Translator: KJ

Scritch- scritch-

Beneath the pale light, a man sat carving grooves into a steel plate with a graver.

Scritch- scritch-

The Mana Stone powder clinging to the tip of the blade gathered into the shape of a circuit.

Scritch- scritch-

As he worked, the man muttered something under his breath.

“......The Centric are the origin of humankind, sprung from the heart of the continent thousands of years ago.”

Before the empire was ever an empire, before the nation had taken on its present rigid form.

The Centric stirred to life in the center of the continent and stretched outward across the whole of it. They turned their backs on the blizzards and crossed frozen peaks, evergreen coniferous forests, and the Mecken Mountains where monsters lay in wait.

“The weak were culled and only the strong remained, and so the descendants of the Centric were tall, and pale, and unbreakable. That very ordeal was the furnace that forged them.”

Most of the Centric settled in the center, but some pressed on to the west. And so those branches could be called the collateral lines of the Centric, and a few of them, closest to the original source, could dare to be called the true bloodline of the continent.

“Them, we call the Aran.......”

Scritch- scritch-

The graver bit deeper into the plate.

“......But the Sled sprang from the mire of the east.”

The man's voice sank low.

While the Centric were being tempered in the center, the Sled scattered across the vast plains of the continent's eastern edge and multiplied. That endless, sprawling land gave them no trials at all.

With no trials there was no culling, and with no culling their numbers simply swelled. Aimless, directionless, like a horde drifting across the wilds.

And so the Sled were a lowly race.

A bloodline fundamentally apart, one that never shared the Centric's path to begin with.

What flowed within them was a current entirely unlike the Aran's.

Blood that had never been tempered ran thin, ran murky, mixed easily. The proof lay in how, unable to guard their own lineage, they blended into every place they touched.

The strong stood tall and alone; the thin grew turbid within the herd.

“The subspecies. The Ezenheim.”

Scritch-

The graver stopped.

“The Ezenheim belong to neither side.”

The Centric had their origin in the center. Even the Sled had roots, if only the mire of the east. At the very least, the question of “origin” had an answer for them.

Yet the Ezenheim had not even that.

The Ezenheim had no history.

Going back thousands of years, their progenitor was recorded in not one of the continent's ancient tomes.

No land of origin, no branch that spread from it, no age they grew old alongside.

They simply appeared one day, without warning, in the heart of the continent, their faces already fully formed. Like a villain materializing at another man's doorstep. Like a parasite that seeped in while no one was looking.

Having no roots, they cultivated nothing.

They reaped without sowing; they moved in and dwelled without ever building.

They fastened themselves to what the empire's subjects had raised with blood and sweat, sucking them dry, tearing open the granaries to fatten their own bellies.

Theft was their one and only trade, and swallowing what belonged to others as though it were their own was their one and only history.

Therefore the Ezenheim were a tainted race.

A thing set against humankind.

If the Sled were thin water, the Ezenheim were oil dropped into it. Never mixing, only floating atop it, swallowing what lay beneath.......

“The ‘Yaken’ are altogether different from them.”

Though they too came to be called subspecies, the Yaken stood at the farthest remove from the Ezenheim.

Above all, their roots ran deep.

Before the Centric were ever tempered in the center, the Yaken already lived scattered across the ancient soil of the continent. Their name could always be found in some passage of the old texts.

An age older than the founding of the empire.

If the Ezenheim were defined by their “rootlessness”, then the Yaken were the very opposite— one of the oldest roots on the continent.

Yet that root never sank into a single stem.

The Yaken seldom gathered into groups. By a nature that drove each of them to stand alone, scattered to his own valley, his own mountainside, his own forge, they never banded together into a single power.

And so, though many in number, they could never unite into strength; yet that scatteredness was no weakness.

“The Yaken have loyalty.”

They did not misrepresent what they possessed, and they never took up the trade of deceiving others with what they had.

Where the Ezenheim sought to swallow without building, the Yaken devoted themselves to building alone.

The work of digging something up, of forging it, raising it, cultivating it.

The wise arts of finding the continent's paths and detecting the dark all sprang from their senses.

The Yaken's bodies were not large, but they were solid. Their toughness was of the kind possessed only by those who had handled earth and fire and iron across long ages.

