Chapter 19 - Number Eight

'I survived.'

Tom shook out his stinging hands in delight. He had faced demon-beasts and a Demon and lived. It was nothing short of a miracle.

Yet the others were reacting strangely.

Damian merely lay there muttering that he was hungry, while Gwen sat slumped on the ground, staring blankly. Her face was full of guilt. She looked just like a soldier who had killed someone for the first time.

It seemed to be because she had used magic. Tom knew about her aversion to it.

Clicking his tongue softly, he went to Gwen first. She was taking it the hardest.

"You saved our lives, Senior Gwen. If it weren't for you, that monster would have killed us all."

"... Did I do the right thing?"

"Yes, of course you did. Without your magic, we'd all have been finished."

"But I used magic..."

Gwen's voice was subdued. Magic apparently carried a different weight for her.

Tom could understand. In the North, Mages were considered cursed Demon filth. Quite a few had been strung up in trees and burned to death.

Still...

"Didn't you get the answer right earlier? The blacksmith, the sword, and the boy."

"But if I'm a Mage, the children..."

Her quiet murmur told Tom what the problem was.

Gwen often talked about how sweet and well-behaved the orphans she cared for were. Her weakness for money was also for the sake of feeding them.

She seemed worried that if word spread that she was a Mage, the children would be bullied. As orphans, they would be all the more vulnerable.

The solution was clear.

"You just need to get stronger, Senior Gwen."

Gwen blinked.

In the North, there was only one reason people got pushed around.

"People suffer because they're not strong enough. Look at the commander. He's a Mage, but he's strong, so instead..."

Tom swallowed the rest.

The explanation seemed to strike home. Gwen's eyes widened.

Tom stood. Gwen wasn't the only member he needed to look after.

"I'm hungry..."

Damian was wriggling around on the ground.

They had brought plenty of provisions, but whether those would satisfy the hungry Damian was another question.

Then Tom noticed the mole cricket carcasses behind them. Mole cricket tasted awful, but Damian wasn't picky.

'Good thing I brought spices.'

"I'll... I'll help too!"

"No, thank you. Staying right there would be the greatest help. Much appreciated."

Tom firmly declined Gwen's assistance.

'When will he be back?'

He glanced toward the deeper part of the cave, where Galahad had taken the crow-masked Mage.

* * *

'... Good God.'

Crow was so shocked that even chanting spells slipped from mind.

The bastard had grown stronger than before.

How was that possible?

It would have made sense if he were a Black Mage, but he was an Intelligence Bureau agent.

He loathed using humans to increase mana to a truly horrifying degree. Yet he thought nothing of punching holes through human Mages' heads himself.

Wasn't that precisely why Crow had sought a way forward through mana stones rather than humans?

And yet he had become even stronger.

That spell he had cast was unmistakably...

'Wasn't Hellfire the magic of a destroyed Mage Tower?'

Crow's hands shook uncontrollably. A sense of injustice welled up. After abandoning everything to come here, to be pursued even this far...

At the same time, Crow's mind raced. How to survive this man? There was only one answer.

'The locations of the Black Magic Society's branches... The Demons' current situation...'

Crow desperately sifted through every scrap of information for something he might like.

Surely that would be enough to be spared?

Then came a familiar lemon scent.

Crow desperately suppressed a rising scream.

As always, the man stood looking down with indifferent eyes.

"I... I've been waiting for you."

He narrowed his eyes. Something clearly displeased him.

Oh no! What a mistake!

Crow hastily turned the cloak inside out and shook out every possession. The pouches, even the tiny mana stones inside them—everything was offered up, without exception.

"Ah, Number Eight. So it's you."

It was a curious response, but Crow was too steeped in terror to notice.

Crow immediately bowed low, head to the ground.

"It's been far too long, boss!"

* * *

'So it was Number Eight.'

Galahad clicked his tongue softly.

"What's this about?"

"An informant I used to employ."

Galahad clicked his tongue again as he answered Gilberton.

