The Anger Of The People Of The Polia Kingdom

Hundreds of men rushed in and formed a ring, and at the center, a man sat with his mouth agape, crackle!—electric discharges still snapping off his body.

Seeing him, the soldiers who had gathered could not help feeling a deep discomfort on their faces.

Anyone who had seen a human roasted bright red would have recognized it. His skin had been scorched all over by lightning.

He was so grievously injured it was hard to look at him, and amid this scene a commanding cry rang out to the assembled soldiers.

“Everyone stand back! His Majesty approaches!”

At that, the hundreds of soldiers finally retreated in haste. The palace guards filed out and took position, and then King Ian appeared.

All bowed their heads at the King’s arrival.

Ian nodded and looked down at the man whose eyes had rolled back white.

‘He cut off the arm of a palace guardian I made… he must be an Expert.’

It had been a while since he had seen an Expert. Yet even such a man was helpless before a force like a natural catastrophe—lightning.

Indeed, the bolt that had struck moments ago was one Ian himself had designated and invoked.

‘The third ability… more useful than I thought.’

Though not magic, it allowed him to wield a force like magic. Used well, it could accomplish even more; for the first time, he saw great potential for a power suited to anti-personnel killing.

At that thought, Mardin spoke at his side.

“His luck was peculiar. To be struck by lightning at the exact moment he tried to flee.”

Hearing Mardin’s words, Ian nodded in agreement.

“Indeed. Lucky strike. And he’s still breathing—stubborn will to live.”

“What shall we do with him?”

“Hold him under intensive treatment and close custody. Judging by his skill, he likely carries information of a high order. Keep several palace guardians at his side for safety.”

“Understood. We will move him for treatment at once.”

At Mardin’s order, the guards bustled into motion, searching for a stretcher and working quickly. Watching for a moment, Ian turned and walked back into the palace.

By morning, Pullea, the capital, had been turned upside down.

The gunfire from the predawn palace had already rattled the citizens’ nerves; learning that there had been intruders again shocked them.

They were relieved to hear that all intruders had been repelled, yet they could not help feeling anger.

It was already the second such intrusion.

People felt as though it had happened to them personally.

How lightly must the kingdom have been regarded, for them to attempt this twice?

Anger outweighed fear because public support for the King was firm and great.

Since the current King had ascended the throne, people had lived much better than before.

To have the King threatened in such times made hearts lurch.

Many believed the palace intrusion had been commissioned by those aiming to assassinate the King.

There had been an intrusion when the King was away, yes, but this time it had happened while he was present—public conviction only hardened.

What began as dozens calling to find and root out the masterminds grew to hundreds, then surged in an instant to tens and then hundreds of thousands, pouring onto the roads.

At first, the police were flustered.

These people were not criticizing the royal house; they had gathered out of concern for the King, so there was no cause to disperse them.

And with such numbers, forced dispersal was impossible.

Hundreds of thousands filled the avenues, moving in great columns, their anger plain.

In any country, such scenes would look perilous.

Yet the slogans they carried were cries of concern for the King and denunciations of those responsible.

“Protect our King!”

“Guard the King!”

“Find those who target our King!”

“Do not take our King from us!”

Of course, this alone would not let them guard or protect the King, nor uncover the masterminds.

But there was another effect: photos and moving pictures of this massive outpouring were being broadcast to the world.

Who had ever seen citizens rally of their own accord to vent fury at those who targeted their King?

The people themselves were shouting to defend him.

To foreign leaders watching, the scene could only evoke shock and awe.

Such a spectacle would never occur in their own lands.

A population of more than ninety million moved as if united—an awe-inspiring, even fearsome sight.

Naturally, views of the Polia Kingdom abroad changed markedly.

The tumult persisted for quite some time; it only truly settled after roughly a fortnight (15 days).

Headquarters of the Secret Police (Mauter).

“It is astonishing how quickly the wounds are mending for a mana user.”

“I have heard that those who bear mana have heightened metabolism and accelerated healing. Of course, he will not be completely restored. Even if he lives, he will bear burn scars for life.”

After the palace intrusion, Ian had come out for the first time in a while—he was visiting the Mauter headquarters to inspect the Expert intruder’s condition.

“Has he said anything?”

“Since waking, he has refused to utter a word.”

The Expert had regained consciousness the day after he fainted.

Though struck full-on by lightning, he had come to.

Surviving a lightning strike was a matter of luck, yet the man, seemingly unfazed, had immediately begun plotting escape.

Of course, with guardians posted nearby, escape was impossible.

Even in perfect health it would have been hard; with a ruined body, it was nearly unthinkable.