Not splendid, but stout; not easily broken, and never yielding.

A stubbornness that would let its neck be snapped before bowing its head to anything it had once judged right was rooted deep within that sturdy frame.

“And so they are wrought iron. Iron that can be grasped in the hand of the Aran.......”

Scritch-

The graver stopped.

For a moment, the man gazed down blankly at the grooves he had carved into the plate.

“......And so the order is self-evident. The continent must be led by those who have been tempered.”

As Mana seeped into the final circuit, a blue light pulsed hard.

──Click.

It was finished.

Cradling it against his chest, he looked off somewhere.

「Under the Moonlight」, which to him was nothing less than scripture. And its companion commentary, Johann Georg's thesis 「The Thousand-Year Empire」.

He had read them hundreds of times over, until they were worn with the grime of his hands, and certain sentences had been branded onto his heart.

“Those who are tempered shall lead.”

He was nothing but one man. All he had was his pure blood.

An Aran father and mother, a great-grandfather, a great-great-grandfather......

'For me, whose one and only pride is a bloodline carried down pure from the highlands of the center, if I could have but a single wish...

I want to meet you. Just once. If only once.'

“.......”

He gripped the plate in silence.

He was ready.

Now, he would deliver judgment upon those who stood against humankind.

* * *

──The Luchen auction heist became a fairly famous affair, just as it had before my Regression.

The Imperial Guard was furious, but they never recovered a single coin in compensation. Even if there had been insurance, there wasn't a scrap of paper to prove where the pieces had been bought, or for how much.

They hadn't been honestly obtained in the first place, after all.

I doggedly tracked the Revolutionary forces' money-laundering route through Luchen.

I didn't rush in rashly; I watched, quietly.

They sold off the stolen goods in small batches, through the underworld and other black markets. Some in the empire, some in Prozen, some in the east...... the Revolutionary forces stretched far and wide, but I pieced the connections together from the transaction data an⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠d raided the most promising sites.

“.......”

But every site I reached held nothing but silence.

No one was there.

Had the information leaked from the inside? Or had they anticipated it to some degree as well?

I glared into every corner of the hideout and focused my mind.

Beneath my collarbone, the Virus pulsed.

Thump—

Anyone moving in a hurry was bound to slip up. Bound to leave something behind.

No matter how much of an Ezenheim they were.

Thump—

My vision washed over with blue.

The grain of Mana, invisible to human eyes, came alive.

In a corner of the wall, faint scrawls beneath a coat of paint.

At a glance they looked like meaningless marks, but I saw them differently. Through the eyes of an Ezenheim.

I broke the symbols down the way they would read them.

【 0820. Western 3rd Port. We go together. 】

Words like fragments.

I couldn't make out the details, but it might mean that someone important to the Ezenheim was about to leave the empire.

“Hmm.......”

I sank into thought for a moment.

Was there any related incident in my memories from before my Regression?

The Maximilian of before, a knight in name only, what were you frittering y⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠our time away on around this point?

‘Haha, that's Sir Maximilian for you! However did you get your hands on such a rare wine!’

‘That's our knight for you!’

‘Sir Knight. A real prime business opportunity has just come up......’

The me in those memories was at some café, or some famous bar, or some high-end restaurant where a table was near impossible to get.

Days when I gave the Operations Officers and Administrative Officers no real work at all, and instead hounded them to somehow land “reservations” purely for my own amusement.

A past in which I burned the Ebenholtz name and the rank of knight on nothing but being waited on, playing and feasting.

Blowing easy money on pointless vanity, and, behind my back, being treated by them as a “rich sucker.......”

“......Ugh.”

I really did live like a moron. Clicking my tongue at the bitter aftertaste, I stepped out of their hideout.

......Suddenly,

my eyes caught on something.

The building's entrance. The base of the first door leading into the hideout.

A certain “mark” had been left there.

A shoeprint.

When someone came running in such a hurry that there was no time even to change out of their boots, the rubber heel of a military boot would scrape hard against the door and leave a long, dark scuff, like a crayon streak dragged across a chalkboard.

“Operations Officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

The empire's agencies that issued military boots each used different materials and colors.

