Touch Our Murderer Recklessly and You Die (3)

Perhaps thanks to finally sleeping, the chaos in my mind had settled a little. If I could now find it almost funny that a murderer had left behind a note lecturing people on the difference between the innocent and the wicked, then surely I was in a state to think straight again.

In other words, the time for trembling hands was over. The task before me was far too large to waste on shaking hands.

Though why I — a professor, not a student — had been handed an assignment in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠first place, I had no idea.

Be that as it may, Niger and I went back and forth with notes again and again after that. A fact I only learned belatedly: using divinity made it easy to fall asleep. So I cast the Sleep incantation on myself, and by sinking under and waking again in rapid cycles, I pinned him down over and over in conversation.

And on the desk, the messy scatter of papers remained like the record of it all — sheet after sheet packed densely with writing, pens strewn about in no particular order, ink smeared across the wood.

So I gathered up the papers, tidied them, and tucked them into my breast. Over my priest's vestments I draped a black robe. All that note-passing had pushed the hour well into the night, but there was something I had to do.

I decided to tail Professor Prodi.

If you asked why the sudden decision — through all those rounds of notes, Niger had wanted murder, unwaveringly.

He paid no heed to my doubts, repeating only that Professor Prodi had to die.

A wicked man. A human being who deserved to die. He wrote his answers like a man muttering to himself — like someone spitting words at a wall.

But then, he was a murderer. Setting aside the question of whether a killer had any right to sort the innocent from the guilty, he was already half-mad with the urge to kill.

Taking the word of such a man at face value made no sense. I muttered to myself that choosing a victim on nothing but the one-sided claim of a lunatic, without a shred of evidence, was absurd.

After all, the only targets I had ever intended to select were criminals. I had no intention of picking out someone who might turn out to be an innocent victim.

So I wrote a single line. I had to stop Niger before he manufactured a blameless casualty.

And the reply that came back made me shudder.

His answer had driven a needle straight into the part of me that only wanted to look away, out of sheer terror of murder.

After that, I chased Professor Prodi's back practically every day. When his hours at the Academy ended, he would flash his students a smile, laugh his heh-heh chuckle, and head home — and I shadowed him in secret.

The stress it piled on me was anything but light, but I couldn't very well let anyone see how much it was wearing me down, so instead I kept a smile on my face. Only Professor Elia seemed to notice the change in me, and she pressed me again and again with worried eyes.

"Professor Niger, if something's wrong, let me help. Please."

"Mm... I'm quite all right. Nothing's happened, so there's no need to worry."

I answered with a wry smile, but strictly speaking, nothing had happened yet. I was merely mentally wrung out and exhausted.

Still, if I could prove Professor Prodi had no sins to answer for, then it really would be nothing. That ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was the only way left to prove Niger wrong.

And so it was the fourth day.

I had begun investigating Professor Prodi the very first night of the semester, following him out into the dark — and mercifully, up through yesterday, the third day, I had found nothing at all.

Naturally. The man finished work late every evening, went home, and passed out cold. Watch him all night and what more would you discover than the fact that he snores in his sleep?

Keeping vigil over him had been deepening the dark circles under my eyes, but even so, my heart was growing lighter. Four days of tailing him, and I found myself leaning more and more toward the conclusion that Professor Prodi was blameless.

I pulled my robe around me and stepped outside.

The sky over the street was drenched in violet, spilling gorgeous color across everything. It was barely evening, but spring was still young, and the swiftly sinking sun shimmered between the buildings.

Tap, tap— my heels struck the cobblestones. The robe billowed in the breeze that slipped past.

"Hey, move it! Out of the way, now!"

A carriage rattled through. The driver shouted at the pedestrians to clear a path, and murmurs of complaint rippled among the people milling about. Street lamps flickered to life one by one along the avenue. I crossed beneath their glow, heading for Professor Prodi's house.

I ignored the occasional furtive glance and simply walked on.

By Niger's word, I had a week. If Professor Prodi committed nothing within that week, Niger had said he would admit he was wrong. Today was the day I crossed the midpoint of that span, and I was certain the professor would go home after work and sit quietly.

Really — honestly, if the man had done nothing but lie in bed and sleep until now, what would be more normal than him doing exactly that for the three days or so remaining?

Before I knew it I had arrived at Professor Prodi's house, and I climbed, without thinking, onto the roof of the neighboring building. From there, the professor's bedroom was visible straight through the window.

