Even a Scoundrel Gets Tired

173 – Machinations

After he vanished in such a way,

I, too, began

in my own manner…

Wandering through the mansion’s every nook and cranny,

I tried to find the Duke,

who had left behind only

meaningful pronouncements and vanished.

But whether he had stepped clean

outside these walls entirely,

not a trace of him remained,

not even the slightest whisper.

Of course, leaving behind as few

traces as possible was the absolute

basic tenet, but it felt

he took it a shade too far.

Even in my former life,

leaving some mark on my quarters, my resting space,

was simply unavoidable.

Yet here, in this place where he constantly

ate, slept, and spent his time,

I couldn’t find even

the smallest shred of his presence.

…Then again, I too, when departing

from my own lodgings, used

to erase every sign of myself.

Considering his abilities,

perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me.

‘…Unfair, really.’

It was precisely the act of

erasing my own trails that I

had so loathed in the past.

But for him, a single spell and *poof* – it’s gone.

No matter how I thought about it,

it was an utterly unreasonable magic.

The ability to move

unfettered, to any place,

and the one wielding that magic

is an assassin.

It seemed any further pursuit

of his ghost would be nothing more than futility.

I decided against wasting my strength on it.

“…I’ll need to find Elana and return.”

Of course, Aria was

weighing heavily on my mind, no less so.

Just a little while ago,

ostensibly to look for signs

of the Duchess’s presence,

I went to the door of the room where she’d been,

but it remained firmly shut.

Judging by the dust

that lay undisturbed before the door,

it seemed she hadn’t left the room at all.

Of course, if I truly forced the issue, I could get in, but

as someone who’s, well,

lived a long life,

let me tell you something:

with someone locked away in their room like that,

one of the best approaches

is to simply let them be,

until their own worries

resolve themselves.

Visiting now and again to offer a little company,

that’s acceptable, perhaps,

but trying in vain to force

a solution to her troubles

often ends up making matters even worse.

And considering her age,

sixteen, barely,

perhaps leaving her be is the surer course.

In my experience, the most

infuriating thing about adolescence

was the ceaseless prattle

of those who understood nothing.

Thankfully, Charlotte,

the Duke, doesn’t seem

inclined to prevent my visits,

so I intend to simply come by,

now and again, and offer company

until she emerges on her own.

And perhaps some counsel, should the opportunity arise.

Naturally, nothing would be better

than if she confided her troubles to me,

but I loitered before her door

for a good ten minutes,

and she remained silent,

unmoving, offering not a single word.

With rare ease,

he seemed disinclined to speak.

‘…Perhaps I should

send Ella later to coax him?’

Rather than her brother, with whom she once had friction,

a girl of the same age, with whom she had a

comparatively good relationship,

wouldn’t she be better suited to counsel him?

Of course, it felt a little strange to entrust

Aria to someone else’s care,

but if one were to consider it closely,

Ella was now too close

to be considered an outsider,

and the two knew each other, so it should be alright.

‘Then… all that’s left is this…’

Having decided to delegate that matter to Ella,

I lowered my head, and

slowly unfurled

the scroll still held

cherished in my right hand.

Still unbelievable, the sum: 500 gold.

Money that others could barely

earn after toiling for nearly

two months, sweating blood

under the burning sun, now resided in my grasp.

And in the form of such a

mere scrap of paper.

How long would it take to amass this much ordinarily?

Of course, I hadn’t worried much about

money thanks to the scrolls

I supplied to the Magic Tower,

but I maintained a small supply to

prevent the value of the goods from dropping,

so the income was just sufficient,

and recently, I hadn’t even been able to

stay in the Empire,

so my current coffers weren’t exactly overflowing.

“…With this, I won’t have to worry about

academy fees until graduation.”

Just tuition?

In private matters, too,

I could indulge in every luxury, every pleasure.

In fact, with this much,

I could leave the Academy and

build a house on a

prime piece of land.

Truly a windfall that

everyone dreams of at least once.

And already, I’ve

decided how to spend this fortune.

“…Should I try making my

muscles and tendons from mana stones instead of bone?”

Of course, hearing me say this,

I couldn’t escape

Ella’s endless nagging.

*

To live wielding a sword,

to put it kindly, is to live only seeing the sword,

and to put it harshly, is to live eating sword scraps.

Cutthroat, a derogatory

term for the wicked

who take up the sword.

Most cutthroats

live in the slums,

because they are cutthroats, not “Knights” or “Swordsmen.”

A convict cannot become a Knight, and

if one failed to become a Knight, or

had the capacity to commit crimes,

they wouldn’t be recognized as

Swordsmen even amongst mercenaries or adventurers

whose lifeblood is trust.

So they flock to the slums.

