? The misunderstanding genre was no exception. In fact, since they were the very foundation of my plausibility, I had to treat them even better.

The company already gives them bonuses...

But money wouldn't do. They were already receiving hefty bonuses from the company, so adding a little extra cash from my own pocket wouldn't move them much. I needed to provide a reward in a slightly different direction.

Hmm... After some thought, I came up with a reward I could personally offer them.

"Butler."

"Yes, Young Master."

"Could you look into a dessert shop in Civitas Square that children might enjoy?"

"...If I may be so bold, might this old servant ask your intention, Young Master?"

"Since the mission is over, some new children must have arrived."

Those Ironclad folks. They had a strange habit that went way back. They always picked up orphans or slaves at their mission sites—people who were locked up or abused. Whenever they were sent on a mission, they would rescue such people and gift them a new life. And this fact was probably not known to me alone.

"You don't have to play dumb, Butler. You knew, didn't you?"

"I apologize, Young Master."

The butler hurriedly bowed his head. Strictly speaking, the private soldiers' actions were insane. Deviating from the operational area, wasting unnecessary resources, and bringing in unidentified personnel. By corporate logic, which valued security and efficiency above all else, they wouldn't be able to complain even if their heads were physically chopped off on the spot. What employer would tolerate their private soldiers, funded by their own money, slacking off during work hours and bringing in unverified outsiders? No matter how kind of an employer I was, this was a clear abuse of authority. And the butler, who knew about this but didn't report it to me, was by no means free from complicity.

"It was not my intention to deceive you."

"I know. That is why ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I have remained silent."

But even though I knew, I had been turning a blind eye to the butler's and their arbitrary actions. The people I saved save other people, and those saved people naturally instill loyalty toward me. This was a classic cliché for expanding one's faction in misunderstanding or territory-building novels. Besides, there was no reason to scold them for doing a good deed.

But that quiet charity was now at an end.

"You no longer need to hide it from me. Isn't it strange in the first place? They are doing a good deed, so why must they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠do it while walking on eggshells?"

"Young Master..."

"So, as a reward for this mission, I will send snacks for the children instead. Will that be fine?"

"An excellent choice, Young Master."

For the record, sending snacks meant I was now openly permitting it. Furthermore, it meant I would also contribute some money from now on.

"...I wonder how much an orphanage costs."

"Pardon?"

"No, nothing. Just talking to myself."

I didn't forget to drop a hint that if they did even better, I might build them an orphanage. In this world, an orphanage wasn't something you could just build because you had a little money. Since space inside the walls was limited, real estate prices were insane. It wasn't a world generous enough to build homes for rootless orphans when people were already struggling to survive themselves. In such a place, hinting at building an orphanage was not something to be done lightly.

I'm really making a big commitment here.

The butler, knowing this all too well, widened his eyes. "Young Master...? Are you truly serious?"

"I believe I asked you to forget it."

"Forgive me. This old servant is getting on in years and keeps forgetting things."

The butler hurriedly bowed his head. Seeing that meticulous and perfect butler momentarily flustered made preparing this surprise well worth it.

"Then please handle it as discussed."

"I shall do as you command, Young Master."

The butler turned his back to me. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he turned back.

"Young Master. Is there perhaps anything else you wish to say?"

"Hmm..."

I thought about it for a moment. Why was someone who would normally make a clean exit after receiving orders acting like this?

What is he expecting?

I recalled the grammar of misunderstanding novels after a long time. The protagonist makes a thoughtless decision on a whim, the loyal subordinate executes it perfectly, and when everything is wrapped up nicely, what did the protagonist do next...? Ah.

I forgot to say thank you.

Lately, I hadn't had any occasion to say thank you to anyone other than my family. It was a word that didn't roll off my tongue easily, as I hadn't used it much in my past life either. Conscious of maintaining the image of a dignified protagonist, I adjusted my posture.

"I was a bit distracted and forgot. Please convey my gratitude to them as well."

I set down my teacup and spoke with the most polite smile I could muster. "Thank you once again."

"..."

The corners of the butler's mouth twitched upward slightly. As expected, that was the correct answer. In misunderstanding stories, a single word of appreciation always worked better than a pile of gold coins. I locked eyes with the butler and smiled. The butler smiled back in turn.

"...Your words are far too generous."

But something was off. Although the butler was wearing a benevolent smile, his expression didn't feel bright. Perhaps it was because we had known each other for so long, but that smile felt artificial rather than sincere. It was like the expression of someone who had received a gift, only to realize the packaging was beautiful but the inside was empty.

Before I could ponder why he was reacting that way, the butler spoke.

"Then, I shall take my leave."

The butler bowed slightly deeper than usual and quietly closed the door. I stared at the closed door for a long time.

That leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

But no matter how much I thought about it, I couldn't think of any reason for the butler to react that way. Ultimately, deciding it was just my imagination, I picked up my cooling teacup once more.