Magic warped the mind, so bizarre individuals were forever cropping up.

Keeping informants was a basic necessity for managing such subversive organizations. Galahad was very thorough about the basics.

Number Eight had been his informant in the Black Magic Society. An excellent source of information, until vanishing one day.

'Hiding in the North. No wonder I couldn't find you.'

Had all his missing informants fled north?

It was quite possible. Anywhere else, the Intelligence Bureau would have caught them long ago.

"... You extort money from your informants?"

"It's evidence."

Galahad examined Number Eight's offerings: two high-grade mana stones, a little loose change, parchment, and assorted odds and ends.

'You must think I pursued you all the way here.'

That made the trembling somewhat understandable. How frightening must it be to think someone had tracked you down even to a cave deep within the northern front?

The circumstances were coincidental, but there was no need to explain. Leave the misunderstanding alone, and this one would surely never betray him again.

Caught even after fleeing to the far end of the North. Where else could Number Eight run?

Having finished his calculations, Galahad smiled gently.

"Number Eight, I was worried you were dead. But goodness! You're alive."

"Haha...! Ha! There were circumstances. The organization grew suspicious of me and sent me north. They even assigned a watcher, so there was nothing I could do."

Number Eight prostrated flat on the ground. Without the mask, licking his boots might have been next. Galahad discreetly drew his foot back.

"Of course. It couldn't have been anything else. You do have a brain, Number Eight. Surely you wouldn't be foolish enough to imagine you could escape me."

"Of course not! That goes without saying! Oh, I'm terribly sorry to have worried you! Those damned Black Mages!"

Crow kept bursting out in indignation. Galahad smiled, forcing down the blood rising in his throat. His insides were a wreck, but composure was a weapon.

"Yes, I had faith in you. We had quite a good arrangement, didn't we?"

"... Yes! It was an honor!"

He gently pushed Number Eight away from his feet.

"Earlier, I saw magic circles on the mole cricket demon-beasts' bellies that appeared to belong to the demon-beast tamer. Do you know anything about them?"

"Oh, those! Of course I do! To explain that, I first have to tell you about those Dawn bastards."

Galahad belatedly remembered how talkative Number Eight was.

"Keep it brief, would you? Give me the details in a report."

"Yes. In short, Dawn distributed them after rapidly expanding its power!"

"... They distributed the demon-beast tamer's magic circles?"

Apparently they had distributed degraded versions rather than the originals, though Number Eight didn't seem to know that.

"Yes, Dawn distributed them to its subordinate organizations."

"Wait. The Black Magic Society is under Dawn now?"

Galahad narrowed his eyes.

Dawn hadn't originally been a particularly large organization. Now it had brought the Black Magic Society under its control?

Galahad had certainly torn through the Society, but not enough to reduce it to serving Dawn.

Number Eight had no reason to lie.

If Galahad hadn't known about this, there were three possibilities.

Either Dawn was skilled enough to blind the Intelligence Bureau, or the information had been withheld from Galahad alone.

Had he heard about it, he would have uprooted them completely.

The Bureau might also be making use of Dawn.

"Is the demon-beast tamer with Dawn?"

"I don't know. But Dawn is circulating remnants of the Imperial-Demon War. It isn't just the demon-beast tamer's work."

The Imperial-Demon War was the name given to the war the Demons had waged against the Empire long ago.

Galahad took a leather notebook from inside his coat and checked its contents. An organization distributing remnants of that war ought to be recorded there.

'... Nothing.'

He might simply not have remembered it. He had only written down major pieces of information, after all. Still, he had a feeling that events had somehow gone off course.

'Good news.'

A sign that his years of struggle had meant something.

"Now, what were you doing here?"

"Mining mana stones. We planned to feed them to that Demon and create a breach in the front."

"Feed mana stones to a Demon?"

"Demons eat mana stones when they're hungry. The more they eat, the stronger they become, but they lose their reason in proportion."

"Did that information come from Dawn?"

"Yes, exactly!"

They knew a great deal. An oddly great deal.

