Muffled Steps and Buried Foes
Dagon silenced his footsteps. One step, then another, carefully placed along the corridor. Behind him came the clanking of metal armor grinding together.
"Damn it! That's noisy!"
"A problem?"
Kaban, helmet off, looked down at Dagon with his sunken eyes. Dagon shrugged. His face wasn't particularly vicious, but those slightly shadowed eyes had a way of unnerving people.
Dagon, who had been digging tunnels to hunt assassins, and Kaban, who had followed a passage revealed when a trash heap collapsed—they had crossed paths underground. Dagon had talked Kaban down first, even though the knight had drawn his sword on sight. Marhal was the one who had sent him to the trash heap, and Kaban seemed to have come down from that direction underground. No one in this city but Marhal could command a knight in full plate armor. So Dagon had dropped Marhal's name right away. The result was predictable.
The runners had all fled by then anyway. Dagon and Kaban had stuck together, buried a few more in the earth, and returned to the mansion.
Under Kaban's gaze, Dagon answered.
"Ah, no, it's not like that. He might get mad, you know."
"Him?"
"You've never seen him mad, have you?"
"I have."
"You haven't... wait, you have? And you're saying that?"
"Problem?"
Kaban had seen Marhal don the paulownia crown. An emperor had wielded that authority right in front of him—a terror he'd never witness again in his lifetime.
"Brother, you met him during the land race, right?"
"Yes."
"Was there something I don't know? No reason for him to get mad during the race. That probably wasn't real anger. If you'd seen him truly pissed, you wouldn't be so calm."
Dagon nodded, convinced on his own. Kaban thought, 'Is there something I don't know?'
Marhal had said he only wore the paulownia crown for matters requiring an emperor's touch. It seemed unlikely he'd used it in the West. This wasn't the old Bachea Empire's territory, and there was no reason to invoke a Bachea emperor's authority here. People had many faces. The Marhal he'd seen had two: the owner of the paulownia crown and the landlord Marhal. What Kaban had witnessed in the land race was the crown owner's fury. There must be another form of anger he didn't know.
It was then, as Kaban and Dagon passed the corridor, that Marhal's voice rang out from inside the room.
"Kaban, Dagon? Come in."
Kaban glanced at Dagon's expression. He didn't like the typical sycophant's behavior. But Kaban stayed silent. That was just how this man lived. And Dagon wasn't a mere lackey. Kaban had seen him mock seasoned assassins, luring them into traps—playing with killers who knew no fear, reducing them to terror.
"I'll open it."
Kaban opened the door. Inside was a dining room, with Strekl and Marhal, plus a man Kaban didn't recognize.
"Dagon, how'd the job go?"
"Buried seven for now. Want me to dig 'em up?"
"No. I'll send someone. Tunnels still intact?"
"Yeah, untouched. Just dig 'em out carefully."
"Does burying assassins neutralize them?"
It was Strekl. Having finished his meal, he wiped his mouth with a cloth nearby and asked. Digging into the earth and hiding was basic assassin craft. Seasoned killers wouldn't be stopped just because they were a bit underground.
"If Dagon caught 'em, it's fine. Want to check it out, Strekl? Dagon's methods are... unique."
"Say that, and I'll go."
"If a high knight exposes all my tricks, what do I live on?"
No one paid Dagon's grumbling any mind.
"Dagon, want some food? You too, Kaban."
"Sure."
"If you'll excuse me."
Kaban and Dagon sat at the table. Food was served right away. As Dagon buttered his bread, Marhal said,
"I know you missed five. Gotta step it up."
Dagon dropped his bread. It landed butter-side down on the table.
"Uh, that was a joke, right?"
"Who knows?"
Dagon recalled the tunnel layout and the footsteps he'd heard. At least three had definitely slipped away. With only one body, there were limits. Dagon alone couldn't catch every scattering assassin.
"If you knew they escaped, you could've caught 'em."
"Not that easy."
He could track objects moving underground. Their unnatural motion stood out with minimal attention. But once they surfaced, Marhal's power struggled to pin them down. His current abilities only detected moving objects in a specific area—and vaguely at that. In a crowded street, they'd vanish.
"We'll have leads soon, so rest for now."
"What about the ones we caught? Need me?"
"Yeah. Still enough left."
"A few to rough up, sure. But since the last job, I need time to restock supplies..."
"Money and materials, right?"
"You get it!"
Dagon snatched up the fallen bread and shoved it in his mouth. Hugo left the dining room first, and Strekl headed to check the assassins' faces. Kaban went with him. If the tunnels had collapsed, his sword and skills would rebuild them. Dagon, handed a few gold coins by Marhal, went to replenish poisons and acids for the fights ahead.
Marhal was left alone in the dining room. A few staff, including the head chef, were around, but they stayed in the kitchen unless called.
Marhal killed time in the dining room. His body stayed seated, but his mind roamed the city—his entire land. Things on the surface moved. The winds they stirred flowed into his head. A sensation utterly unlike his five senses. What mages called the sixth sense.
'In my case, what number is it?'
Handling various mysteries heightened awareness. Marhal could feel the enigmas within the paulownia crown. It differed from his senses or the leather cord. Tuning out all else to heed only the wind's whispers wasn't easy. Normally, he didn't dwell on other senses. Wind was summoned casually, and the crown's power rarely came into play. This feeling reminded him of first learning proper magic from Mar—six years? Seven?
