It's Not Over Yet (3)
Before the archbishop could make sense of what was happening, the Lord of Vince's voice rang out beside his ear.
[Yes! I am truly in awe. When exactly did you prepare the cure for the Cadena Flu?]
"Hold on. Did you just say a cure for the Cadena Flu?"
[Yes, yes, that's right. The remedy Your Grace sent. I was told you prepared it in secret alongside the White Tower... Did I perhaps receive some mistaken report?]
"......"
The archbishop swiftly pieced together what was unfolding, licked his lips, and asked, "And how was it? Did it actually work?"
[Of course. The patients who received the injections were miraculously healed within mere hours. If that isn't a blessing granted by the Goddess, what is? El Shia!]
[And no side effects whatsoever so far. Although, Your Grace... this is by no means meant to rush you, but might you offer even a hint as to when the second shipment might arrive?]
[I asked an elder of the White Tower, but he said that was a matter for Your Grace to decide, and simply walked away.]
The Lord of Vince spoke with the utmost deference, treading carefully at every turn.
"...As soon as the second shipment is ready, I shall send it to you. It won't take long."
[Thank you. Thank you so very much! El Shia!]
The moment the call ended, the archbishop's gaze snapped straight to Oscar.
"This is your work, isn't it?"
"Yes. It seems the shipment arrived safely."
"This is a clear violation of imperial law!"
Moira, who had belatedly caught on to the situation, flew into a rage.
"And you had best judge this carefully, Your Grace. Any medicine administered without the approval of the Imperial Food and Drug Administration is strictly forbidden, and violators face a minimum sentence of ten years' imprisonment, rising to execution depending on the outcome. This man is in defiance of the statute expressly set out in Article 2, Clause 8 of the Imperial Food Safety Act. This is a serious crime!"
"...Ahem."
The archbishop, who had harbored the same private misgiving, turned his head away. "Did you proceed without any knowledge of this fact?"
"No. I knew full well."
"There, you see! The White Tower deliberately broke the law to secure an unfair advantage. In such cases, aggravated penalties are surely—"
"They will not be applied."
Oscar cut him off flatly. Facing the three pairs of eyes now fixed upon him, he gave a careless shrug of his shoulders.
"I suppose it's because you're all used to nothing but brewing potions—your grasp of the law seems a little rusty."
"What nonsense! The Blue Tower's potion division has perfected the legal interpretation of every food law on the books—"
"Ah, but I'm not talking about food law. I'm talking about wartime law."
"...Wartime law? We're discussing the cure—what does wartime law have to do with anything?"
At that, Oscar let out a low chuckle. As if this vast empire had simply been born an empire. However peaceful it might look now, this country had been forged from countless wars, the blood piled upon blood without end. It was precisely why the body of wartime law ran so vast.
Though I suppose no one has had occasion to dig through it in the peaceful twenty years since.
Swallowing an inexplicable bitterness, Oscar spoke in a level voice.
"Twenty-two years ago, in the war against the demons, the weapon that claimed the most imperial lives was not their swords or their sorcery—it was plague. The Empire's capable mages swiftly produced cures and vaccines, but the problem was that approval through the food laws took far too long. That was the undeniable damage wrought by an outdated law failing to keep pace with the urgent realities of war. In the end, His Majesty the Emperor, unable to watch it happen any longer, added the following to Article 42, Clause 8 of Wartime Law: In times of war, medicines used to treat the wounded shall be classified as special emergency medical supplies, and shall not be subject to the Imperial Food Act."
"We are hardly in a state of war right now, so what in the world—"
"The Calderan Empire currently recognizes exactly three circumstances as constituting a state of war."
The first: the outbreak of war with another race or nation. The second: insurrection by rebels within the Empire.
"And finally, the third."
A voice as cold as ice flowed from Oscar's lips.
"...When a disaster of Grade B danger or higher threatens the safety of the Empire's subjects."
