Semi-Coercive Imperialist - Chapter 152: Inflection Point (2)
Pitter-patter── pitter-patter──
Heavy rain still fell over Prozen.
Some called it Prozen’s grief. Others sang of it as joy.
Minister Louis Marceau was dead. Assassinated by a bomb. It was violence that could never be justified.
And yet, thinking more deeply on it.
The tax hikes imposed by Louis Marceau and the Social Party may have been a form of violence in their own right.
When taxes steal tomorrow’s bread from the mouths of the poor, they become robbery.
“Minister Louis Marceau was a stalwart shield and a great champion of our homeland, Prozen.”
Professor Jean Pierre attended the memorial mass in a black suit. As the funeral was for a man who had served as a national minister, the mourners were numerous. The military and police security was suffocatingly tight.
“The noble blood he shed shall become the foundation that safeguards our homeland’s freedom…”
Prozen’s ideologies and factions had, at some point, become religions, reaching a state where neither side could acknowledge the other. Now his death, too, would be wielded as a weapon of the party.
“…Louis Marceau shall now rest in eternal peace in the embrace of our homeland.”
After a brief moment of silence, Jean Pierre quietly slipped out of the funeral hall.
There were quite a number of conspiracy theories speculating on who was behind the bombing. The investigation was still ongoing, but the authorities had all but confirmed it was carried out from within Prozen.
Jean Pierre thought so as well. Broadsheets condemning his death had been spotted throughout the city…
He returned to his office and picked up newspapers from several countries.
[ Crown Prince Alonso Leads the Miracle of Zerpha! ]
[ Jeronika Mine Rebuilt. The Result of Crown Prince Alonso’s Tenacious Negotiations and Devotion to His People ]
The scenario Jean Pierre had deemed least likely had come to pass. It was nothing short of a miracle.
This year’s events would probably be recorded in Zerpha’s textbooks as the “Jeronika Accord”, and students would be made to memorize the year, the date, and the details.
“Turns out it was the reputation for incompetence that was incompetent─”
That would be the title of his next lecture. Jean Pierre acknowledged his own error.
Crown Prince Alonso. A timid prince who had hidden in the shadow of a sickly king, fleeing from reality. But when his nation was driven to the edge of a cliff, had he discovered a new side of himself? Had he somehow awakened himself for the sake of the monarchy?
“……”
Scrrrk.
Jean Pierre pulled a sheet of paper from deep inside a drawer. The unnamed answer sheet that Louis Marceau, while still alive, had furiously demanded he tear up at once.
[ A leader swollen with pride and ego would instead be broken… ]
He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. A leader swollen with pride and ego. He read the sentence, which seemed to evoke Louis Marceau.
A strange intuition coiled in a corner of his mind.
“One person…”
There had been no one who failed to write their name on his pop quiz. All four hundred students out of a class of four hundred had submitted their answers, which meant this single sheet was one too many.
Was this an outsider? Or…
“One person.”
Why now, of all times,
had someone suddenly appeared,
just one person.
Jean Pierre spent the rest of that day carefully retracing his memories before rising from his chair.
* * *
…I sink to my deepest depths. A fathomless darkness where nothing can be seen. I grope for myself within it. I crave only a single existence.
My sword.
─The secret art of Ebenholtz is born from the endless refinement of mana.
Freya’s voice drifted in, low and quiet.
I need strength. Because I must not die. Because my death would mean the extinction of mankind.
Therefore, I must bear that responsibility. I must forge myself so that no bomb, no dagger aimed at my back, can take my life.
─When you truly desire the sword, the sword too will answer your call.
I slowly open my eyes. There is nothing in my hands. Empty air flows between my fingers.
─The truth is, you see. If you think about it, on the grounds that it’s cumbersome and beneath one’s dignity…
A faint moonlight settles over my grip.
“──a nobleman does not carry a weapon.”
The moment I murmured those words and opened my palm, a ripple like heat haze resonated through the air.
