Blue-Gray Herb

The shrill whistle cut short near the mouth of the front alley, quickly replaced by the thunderous clatter of heavy combat boots storming up the rickety wooden stairs to the second floor.

Orban jerked the front door's iron bar loose and hauled it open. Half a dozen Belok City Guardsmen in navy-blue greatcoats flooded into the office, their gun muzzles sweeping the room in unison.

The man leading them took in the scene in rapid succession: the soot-blackened walls, the shattered kerosene jugs, and the hog-tied thugs on the floor. His gaze shifted next to Irina's greatsword, then down to the holster at my hip.

"Orban."

"Inspector Habel. Did that illegal arms probe down at the southern warehouses wrap up nicely?"

"Got back last night. Spent all week eating dust on the city fringes, only to return and nearly find your office reduced to cinders."

"Not my arson, I assure you."

"If you'd set it, you'd be lying face-down next to those bastards over there."

Inspector Habel Rott. He was the veteran investigator Orban sought out whenever he had business with the Belok City Guard. Running errands over the past year, I had crossed paths with him a handful of times myself.

He looked perpetually bored, as if he lacked even an ounce of enthusiasm for anything under the sun, yet he handled his duties with razor-sharp precision. The half-assed brush-off we'd received yesterday ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠regarding our request for protective patrols had evidently come from some green recruit holding down the desk while Habel was away.

"Signs of gunfire. Who pulled the trigger?"

I jerked my chin toward the second gunman, who was slumped groaning against the stairwell wall. "The shooter over there. He put one round through the upper doorframe."

"And on your end?"

"Self-defense, purely bare-handed. Didn't fire a single shot."

Habel glanced at the Sermaize revolver on my hip and thrust out an open palm.

Keeping my fingers far from the hammer, I set the gun flat on the desk. Habel checked the cylinder and the barrel for powder burns, satisfied it hadn't been discharged, and handed it back.

As I holstered the revolver, Irina, standing beside me, pulled a silver badge from inside her longcoat and presented it.

"Irina Weiss, Section Chief of the ARC Headquarters Security Bureau. The four bound men destroyed the rear latch under cover of night, committed breaking and entering, attempted arson, and sought to murder the occupants within."

"You're in downtown Belok. Arson and attempted murder with a firearm fall under City Guard jurisdiction."

"Naturally. However, the targets they sought to eliminate include key witnesses under the official protection of Headquarters Security. As a representative of the Security Bureau, I will be attending their formal interrogation."

Habel scrutinized the seal on the silver plaque for a long moment, then gave a weary shrug.

"File an official request, and you can sit in. But..." The inspector's gaze flicked back and forth between the four hulking brutes splayed across the floor and the two of us standing there. "Who took them down?"

"Section Chief Irina and me."

The tip of Habel's pen froze. He stared dumbly at my slight, fifteen-year-old frame, then at Irina's slender, willowy elven build, before sucking in a sharp breath.

"...The two of you? All four of these brutes?"

"Yes."

Irina gave ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an impassive nod. Habel glanced at me one more time, then began scribbling the statement into his notebook.

I snorted softly and shrugged. What if he didn't believe it? It wasn't like I was going to wake the bastards up just to beat them senseless again to prove a point.

Watching my reaction, the corners of Irina's lips curved faintly upward. When our eyes met, she smoothed away her amusement and returned to answering Habel's questions.

The guardsmen gathered the evidence onto a white cloth spread over the floor: the dropped revolver, five live cartridges, a crowbar, two kitchen knives, and a box of matches.

Feeling Irina's eyes on me and a slight twinge of guilt, I quietly slipped out the folding knife I had lifted earlier and tossed it onto the pile.

The coins and tobacco, however, stayed put. Money and luxuries didn't stab people, which made them a completely justified night-shift bonus for an overworked part-timer.

Orban nudged the faces of the bound men back with the toe of his boot, inspecting each in turn, before stopping in front of the ringleader who had held the kerosene bottle.

