Marina's Letter to the Empire
Marina Silanatiell, back in the Union, wrote a letter to the Empire. It was one she should have sent days ago. But she'd gone with Marhal following the migrant caravan, and the moment they returned, Union business had piled up... and then that annoying priest had summoned her, leaving no time to write.
The contents were, of course, all about Marhal. The Hero's guide. The man who'd traveled the West alongside the Hero. Writing about Marhal was easy. Just stick to the plain facts. The simple truth that there was an unknown member of the Hero Party. And beyond that, there were other facts she had to include.
On the way back from accepting migrants into the Border City, she'd encountered him. The Hero. The savior of the world. And a top-priority wanted man in the Empire.
Marina's hand paused. Should she write this down or not? She agonized over it.
The Hero had appeared like the wind and vanished like the wind. Marhal's attitude toward him, and the man's own introduction as the Hero—that was all. No other proof that he was truly the Hero.
After much deliberation, Marina decided not to mention meeting the Hero.
Encounter the Hero the Empire's been hunting for ten years, just out traveling? No one would believe it.
Having finished the letter, Marina slipped it into an envelope. For the last time, she hesitated. Should she really send this?
Aside from the Saint, the Hero and his party had vanished. If word got out that one of the Hero's companions was still around, the Imperial family would mobilize. No—they definitely would. It would shatter the West's fragile peace.
The West wasn't truly at peace, that much was true. But if the Empire intervened directly, the chaos would be on another level entirely.
She could wait for a reply to her first letter and think it over then...
"Ugh...!"
A sudden migraine hit her, and Marina clutched her head with both hands, slamming her forehead onto the desk. When the pain finally ebbed and she lifted her torso, her eyes fell on the letter, ready for nothing more than her seal.
"Ah, right. The letter."
Marina stamped the seal onto it and left the room.
Kaban and Marhal rode out of the city on horseback. Kaban asked Marhal, "Are you all right, sir?"
"I'm fine."
For Marhal, riding a horse was less labor than rest. Shavel's miracle had fully healed his wounds. He felt a bit low on blood, but not enough to hinder the journey.
"You should rest if you're tired, Kaban."
"No, sir. How could I?"
He'd been raised a knight and lived as one his whole life. Call it noble service to his lord or slavish mentality—it was etched into his bones. That was the history knighthood carried. When his sky-like lord needed hands, his body moved on its own.
As they rode, Kaban asked Marhal, "Sir Marhal, I have a question."
"What is it?"
"That... crown. When do you use it?"
"This?"
A crown-shaped swirl of wind gathered in Marhal's hand. Kaban nearly fell from his horse. To him, that crown was an object of fear and reverence. He hadn't expected Marhal to pull it out just because he'd casually asked—Kaban was genuinely, truly shocked.
"I-Is... is that something you can just bring out so easily?"
"It's obviously fake."
The wind in Marhal's hand dissipated. When do you use the Paulownia Crown? Anyone who knew of its existence might wonder. It wasn't just any item—it was the crown worn by the emperor of the fallen Bachea Empire.
"It's what it is. An emperor wouldn't step in for just anything, right?"
Kaban nodded.
"Just keep that in mind. Knowing more would hurt you."
"Understood."
It might seem like a trivial answer, but hearing it satisfied Kaban. The conversation soon petered out. The silence some called the greatest torment of travel began.
Marhal pulled out his harmonica and played. Kaban sipped liquor he'd grabbed from the city.
The horse carrying Marhal and Kaban slowly crossed the wasteland.
Marin breathed in the nostalgic air. Nostalgic, yet air she never wanted to smell again.
Dozens of able-bodied men lay sprawled around her. She was good at killing, but subduing without killing? Not her strong suit. This was the fruit of techniques she'd learned the hard way, taking beatings from Strekl.
With relics in hand, she'd once crushed even knights through sheer force. She'd lived oblivious to the importance of skill. Now, with real technique, she could subdue instead of slaughter.
For a moment, Marin basked proudly in her achievements, then turned her gaze forward. A terrified man stared back. Early to mid-thirties—prime age around here. Make a big score, shake off the heat, retire with a shop in some village. Or get stabbed by underlings or rivals and dumped in an alley like trash.
This guy was the latter. And not just any slip-up—dealing drugs? You had to die for that.
"Hey. Talk."
"W-What do you mean?"
Marin leaned forward, propping herself on the table with one hand while hammering the man's forearm with her dagger like a mallet.
"Guh...!"
"Wanna play dumb with folks who already know everything? Or should I show you more of what I can do?"
Marin twisted the dagger slightly. The man crumpled in agony. After much choking sobs, he screamed through tear-streaked face, "I don't know! I swear! We just bought cheap and distributed! If I'd known it'd end like this, I wouldn't have touched it!"
"Who'd you buy from?"
"Leave the money at the promised spot, next day it's swapped for drugs! You know how it works! Real pros do it that way—we small fry can't catch 'em!"
"Fair enough."