Whoooosh──
In an instant, my longsword, which had not been here, cleaved through the space on its own and came flying in. Scattering silver mana, it landed precisely in my hand. A lofty current of air bloomed for a single moment.
──Shhhh.
I let the sword hang low.
“Good.”
Clap! Freya, standing at one end of the training ground, applauded in satisfaction.
“You’ve finally formed a degree of communion with your Armament, it seems.”
The mana of Ebenholtz. It places great importance on the “accumulation” forged over a considerable stretch of time. It does not defy nature, but is instead supremely natural, an endlessly tranquil resonance of mana.
“When you spend a long time with a single weapon, the sword naturally comes to know your energy, and you in turn come to know the sword’s weight.”
Leo, sitting obediently beside her, also had his ears perked up, earnestly sitting in on Freya’s lesson. Leo had no sword, but in its place, the silver Mana Armor that Lorenzo had crafted for him served as his Armament.
“The Ebenholtz do not discard things easily. Because they place the utmost value on the accumulation of time and the resonance of the soul dwelling within it.”
Lick. Leo licked his armor. I quietly repeated her words.
“…The accumulation of time.”
“That’s right.”
Freya swished the branch in her hand back and forth as she continued.
“Everything follows the natural order. The Ebenholtz do not forcibly defy the natural order. They simply set that order into motion.”
I had been systematically internalizing the essence of Ebenholtz that she had imparted to me.
Chapter One, the trajectory of “Flow”, where one does not force a cut but lets the motion carry on like water.
Chapter Two, “Mana Assimilation”, erasing the blind spots of sight and hearing, assimilating mana to extend my senses to the sword’s edge.
Chapter Three, “Communion”, perfectly aligning the mana wavelength between my Armament and myself, allowing me to wield or recall the sword regardless of distance.
At the foundation of all these secret arts lay the endless practice of Self-Refinement.
The body of an Ebenholtz, steeped in elixirs since childhood, is akin to an extraordinarily precise mana refinery. It endlessly repeats the process of filtering the mana within the body to purity, tempering it, and purifying it to its most pristine state.
“Maximilian. You must build your own natural order.”
Freya pointed the tip of the branch at me.
“The time that accumulates layer upon layer within your body. The experiences you will face on the battlefield ahead. All of it will hone your mana ever sharper, and in the end, forge you into a true Ebenholtz.”
Without a word, I hurled the longsword I had been holding into the air.
──.
The sword spun like a boomerang, cutting a wide arc through the training hall, and at the end of its trajectory twisted direction and returned to my grip.
Throughout the entire process, not even a whistle of parted air could be heard. If one closed their eyes and listened, it would be nothing more than a gentle night breeze.
“I suppose I no longer need to wear it strapped to my back.”
That was what pleased me most. Freya smirked.
“Then, hand over one of those Lilac Vita reservations so I can go eat.”
I handed her a reservation ticket. It seemed I would need to arrange a private room exclusively for her.
“Keep up the good work.”
“…However. Master.”
I called out to her as she turned to leave, addressing her as Master. Freya scratched the inside of her ear with her pinky, as though the word tickled her.
“What.”
“What are your thoughts on the distinction between races, Master?”
The「Imperial Citizenship Law for Protection of Aran Bloodline」. That abomination was no longer far off, and my name would likely be recorded alongside a host of war criminals in its proposal.
Freya gazed at me steadily, then smirked.
“Maximilian. I do not pass judgment on you. It is you yourself who must judge you. I neither deny nor affirm any part of who you are.”
I merely linger at your side for a time before moving on, so think of me as a passing wind…
The person who might be my aunt left those words behind.
…….
Crunch─ crunch─
A winter where heavy snow piled up as if pressing down on the world. I visited the 「Kaiser Society」 once again. This was because President Wilhelm had personally invited me to serve as an advisor on the「Imperial Citizenship Law」, a classified matter of the Imperial household.
“First, the Aran people are the supreme [Ruling Bloodline] that leads the continent.”
Wilhelm, seated at the head of the round table, opened the discussion, and the scholars and officials seated around him held their breath, hanging on his every word.