"Varen Kloss."

The thug's eyelids fluttered frantically.

"You know him, Orban?"

"Used to bounce at a dive bar down by the north docks. Last year, he was one of the hired thugs swinging clubs to break up the dockworkers' unpaid wage protest. A petty criminal who'll take any job for a handful of coin, whether it's debt collection or demolition."

"So he's no professional hitman."

"Far from it."

Varen spat bloody saliva onto the floor and screeched, "W-we don't take murder contracts!"

"Bullshit," Orban cut in, merciless with the facts. "You poured kerosene and tossed a light. Who the hell do you think you're fooling?"

With Orban's verbal hammer blow landing true, Inspector Habel crouched down in front of Varen.

"Who hired you?"

"I-I don't know his name! He had a mask on!"

"Start with what you do know."

When Varen clamped his teeth shut, the match-holding thug tied up behind him cracked first.

"That bastard told me he'd pay two silver coins for the job! Said there was nothing inside except two injured guys and an old broker geezer! I swear to God, no one said anything about killing anyone!"

"Is that so? Then what were the kerosene and matches for?"

At Habel's dry, sardonic retort, the match-wielder clamped his mouth shut. They weren't hardened killers; they were just cheap street scum blinded by easy coin.

According to them, they had met their client three days ago inside an abandoned leather tannery. The client wore a dark green coat and a broad-brimmed hat, paying each of them two silver coins up front. The floor plan and final orders had been delivered separately last night. The client had promised the rear door latch would be unbarred beforehand, instructing them to retrieve a pocket notebook and get out.

So the mastermind used them as disposable cannon fodder to cleanly cut the tail, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I thought.

The guardsmen hauled the men away one by one. As the match-holder tripped on the stairs, a small paper packet tumbled from his torn overcoat, landing right before my boots.

Well, look at that.

It was a luxury cigarette case made of heavy navy cardstock, embossed with an intricate silver leaf. A manufacturer's red wax seal remained pristine across the opening—an unopened, brand-new pack.

Reflexively, I slid my right foot out and covered the pack beneath the sole of my boot. While the guardsmen were occupied loading Varen onto a stretcher, I crouched down as though fixing my laces and slipped the packet smoothly up my sleeve.

Looting isn't over until the aftermath is cleared.

Inspector Habel turned back to Irina before heading down. "Interrogation begins at ten in the morning at Guard Headquarters. Bring the official request form."

"I will be there promptly."

Two guardsmen were stationed at the front entrance and the back alley as a perimeter watch just in case. Now that fires had erupted and guns had gone off, bureaucratic protocol had suddenly grown accommodating.

By the time the wagon bearing the prisoners rattled away into the distance, the eastern sky was graying with dawn.

Downstairs, the laundromat workers hauled out damp ashes and soot by the bucketful. Finding a coarse broom in the corner, I began scraping the sticky black grime off the wooden stairs.

My hands trembled around the handle. Every time I stepped down a riser, my right leg threatened to buckle. Even though the clash had ended long ago, my heart was hammering as if I'd just sprinted a full marathon.

Orban walked over and snatched the broom right out of my hands.

"The floor isn't going anywhere. Go sit down."

"Neither am I."

"Which is why you should park your stubborn ass on a seat and rest."

I didn't have the breath to argue. Inverting an empty tin bucket sitting by the landing, I collapsed onto it.

From my inner coat pocket, I pulled out the crushed pack I'd filched earlier from the thug's pocket. It was cheap stuff—a single blue leaf crudely printed onto faded gray paper.

Orban paused mid-sweep, glanced at it, and clicked his tongue.

"That's Cheonghoecho. Cheap tobacco blended with leftover analgesic herbs. It's a harsh weed the dockworkers smoke when their backs are ready to snap."

"A painkiller?"