"What's Dawn's objective?"

"A second Imperial-Demon War, I imagine. The plan was to destabilize things from within and collapse the front. They believe the true world will only open once the walls fall."

Gilberton laughed aloud. It was unmistakably derisive. Number Eight turned toward him.

"You'd be dead if my handler weren't here, you arrogant knight."

"Ah, it's just that the idea of bringing down the walls is so ridiculous."

Despite his laughter, Gilberton's face was cold and rigid.

"You've never seen what's beyond the wall, have you?"

Number Eight didn't answer.

"Anyway, boss. Something else I know is..."

No, it seemed the question simply didn't matter.

Galahad sent Gilberton out and spent a little time persuading Number Eight.

Considerably more docile afterward, Number Eight willingly divulged every scrap of information, even volunteering things Galahad hadn't asked about.

"Now, you're quite clever. I shouldn't need to explain at length."

"... Yes! Of course! Go back and send regular reports! Especially about Dawn!"

Behind the mask, Number Eight's eyes wavered.

'That misunderstanding about my pursuing you to the end of the North certainly helped.'

This should ensure Number Eight never ran away again. Having been caught even at the far end of the North, where else was there to flee?

Number Eight was clever and full of tricks, but no fool.

"Do you know how great the losses are? If it weren't you, Number Eight, I wouldn't be nearly so gentle. All those lost mana stones. You could have bought a castle with them."

"... Lost mana stones? Did you use mana stones?"

Number Eight tilted a head in bewilderment. Galahad pointed casually to one side, where the dull remains of mana stones lay scattered.

They were the remnants of the stones fed to the Demon.

"..."

Crow's red eyes narrowed behind the mask, then widened. A quiet curse escaped. Fucking bas—.

"Haha. Exactly! I'd been saving them to give you! Then that stupid Demon ate the whole fucking lot! Damn! Fuck! Bastard! Demon!"

"Quite. We nearly had a misunderstanding. I thought you'd broken our agreement and were embezzling. You belong to me, so everything you acquire is mine."

"I... I remember. Haha!"

"Good. Since it's you, I'll make an exception and charge no interest."

Perhaps overcome with emotion, Number Eight shed tears from those red eyes. Galahad patted a shoulder.

"Oh, and this is the last time I'll let you off."

At that quiet whisper, Number Eight bowed deeply.

"And wear your mask properly."

Number Eight nodded and adjusted the mask.

Never showing that face had been one of his conditions for sparing this one.

He waved a hand, and Number Eight vanished into the darkness.

Only then did Galahad release the breath he had been holding. A long trail of black blood ran from his mouth.

'Drinking too much Demon blood isn't good for your health.'

He murmured as he wiped his mouth. His insides were a mess. Every mana pathway was twisted out of shape.

His mana-crushed muscles screamed. Leaning against the wall, Galahad put a cigarette between his lips.

'One grain left.'

It felt as though his soul, rather than his body, might shatter. Clicking his tongue, he slid down into a sitting position.

'I'd better sleep a little.'

His heavy eyelids fell, impossible to resist.

How much time had passed? Galahad opened his eyes with a violent cough.

Gilberton sat nearby in badly dented armor.

"You look a mess."

"I don't think you're in a position to criticize."

"Fair enough."

Galahad chuckled. It felt as though he had slept well for the first time in ages. His mana had recovered a little, but still amounted to only a grain.

He dusted off the cigarette that had fallen to the ground and put it between his lips. He flicked a finger, but no flame appeared. Irritated, he shook it again. A tiny flame rose.

"Who exactly are you?"

Beyond the flame, Gilberton's face was unusually serious, filled with tension.

'Who am I...?'

For a moment, Galahad murmured that amusing question to himself.

"An abandoned hunting dog. Lucky not to have been eaten..."

The lemon scent deepened. Only then did his foggy mind begin to clear. He forced his mana to circulate. Pain burned through him in places, but he didn't stop.

"Is there even anyone capable of eating you?"

"What in the world do you take me for?"