And among them, Georgen, being a newly formed agency, used fairly new ones.

“This spot here.”

I said, pointing at the evidence etched into the door.

“Take it off and put in a request for compositional analysis.”

“Yes, sir!”

* * *

────KABOOOOM!

In Empire Central 31st District, the factory of the chemical company “Alchemia” was swallowed in flames.

The blaze set off a Mana reaction and burned violet, and the supervisor and the key researchers were either killed outright in the explosion or left gravely wounded where they stood.

“......H⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠eh. This is really something.”

The interrogation room of Georgen, the newly established political police.

In the cramped, plaster-walled space, Sergeant Gewin flipped through the case file with an air of indifference.

“A bombing, in a climate like this. You got a death wish or what?”

On top of that, Alchemia was a company that funded the [Martin Foundation].

“......You. Did you even know who's backing this company before you went and touched it?”

Martin Himmler, head of the Martin Foundation, was the current Georgen Director's most powerful patron and ally, and a top-ranking official of the Imperial Guard.

“Say something, you little shit.”

Sergeant Gewin leaned in.

The bomber, Niko, bound to the chair with his head hanging low, slowly opened his eyes. A dry voice leaked out from between his crushed lips.

“They...... are Ezenheim.”

“Enough of that. Tell me who's behind you.”

Inspector Fried tossed something onto the desk. It was the circuit board recovered from the blast site.

“You put all of this together by yourself, you little shit?”

It wasn't even a proper bomb. Just an ordinary board with Mana Stone powder etched into it like circuitry, an explosive rigged so its Mana would run wild at a specific signal. The craftsmanship far surpassed standard military ordnance.

There had to have been someone helping him.

“I did it alone.”

At Niko's answer, Inspector Fried let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

Sergeant Gewin picked the questioning back up.

“......Fine. Let's say, giving you every benefit of the doubt, that you did it alone. Then what's the motive?”

“Because they are Ezenheim.”

“What?”

“TheEzenheimarehalf-breedswithnohistorysurelyyoupeopletooknowwhatplotstheyhatchthereandhowtheybleedtheempiredry.......”

Niko spat the bizarre sentence out in a single breath.

──SLAM!

Inspector Fried brought his fist down on the table and bellowed.

“Cut the bullshit and talk straight! I asked who's behind you, you little shit! Way I see it, you look like an Ezenheim rat bastard yourself.”

In that instant, Niko's eyes flashed. He twisted his body as though seized by a fit and screamed.

“Look at my family tree! I'm a pure Aran! That knight would know it the moment he laid eyes on me!”

“What the-”

“The Ezenheim! Those bastards destroyed my family! My father died because of their greed!”

“.......”

Inspector Fried watched him quietly for a moment, then slowly unfastened his wristwatch and set it on the table.

And then.

──WHACK!

He threw a punch.

Whack! Thud! Crunch! Whack!

The sound of bone and flesh being pulped filled the interrogation room. The inspector's fist ground into Niko's face.

“Inspector! Hold on, Inspector! You're going to actually kill him at this rate.”

The sergeant hurriedly moved to stop him. Both his arms held back, Fried turned to Gewin, breathing raggedly.

There was something strange about the depth of his rage. Gewin quietly felt him out.

“Inspector... don't tell me you've been getting something on the side from that company too......?”

“......Don't cross the line, Sergeant.”

At Fried's warning, Gewin hastily bowed his head.

“My apologies. For now let's just talk, talk it out. He really is going to die at this rate.”

“.......”

Belatedly, Inspector Fried checked Niko's condition. Gurgle- the way he kept spitting up bloody froth was not a good sign.

“Get him settled down.”

Fried wiped his sweat away and stepped outside.

Left alone, Gewin let out a dry, incredulous laugh.

“He's the one who beat the guy senseless and now he says settle him down...... Hey. Start talking straight. Or else you really are going to get beaten to death right here.”

Niko trembled all over, his eyes dazed and unfocused. Gewin murmured, low.

“I asked, who's behind you?”

And then, an answer barely formed itself from his cracked vocal cords.

“The letter.......”

“The letter?”

“My...... letter.......”