So today, surely, he'd be sprawled in bed, snoring away and... he was not.

He had changed his clothes and wrapped himself in a cloak. In other words, he was dressed and ready to go somewhere.

"Oh, please. Could you just stay home for once in your life?"

Gritting my teeth, I had no choice but to wait for him to come out.

Before long, Professor Prodi stepped out of the house. Whether out of wariness of prying eyes, he glanced around once before slipping swiftly into a carriage.

I didn't bother descending from the rooftop. Instead, I layered a physical reinforcement buff over my body.

The carriage seemed bent on traveling unseen, ducking into one deserted alley after another, and I decided it would be easier simply to chase it across the rooftops.

How long did I pursue it like that?

Cold sweat broke over me. Ragged breath rasped out of my mouth, hah— hah—.

It was the price of the insane gamble of leaping between rooftops on nothing but a buff and raw physical ability. One small slip and I would plunge straight to my death — the fear kept pressing in.

But what no fear could hide was the anxious instinct gnawing at me: that I was about to face a truth I didn't want to believe. The cold sweat, the ragged breathing — neither could conceal what was in my heart.

At last, the carriage stopped in the mouth of a deserted alley.

Professor Prodi stepped down, pulled his cloak tight, and knocked on a certain door.

"I say — open the door."

"Please state the passphrase."

The tiny exchange reached my ears, the voices of Prodi and someone unknown braided together.

"A tender flower is meant to be plucked."

"Haha, come in, come in. I'd thought you wouldn't be gracing us this week."

"As if I would stay away. Circumstances arose, and I've had to endure a bit of torment. Would you believe it — some priestly cur snapped my hand clean off, right there inside the Academy, no less."

The tone was polished, but the content spilling from his mouth was base and graceless.

"So that's how it is. Those religion types really are madmen."

"You're telling me. And what's more, that lunatic claimed he could sense something sinister about me — so I've been treading carefully, just in case. Which reminds me, my friends... do you happen to take commissions as well?"

With my hearing reinforced, every word of their conversation came through in fine detail. Never mind the content itself — the familiarity of that exchange was what grated. It was proof enough that he had visited places like this many times before.

He disappeared into the building, and I drifted slowly down from the roof.

Just as he had, I knocked naturally on the iron door between the alleys.

Knock, knock—

"Open the door, please."

"...We were done taking guests for the night. Hm. The passphrase, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠then."

"A tender flower is meant to be plucked."

I had heard the passphrase clear as day. I had no idea what it meant, but as long as I could get inside, it hardly mattered.

"Hmm... come in, then. Might I ask — did someone send you?"

"Yes. I suppose you could say I have a referral."

If it was Professor Prodi's referral, then he was my referrer.

Following the man, I stepped inside.

A long corridor stretched ahead, thick with a musty stench. It was a smell worthy of the word reeking, and as I frowned faintly, the man leading the way gave a snort of laughter.

"I take it this is your first time in such a place, honored guest. First-timers always wrinkle their noses like that."

"...I suppose that's only natural. It's hardly an ordinary establishment."

"Haha — all the better for releasing your desires, though, I'd say."

The man grinned a lecherous grin and came to a stop. We had reached the end of the corridor. Speaking to me as he went, he swung the door before us wide open.

"Then simply tell us which 'merchandise' you'd like."

The door opened, and the musty reek I'd found unpleasant billowed out far worse. Under the dim lighting, the scene beyond the door carved itself into my eyes.

"...Merchandise."

Ah... fucking hell.

"Haha. Yes, we keep only top-grade stock, so I'm certain you'll be quite satisfied as well."

Throughout the wide room, countless children were on display like objects. Some faces were drenched in tears; others had already surrendered to acceptance, half-naked, bound where they sat.

Small rooms were visible across the space.

And from inside those rooms came the sound of sobbing. Thin, tiny wails.

Truly — the crying of pitiable things being broken.

Only then did I think I understood what that musty stench really was. Under the shadow of the Empire, something utterly filthy was happening.

"Honored guest? You aren't choosing?"

Choose.

You will have to choose, then and there.

Yes. I had to choose.

Only after seeing this, only after learning the truth, did I finally understand why Niger had raged and loathed so bitterly. For a man who had cherished Beati, the thought of creatures who vented their lust on children would have been beyond imagining — beyond grasping.