After a long stillness, Marhal opened his eyes.
"Doesn't work after all."
Finding assassins with a freshly awakened ability was too much.
"Even you have things you can't do?"
The dining room door opened, and Bayola entered. Her golden hair was caked in dust, like she'd rolled on the floor.
"How'd you know I was here?"
"Ran into Strekl on the way."
"What's with the ebony wood fuss?"
Bayola sat across from Marhal. She called for cold water from the kitchen. After downing three glasses with ice, she spoke.
"Fake ebony's circulating in the Border. Heard you handle it too, so I scoured the city checking warehouses."
"Find any?"
"A third were fakes. The ones I checked."
"Makes me want to curse."
Marhal meant it. As the city grew and money flowed, scammers multiplied inevitably. With Hugo handling things directly, fraud was rare. But as lands expanded and they couldn't oversee everything, it could happen. He knew it intellectually, but it still pissed him off.
"What're you gonna do? Ebony, of all things?"
"If it's a good fake, someone'll buy it. Sell at fair price. Caught the culprit?"
"Azenman stepped in personally. Don't know results yet."
"Least we'll get a tail. We'll think then."
Azenman was serious about money and power. Ebony was a luxury symbolizing both. He'd wring every brain cell to find them. If even Azenman got nothing, Marhal wouldn't change much. He respected Azenman's skills that much.
"Marin? She should've been back by now."
"She's resting."
"What happened? She's okay?"
Bayola leaned forward. Her fingers brushed her lips.
"Fine now."
"What happened? You'd need high knight level to take on Marin."
The Marin Bayola knew pulled relics at the slightest disadvantage. With a relic, she outpowered even Strekl. Plus, she read the weak's psyche like a book. No one in the city could seriously injure her.
"Assassins."
"Assassins?"
"The ones behind the drug spraying. Strekl went to grab the subdued one. Wanna see when he gets back?"
Bayola hesitated. She drained another glass, then barely spoke.
"You're gonna torture him?"
"Yep. Lots of blood too. I'm not holding back this time."
Blood spraying. Just hearing it soured her mood. Bayola had passed the fainting-at-sight stage. In fights, she could stay conscious by focusing. Progress, but she knew it wasn't enough. To survive imperial power struggles, she needed to conquer hemophobia—and learn to kill herself. Become a born killer wielding her superhuman body to the max.
"I'll watch."
"No regrets. I'll show you torture you'll use forever."
"Not that far..."
"Stay if you don't want. So many would kill for this chance—your loss."
Bayola eyed Marhal's face. He grinned unchanged from usual. Two months with him, and she could glimpse emotions under that smile. Marhal was angry now. And one more thing.
"You're teasing me, right?"
"Halfway."
"I'm going! Happy? I'll check on Marin. Call if there's time."
Bayola stormed out. Alone again, Marhal propped his feet on the table, leaned his chair back, cradled his head, and rocked. His eyes slowly closed. His mind left the mansion.
* * *
Only one place in the mansion for an injured Marin. Bayola opened the door to the medical room. On one of five beds, Marin lay quietly. Her usual furrowed brow relaxed into a normal face. If only she looked like this daily...
Bayola held a finger to Marin's nostril. Breathing steady.
"Marin, asleep?"
No answer. Poking her cheek got nothing. Guilt crept up. While Marin fought assassins, she'd been staring at wood blocks in a warehouse. Was this right? Staying safe while Marin battled?
Rebella would say something, but here, Bayola had to choose and act alone. She was bad at choices. While other royals navigated countless paths, hers was a single thin line. Forced into limited options, she didn't know how to pick the best from many. No confidence in her decisions. Couldn't properly regret or shake off mistakes. They piled as guilt, remorse, self-recrimination—sticking thickly to heart and mind.
"This won't do."
Slap! Bayola struck her own cheek. Worries layered up. But she had to move. Faking confidence, she said,
"Sleeping. I'll finish before you wake."
Not that it goes my way...
* * *
The sun was setting. Bayola, reading luxury goods ledgers in her room, left at Hugo's call.
"Where to?"
"The master has sealed rooms in the city and villages."
"Sounds bad."
"Compared to landlords building dedicated torture chambers, it's tame."
Bayola blinked.
"Torture chambers?"
"Half his agents are ex-criminals or scammers. Experts in this."
"This place isn't one?"
"Master needs no tools. Says that's for amateurs. Here we are."
A small door at the mansion's rear led down stairs to a basement. Light orbs studded the ceiling. A stone cell in the corner held a hunched old woman peering at them. An open space fronted it. In the center, five men in underwear were bound to chairs, gagged. Their bodies bore strange wounds—skin festering, melted.
Bayola had never seen such injuries.
"Not like the torture I know."
"You'll see."
Marhal fiddled with leather pouches on a wall table. Spotting Bayola, he waved lightly. She wanted to punch that face.
Marhal picked up a pouch and approached the men.
"I'll torture you one by one now. First to talk skips a round. Simple, right?"
Marhal dripped liquid from the pouch onto a gagged man's thigh. Sizzling flesh, and the man writhed.