At least there, no one

points a finger and calls them criminals.

Rather, they are worshipped

for being relatively stronger.

Aside from the quality of life being

a bit… much lower,

they had no reason not to go to the slums.

“Hey… does what I say sound funny to you?”

“N-No, Brother…!!”

Even today, the cutthroats

reigned like kings in the slums.

“Bloody hell, but why the devil

can’t you bring me even one

decent target, huh?!”

“W-Well, that’s…”

“Why ‘but, but’ after every word? You wanna get pounded by our Beefcake?”

“No, Brother!! Forgive me…!!”

Wanted across the Empire

for the stabbing deaths of three

civilians, Cameron.

He had once been, in his own way,

a somewhat renowned aspiring knight.

Despite hailing not from a noble house,

but a commoner’s,

in swordsmanship and stamina alike,

it was nothing to brag about, but

he was decidedly superior to others,

so perhaps it was only natural that his name was known.

His friends called him

the future commander of the Knights Order,

and his parents were so proud of their only son.

Yes, if only that thing hadn’t happened.

‘…Huh?’

‘…Isn’t there anyone else?’

‘W-Wait, what is this…!!’

‘It seems someone of your caliber simply

doesn’t satisfy me.’

He was ignored.

Completely, utterly.

Being outshone by a peer, that must have been the first time.

And likewise, it was the first time,

to be looked down upon

by others.

‘Aww…guess he can’t beat Allen after all.’

‘Well, a commoner,

who did he think he was reaching for?’

‘Commander of the Knights? What a joke, really.’

That day, Camellon went to the tavern and

drank himself into oblivion.

Enough to make any onlooker

squint with distaste.

One cask, two casks, before he knew it

the emptied barrels numbered more than four,

Camellon approached those

who sat quietly around him

and stabbed them all to death before fleeing.

The reason was simply

that they were laughing.

It felt as though their laughter mocked him.

He claimed he couldn’t bear it.

That he was wronged,

that it was unavoidable.

Even now, years after

that incident,

he still believed it.

‘Damn it…at least I escaped

the guard..’

“Heh…heh heh, boss…are you feeling unwell a-again…urgh…!”

‘Are these the only kinds of b*stards around here?!’

No matter how many times he slammed the face of

thug number one, who was grinning at him, into the wall,

Camellon’s rage wouldn’t abate.

Was it really so difficult

to find some rich,

affluent sort and inform him?

Of course, being in the slums,

finding someone like that might be

difficult,

‘So what? Isn’t it your job to do

as I say?’

Unfortunately, he was rotten

to the core.

To think that he, once a promising talent,

had ended up in a place like this for such a goddamn reason.

The thought that even these

men were looking down on him

was something he could no longer tolerate.

“Hey.”

“Y-yes?! Yessir!”

“I’m gonna have a look around… if I find anyone like that, they’ll wish they were dead.”

He left the thugs, their souls utterly drained by his barely-there threat,

and drew his cloak tighter,

then began to scour the slums.

Today, too, without fail,

the familiar scenery unfolded.

Beggar children and blind peddlers.

A few vagrants with their aged mothers

strapped to their backs, begging for alms.

A girl, grimy clothes clinging to her form,

ran about, shouting “Buy flowers~” She tugged at his heart.

“Tch, really no one…?”

But no matter how thoroughly he searched,

he couldn’t find anyone suspicious enough to be hiding something, nor

any people oozing wealth, not even if he

scrubbed his eyes clean.

Just as he was thinking the thugs were lucky today,

a very suspicious

man caught his eye.

‘…Haha, such a conspicuous

noble sword in a place like this…?’

He’d somehow borrowed clothes

fit for the slums, because

far from reeking of wealth, he stank of poverty,

but he couldn’t hide the exquisite

sword strapped to his waist.

The situation assessed,

Camelon immediately gave chase.

The streets were terribly tangled,

but fortunately the man’s

height was considerable,

and he managed to keep him in sight.

Finally, the man disappeared into a narrow,

dark alleyway.

“Heh heh… Son of a b*tch, first, I’ll bleed this one dry…”

“…”

‘If things go well, I might even…

smuggle myself to another country!’

“…A fly, perhaps?”

“…Guh…?!”

“…Worse than a fly, it seems.”

It was instantaneous.

The head of Kamelon, who just moments ago,

was chuckling to himself,

imagining his blissful future,

*thud*, and it was gone.

‘Son…of a…b*tch…again…Reinhardt…’

And before his eyes

completely closed,

the last thing he saw

was the face of that boy,

the same age, who had defeated him,

and the features,

mirroring perfectly those of a certain middle-aged man.

“…Tch, must find the lab quickly…This is disgusting.”