Marin sat back in her chair. The man clutched his stabbed arm and glared. She let him. That wasn't vengeful fury—just pain spilling out. Real revenge burned different in the eyes.
"Hugo gave you space to sell this shit? Or did Dagon allow it?"
At the names of Dagon and Hugo, the man's body shook. Teeth chattering. Hugo, the landlord's steward. Dagon, owner of these alleys. He operated here on Hugo's sufferance, lived on Dagon's. Two men who controlled his life, named in one breath. Anyone who knew their cruelty couldn't stay calm.
Forgetting his pain, the man yelled, "No! I was out of my mind! Please, just spare my life...!"
Marin didn't know Dagon well. She'd met him—on the way back from the land race, a gap-toothed, grinning fool paid a gold coin by Marhal. Since coming west, she'd stuck to honest work. She knew little of the underworld here, unlike in the duchy. You couldn't judge by faces, but it was hard to accept that idiot-looking man terrified everyone.
Marin stood. No more info from a mere seller, not the supplier.
"Y-You're sparing me?"
"That's for Dagon and Hugo to decide."
Despair washed over his face. Marin left the reeking alley.
This city differed from the Border. Wide roads for ten carriages abreast, rows of identical buildings—warehouses, eateries, inns as needed. Recreations of western cities, they said. Marin, from Vestrol, didn't know. Her memories from there were hazy anyway. Only faint snippets of parents floated in her mind. She'd even forgotten their faces.
Heading to Marhal's warehouse, Marin stopped. A small needle jutted before her feet—more than half buried. No accident. One needle couldn't kill. Probably poisoned. She had no desire to test it.
At minimum a superhuman. Likely an assassin. She hadn't learned to fight assassins yet. But she wasn't without foundations.
Her first teacher was the Thief. The legendary one.
Sound vanished from Marin's steps. Strekl had told her, while training her, not to abandon what the Thief taught. Separate from Strekl's drills, she diligently practiced the Thief's conditioning.
Marin slipped into a quiet building. Locked, but her touch sprang the mechanism. Inside: dust-caked crates. An abandoned warehouse, goods left when deals fell through. She knew that now. No worry of intruders.
Marin drew her dagger—not disposable, but a Bachea relic. She probed the crates. Click. It caught before penetrating.
Stone? Worst luck.
Wood she could've split into a shield. Stone? Useless. Still better than nothing. She wedged into the pile, hiding. Dust everywhere—daily life for her. She pulled a tarp over.
Waiting. She was good at that. Begging taught you to hold a spot all day. Legs numb, hands frozen solid—you stayed. Or another beggar took it. Feeding her grandma too, waiting was nothing.
And this was Marhal's city. No word from her, Hugo would send forces.
The assassin cracked first. Faint wind, killing intent. Marin rolled aside; dozens of needles thunked where she'd been. She gripped her dagger tight. The relic lent power.
"What kinda bullshit is this? Poke a little and a real assassin pops out?"
A figure dropped from the ceiling. Black cloak hiding all but eyes. She'd met self-proclaimed assassins before—half seeking revenge for ones she'd killed or crippled. Half thugs with shit-smeared blades, half superhumans worth the name. This was neither. Trained pro.
The assassin asked, "Who was your master?"
"The Thief."
"Don't utter that name lightly."
He sounded pissed. Figured—he'd think she was joking. She'd call anyone claiming Hero's heir a lunatic too.
"Like I'd give you the satisfaction."
His arm blurred. Marin ducked behind stone. Shk! Unfamiliar sound. She dodged by luck and instinct. Her dagger should've ricocheted, but it plunged from above. She rolled aside.
Standing, she spotted the thin wire on the dagger.
Never seen a weapon like that.
Couldn't fathom how a slowed blade regained speed via wire. Must be his history. Trying to rationalize magic and mystery just hurt her head.
Worse: her arm was sliced. Did Strekl know antidotes? Pray the guy had some. Now a race against time.
Marin's toe gouged the wooden floor. Foot under crates, she kicked. Stones flew. Dozens poured from the pile.
"Crazy...!"
The assassin panicked. He'd checked—stone inside. Useless in split-second fights. Common sense shattered as stones flew. Even superhumans got hurt barehanded. Dodge, and no time for follow-ups.
He boldly ignored what he could. Spared the head-shots. Aimed at Marin charging behind.
Ten daggers in his cloaked hand. Impossible to block all. Especially poisoned already.
He threw. Marin exceeded expectations again. She abandoned defense. A grazed shitty blade could kill if unlucky. Real assassin poison? No hoping unscathed. Better sacrifice all, take him down.
Marin steeled herself. But resolve never tested.
Stones, daggers—froze midair. Warehouse door creaked open.
"Heard fighting, came to check. Marin, what're you doing here?"
"Marhal! Assassin over there!"
"Tch."
The assassin yanked his wire. Daggers didn't budge. Then his body stiffened.
"Assassin? Don't remember letting one into the city."
Mage who halts flying daggers midair? No amateur. Cold sweat beaded on the assassin.