Sergeant Gewin rummaged through the list of seized evidence and turned up a single letter. It was an item collected from Niko's home.

“This?”

“Yes...... that one.......”

“......Huh?”

Gewin's eyes went wide the moment he checked the letter's recipient.

“The knight you were talking about was this guy?”

Gewin burst out laughing in disbelief. Niko pressed his hands together and begged in desperation.

“Please send it...... one I...... wrote myself.......”

What a joke this guy was.

Gewin scoffed and shot back.

“Listen, punk. You think a knight like this is gonna bother writing back to some nobody like you? Dream on, kid.”

“The letter.......”

Even so, watching Niko, who kept fixating on the letter as though he'd lost his mind entirely, Gewin lowered his gaze as if a good idea had just come to him.

“Okay. So if I send this letter for you, you'll tell me all of it, who's b⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠ehind you, who helped you design that board?”

“.......”

Niko nodded slowly. Sergeant Gewin glanced at the closed interrogation-room door as he spoke.

“We've got a deal, right? Even if no reply ever comes, so long as I send it, you talk?”

“Yes, yes, yes.......”

“Okay.”

The final destination this letter longed for was the desk of the most dangerous man in the empire.

But the chances of it ever reaching there were, well.......

“All right, watch closely. I'll put it in the envelope right here in front of you.”

None, most likely.

Because in this empire, a single minute of that knight's time mattered more than the entire lifetime of a piece of vermin like this.

* * *

The Sentinels' sparring hall.

Lately, I had been making steady use of it, honing myself.

Recently, I'd found myself a rather good sparring partner.

Julian was an excellent opponent, of course, but he was always short on time, and more than that, sparring shoulder to shoulder and working up a sweat with him still felt awkward.

Leon and Tiana had become mid-tier knights by now and were too busy roaming the field, and Schatz was the hidden blade I had to keep concealed to the very end.

CLAAAANG──!

The roar of blade crashing against blade rang through the hall. The exchange flowed on smoothly for dozens of clashes, but the sheer mass bearing down through the flat of his blade was in another class entirely. Its crushing force left my wrists tingling.

“......Hah.”

I stepped back, catching my breath, and flexed the hand gripping my longsword.

“You're strong. Just what I'd expect from a senior knight.”

At my words, Cliff arched one eyebrow slightly.

“It's only a contest on the ground, either way.”

Cliff's voice was flat.

On the ground.

Just as he'd said, a knight was only truly complete once he took to the sky.

Thanks to the propaganda and promotion I had relentlessly spread over the past several years, the “sky” had become the domain of the knight. It had become a matter of boast and pride. And beyond that, it had become an essential condition for a knight's investiture.

“In the sky, you're first among all knights. Everyone knows it.”

Just as Piort, the Great King of the East, once overcame a great famine by proclaiming the potato a “food of nobility” and spreading it far and wide, I too had packaged flight itself as a refined, high-class act and introduced it to the knights.

“Thank you for the bout.”

“Off on assignment now?”

Cliff asked, sounding a little disappointed.

“Yes. It'll probably be a few weeks before we can spar again.”

【0820. Western 3rd Port. We stand together.】

The hint I'd gleaned from the Ezenheim pointed to the “3rd Port”, and to get there, I had already prepared a false identity.

A knight had it easy with this sort of infiltration work. Because a forged ID wasn't actually fake. It was a genuine article, one truly folded into the empire's administrative system and perfectly authenticated.

“Right. See you the⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠n.”

Cliff smiled and sheathed his sword, and I returned to my office.

「Maximilian's Office」

I was just gathering up a few things.

“Sir.”

An Operations Officer stepped in and handed me a paper envelope.

“This letter came for you.”

“A letter?”

“Yes. But...... apparently it's from a bomber.”

[To Sir Maximilian.]

[Niko Weber]

The fact that it came from a terrorist actually piqued my interest.

I tore the letter open, read the opening lines, and asked.

“This man is at Georgen right now?”

“Yes.”

“......Well, that works out perfectly.”

I let out a small laugh and tucked the letter away.

Georgen. It was a place I'd have to stop by at least once anyway.

Because the composition of the boot scuff found at the Revolutionary forces' hideout had turned out to belong to that very agency.

~~~

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