"......"
A deep, heavy silence settled over the room. Noticing a moment too late what that meant, Moira's face drained of color, and Oscar pressed on.
"Cadena Flu may be among the lowest ranked, but it is unmistakably a large-scale natural disaster designated Grade B. Which means that curing it requires no approval from the Imperial Food and Drug Administration whatsoever. Judging by your reactions, you didn't know that."
"Th-that's..."
As a flustered Moira lost his grip on himself, Neil Brion moved quickly to salvage the situation.
"Your Grace. Nothing will change by arguing the point."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that if the White Tower could do it, so can we. We will send every one of our cures to Vince Territory at once—"
"I see you still haven't grasped the situation."
"Pardon?"
Tsk, tsk. The archbishop clicked his tongue as though dealing with something pitiable.
"This contest ended the moment the White Tower's cure arrived in Vince Territory."
Only seven archbishops existed on the entire continent, and their authority—religious and political alike—was in a league of its own. And Baldwin, with his sights set on a cardinal's seat, was a man who would not tolerate so much as a speck of stain on his record.
"The Lord of Vince believes I joined hands with the White Tower to prepare this cure. Now tell me—what would become of my dignity if an archbishop were caught saying one thing with one mouth and another with the same mouth?"
"...We will lower the price further."
A flicker of displeasure swept across the archbishop's narrowed eyes.
"You dare think a paltry sum of money can purchase my dignity?"
"No, sir. That was never my intention—"
"I find this deeply unpleasant, and I have no wish to hear another word. Out. Now!"
Faced with an unmistakable order to leave, the two men had no choice but to move toward the door. Passing Oscar on his way out, Moira Maine growled low in his throat.
"You. This debt—I will repay it someday, I swear it."
"...Heh."
Where do these people pick up their scripts—an academy somewhere? How is it that twenty years have passed and the lines haven't changed one bit?
In all that time, not a single one who talked like that ever actually paid up.
Wearing a perfectly bored expression, Oscar offered a word of advice.
"Oh, and for your reference—the patent rights to the Cadena Flu cure and vaccine were already registered with the imperial family in advance."
"...What?"
Moira's eyes bulged until they seemed ready to split—he had been planning to exploit precisely that gap.
"So if you wish to use our cure, you will either pay us the patent licensing fee, promptly and in full, or dispose of your entire stock. The choice is yours."
"Ghhk—!"
"Oh, of course, I suppose Moira has rather more pressing concerns to attend to first."
The Blue Tower was not the sort of place to sit idly by while someone inflicted astronomical losses upon it. No doubt he would be reassigned to some dead-end post—or thrown out of the tower altogether. Trembling from fist to shoulder, Moira swept out of the room in a fury.
Neil Brion exchanged a light nod of parting and was quietly brushing past Oscar's side when—
"Lovely cologne you're wearing."
A mint fragrance so crisp it prickled at the tip of his nose. That particular scent was the kind one never quite forgot after catching it once. Just as Gordon hadn't. Oscar let his gaze slide over him, casual and unhurried.
"Newtech, was it? Until next time."
"...Let us hope next time we meet under better circumstances."
"I'll drink to that. For now."
The moment the two men were gone, Archbishop Baldwin threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"Hahaha! At last we can sit down and talk contract terms like reasonable men. Come, come—have a seat."
No sooner had Oscar taken his chair than the question came flying.
"Let's hear it, then. What price do you want for the cure to be supplied to Vince Territory?"
"Hmm."
"For reference, the Blue Tower and Newtech asked for two million bells."
There was only one reason to volunteer information no one had asked for: pressure. Don't try to pad the bill—name a reasonable figure.
"If it's two fingers for them..."
Oscar, deliberating with two fingers spread, then broke into a sly smile and unfolded the rest of his hand.
"We'll take exactly five. Five million bells."
"...Heh heh."
