Chapter 193. The Mastermind (3)
The northernmost reaches of the Rosemore Territory. Surrounded by knife-edged ravines, there lies a permafrost land where snow lies year-round. Beneath the rocky floor of those treacherous ravines, the End Order's Sanctuary lies hidden.
A man in a white robe crossed the Sanctuary's colonnade.
"Stand aside."
The Order's Elite guarding the entrance cleared the way.
He was Vargas—the Cardinal newly appointed to oversee the End Order's Northern Branch. A clergyman of considerable standing within the Order, who had to this point gouged out the eyes of thousands as tribute.
Striding down the corridor with an air of imposing authority, Vargas entered a room and without hesitation drove his forehead into the cold floor.
"Your Holiness, I have carried out your instructions."
A greeting that mingled reverence and fear in equal measure.
"Oh?"
But the voice with which Rupert received him was languid.
"Yes. As you commanded, I delivered the gift and the letter to Y&P Trading Company."
"Good work."
Cardinal Vargas made his report with due formality. But beneath that gleaming bald head, a tangle of complicated misgivings was roiling.
Why on earth go to such troublesome lengths?
He could not, in all honesty, understand it.
Over the past three years. The End Order's foothold in the North had been driven to the very edge of a cliff.
The personnel sent in for the purpose of revival had met with misfortune one after another, and the nobles who had connections to the Order had been hunted down and executed in a chain.
What the Order needed now was a decisive, thunderous blow.
Something like—mass-supplying poisoned beverages to the capital through the trading company that had made itself the North's crowning pride. That kind of magnificent blow.
Designating Y&P Trading Company as the target had been an inspired choice.
The Bottling System.
It was not the same as ordinary beverage production. Syrup concentrate produced in the North was shipped to the capital, where it was mixed with carbonated water and bottled at a local factory.
In other words, it was an upstream perfectly suited to administering poison.
But the process itself was baffling.
Using the Power to manipulate the factory manager, or secretly dissolving the substance into the syrup tank—either would have sufficed.
Why go to the trouble of sending a letter to the Trading Company's owner and proposing a deal?
"Your Holiness, forgive me for overstepping, but may I ask one question?"
"Of course."
"He may read the letter and refuse—or report the matter to the guards. Rather than granting him any opportunity at all, would it not be preferable to proceed immediately to the secondary plan……"
But.
"Hmmm……."
Without so much as glancing at the Cardinal, Rupert gave a small nod.
"Your Holiness?"
"Ah, yes. Do as you see fit."
And with that, he waved his hand dismissively.
For Rupert, this was only natural.
In the first place, he had never had any interest in grandiose matters like the Order's mission, or the destruction of the world.
They had simply walked in of their own accord, bowing and scraping with their 'O god, O vessel', and took care of all the bothersome miscellaneous business—so he made use of them the way one would use foot soldiers.
The Order's leadership was aware of this.
But there was nothing to be done about it. The Power that Rupert exercised as naturally as breathing was incontrovertible proof that Rupert was the great one's proxy.
What moved the End Order was their overwhelming fanaticism. No matter how absurd or unreasonable the order Rupert issued—Rupert's will was the great one's will. That was all there was to it.
"Still, it is rather curious, I must say."
And yet, amidst all of this, Rupert's attention was occupied by one thing only.
Propping his chin on his hand, he looked down at his younger sister, Penelope, laid out on the bed.
Skin drained chalk-white, forehead damp with cold sweat, lips pressed tightly shut.
"I was so certain I could have her reborn as a perfect member of the Rosemore family."
Rupert smiled bitterly. No matter how he manipulated and twisted her memories, Penelope resisted the Power with tenacious stubbornness.
Just as Clarisse had, on that night three years ago.
Everything in this world moved according to Rupert's will.
The head of the Rosemore family, political heavyweights who had weathered every storm imaginable. Even the fanatics of the End Order, steeped in madness—they all fell in line with Rupert's will.