I had never once thought I would end up understanding a murderer's feelings like this.

Ha.

Beasts. Every last one of them.

I laid my hand on the rosario and gripped it tight. The ordinary prayer beads transformed in an instant into a long mace, and I swung it with everything I had at the attendant standing behind me.

THWACK—

A dull, heavy sound rolled through the room.

"Gghk— GAAAAKH!!"

A scream of agony followed, and I glanced back. A man lay sprawled where my mace had crushed his legs — and strangely, I felt no guilt at all.

So I turned my eyes to the children instead, closed them with a hollow feeling, and raised my hand. It was time to choose.

"AAAAAGH...! You ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crazy bastard... you son of a... hkk, kill me... kill me...!"

Ignoring the voice behind me, I let divinity flow into my chest.

Divinity streamed through my body, and strength drained out of my limbs. Tangled thoughts kept churning through my head, and through the dimming edge of my vision, the children were still there.

You son of a bitch—!

A curse reached me through the haze, but I paid it no mind and shut my eyes.

The world went dark.

The man with the mace in one hand — Niger — opened his eyes.

He had merely closed them for the briefest moment, and yet the aura around the man had thickened, gone still and heavy. The eyes that had flown wide at the shocking scene now held only a calm, quiet killing intent.

"I see.... So this is the choice you've made."

He spoke quietly, then regarded the mace in his hand like a man to whom nothing at all had happened. Behind him came the screams of the thug whose legs had been pulped, and before him, figures were already charging — and still he seemed utterly unbothered.

He flicked the mace lightly, shaking off the flecks of flesh and blood.

Unlike the awkwardness of before, he gripped the mace now with easy familiarity and closed his eyes.

What he was thinking, no one could say — but soon enough, the crazed smile that spread across his face seemed to lay his heart bare.

One by one, the children crumpled to the floor with soft thuds, and only then did Niger lift the mace and speak.

"...Repent through death."

Deep killing intent bled from his narrowly slitted eyes. The voice that left his lips was rough, as if phlegm boiled in his throat.

And with those words, he hefted the mace high and smashed in the skull of the man behind him. A wet splat — the sound of a brain bursting — rang out, and he turned, as though accustomed to it, toward the next target.

The next one. And the one after that.

The mace swung, a dull thwack sounded, and naturally the corpses piled higher. The headless would say nothing, so the screaming was left to those still breathing.

"P-please... spare me...! Please...! GAAKH...!"

The skull of the man begging for his life was crushed. He seemed about to say something more, but Niger paid it no mind and swung.

Blood sprayed. Brains spilled out and soaked the floor.

Those who resisted, even a little, died screaming in agony with their limbs pulped.

The one who had tried to seize a child as a hostage had his fingers and toes shattered first, wailing until he begged them to just let him die.

And then—

Creak—

The door swung open without warning, and the man who emerged from within took in the scene outside, then turned his gaze away in a daze, as though struck by shock.

And their eyes met.

Crazed eyes bore down, unblinking, on Professor Prodi's trembling body.

"So there you were."

The rough voice spilled across the room. Dragging the mace, flecked with flesh, Niger advanced on him.

At the sight, Professor Prodi slammed the door shut in naked terror. From the sound of chanted words, he seemed to be layering defensive magic—

BOOOOM—

With a sound like an explosion, the door blew apart, and eyes cold as winter steel fixed on Professor Prodi once more.

Drip— drip— droplets of blood slid down the length of the mace. The flesh caught in its head swayed, torn and ragged.

"P-Professor Niger...! S-spare me, please! It's a misunderstanding...! I too had only just uncovered their crimes—"

"...Professor Prodi."

A voice like something scraped raw. Eyes gone mad.

There was no shape of a man one could reason with there.

"...! P-please—!"

"Don't count on dying gently. Not even death itself will be enough for you to repent."

Professor Prodi groveled, head to the floor, begging without end — until the pain of his own fingers being crushed wrenched a scream out of him.

And because the screaming displeased him, Niger stuffed his mouth shut.

The mace came down.

For a long, long time.

The screaming rang on.

And so that night, the room was painted entirely in blood, and screams so pitiful they leaked beyond the building itself rang out into the dark. Wails begging to be spared and shrieks begging to be killed tangled together, and then were crushed into silence.

According to the guards who stormed the place afterward, all that remained inside were children sleeping peacefully, and corpses too mangled to recognize as human at all.