Sevillea, the Plague-Polluted City (3)
As always, the heart houses the "core." Just as the human vital spot is the heart. Just as a mage's mana gathers entirely in the heart.
For demons, the mana core known as the "magic stone" resides in the heart as well.
Not all magical beasts are like this. Vulnerable demons began storing their magic stones elsewhere to protect their hearts. But most living, corporeal magical beasts carry their magic stones in the heart.
To utilize the pipeline that spreads mana fastest throughout the body—the "blood vessels."
In other words, to safely extract the magic stone, you must target the heart but carve it out cleanly.
Shluck.
I thrust my sword forward. The massive magical beast—a troll—had just raised its club high toward me, but now its twisted face contorts in a grimace.
"Guh... keck...!"
Stabbing through the chest muscle and into the area around the heart won't kill it instantly. The troll's greatest strength is its regenerative power, and the source of that lies in the heart.
But.
Shluck.
I twist the mana-infused sword forcefully, severing the blood vessels connected to the heart.
Before a fountain of blood can spray forward, I step on the troll's thigh and vault onto its shoulder.
—Do I really need to use only my hands for the sword?
One of the masters once said that to me.
—As long as you bring down the enemy in the end, it doesn't matter if you use something other than your hands.
Just as he said, and just as he did.
"Grraaaah!!"
Before the troll can reach for me, I hurl my body downward. At the same time, I spin in midair, channeling mana into my toes, and kick hard.
Shluuuck!
The sword plunges even deeper toward the troll's chest. My kick hits the sword's tip precisely, driving it further into the regenerating muscle, while I pour mana from the hilt all the way to the blade's edge.
Not quite aura, but momentarily mimicking it—the entire blade sharpens as mana flows through.
"Tch."
The troll glares at me with eyes full of murderous intent, but—
"Gra—"
Its hand grasps at empty air, and its massive body topples backward.
Thuuud!
The moment it hits the ground, the troll crashes down in a spread-eagle. The sword embedded in its chest tries to keep gushing blood, but now it's stuck fast like a blade lodged in a giant boulder.
If I cast a petrification spell on it like this, maybe far in the future it could become known as some legendary holy sword sealing away an ancient demon.
"Young master!"
"I'm fine."
The Whites, who had been providing ranged support from behind, rushed over in a panic.
"Any injuries...!"
"None. Mente said it'd be safe from the start."
"Even if it grabs you, it'd just be a beating at worst."
"Hah, but if you get even a scratch, we'll get an earful from the margrave...!"
"He doesn't get how servants feel."
"Mente...!"
"And I'm not the one getting chewed out anyway."
The Whites turned toward Mente with faces on the verge of tears, but she just shrugged with a playful grin.
This makes seven expeditions already.
At first, they eyed each other warily, but after suffering through a few expeditions together, they seemed to have grown close.
A petite but upper-rank kingdom knight who could cut them down in an instant. A young imperial double agent they had to look up to, despite her age.
"You're too much, seriously. I might just report to the Empire that 'Lady Mente is a trash human being' next time."
"That'd be music to my ears. If they hear a scum like me is sticking to Grey, they'll underestimate him even more."
Not an easy group to bond with, but under Grey Gibraltar's command, they could at least trade jokes laced with malice.
"Enough chit-chat."
I pulled the sword free from the troll.
"Come recover the troll's heart. And collect some of its blood too."
Magical beasts mean money. Not the whole body, but harvest the profitable parts efficiently.
Wild griffon wings. Orc hides. Mandrake roots.
In this case, for the troll I'd hunted solo, it was the heart.
"How's the magic stone?"
"I-it's mid-grade. Close to high-grade, though..."
"Not quite high-grade, huh. Well, a high-grade one would've made it a troll chieftain."
The basic byproduct from those of the "demon" realm: the "magic stone."
"For the blood, collect the black stuff, not the red. The bestiary said to draw it while it's still alive to preserve the full healing properties."