"Close enough. Top-grade stuff, refined from pure stalks and leaves, spikes mana conductivity for a brief window, so those high-and-mighty wizards pay good coin to smoke it before chanting spells. Though what's in your hand is third-rate dregs—no mana to speak of, just acrid nicotine and a bitter tang."

Who cares if it's third-rate? My thighs feel ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like they're splintering right now.

I pulled the luxury navy pack from my sleeve and held it out toward him.

"What about this, then?"

Orban's eyebrows shot up the moment he saw the silver-foiled leaf and the unbroken wax seal.

"Well, well... That's the real deal. High-purity refined Cheonghoecho. You have to shell out several silver coins at a Mage Association dispensary for that. Definitely not something a petty thug should have in his pocket."

So there's a mage or serious money pulling the strings behind this.

Pocketing the good stuff for later, I fished a cigarette from the opened, cheap gray pack and popped it between my lips. Through the thin paper tip, flecks of dried bluish leaf showed through.

Scrrrtch.

I struck a match, cupping the flame in my palm. Rolling the tip slowly to light it evenly, I blew out the match with a sharp puff.

Orban stared down at me in sheer disbelief.

"Did that facility of yours teach you how to smoke in primary education?"

"Picked it up watching others."

In my past life, I smoked a pack a day until I was twenty-nine. This is child's—

I inhaled deeply. My muscle memory was practiced, but Sonya's pristine, fifteen-year-old lungs and trachea were entirely unprepared.

"Cough! Hck, cough!"

The harsh, biting smoke scraped down my throat like coarse sandpaper. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as racking coughs tore through my chest, but I bit down hard and swallowed the smoke down.

As I exhaled slowly through my nostrils, a faint blue luminescence drifted in the curling vapor.

Along with the scent of burning dried grass, a bitter, metallic taste settled on the back of my tongue. I tapped the cylinder with a forefinger, flicking the ash down into the overturned bucket.

Back in South Korea, if a fifteen-year-old was caught smoking in an alleyway, some passing elder would have slapped them upside the head. But in this world, fourteen-year-olds ground iron twelve hours a day in factories, and fifteen-year-olds bled on battlefields with mercenary bands.

Instead of taking it away, Orban merely muttered, "Don't drag too deep," and went back to his sweeping.

The second drag went down much smoother.

By the time the paper had burned halfway down, a lukewarm, languid warmth began coursing through my veins. The razor-sharp muscular aches that had been driving awls into my inner thighs softened, their jagged edges ground smooth.

The pain was still there, but I no longer needed to grind my teeth against it. My heart beat a fraction faster, yet the vicious trembling in my fingertips subsided with uncanny speed.

Damn, this stuff works. No wonder the day-laborers swear by it.

Irina, who had been drafting the attendance request form for the Guard at the office desk, raised her head.

I pushed myself up and walked over to her desk. Pulling out the unopened navy pack of high-purity refined Cheonghoecho, I slid it across the wood toward her.

"Take it, Section Chief."

Irina paused her pen, looking from the pack to my face. A flicker of curiosity brushed through her languid gray eyes, but she asked no questions, simply slipping it deep into the inside pocket of her longcoat.

"...Thank you."

At ten in the morning, Irina set out for Guard Headquarters carrying the official request.

Roughly two hours later, the suppressed aches began creeping back into my limbs. But thanks to having relaxed once, the edge was off, and walking around was no longer an agonizing ordeal.

A little past noon, Irina returned to the office. In her hands, along with a copy of the Guard's interrogation transcript, was a thin official document.

Orban picked up the sheet spread out on the desk and examined it.

Irina read the date stamped next to the red seal. I leaned in to look where her slender finger pointed.

"This was... exactly two days before Manager Beltz was shot at the South Gate canal."

Leaning against the bed in the inner room, Beltz kept his eyes closed in heavy silence. Even from Orban's face, his usual cynical amusement had completely vanished.

Irina laid the release document side by side with the arsonist's confession. Now, we had irrefutable grounds to ask the Central Branch Security Division why they had sprung Varen Kloss from jail.