“Below that, we group the Republic of Prozen, the Kingdom of Zerpha, and the Autonomous Region together under the [Related Bloodline]…”
“No.”
I lightly waved my hand and cut Wilhelm off.
“A more detailed and strategic classification is needed. Even among those of a bloodline related to the Aran.”
I let my gaze sweep slowly over the people at the round table as I continued.
“Depending on the circumstances, there are those who can be of decidedly greater service to the Empire.”
A bloodline that could become “friends” willing to shed blood for the Empire.
“Friendship Bloodline… no, that’s too sentimental. Johann?”
I glanced toward Johann, who had been seated alongside me.
“How about [Quasi-Bloodline]? It would mean that depending on the degree of loyalty and contribution to the Empire, they may receive treatment equivalent to the Aran.”
Johann adjusted his glasses as he made the suggestion.
“The key clause here is ‘depending on the degree of contribution’. For instance, the citizens of the Autonomous Region and the royal house of Zerpha are currently our firm allies, so they would rightly be included under the [Quasi-Bloodline] and enjoy benefits equivalent to the Aran.”
Wilhelm and the surrounding scholars nodded in agreement.
Aran, Quasi-Bloodline, and the remaining Related Bloodline. The ladder of hierarchy was being divided yet another degree more precisely.
“Hm. That is indeed an excellent concept for making the Empire’s governance more flexible. Worth adopting. Then, next is the [Foreign Bloodline], those who threaten the purity of the Empire.”
President Wilhelm moved on to the next agenda item.
Those vulgar breeds that contaminated the blood of the Aran, and by extension, the entire continent.
Those with dark skin. Minority groups including the Merin and the Kensi. Subspecies. The barbarous Sled race that formed the Eastern Alliance.
This time, I was the one to open.
“However, the Yaken race in particular must be categorized by a distinctly different standard.”
The Yaken, who possessed the “potential” to identify Ezenheim, were absolutely essential in the coming war.
“Sir knight, but why the Yaken…”
Quite a few scholars seemed to harbor doubts, but there was already more than enough supporting evidence.
“Because I am a knight. As a knight, I can assure you I have felt their utility firsthand. Do you know what the criminal apprehension rate is among the Yaken employed in my knight’s division?”
I signaled Johann with a glance, and he distributed the statistics he had prepared in advance.
“Their keen five senses are an enormous asset to the Imperial Aran in rooting out ideological criminals. They therefore deserve special treatment even among the Subspecies.”
Because they were particularly useful to the Aran even among the Subspecies, the possibility of their inclusion in the Quasi-Bloodline was left open.
“Hm. Certainly…”
“Oh. I had no idea such statistical data existed.”
The scholars nodded as they read through my materials. Actual results were included, of course, but the data had been fabricated to favor the Yaken for at least a year.
“However, regarding these Subspecies, there is something I have always been curious about.”
I tapped the round table with my finger, drawing every gaze into stillness.
“The Yaken are descended from the Beastkin. The Edlem are a branch of the elves. The Dromon are the heirs of the dwarves. As such, every Subspecies on the continent has clear roots and distinct characteristics tracing back to ancient times. But.”
The last one. One race.
“The Ezenheim.”
A race of unknown origin that had, at some point hundreds of years ago, embedded itself into the continent’s history, without anyone ever questioning it.
“Despite being classified as a Subspecies, they have no recorded origin in any ancient text. They are a Subspecies that appeared as if they had simply sprouted from the ground.”
Academic circles explained their existence as the result of complex interbreeding between races and as an ethnicity rooted in a religion called “Ezent”, but there was one more question I could not bring myself to accept.
Why had they gone out of their way to identify themselves and band together?
If they had not bothered to define themselves as a single “race” and had instead blended in among the other Subspecies, it would have been far easier to conceal their true nature.