"Young master, where do you even hear this stuff? Does the imperial newspaper have monster hunting guides?"
"Iferia Outlets imports imperial books too. There was a manual on monster tactics."
And the troll's blood, infused with its innate powerful regeneration.
"A perfect surprise gift for Baron Sevillea, who only has his family's secret recipes."
"......"
"What's with that, Robert."
Robert, who had just taken down his own troll, scratched his head as he approached.
"Young master. Seriously, are you... going to kill him? Or rather, let him die?"
"An old man with no shred of kindness, clacking his dentures while nagging his subjects nonstop, preaching that the elderly should just die—yet gobbling up every 'health tonic' to squeeze out even one more year of life, a pathetic geezer like that..."
"Sounds like you want to half-kill him, Sir Robert?"
"If asked whether he's committed sins worthy of death..."
Robert steadied his breath for a moment.
"...If you deem his words and deeds a capital crime, young master, I'll follow your will."
His expression darkened, not quite pure white anymore.
"Nah, no. Stay as you are, Sir Robert. Hearing that makes me look like the good guy."
"G-good...?"
"If I'm surrounded only by black-hearted types like you, Sir Robert, I might do something crazy later and get scolded for it."
I gestured at the Whites, and their faces soured briefly—but what could they do?
They'd once implicitly joined numbers 9, 18, and 27 in trying to kill me. Now they lacked the guts or skill for assassination, clinging to me for survival and success while playing double agent.
Those born in darkness can't turn pure white just by wearing white on the outside.
If I ordered it, they'd infiltrate as maids and assassinate Baron Sevillea.
No matter how much white you mix into black, it just becomes grayish.
"I'm always grateful for you, Sir Robert. Otherwise, I might've already put one of those assassination ideas in my head into action."
"I won't report it, but... why are you folding and unfolding your fingers like that? What are you thinking?"
"Hm..."
I turned my gaze to the wheeled cart that number 81 was pulling.
"Mix in a toxin that worsens wounds with the troll blood."
Troll blood potions laced with imperial Silver Dust prevent clotting, causing massive hemorrhage and death.
"Spread rumors that mandrake roots are good for you."
Kingdom folk don't know mandrakes' malice—if not handled right, they regrow roots in their pot and scream into human ears at night, rupturing eardrums.
"Or say the zombie ginkgo fruits here smell like blood but boost virility if eaten often."
"Young master..."
"This one's real, aside from the poison."
"......"
The empire's improved magical tree, ginkgo—its fruits. Eat thirty a day thinking they're an aphrodisiac, and trace toxins accumulate until death.
"This isn't assassination. Just not telling him."
"Young master..."
"And in the kingdom, failure to warn is only a crime against the Nostrum royals."
Noble infighting? They don't care.
"Worst case, if I assassinate Baron Sevillea and take his territory, what would the royals do?"
"Warn you, or charge you with noble murder, obviously?"
"They would. But why?"
"W-well, obviously..."
Robert glanced at Mente.
"Lady Mente, do you know?"
"Not because you killed a noble, but because you're Grey Gibraltar."
"Perfect score, Lady Mente."
As expected of a knight with long central service.
"To add to what the young master said: even if you became Baron Sevillea, they'd ignore you as long as taxes flow steadily. Same for you, Sir Robert, from common knight stock."
"140 points, Lady Mente."
"Ah ha. So the royals want to check Gibraltar's growing power?"
Robert clapped, mouth agape.
"Anyone can be a noble as long as it's not Gibraltar—as long as they're loyal to Nostrum."
"Pretty much. And anyway, doesn't a stronger noble mean...?"
"That house is more likely to produce a hero!"
"Exactly."
The kingdom is obsessed with heroes. Everything revolves around them.
"They even marry princesses to criminal heroes to pardon their crimes."
No one knows if a hero will be born today, but.
"Of course, a hero's bloodline can still go down if they get arrogant after a title."
Heroes are great; their descendants aren't automatically.
To prove worth, keep producing heroes like Gibraltar—or at least uphold the family honor.
