Chapter 45
Chapter 45
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 045
Chapter Title: The Shadow of the Giant Approaching from the Far East
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After settling the hierarchy, the Lion Mask reassigned positions among several executives.
A few mid-level executives were now slated to handle tasks previously managed by the top brass.
The sharp ones quickly realized that these newly promoted superiors were practically fringe players in the old organization.
Not everyone was thrilled about it, but no one dared voice their discontent outright.
The Horse Mask was still standing right there, gripping a blood-dripping sword and staring them down.
To top it off, the Lion Mask delivered another shockwave to the executives.
He revealed the recent "inspection" results, exposing corruption among several of them.
Those who'd been siphoning funds meant for higher-ups went pale as ghosts, and he warned them in a solemn tone.
"Fix it on your own, and I'll let it slide this time. But remember—there's no third chance."
First came the jolt of raw force, followed by two more from their intelligence network. No one had the guts left to rebel.
Finally, he announced that future operations would proceed via separate notifications, just as before. With that, the two masked men strode out of the theater.
Leaving the Golden Theater behind, the Lion Mask and Horse Mask slipped through a few deserted alleys to evade prying eyes before removing their masks in a shadowy spot.
"For the eternal prosperity of the Altoin people!"
"Quit copying me. It's embarrassing enough as it is..."
Shan teased as he pulled off his Horse Mask, prompting Roden—who was removing his Lion Mask right beside him—to grumble under his breath.
"Nah, your acting was spot-on. You really seemed like the Brotherhood's top envoy."
"Should've gone pro at a theater troupe."
Roden chuckled self-deprecatingly, but his skills were genuinely impressive for someone without formal training.
Even Shan had fully bought into Roden's "powerful knight" act until the guy collapsed on his own.
The masks were simple magical artifacts Princess Sherin had whipped up amid her busy schedule.
Each contained a tiny magic stone fragment that distorted their voices. Shan's mask also had a zircon over the eye slits that absorbed light, hiding his demonic glow.
Shan shed his overcoat, bundled it with the mask, then ditched the long pants and grabbed the two wooden stilts strapped to his feet.
Roden stared at them in disbelief.
"Forget my acting—that's what blows my mind! How the hell do you run around on those things?"
If someone told Roden to strap on 20cm stilts and move, he'd waddle a few steps before face-planting.
Yet Shan had leaped through the auditorium seats on them, hacking down thugs left and right.
His gait had looked a bit freakish, sure.
Even the most eagle-eyed observer wouldn't peg the Horse Mask as Shan.
The height difference alone—over 20cm—made it implausible.
Of course, crushing the initiative didn't mean the Brotherhood was fully under control.
They still needed anonymous channels to command the new high executives and reforms to streamline the internals.
For the former, they leaned a bit on Princess Sherin.
Roden tapped her connections to set up a letter relay via mages from the Magic Academy.
It hinted that the "Lion Mask"—the leader's proxy—had academy ties, but tracing further was near impossible.
Mages might be somewhat shunned, but they were royal-backed experts no criminal dared target.
Next, they scrapped all old communication methods, routing any such contacts straight to reports.
Officially to counter surviving traitors' chaos; really to block the old boss from regaining grip.
Finally, overhaul the system exploiting bottom-rung Altoins to fatten mid-to-upper layers.
This was the toughest nut to crack.
No one willingly surrenders their vested interests.
It was feasible partly because Roden's promoted executives were the least conscienceless bunch in the Brotherhood, and partly because they had shortfall-covering funds.
"Where'd it come from?"
"Hidden stashes from the dead executives."
As top dogs, they'd managed hefty organization assets under joint names—all now Shan and Roden's.
Roden used it to offset deficits from halting Altoin exploitation.
"Can't plug gaps with that forever, though. Long-term, the group needs self-sustaining revenue."
"How?"
"Legit work."
Roden aimed to pivot back to the founding ideal: protecting persecuted Altoins, funded by donations from the well-off among them.
A true self-reliant community.
Not all executives bought in, naturally.
Why skip crime for cash when crime doubles it?
To weed them out, Roden cross-checked ledgers and intel from sites all day, sniffing out graft—with Sherin's aid when needed.
Each catch triggered the Horse Mask: the Brotherhood's "executioner" with grotesquely elongated legs.
"M-mercy! Please, just this once—"
Crunch. The pleading Altoin man's head flew.
The scum—who'd lured rural women to the capital for brothel sales—met his end.
Shan eyed the huddled, terrified Altoin women in back, tossed them cloaks, and left.
They'd seen the example; the dead guy's underlings would clean up if they valued their skins.
"Th-thank you!"
One woman bowed to his retreating back.
After repeats like this, the Horse Mask swordsman became a guardian symbol to Altoin slum-dwellers—shielding them from brutal kin.
Once twenty would-be rebels got massacred, the exploiters either adapted or fled.
Reform success, either way.
The Brotherhood's shift inevitably drew "Council" eyes.
It was nominally one of their crime syndicates, after all.
Roden skipped personal summons, sending a new high executive instead.
"Internal matter?"
"That's right."
The Council rep scowled; the executive—Mung, now Brotherhood Council liaison and ex-pickpocket overseer—swallowed hard.
Facing crime-world heavyweights? Nerve-wracking.
"Fine... but we need one assurance. The Brotherhood still part of the Council?"
"Of course."
That satisfied him; his sour face bloomed into a smile.
As minor questions wrapped up talks, Mung relayed the boss's order.
"Keep hands off Shan Barendil?"
"Long-term recruitment op for a fellow Altoin. No friendly fire between Council allies."
"Mosquitoes'll bitch. They were gunning for him over their kin."
The rep muttered headache-ward.
Mung forced resolve.