At that outrageous proposal, the archbishop let out a hollow laugh. He had been thinking that even two million bells was steep for the salvation of a territory of five thousand souls.
And this whelp asks for more than double.
It was naked profiteering—an exploitation of a man cornered into buying the cure no matter the cost. Just as indignation began to raise its head, Oscar spoke.
"No doubt Your Grace is thinking, right about now, that I'm a shameless opportunist padding the bill."
"And you intend to deny it?"
"I do. I have exactly three reasons for naming five million bells."
"...Three full reasons?"
A flicker of curiosity stirred, and the archbishop tilted his head. "Very well. Let's hear them."
"The first reason is quality. You've already heard it from the Lord of Vince—there is not a single flaw in the performance of our cure. To compare it with their remedy, whose efficacy hasn't even been proven, is an insult to the comparison itself."
"Hm. I'll grant you that. And the second reason?"
"Time."
The archbishop nodded. "I'll grant you that as well. You're saving me no less than four months."
"If I may offer a personal opinion—I don't believe they can complete a cure in four months at all."
"Confidence to spare, I see. So that's two reasons down."
Superior quality, faster delivery. Both were fair grounds for a higher price.
"Now then, what's the third and final reason?"
"The cost of publicity."
"...Publicity?"
Oscar flashed a grin at the archbishop, who was blinking in bewilderment.
"If we crush the Cadena Flu swiftly, people will start asking questions. Good heavens, how did the White Tower prepare a cure this fast? And I will answer them thus: it was all thanks to Archbishop Baldwin. That he, as though he had received a divine revelation, was the one who instructed the White Tower to prepare the cure."
"...!"
The moment the meaning landed, Baldwin's eyes lit up like coals. An archbishop who had received the revelation of the Earth Mother Goddess? For a man angling for the next cardinal's seat, it was a temptation he could never have refused. A chance to etch his name across the entire continent without lifting so much as a finger.
"Heh heh. A shame, then, that I never received any such revelation. But rumors do so love to grow in the telling."
"Haha, isn't that exactly what a rumor is?"
The archbishop, evidently well pleased with the scenario, wore a satisfied smile from ear to ear. Then he asked with a mischievous face:
"Are you truly in your twenties? Talking with you, I'd swear you were some forty-year-old raccoon."
Oscar's face turned impossibly grave. "Now, forty is a bit much. I'll concede thirty as a matter of conscience."
"Ahem. A joke, boy. A joke."
What an absolutely hilarious fellow. And even then—why concede thirty, of all things?
Oscar Crucian. Wait—Oscar Crucian?
The archbishop's knee struck the table with a thump. No wonder the name had rung a bell—wasn't he that prodigy who had once set the whole continent abuzz? Though for the past few years, the only rumors in circulation had painted him as a troublemaker of troublemakers who did nothing but burn through the White Tower's finances.
Was he restoring the lost potion formulae all this time? If that's true, the potion market's landscape is about to be redrawn.
The archbishop naturally concluded that Oscar had devoted the past several years to potion research. The cure for the Cadena Flu was hardly something that could be conjured overnight, after all.
"But tell me, boy. Why aren't you counting what you've already taken from me?"
"...I'm afraid I don't take Your Grace's meaning."
Oscar played the innocent without so much as a blink. But the archbishop, who could hardly have missed it, chuckled knowingly.
"If the White Tower of today makes a remedy this remarkable and rakes in a fortune, packs of wolves will come sniffing from every direction. Did you really think I wouldn't see that you put yourself forward as a shield, propping up the Church to do it?"
"...Well. I suppose one could see it that way, depending on one's perspective."
This sly old serpent. He'd assumed the man would never know if he kept quiet about it...
Reading the look of open chagrin that instantly spread across Oscar's face, the archbishop suddenly burst into hearty laughter. "Bwahahaha! A joke again, boy, a joke! You're just so grown-up for your age that I couldn't resist ruffling your feathers."
"What a remarkably odd hobby you have."
