7 (3)

The night still groaned. It was like a cauldron at full boil. Louis advanced without hesitation to bring Proia under perfect control. Torches blazed like hearts at every street corner. They were all Louis’s soldiers. The troops patrolled the wealthy districts intensively. At this hour, no citizens slept. Everyone knew something was happening.

“What in blazes are you doing!!!”

A merchant who had been reveling was dragged into the street wearing only his underpants. Kalbang clicked his tongue once and drove his fist into the merchant’s face.

Thud..!

A gambling-floor manager who knew no exercise beyond swinging his hips could not withstand Kalbang’s punch. In the pain that nearly made him faint, he immediately realized he might actually die if he did anything wrong now. This was no joke. Had he said even one more word, Kalbang—who had long had him marked—would have buried a hot blade in his gut on the spot. But the quick-witted snake swallowed a blood-tinged mouthful of spit and spat. Broken teeth scattered across the ground. He might well have screamed, but deciding even his eyes should show nothing, the merchant lowered his gaze at once and stared only at the ground. Kalbang clicked his tongue at the man’s quick reaction, but every second counted now; he could not spare more attention.

“Take him away.”

“Where are we taking him?”

“Where do you think?”

Kalbang muttered an answer to no one in particular. From the right side above, a woman’s scream poured down—kyaaa. Being a woman did not place one outside the net.

‘This side is going smoothly.’

“Move fast! Lord Louis will reward you!”

Of course, Louis had said no such thing. But Kalbang was shrewd. He knew well that the best way to motivate subordinates was to borrow the authority of the one they revered. And from the direction Kalbang had been watching with care, a wavering glow began to rise. Seeing a mansion finally blaze in earnest, Kalbang thought:

‘Dekal’s been taken.’

It was proof that Dekal—the biggest variable in securing the city—had fallen.

‘Now what was next?’

To avoid mistakes, Kalbang pulled the reins of his nerves tight again and rechecked the lists he had rehearsed over and over.

Max was in a panic. Pushed out of power, he had even moved his residence far away.

‘I should have gone back sooner.’

Why must he always be left with regret? Max asked himself, but only he could answer. Indecision. That was what had dragged him into a sticky bog. And now the bog was closing around his throat. Had he returned to Kayani, he would have saved his life. But what lingering attachment had kept him in Proia, grasping at any chance to rise again? He looked pitiable even to himself. Then a glow rose. It was far away, but Dekal’s mansion was the largest and tallest in Proia and visible from anywhere. It burned like a bonfire. At the same time, his subordinate burst in.

“Y-you must flee!! Soldiers have flooded the streets. They’re grabbing everyone they can. Something is happening. Quickly—”

“Silence!!!”

Max barked in fury, but when he saw the long chain of torches stretching past the window, he collapsed into a chair.

‘It’s over.’

His subordinate, eyes rolling, muttered “crazy bastard” and bolted without a backward glance. Footsteps clattered down the stairs—then a cry of “No—!” and the sound of tumbling. Max was afraid. Frantically afraid. He had never wanted to see his mother more than in this moment.

Soldiers in full armor kicked the door in. Even the ducklike quacking of his subordinates’ screams fell suddenly silent, and Max raised both hands. As always, this time was no different.

“…I… I surrender.”

“Bind this man!”

Unlike Dekal, Max offered not a hint of resistance; when a soldier struck him, he fell to his knees and pressed his face to the floor.

Louis swallowed dryly. Though it was deep night, nobles were being dragged in as if seared to doneness. Checking faces one by one, Louis felt the plan was nearing a successful close.

He could gauge a person’s ability by their eyes alone. Some could not hide their rage and glared at Louis. They knew what the situation was. Others whimpered, or begged Louis for mercy—even in words alone. They were forced to kneel in the central plaza like prisoners. They sat, crumpled on all sides, and darted their eyes ceaselessly about. They had lived too wealthy to know this kind of experience. One man even wept openly from the shock. Deciding enough numbers had gathered, Louis nodded. Boromir, his whole body slick with blood attesting to the vicious fight moments before, strode before the nobles. The coppery stench snuffed out even the faint embers of resistance they still held. No one volunteered to die. Boromir unrolled a scroll and began to call names. The nobles whose names were called answered weakly; among them, of course, were those who refused to answer.

“Those who cooperate will be led to a comfortable room; those who don’t will share a cell with the gladiators.”