"House Sevillea has history. Their founder, the heroine Lady Sevillea, was the right hand of Mercenary King 'Blondia' who crushed a massive magical beast outbreak in the pollution zone for Nostrum."
"Wild tales say she's Blondia's descendant."
"Founder was a woman, so lineage is clear—but whether she's truly the Mercenary King's seed? Who knows."
"......"
"Plenty in the kingdom claim hero blood. For you, Sir Robert, isn't it better if Sevillea gets slandered like that?"
Wild tale: Great hero and Mercenary King, Sword Master Blondia, sowed his seed in Sevillea territory.
"Whether it's the Sevillea line or you here, Sir Robert, who's the real descendant—no one knows."
"Don't say that, young master."
"Why? Too insulting to the baron?"
"Not just that—if you say it, it starts sounding true..."
"Fair point."
Mente chimed in beside Robert's worry.
"Sometimes the young master has this habit of stating unknown secrets like predictions. Like Sir Cardian Gibraltar."
"That's not true, Lady Mente."
This was a real misunderstanding.
"I wish it were."
Sir Robert's future was just dying loyal to the kingdom, outraged by Gibraltar's rebellion.
This life, I've learned more about him. How could I know if his ancestor was a great hero or just another commoner who rose in crisis?
"Right? Haha, yeah. Me, a hero's descendant? What a joke."
"Sure. If it were true, I'd have investigated your bloodline four years ago and made you the legitimate Baron Sevillea."
"......"
"Why? Want me to look into it now?"
"No... sigh."
Robert shook his head, exasperated.
"I'll just stick to guarding you comfortably, young master. As for Baron Sevillea... hm."
"Speaking of that geezer—and the failure-to-warn crime."
Someone's dying soon.
"Suppose I had Sir Cardian's prophetic sight. Though it's just speculation he did—and roughly, let's say I have future vision."
"Roughly, suppose, so basically...?"
"Yeah. Under that assumption, imagine I miraculously foresaw Baron Sevillea's death."
Even knowing that future, I have no duty to warn him.
"If I had to, history's heroes would've done it countless times."
And 500 years of Nostrum history proves it.
"Those suspected of foresight saved only those who benefited them—the 'heroes'—or prepped them ahead."
"......"
"For the greater good of saving the kingdom, it was an 'unavoidable sacrifice' in the best light. So."
If the same situation arose for me.
"No time to struggle saving a denture-clacking geezer with days left—instead, plan to care for Sevillea territory's people amid the chaos after he dies. That's the gain."
"If that's how you see it, young master, what's the ideal future for Sevillea territory?"
"Hm... well."
Not Gibraltar, so I haven't thought deeply.
"Conservatively, the next baron would run it like now even if the current one dies. No big issue."
"And if a big problem arises?"
"It would be. For example..."
I wiped the troll blood from my robe.
"The baron, fearing death, desperately tries elixirs to delay aging—ones he shouldn't touch."
Time had passed while talking, but the blood was still sticky and hot.
"One man's choice causing a man-made disaster for the whole territory."
I believe fate can change.
But altering a grown adult's foundation requires something like time regression—humans don't change otherwise.
"Remember this, Sir Robert: the Grey Gibraltar you serve is..."
I shook the blood off onto the ground.
"A selfish man who chooses whatever benefits him, be it white or black."
Hiss.
"And even with such foresight, he wouldn't flaunt it carelessly for others to catch."
Steam rises as the blood hits the cold ground.
"Predicting the baron's death isn't declaring intent to assassinate—or spoiling fate with prophecy."
Simply.
"Inductive reasoning based on the life he's built."
No one can stop a man dying from his own folly, no matter what you say.
"Even from seven expeditions, it's clear—and the Whites' investigation seals it."
The next dawn.
We finished hunting, returned to the baron's castle for rest, and left the prey-laden wagons at the territory's warehouse.
And then.
The troll blood from the magical beast corpses we'd brought at night was stolen.