Galahad's laughter sounded like a cough at the astonishment in Gilberton's voice.

"A Mage who kills Demons with magic... I've never heard of such a thing."

"Didn't I tell you? I'm a pioneer by nature."

Just then, boisterous laughter sounded outside.

Galahad forced strength into his unsteady legs and stood, declining the hand Gilberton instinctively offered.

"I dislike people touching me. Men especially."

"... It's not as though I particularly enjoy it either."

Chuckling, Galahad dragged his heavy feet forward.

The smell of roasting meat filled the air. Large chunks were piled high.

Tom was busily grilling meat over a huge fire, with Damian and Gwen beside him. It had the atmosphere of a campfire gathering.

"Oh, Commander. You're back. I'll have yours ready in a moment."

Tom wiped the sweat from his forehead as he spoke. The pan in his hand whirled noisily. He had the air of a first-rate chef.

"This doesn't count as the unit dinner."

"... I'm aware."

Gilberton's reply was sharp as he spread his tattered coat on the ground.

Galahad sat on it without protest. Judging by Gilberton's grimace, he hadn't laid it down for Galahad.

Then Tom offered a metal bowl filled with browned meat.

"Ah, thank you. Hold this for a moment."

Galahad handed Gilberton his cigarette and took the bowl. The meat reeked of gaminess. Tasted like shit. Clicking his tongue softly, he chewed it thoroughly.

'How many informants went missing again...?'

Galahad counted them up. For some reason, he suspected most were in the North.

'About eight, I'd say.'

And then there was the information he'd obtained from Number Eight.

The work kept piling up. He felt busier than when he'd been with the Intelligence Bureau.

Then Adrianna suddenly came to mind.

"So when exactly are those reinforcements coming?"

"They should arrive soon."

"Slow, aren't they?"

Galahad grumbled quietly.

* * *

"We move at once. Everyone, abandon the carriages."

Hartna's eyes widened at Adrianna's order.

For the normally unruffled Adrianna to speak with such urgency, something must have happened.

Holding her reins, Hartna edged closer to her senior, Carrot.

"What's happened?"

"Gilberton's group found something. The traces apparently resemble what hit the Seventh Battalion."

"Oh, that recent Demon attack on the Seventh?"

"Yes, and now the same thing's turned up where Gilberton is. We're fucked. That bastard's with them too. The Imperial. If he dies, it'll give the Empire a pretext. Ah, what a fucking mess."

Hartna let out a small breath at Carrot's coarse swearing.

When it came to the Empire, the North was broadly divided into three camps.

The hardliners: "We've had enough of those fucking Imperials. Wipe them out."

The moderates: "Be patient. How can humans fight each other with Demons out there?"

And the ultrahardliners: "Wipe out both the Demons and the Empire."

Those were the three factions.

The moderates had originally been the largest, but the hardliners had gained strength after the incident between Adrianna and the crown prince.

If the Empire used that man's death as an excuse to apply pressure, the hardliners would undoubtedly gain the upper hand.

Of course, the Grand Duke would make the final decision. But he was a man who drank blood, not one who shied away from it.

"He was more important than I thought, then?"

"What the fuck did you think he was?"

Why was the swearing aimed at her? Hartna held her tongue.

"But isn't it already over? Something stronger than the Demon that attacked the Seventh, and twelve mole crickets... Even Gilberton couldn't..."

"Yes, they're probably dead already. We're going to recover the bodies, at least."

At the barked reply, Hartna tightened her grip on the reins. Looking around, she saw everyone hurriedly packing.

Despite their urgency, no one seemed to doubt that the entire group had been wiped out.

"We'll be lucky if they're even holding out. An intermediate-ranking Demon on their very first mission. That Special Assault Unit is fucking cursed."

Hartna's lips moved slightly. She seemed to want to say something.

"What now? Spit it out, you little shit."

"Um... It's not the Special Assault Unit. It's the Special Operations Unit..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Seriously!"

Hartna hastily pulled back on the reins.