For now, they were watching and waiting.

Once he stabilized, they would use drugs or torture to extract information.

They had also considered the possibility of a mental prohibition.

Previously captured operatives had been found to bear such seals; Ian had discovered powerful countermeasures that interfered with his own Mental Manipulation.

They just… died.

When he tried to force their mouths open, their eyes had rolled back; they had convulsed and bled from eyes, nose, mouth, and ears—and died.

Only after repeated attempts had they realized there was an exceptionally strong mental geas on all of them.

They were determined to conceal their identity completely.

“Even if his body recovers, can drugs or torture make him talk?”

“We will do our utmost to make him speak.”

“I recall hearing that neither drugs nor torture work well on mana users.”

“That is largely true. Many drugs have little effect, and their resistance to pain is high.”

For Viscount Rubingston as well, torturing a mana user would be a first.

Such individuals were vanishingly rare worldwide; chances like this were scarce.

Even so, he worried whether he could make the man talk.

“I will see him myself.”

“Your Majesty intends to go personally?”

“If I face him and speak, surely he won’t keep his mouth shut—can he, when the King comes to him?”

“It could be dangerous. We do not know what means he may still have.”

“With guardians waiting within call, what danger is there?”

Thinking of the guardians’ strength, Viscount Rubingston felt reassured.

Even without them, Ian could protect himself.

“Understood, Your Majesty. I will take you at once.”

Since the King had asked, the meeting was a foregone conclusion.

Rubingston rose to guide him; Ian stood and followed him out of the office.

They headed to an elevator.

It descended to the basement.

As the only access to the underground complex, it had guards posted at the entrance.

The agents saluted Ian as he boarded.

The iron gate slid shut and the car began to sink.

Creak, screech—the grinding of metal—then a steady sense of descent.

It was deep; only after several minutes did it stop.

The iron gate opened to reveal more agents at attention.

They saluted; Ian walked down the corridor.

“My apologies for the humble state of the place.”

“It’s underground—it is damp.”

There was a smell as well—like stagnant water.

Bare concrete covered ceiling and walls; following the string of lights, Ian saw multiple branching corridors.

Agents stood guard at intervals.

After several turns through the sprawling complex, they reached a door marked “Cells.”

Guards at the entrance snapped salutes, and at Rubingston’s order, they opened the thick iron gate.

Inside stretched a long corridor lined with doors on either side.

Human sounds drifted from within.

Evidently, prisoners.

Ian asked the viscount at his side,

“How many are held here?”

“Roughly eight.”

“Their charges?”

“Varied. Some preach perverse doctrines; one, shameful to say, shouts that Your Majesty must abdicate. Another attempted to foment rebellion in the provinces.”

“Rebellion?”

The idea surprised him.

He had cut taxes, created jobs.

He had thought he had stilled most discontent.

To plan rebellion—what had gone wrong?

“It appears the plan was sparked by resentment toward the late King.”

“I see.”

In those days, it was conceivable.

And once the plot came to light, and with evidence in hand, arrest was inevitable.

Ian asked one more question.

“Any resentment toward me?”

“None. On the contrary, he said he was grateful.”

“Is that so? Then release him.”

“Pardon?”

“You said he bears no resentment toward me.”

“That is true, but what of his crime of plotting rebellion?”

“Give him a measured punishment and then release him. Nothing too harsh.”

“Understood. I will see it done.”

It was an impromptu decision, perhaps, but Ian chose it.

To have planned rebellion, there must have been reasons—perhaps great losses.

Given what the late King had done, it was understandable.

“Your Majesty, release me too! I have done nothing wrong!”

“I only said that a world where all share everything is for the best!”

“I’m innocent—please let me go!”

His words carried along the underground corridor and were picked up through the doors.

Hearing some dangerously utopian talk among the pleas, Ian had no desire to linger and moved on.

Passing the row of doors and through the one ahead, the voices fell away and a different space unfolded.

Soon he stood before another door.

Inside he saw a single chair; a man was chained to it, and four guardians stood staring at him.

Clack—the door opened.

Ian stepped in, hands clasped behind his back.

As he entered, the prisoner slowly raised his head.

His face, when lifted, showed extensive burns—ruined.

All of that had been Ian’s doing.

Ian stopped at a set distance and met the man’s eyes.

They burned with fierce anger.

Ian let out a dry laugh.

Did the man think he had a right to be angry?

He asked,

“You seem angry with me?”

“…..”

“I don’t see why. Why be angry? You were the ones who invaded and struck first.”

Even so, the man kept his mouth clamped shut.

It seemed he would not speak easily.