Chapter 44: The Union's Mad Dog
Anje hated his girly name. Every time someone mocked him for it, he answered with violence, and that pile of brutality had gotten him into the Union. Sure, it was just a dirty job within the organization, but Anje had no complaints. With a life built on violence, he'd clawed his way into the Union—a power that could bring down birds from the sky—and now he even had underlings to boss around. He truly believed his life was a success.
He was the Union's dog. Whatever they ordered, he did it without question. Assassinating landlords, sabotaging land races, flooding pioneer villages with drugs to wipe them out—he never said no. His latest mission was simple: stir up trouble. In the Border, across the West, as big and as much crime as possible. He didn't ask why. Dogs don't question orders.
Anje committed crimes indiscriminately. Today was no different. While prowling a nighttime fight club for gigs, he spotted a young lord out for some nightlife. The women trailing him looked even tastier, but one seemed like a pro in this line of work. Anje knew from experience not to derail a solid plan. No point in pros clashing.
He lightly stabbed the mercenary bodyguard to death and smoothly kidnapped the lord. "Sell him as a slave or ransom him off? Which fetches more?"
At his side, the kidnapped man screamed for mercy. Anje should've gagged him, but with the frenzied betting downstairs drowning everything out, one scream didn't matter. He savored it like a noble listening to sweet music. Watching futile struggles was always a pleasure. Just like the ones who'd mocked his name.
Girly name. With a name like that, no wonder you're such a pussy. He'd bashed their heads with rocks and gutted them with knives, and they never laughed again. Even the so-called superhumans—knights—were no exception. Everyone bled the same.
Thud! Amid the screams, something heavy hit the floor.
"What was that? Hey, didn't you hear something?"
"N-no, nothing..."
"I heard it!"
Instrument music pierced the tavern's roar from below. The homeowner was already handled, and Anje knew no relatives would come sniffing. Even if someone showed, his men on the first floor would take care of it. Double insurance. But this music from downstairs was real.
Thud. Another heavy drop mixed with the tune. Barely audible unless you listened close. And Anje had heard it a hundred times before in his life: the sound of a body collapsing without resistance.
"Go check it out."
"Me?"
"Who else? Hurry down, confirm, and report back! No—everyone go! If someone's there, bring me their head!"
His men thundered downstairs from the second floor. Anje approached the bound man on the floor. He almost kicked his head in rage, but reason held him back. Not some sensible hostage rule. If all the teeth went flying, he couldn't understand the bastard's words. Beat him if you must, but make sure he hears you first—that was Anje's utterly mad logic.
"Did you call any other guards besides that mercenary?"
"I don't know! I never called anyone like that!"
Terror gripped the hostage too. The only guard he'd hired was the one who'd died pathetically downstairs. Being kidnapped was scary enough, but that music from below? Pure nightmare. He screamed for help, sure. But who comes playing an instrument to your rescue? Not normal. The work of a lunatic. Whatever was down there—if human—was a maniac far from sane. If not... a ghost or demon's trick.
The mysterious melody blended with the tavern's mad cheers. Amid them, thud, thud, thud—bodies hitting the floor. No word from his men below. A fight would've brought shouts, curses, clashing weapons. Nothing.
Anje's hands trembled. Five years ago, he'd seen an iron-cutting knight in battle. Near the end of the Union wars, just before it formed, during final negotiations between gangs and states. Anje scavenged blind money around fight zones. He spotted a woman boldly strolling a back alley and moved in as usual: take everything, sell pretty faces to slavers. A few hotheads rushed her first—and got bisected.
Street life teaches dirty tricks. You can even parry a knight once. But if you can't even clash blades, no trick saves you. She carved through men like vegetables, weapons and all. Anje fled till he passed out and barely survived. There were screams then too. Even iron-cutters make noise slicing flesh. But now? Just music and thuds.
The melody drew closer. Slowly. At walking pace.
Anje stayed calm. He wasn't "special," but his wits were sharper than most. First, he gagged the hostage with nearby rope and blindfolded him with cloth. He opened a window, bundled some clothes, and dangled them out—like an escape trace. Then he pressed against the wall by the door. A natural blind spot when it opened. He held his breath and waited.