Even the nobles who had held out without replying began to respond, one by one, as Boromir called them in turn. One of them, pride cracked, could not restrain himself and shouted:

“Damn you! Do you know who my cousin is to treat me like this?!”

“Biltere must want to be with the gladiators. See to it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Without leaving a sliver of room for negotiation, Louis gave the order, and the waiting soldiers moved toward the man. He darted his eyes wildly left and right, then shouted his own name at the top of his lungs. But Louis kept his gaze fixed on Biltere, and the man, like a roly-poly, mindlessly repeated his own name again and again. As the soldiers seized his shoulders to drag him to a certain place, Louis raised a hand and said, “Enough.”

‘That should be performance enough.’

Louis had no plan to mistreat them. It was just that, at the opening of a war of succession, he needed to nail them down with fear so they would not act rashly.

Having made a spectacle of himself with that shout, Biltere boiled with rage, but he was terrified of Louis. He thought of Dekal, his would-be vital ally. If Dekal learned of this, he would never let it stand, Biltere told himself—and he shouted at Louis again:

“Where is Dekal?”

Seeing Biltere’s intent, Louis sneered and pointed to a corner. In the chaos until now, Biltere had not noticed what hung from the dark spear-stand there, but now he collapsed on the spot. It was Dekal’s head, so freshly severed that bright red streaks still leaked between the hafts. His hollow eyes had no focus. Already seized by the scruff by Louis, Biltere would now need permission even to breathe.

“Ins—insane.”

Biltere blurted on instinct.

Louis clapped his hands and rose.

“Now, let me brief you on the general situation. Yesterday afternoon, my father passed away.”

He had not even finished when those who still did not fully grasp matters began to murmur. Louis briefly pictured his stern father’s face, then wiped it from his mind and continued.

“The letter arrived last evening. Before a day had passed—at dawn—Dekal ambushed me, and so I killed him. That is all. It seems he wanted to cut off my limbs and run back to my brother.”

Louis was lying blatantly. But everyone who could disprove it was dead or had been brought under Louis. The remaining nobles had to accept this as truth. There was no choice. Louis finished with a brief request that they cooperate until the war of succession ended, then gestured.

Watching the nobles being transferred to a new place of confinement, Louis whistled.

‘For now, a good first step.’

He had seized every noble not on his side, killed every troublesome underling who could carry secret letters, and—most importantly—executed Dekal. If he reabsorbed Dekal’s subordinates—whose command structure had been thrown into chaos—tonight’s work would be done. His side, struck by Dekal, began to throb.

‘If it had been my right side instead of my left, I’d be dead.’

He wanted to joke, but it was no joke. Louis was freshly reminded of the importance of sword training.

Morning dawned on Proia. There was not a single citizen who did not know something had happened in the night. Wide-eyed, all had peered from their windows at the statue-still soldiers controlling the streets. Like a storm had passed, several mansions in the upscale quarter had burned, leaving only black ash that kept sifting down. Louis calmly organized his thoughts in the office. First of all, with Remitri dead, all three sons with succession rights would be summoned. Even without a will, the eldest, Fred, would by custom receive precedence. That is, if the other two brothers yielded their rights in turn at the meeting, Fred would inherit the ducal title of Remitri and rule Pontina. But of course Louis—and Pierre—had no such intention, so only Fred would show his face in Pontina. In such a case, even without royal approval, the war of succession would automatically begin.

‘…………’

In this three-way fight, the variable was Marquis Gangpireu, whose lands bordered Fred’s. Louis had not forgotten that when he visited the marquis’s city, the man was building his army abnormally. Louis even suspected that Gangpireu might have assassinated Duke Remitri. Naturally, he had no intention of letting that pass; once this was settled, he would make the marquis taste hell by any means. But revealing that feeling now would be foolish. He had to make maximum use of Gangpireu to take the heads of his two brothers.

‘Should I consider the military alliance effectively broken…?’

Since Louis had taken off Dekal’s head, Fred was unlikely to sit idle.

‘Well then… brother. Choose. If you’re rational, you’ll keep the military alliance with me. If not, you’ll make yourself my enemy.’

Louis began to draft a letter. Naturally, he wrote the lie that Dekal had ambushed him at dawn. Fred would not believe it, of course, but if he severed the alliance now, he might land himself in dire straits. The worst for Fred would be that the territorial war could start three-on-one.