"I hear that often."
Still chuckling, the archbishop drew a blank check from his breast pocket and wrote a number upon it.
"Here. Take it."
"Thank y—huh?"
Oscar's eyes went round as saucers at the figure written there.
"Your Grace, I believe you've made an error in your arithmetic."
"The error would be yours."
The archbishop shook his head, unmoved. "You're offering publicity for me alone, across the whole of the continent—and you thought five million bells would cover it? My dignity is not so cheap and worthless a thing as all that."
"Your Grace..."
With the look of a man deeply moved, Oscar clutched the blank check—inscribed with no less than ten million bells—tight in his hand.
"Let me offer my thanks in kind. Within one week, the second shipment will be on its way to Vince Territory."
"Heh heh, and if you do that, the gratitude is mine."
And Oscar clasped the hand the archbishop extended in a firm, binding grip.
Back at the White Tower, Oscar made his way to the Vice Tower Master's office like a general returning in triumph. Maxim and Fidelina, who had already heard the news and come running, were waiting there as well.
Under the three pairs of tense, expectant eyes, Oscar said nothing and simply held out the blank check. The moment Fidelina read the figure written on it, she shrieked.
"H-how much is this?! One ten, a hundred, a thousand... ten million? Ten million bells?!"
Her face brightened in an instant, and she seized Oscar's head and ruffled his hair into a bird's nest.
"Aigoo, my precious boy~ I knew it, I always knew you could pull this off!"
"...You're so brazen it's almost impressive."
Maxim shook his head, then, meeting Oscar's helpless gaze, opened his mouth. "Unlike that one, I believed in you from the very start. You knew that, right?"
"......"
I did. Which is why one of you should kindly restrain the other.
With an awkward smile, Oscar shook off Fidelina's hands and set his hair to rights.
"In any case—the deal with Archbishop Baldwin concluded successfully, so we must prepare the second shipment within one week and send it to Vince Territory. After that, I intend to begin sales to the neighboring territories in stages."
"......"
The Vice Tower Master said nothing. He simply stared at the check. How could the number before his eyes be a mere figure on paper? The faces of everyone he had been unable to feed, unable to clothe, unable to support until now flickered one by one through his mind. His eyes reddening against his will, the Vice Tower Master finally managed to speak.
"...Honestly, I was astonished. I never dreamed you would do this well, Oscar."
"That's all thanks to you, Vice Tower Master—for believing in me."
Another clean strike, right to the vitals. And sure enough, affection poured from the Vice Tower Master's eyes as he looked at the boy.
"Your disciplinary order was plainly to repay triple the embezzled sum—twenty-five thousand bells—and yet you've brought back four hundred times that. And if we account for the future sales to other territories, one might reasonably aim for hundreds, even thousands of times more."
His gaze turned to Elder Fidelina.
"With this, I hereby rescind the disciplinary action levied against Oscar. Does anyone object?"
"No. Not one bit."
Having received the answer he wanted, the Vice Tower Master asked again.
"Oscar. Is there any support you need? A single week is a rather tight deadline, I'd think."
"Yes—I will need more mages. Franc and I alone will struggle to meet the deadline."
"What criteria for recruiting them?"
"Ideally, every one of them capable of Dual Casting... but that's unrealistic, so as many mages of 4th Level or higher as we can possibly gather."
Unlike with Franc, there was no time now to teach Dual Casting to each one individually. They had to produce the promised quantity within a span of just one week.
"As many as possible... then let us recruit. Among the applicants, you may handpick whoever you wish to work with. Elder Fidelina?"
"Yes, Vice Tower Master."
"Please post a recruitment notice within the tower."
"And what should it say?"
The Vice Tower Master, toying with the check, smiled gently.
"Announce that the Potion Workshop is seeking mages of 4th Level or higher, and that participants will receive daily wages—plus a meat dish with every single meal."
The applicants poured in like clouds.