"A knight killing some mosquitoes a crime? Let's not fight fellow humans. Stronger Brotherhood bolsters Council clout—win-win."
As he spoke, Mung's pickpocket finesse slipped a bribe into the rep's sleeve: a hefty gemmed necklace.
The rep smirked thinly, spotting it.
"I'll report up that way."
Bribe landed; Mung sighed relief.
Then the rep dangled bait.
"If recruitment flops, might need elimination. Could hire your executioner—heads up."
The rep grinned, amused. His rep was spreading underground already: the freak-legged Altoin swordsman slicing through a dozen lone-fighter elites solo.
Rare talent in the shadows, where hidden masters abounded.
Top-tier aces got scooped by nobles sans major crimes.
"Wonder who'd win: Green-Eyed Knight vs. Brotherhood Executioner. Lots buzzing about it."
He chuckled, admitting his own curiosity.
Thus, Shan's alter ego whispered through the underbelly.
Soon after talks, the Council replied as expected: "We'll try recruitment; if fail, eliminate—and notify."
Roden nodded, pleased.
As new Brotherhood head, he'd decide if "recruitment" took years or decades.
One safeguard made the gambit worthwhile.
Nearly two months of hustling to seize the underworld.
Sweltering summer yielded to fallen leaves blanketing the ground.
Cool autumn winds brought Shan and Roden a breather as the Brotherhood adapted, easing the need for constant surveillance and harsh crackdowns.
The loose structure—controlled by a few letters from the old boss—would self-manage once streamlined.
Gazing at the vivid autumn sky, Shan mused.
"Maybe time for a Demon Realm run."
"Relic pickup?"
"Yeah."
He'd planned to sit on it half a year before selling; timing felt right.
Well-hidden, but worries crept about someone snagging it.
"Brotherhood okay without you awhile?"
"Should be. Old boss barely contacted 'em. Built to run itself."
Otherwise, they'd have smashed it outright instead of this hassle.
Roden scratched his mustache thoughtfully.
"Princess worries me, though. Royal mood's sour lately?"
"Yeah. She's swamped."
Sherin had jumped in early on Brotherhood takeover but now barely responded.
Court atmosphere was grim—anyone could've guessed without spies.
Recently, knights loyal to Princes Conrad and Elvin clashed, hacking off limbs and guts.
Citizens looked downright anxious.
"If shit hits, she might need us. Better stick to the capital... but can't stall forever."
Shan was the ultimate warrior; now they had Brotherhood muscle too.
A few secretly trained Altoin knights plus fifty armable youths could tip scales between princes—not win outright, but sway.
As they keenly watched palace moves, chaos erupted—from the far east.
"Shedil City's in peril!"
"Monster hordes surging west!"
The news came from the army—sent months back by the princes to "rescue Dad" (or pretend)—now a ragged remnant.
Originally knights, squires, mercenaries, priests—now under a third, mostly grievously wounded. Pure routed survivors.
The news hitting Hasra soon spread to Webers mansion.
"Monster army?"
"Seems so. Army poked something nasty..."
Roden grimaced, piecing intel from contacts.
Months prior, the princes' forces raced east competitively beyond Demon Realm.
Promise of barony and lands for king-healing relic fueled zeal.
Zeal sans knowledge/skills spells disaster.
Storming Demon Realm, they crumbled under swarming monsters and toxic environs.
No Ajun Kingdom crusade savvy, no ace commanders—just split rabble. Inevitable.
Shedil explorers stuck to small teams for reason.
Weeks in, central collapse; scraps limped to Shedil.
Princes' discards as planned—story should've ended.
But soon after, vast monster army pursued from Demon Realm westward.
Stragglers from the rout had stirred and lured them to mainland.
"They're not rampaging wild—some control. Mixed breeds, yet coordinated."
"Herd Lord..."
"Bingo."
Shan murmured a culture-class memory.
Monsters usually shun or feud cross-species, but exceptions: innate charisma draws packs to a "protector."
Called Herd Lords.
Ancient Arman Empire fell to one; the future Crimson-Winged Lagrita crushed legions with her horde.
They cropped up periodically.
This time, realm-ransacking troops bloated the horde size.
"This Herd Lord's an ogre. Underlings: dozen big beasts, hundreds mediums. Total wipeouts wherever they hit."
Ogres ranked high among giants.
Variable, but Shan's old cockatrice peer or slightly above.
With heavy escorts? No minor noble coalition stood chance.
National war-level threat.
Word spread; palace began recruiting for monster counteroffensive.
Then a Webers guest: not Princess Sherin, but her guard knight Aran.
"Her Highness can't step away now."
Aran said stiffly.
Tensions peaked; Sherin couldn't roam freely.
Slight suspicion triggered prince freakouts, accusing her of enemy collusion.
"Princes won't commit elites. Pulling knights for ogre tips scales too far."
No trust for joint pullback either.
Thus rabble for ogre hunt—high-risk suicide gig.
"Hard to sit ogre subjugation out?"
"Yes."
Months post-Castaman vampire, cockatrice fame peaked.
Bailing now? Unimaginable backlash.
Unlike command-bound knights, he was free-roaming.
Even sans rep-hit, Shan craved the fight.
Ogre clash promised cockatrice-thrill redux.
That electric edge against foes who could pulverize you anytime...
Brain-melting dopamine rush. Addictive.
"Figured you'd say that... Here."
Aran sighed resignedly, proffering an item.
Shan eyed the blood-red potion vial; she explained.
"Her Highness's gift and commission fee. Life-saver from grievous wounds. Price: return alive."
Shan gazed, then accepted reverently with both hands, bowing.
To the maker, not Aran.
"Tell her thanks—and I'll return alive."