“In the modern era, the Ezenheim are primarily engaged in comprador trade and finance. Many are also in professions such as medicine and law, but the majority are parasites. They contribute nothing whatsoever to labor or the creation of value, yet they leech off the lifeblood of the Aran, stealing the common people’s money to pour into speculation and market manipulation.”
My hypothesis was this:
Even among the Ezenheim, they cannot identify one of their own by appearance alone.
Not until they speak that grotesque, otherworldly “language” aloud.
Therefore, in order to distinguish friend from foe before using their “true language” among themselves, they had branded themselves with the label of Ezenheim, forging their solidarity.
“And yet, whether inside or outside the Empire, they are a cancerous Subspecies whose rate of ideological crimes against the Empire is overwhelmingly high.”
I glanced at Johann. He distributed the statistical materials with brisk efficiency.
“Please refer to these statistics.”
Wilhelm and the members of the society read them with grave expressions.
The racial breakdown of ideological criminals imprisoned in penitentiaries. The Ezenheim rate was extremely high, while the Yaken stood at virtually zero percent.
“Looking at the statistics, it is certainly rational. Then, shall we place the Ezenheim at the very bottom of the Subspecies?”
If possible, I would have liked to prepare an entirely separate column for [disposal], but even I could not afford to overstep so recklessly just yet.
“Let’s do that.”
I smiled and gestured in agreement.
If I pushed too fast, it would trigger a chain reaction across the entire continent, and I still could not fully read the capricious intentions of Princess Justine.
“Very well. Now, let us move on to the next agenda item and establish the classification for ‘mixed blood’…”
Wilhelm continued the meeting, carefully watching my reactions.
* * *
The office at Prozen National University.
“…Felix, Renoir?”
Professor Jean Pierre furrowed his brow and repeated the name.
“Yes. That was probably the name. I’m not entirely sure whether the surname was Renoir or Renoal, but he said he’d taken a three-year leave of absence from the military science department and was returning this term. It was unusual, so I remembered.”
These were the words of a former mercenary turned security guard who had been on duty at the main building the day of the pop quiz.
“Felix Renoir…”
Professor Jean Pierre murmured the name.
Prozen National University was a critically important national institution. Accordingly, every security guard assigned there was a veteran. They waved through faces they had seen before and verified the identity of only unfamiliar ones.
In other words, this guard remembered a face he had seen for the first time that day.
“Professor. Is there some problem with that student?”
“…Come with me.”
Jean Pierre led the guard toward the underground archives where student records were kept.
“Military science department, third year, three-year leave of absence.”
He rifled through dust-covered files. He examined the roster of enrolled students in the military science department from three years ago.
The guard had no idea what this was about, but he assisted nonetheless. Jean Pierre was, after all, a particularly esteemed professor even at Prozen National University, where only the nation’s brightest gathered.
“…Ah! Here, I think this is it.”
The guard found the name. Jean Pierre hurried to his side.
“Here. Felix Renoir.”
Felix Renoir, from Sendia, a rural area on the outskirts of Prozen.
He was a real person. Not a hastily fabricated identity for an intelligence operation, but a student who had actually enrolled at the university in the past and died in some kind of accident.
“But why would this student…”
The guard asked, puzzled. Jean Pierre’s expression hardened with gravity.
“I am, by nature, a scholar who does not believe in unfounded intuition. However.”
The coincidences overlapped far too heavily.
A man who had appeared with no clear purpose of returning to his studies, just before the assassination of Minister Louis Marceau.
The unnamed answer sheet that had happened to be submitted to him at that very time.
[ A leader swollen with pride and ego would instead be broken… ]
A sentence that seemed to be a metaphor for the Louis Marceau affair, about a leader of strong pride and ego being broken. And:
[ …The foundation of imperialism is Philosophocracy. The belief that only the most superior and perfect philosopher can rightfully govern the masses…. ]
Language that seemed to idolize the Empire.
“Can you remember the student’s face?”
“…Yes. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, but I definitely remember his features.”
“We need to draw up a composite sketch immediately. Hurry, come with me!”
With the mind of a detective, Jean Pierre led the guard away.