The music didn't stop, making the intruder's position easy to track. Yeah, aside from the nonsense, that sound's nothing but a liability.
It was night, indoors. Shapes barely visible. His room had a window for faint light, but still dim. Darkness was a weapon for both. Revealing position was like tossing away a blade—or stripping naked. The enemy was exposed; Anje had perfect ambush. No way to lose.
He drew his rusted dagger. Cheap, deadly, blackened blade. Invisible tosses at night, bleeds easy once it bites. He aimed for one-shot kill. End the mystery psycho in a blink.
The music reached the door. Anje stopped breathing. Creeeak—it opened. He held still. Even amateurs guard when opening doors. But once inside's revealed? They relax. Open door, dangling cloth, abandoned hostage. Anyone would think he'd fled. Strike then.
The playing continued right at the threshold. Flute-like notes, floorboards creaking under steps—once, twice, three times. The intruder's back appeared. A man in no armor. One hand piping an unknown instrument to his lips, the other gripping a bloody dagger. Crimson blade gleamed in moonlight, droplets falling.
Anje endured. One shot. Fatal in one. The intruder ignored surroundings, heading straight for the bound man in the room's center.
Now!
Anje lunged. His strength should've pierced the throat in half a breath. But... his body wouldn't move. No power. An invisible demonic hand gripped him. Despair, terror, helplessness, endless fall. Now he knew why his men fell. Humans can't beat demons. Before their schemes, mortals are powerless. Only an omnipotent god could save them from the fiend's grasp.
For the first time, Anje believed in God. He sought Him desperately. But the god he craved was the illusion called history—and even if real, It wouldn't descend for scum like him.
Marhal untied the rope gag from the bound man's mouth. The man shouted urgently.
"Behind you! Behind!"
"Oh, that? Already handled."
Marhal approached Anje. This quill was a rare Bachea imperial relic, even for him. The emperor—his father—had used it. A gift to the untalented martial son. The Pen of Responsibility. Stronger than any sword, it halted objects with shallower history. Near-absolute against people.
"Got anything to say?"
Anje's mouth worked. He'd beg shamelessly. Winners survive, after all. But Marhal cut him off first.
"Two phrases I hate: 'Spare me' and 'Forgive me.'"
Marhal couldn't kill those begging forgiveness. Seemed a fatal flaw, but not really. One sentence like that deterred most from even thinking it. In this world, one wrong word meant death. Nail it down once, and they never tried.
"What's the Union plotting?"
"H-how? The Empire? Holy Empire?"
"Do you think I need to know that?"
"N-no, sir!"
"What were your orders?"
"J-just... run wild in the West! That's all I heard! I swear! So please..."
Run amok without conditions or reasons? Could mean scattering criminals wide while prepping something bigger. But too sloppy. These weren't controllable types. Unleashed without specifics, they'd rampage blindly. The Union's goal was the chaos itself.
The West wasn't safe by any stretch, but it had its order. Shatter that, let public outrage boil over? When local powers couldn't cope? The Union moves in. Under pretext of maintaining order. The Union granted landlords their authority—and could revoke it. Their end.
"When did you get the orders?"
"A-about a month ago. Started crimes around the Border then... ghk!"
The dagger slipped cleanly between ribs. Marhal released the quill's power. Anje crumpled, twitching, then still.
Marhal went to the bound man on the floor.
"Name."
"Astal Bergias, sir!"
"Bergias? That Bergias?"
"P-probably, yeah!"
"I thought the Bergias family vanished in the Union wars. All of them, no survivors."
"W-well... I'm a bastard son, actually."
"Ah."
Bastards—especially sons—were treated as nonentities. Girls could be married off politically, but with a legitimate son, a bastard male was just a threat to succession.
"But can you even use the Bergias name? The family's gone, but grudges against them linger."
"Father's dying wish made me heir. I'm Bergias now."
"I see."
The Bergias were famed for unique farming techniques. Their lands yielded near-double crops from the same soil. Two centuries of unmatched history's power. With Empire, Holy Empire, and Union threatening Western freedom, self-sufficiency was vital. And here rolled in a totem doubling food output just by existing.
"Planning to join the land race? I could help with that."
"Th-thanks for the offer, but who might you be?"
"Marhal. Landlord."