And yet these sisters were different.
Toys that would not behave as he wished. Puzzles that refused to assemble the way he wanted.
For Rupert, who had obtained everything with ease, the existence of these 'defective pieces' was, paradoxically, a stimulating source of amusement.
"What do you suppose is the reason for it?"
Rupert posed the question out of nowhere.
"Pardon…… pardon?"
Vargas repeated stupidly.
"Clarisse and Penelope."
Rupert tapped Penelope's cheek with his index finger.
"Is it because they were born of the same blood as me? Could there be some manner of resistance in the blood of Rosemore? Yet for that—the other members of the family broke apart easily enough."
Rupert tilted his head with a look of genuine puzzlement.
"Or perhaps some noble sisterly bond has wrought itself into a miracle? The elder held firm, so the younger holds firm too—that sort of tearjerking melodrama?"
"Th-that would be…… perhaps a trial sent down to Your Holiness, that you might become an even more perfect vessel……"
Vargas mopped the cold sweat from his brow and offered the most plausible interpretation he could muster. But Rupert's expression fell visibly flat.
"Tedious."
Rupert waved his hand again in a broad sweep. It was an unmistakable Order of Expulsion. He turned his back on Vargas.
Under ordinary circumstances Vargas would have withdrawn at that, but today was different.
"Your Holiness, I presume to address you once more."
"What is it?"
"There is one matter you must absolutely be made aware of."
"Speak."
Rupert said it crookedly, as though entirely uninterested.
Over the past three years, the Order had suffered calamity after calamity.
The Archbishop had died when long-laboured grand schemes were overturned; every noble with connections to the Order had been hunted down; and there had even been the disappearance of a Cardinal—a succession of events, one after another.
Vargas, having taken over the Northern Diocese as Cardinal in the wake of all this, had investigated the preceding disasters.
At first he had thought it was simply a run of bad luck.
"Behind all of those incidents, there was always one group that connected them."
But after gathering and distilling the fragmented records, a single common denominator had emerged.
"Y&P Trading Company."
At that instant.
"Oh?"
A light that had not been there before flickered in Rupert's previously languid eyes.
***
Less than half a day had passed since Jurgen used the 'Summon.'
One by one, shadows began to gather in the rear courtyard of the Y&P Trading Company manor.
An old man in a patched and worn military uniform. A middle-aged man with a fishing rod slung at his hip. A woman dressed like an ordinary country housewife. And a drunkard staggering along reeking of liquor.
To look at them—perfectly ordinary neighbours one might find anywhere.
But there was not a sound from any of them. Not even the sound of footsteps. The dozens of dark silhouettes filling the garden were like phantoms that would vanish the moment you blinked.
Before Jurgen, the former Secret Burial Unit—Britannia's most elite force—fell into formation.
"……."
Jurgen slowly studied each of their faces in turn, sinking into quiet reflection. Familiar faces and cherished memories drifted past one by one.
"You've all let your discipline go to rot."
Jurgen opened with those words. The old man standing at the very front snickered, baring his yellowed teeth.
"No worse than yourself, sir. You look like you've put on a bit of a belly."
"I've been eating well and living well—small wonder. Look at the size of this manor."
"Sir! Is it right to put civilians to work like this without warning?"
"I nearly had to pay a penalty fee, rushing here in such a shock."
"Not a word from you while you were sitting pretty as Minister of Internal Affairs. Tsk, tsk."
Light banter and good-natured jeering passed back and forth.
And yet, for all the grumbling and complaints, they had made their way here in less than half a day. Because this was the Summon of Hanbin—the man they trusted and followed more than anyone.
Looking at them, Jurgen's expression turned quietly bitter.
"I'm sorry."
The smiles faded from the members' faces.
"I promised you all you would rest in the sun for the rest of your lives. I'm sorry to have called you back like this."
Jurgen meant every word.
