Chapter 109: Mad Shrike (10)

At this moment, the Doctor completely ignored the cockroach-haired Sarkaz currently being pinned to the table, who looked just about ready to explode with feral rage. His eyes remained locked on the glowing monitors, carefully tracing the movements of a bewildered, scar-faced mercenary over the past month. The man hadn’t even had the time to realize he was compromised.

He probably couldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams that he’d be identified the very second he stepped through the door. When he had used his right hand to pull back the curtain, the surveillance feed caught a highly specific gun callus on his ring finger, rather than the standard index or middle finger. Aside from a very specific batch of prototype firearms manufactured by Babel, absolutely no other weapon on Terra would create a callus in that exact spot.

This was entirely because the original designer of that weapon had been severely misled by cheap, B-tier war movies from another world. They only realized they needed to add a suppressor after the production run was finished, forcing them to compress the trigger assembly and shift its position down by an entire knuckle.

Kazdel’s newly installed surveillance network had finally proven its worth. Speaking of which, why install a advanced camera system in a city where people could barely afford a loaf of bread? So his paranoid hobby of casually planting little bugs everywhere had started this early in the timeline?

The digital trail traced from the mercenaries who had unintentionally brushed shoulders with this man, to the underground brokers they worked closely with, and finally to the brokers’ regular VIP clients.

No, searching this far is enough.

On the screen, the Doctor clearly spotted the silhouette of a Gargoyle Sarkaz flashing across the feed. Engraved on her shoulder was the unmistakable black crown emblem. This signified one of Theresa’s personal confidants; the one to deal with her next shouldn’t be him.

The Doctor clipped this exact segment of the surveillance footage, compiled it with the calculated material losses incurred this time, and transmitted the file directly to the Lord of Fiends—a ruler renowned for her boundless mercy.

But this time, her reply arrived almost instantly.

“I’ll handle it.”

You floated around the room in a state of sheer amazement, watching W still struggling violently against the table under Ascalon’s iron grip. The Doctor’s rationality clearly hadn’t been overtaken by a certain ‘rabbit head’ yet, as he showed absolutely zero courtesy toward this future meta-defining powerhouse.

“Take her too,” the Doctor ordered, his voice devoid of inflection.

Ascalon pressed her index and middle fingers together and gave a light, dismissive flick. The shadows pooling beneath her boots instantly solidified into jagged spikes, surging upward to firmly pin W’s hands behind her back.

W thrashed like a wild animal. “You white-haired damn liar, I—mgh mgh—!”

A final tendril of shadow whipped around her lower face, sealing her mouth shut.

Ascalon finally lowered her hand, a faint gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. This feral woman had actually tried to touch the Doctor’s hand the moment she arrived; the elite assassin had been holding back her killing intent for a long time.

Across the room, Hoederer and Ines exchanged a heavy look, both falling into a tense hesitation.

The foundational mercenary code of self-preservation was violently clashing with the instinct to protect a companion. Ines took a slow, shuddering breath. She shifted her weight, moving with the grim finality of someone stepping up to an execution block.

No matter how overwhelming the danger ahead, she silently admitted that she couldn’t just abandon this manic young Sarkaz girl they had picked up off the battlefield only a few months ago.

Just as Ines braced her hands on the table to stand, a Babel guard suddenly rapped his knuckles hard against their booth. “Follow us! Did you really think we didn’t see who that mercenary walked in with? You’re involved too!”

The anxiety that had been hanging by a thread in Ines’s chest finally flatlined. Well, now the two of them didn’t have to struggle with the moral dilemma of standing up or staying seated. It turned out they were all chained to the same sinking ship from the very start.

Ines and Hoederer shared one last tired glance. “…Fine.”

Deep within Kazdel, inside a mysterious, towering skyscraper that pierced the smog.

Theresa arrived in a hurried sweep of fabric, her beautiful features carrying an unmistakable, bone-deep exhaustion. “…Sorry, Doctor. I want to confirm one last time. Was it really all her doing?”

The Doctor simply pointed a gloved finger toward the heavy iron door behind him. “She’s already admitted it. Do you want to see her one last time?”

Theresa offered a bitter, fragile smile, yet still maintained her grace enough to nod. “Thank you for remembering to leave me time for a final goodbye.”

She didn’t utter anything foolish like ‘Should I forgive her?’or’She’s innocent too.’