He had wanted them to forget the blood-soaked past and live ordinary lives. Even if they met again someday, he had never wanted it to be like this.
"It's because I've grown too rusty."
Jurgen shook his head with a self-deprecating air.
"I've brought blood back to your hands."
Silence fell. After a moment, Rick—the middle-aged man with the fishing rod—answered with a grin.
"Well I never. Living to see the day the Commander actually apologises."
"Exactly."
"Not the man I remember—not by a long shot."
Agreement broke out noisily from all around.
"How desperate must you have been, sir, to summon all of us."
"That's right. Being a back-room old man only keeps a person going for so long—if you want the truth, I was getting rather restless."
Just then, Karen—who had the look of a perfectly ordinary country housewife—spoke up.
"So then, sir—what is it you've summoned us for?"
A subtle tension ran even through these veterans among veterans.
The Summon they had seen and came running for. It was a wartime code known only within the Secret Burial Unit.
The final call signal—activated only when the nation faced the brink of destruction, or an emergency of equivalent magnitude. The signal that was never to be used again, from the moment the great calamity that had engulfed the Kingdom had ended and the Secret Burial Unit was disbanded.
Depending on how one reads it, it could appear as though Hanbin Ainsworth was organising Private Soldiers and plotting a rebellion.
"Did Her Majesty issue a secret directive?"
"No—this is an overreach of my authority."
Jurgen shook his head with composure.
"There is no Royal Seal, no word from Her Majesty. There is no great cause whatsoever. It is simply for a wholly personal purpose—to get back my…… beloved."
"……."
"If this goes wrong and the Royal Household learns of it, it may cause trouble for you all as well."
"……."
Jurgen raised his head.
Every one of them had their mouths hanging wide open.
"Hold on, sir! A beloved?! A beloved?!"
"Who is she? Name, height, age, rank, appearance, physical characteristics—details please!"
"There's actually a woman who got through to the Commander?!!"
The members erupted into uproar on the spot. Jurgen was nonplussed.
"No…… Is that what matters right now?"
"That's the most important thing! Someone like you, sir—socially oblivious? No that's not quite it, what's the word—hopelessly unaware, the kind that……"
"And what do you mean by overreach of authority? Since when has the Commander ever weighed that before acting?"
"That's right—I still remember when you ignored orders from above and came to rescue me."
The members each adjusted the grip on their weapons. There was no hesitation in their eyes, no fear.
Because their loyalty had never once been directed toward the Royal Household. Always, at the very bottom of those hellish battlefields, always standing at the very front and drenched in blood—Hanbin Ainsworth.
That was the force that had moved the Secret Burial Unit as one body.
"A personal act of revenge—that actually appeals to me more, if anything. Getting to see the Commander turn the world upside down over a woman."
"Just give us the order!"
Jurgen stared at them blankly for a moment—then let out a quiet, involuntary laugh.
"Thank you."
He immediately hardened his expression and drew the map from his coat, spreading it out.
"Briefing begins now. The objective is the rescue of Penelope Rosemore—abducted by Rupert Rosemore."
The map was covered in a chaotic scatter of the red marks Clarisse had given him.
"Regrettably, this is all the intelligence we have. But I am convinced this situation is deeply entangled with the End Order."
"Yes, sir!"
"We do not have much time. We must catch him before he realises what's happening and flees."
"How shall we proceed? Shall we divide by sector?"
"No."
Jurgen drew a measured breath and continued.
"Everyone hits simultaneously."
He ran his finger across the red points on the map.
"Squad One takes the coastline, Squad Two takes the mountain range, Squad Three centres on the abandoned mine areas—tear apart every suspicious location. Not a single rat, not a grain of dust gets past you."
"Yes, sir!"
And finally.
"The Kingdom's enemies—to the ground."
The moment Jurgen's order fell—
―Fwt! Fwt fwt!
In an instant, the shadows scattered in every direction.