Unlike the classic trope of a flawless, naive saint, the Theresa standing before you appeared exactly as she needed to be: a capable, decisive, and steadfast Lord of Fiends. She was a politician who understood the weight of the crown.

You had absolutely no doubt that even if you and Kal’tsit both died in a ditch tomorrow, she would weep genuine, agonizing tears for your deaths—but that sorrow wouldn’t stop her from stepping over your corpses to continue pushing for her ideals.

Ah, no, don’t misunderstand. That was pure, unadulterated praise. This specific archetype of a leader—ruthless in execution yet adhering to an impossibly high moral baseline—was a diamond in the rough. With just a slight slip in ideology, one could easily slide into becoming a manipulative war criminal like you.

A war criminal who not only wouldn’t shed a single tear, but would immediately exploit the deceased’s reputation, manipulate public opinion, and sow mass confusion just to accelerate the start of a profitable war.

Inside the freezing cell, the Gargoyle was suspended in mid-air by heavy, interlocking shackles. Over half her body was painted in drying blood. The moment she saw that familiar pink-haired figure step into the dim light, she instinctively tried to curl inward, struggling weakly against the chains. She didn’t want her liege to see her in such a wretched, broken state.

Theresa didn’t mind the filth or the stench of copper in the air. She stepped forward, gently reaching out to cup the traitor’s bruised cheek. “I want to know, Tifana. Why did you betray Babel?”

The cell remained dead silent.

“When I wasn’t yet the Lord of Fiends, you once shielded me from a fatal blade with your own body, leaving that scar on your face forever. I trusted you more than I trusted myself…”

The scarred Gargoyle turned her face away, refusing to meet those sorrowful eyes. “I have nothing left to say.”

At that moment, the Doctor, who had been standing silently in the corner with his arms crossed, suddenly spoke. His voice was like cracked ice. “Did you really think I couldn’t find out?”

Tifana forced her heavy head up, glaring at the masked tactician. “When we first formulated the plan… we overlooked exactly how dangerous you were. That was the plan’s single biggest flaw.” She let out a ragged breath. “And now, I have already paid the price for that oversight.”

The Doctor turned his head away, utterly impatient. “Who wants to hear your post-mortem analysis? First, tell me why you betrayed us. Any tactical intelligence that could be pried out of your skull has already been extracted. This is your final private time.”

Tifana fell silent for a long moment. Then, as if all the remaining air had been punctured out of her lungs, her head drooped. Half her face rested against Theresa’s warm palm, and the tip of her nose flushed a faint, trembling red.

“Your Majesty… in all these grand plans, the only person I’ve truly wronged is you. Just kill me.”

She submissively tilted her head, exposing her vulnerable neck to the Lord of Fiends without a shred of resistance. “We have already lost too many people. My father, my mother, my brothers and sisters… they have all sacrificed themselves on this endless path. I only have my youngest sister left. Half a year ago, she told me she wanted to join Babel…”

Tifana’s voice cracked, tears finally spilling over her lashes to mix with the dried blood. “The Sarkaz are almost extinct, yet we still see no dawn of peace. I’m sorry. My blood relatives have died one by one on the border of New Kazdel. I truly cannot delude myself into thinking I can ever live in peace with them…”

“I’m sorry, Theresa. I seem to have suddenly… rotted away from the inside.”

Scalding tears flowed freely over Theresa’s hand. The Lord of Fiends began to sob uncontrollably, her regal composure shattering into pieces in the dark cell.

“But I really can’t accept throwing my life away at the border for absolutely nothing!” Tifana cried out, her voice echoing off the damp stone walls. “The Regent promised that if we win this war, we can finally begin the Sarkaz’s revenge…!”

“Why… why did Babel have to start developing just when I was finally about to accept all of that…”

Her voice became increasingly thick, choked by her own despair, until finally, only incoherent, broken murmurs remained.

I’m sorry, Your Highness…

She died.

She died under Theresa’s gentle, glowing Originium Arts, slipping away without a single trace of pain.

The Lord of Fiends gently gathered the blood-stained corpse into her arms, holding the Gargoyle close to her chest. “…Tifana, don’t apologize to me. I never thought your desire for revenge was filthy. You will always be my most trusted guard.”

Unfortunately, she could no longer hear it.

Theresa had personally ended the traitor.

[Rhodes’s Note:

Enjoying the operation so far, Doctor?

(This daily grind literally pays the landship’s rent! 🙇‍♂️):

Massive thanks for reading and supporting the operation!]