Chapter 387

“Let us do this instead.”

The moment I sat down across the table, Abraham spoke with a grin stretched across his face, as though he found the whole situation amusing.

“It would hardly be fair if I were the only one answering questions.”

“…….”

I glanced at the first page of the confidential Ministry of Foreign Affairs documents he’d deliberately left out in plain sight, then at the bracelet he’d obediently put on. For a brief moment, I seriously considered flipping the table.

Watching him flaunt how much he trusted me while pulling a stunt like this only reminded me, once again, that we were fundamentally incompatible.

Without so much as a twitch, I asked, “Is there something you wish to know about me? You could have the Prussian Intelligence Bureau investigate me at any time. I fail to see why you feel the need to ask now.”

“Well, yes. I know quite a bit already. For instance, before Operation Corbiniano, you were not even assigned a guest room at Nymphenburg Palace, and your name never appeared on the reservation records of any hotel in Bavaria.”

“…….”

“Since no Bavarian would dare treat a benefactor of Bavaria with discourtesy, I assume the royal family must have wished to treat Sir Ernst with exceptional hospitality in private.”

I turned my head away and closed my eyes. Anyone with common sense knew that, with military headquarters relocating alongside us, accommodation records wouldn’t have been difficult to obtain. But did he really have to announce that he’d investigated me?

I raised my brows and let the corners of my mouth fall in a look that plainly asked if he’d finally lost his mind. Abraham calmly added, “That said, had it been my decision, I would not have surrendered my own chambers.”

“That friend of mine would have agreed with you until last year. So would I. If you wish to stay in my good graces, I suggest you refrain from speaking.”

After all, who was it that made Leo change his mind? It wasn’t entirely Abraham’s doing, but he certainly wasn’t free of responsibility.

My voice had grown colder by the end. Abraham put on an expression of mild confusion. But I knew damn well he wasn’t puzzled in the least. Sure enough, the puzzled look melted into a smile, then briefly returned before settling into something more natural as he laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands.

“Very well. Let us return to the matter at hand. What I meant by calling it unfair was that we do not receive the returns on our bargain at the same time.”

“This is hardly a bank deposit… I fail to see what exactly you expect me to make of that.”

“It is simply a matter of sentiment. I dislike you.”

Stab.

That damned smell of blood again. Normally, no one would react this strongly to the scent of blood. I knew better than to let that kind of revulsion show. Instead of revealing the absurd urge to dry up every drop of blood in the world and grind it into dust, I merely frowned at the sheer randomness of what he’d just said.

“A lie, of course. How could I possibly dislike you? My blood vessels are paying the price for it even now.”

“You appear to recover rather quickly for someone paying such a price.”

He answered with a smile, adjusted the bracelet slightly lower on his wrist, and said lightly, “Drink. Then ask your questions. I shall answer them one at a time.”

In the end, the only difference was whether I did it now or later. I had no intention of making today my last visit, nor did I plan on running off without honoring my side of the bargain. The outcome would be the same regardless, so there was no harm in giving a little ground.

The problem was this.

Stroking my chin, I looked at the blood running across his palm.

“And how, exactly, am I meant to do that?”

“What do you mean, ‘how’?”

“The least you could do is extend the courtesy of drawing it with a syringe. My common sense has already suffered enough as it is…”

“Regrettably, I do not have one at hand.”

“Do you truly expect me to believe that? Then what, precisely, am I supposed to do?”

“I am not a medical professional. Why would the Crown Prince carry syringes about his person?”

“…….”

He had managed to draw his blood with a syringe when we were riding horses before, and now he claimed he didn’t have one? It directly contradicted what he’d done in the past.

Which meant he intended to turn Ernst into a Pleroma—though, based on everything I knew, the odds of him using today’s events against me were vanishingly small—while still maintaining plausible deniability, as though he were completely uninvolved with anything Pleroma-related. Naturally, none of it was true. It was simply another example of the uniquely aristocratic way of saying everything without saying anything.

If that was how he wanted to play it, then my response was obvious.

“One can tolerate hearing such absurdities once or twice, but you continue to repeat them. At this point, I can only wonder what exactly you are trying to accomplish. I have lost count of how many times I have said as much.”

“No one has said you must remain seated.”

“Ah. So even this is my own choice?”

I let out a derisive laugh as I looked at the blood pooling in his palm. Abraham only smiled pleasantly.

“Precisely.”

“The person threatening to withhold the truth from an Imperial citizen seeking answers about a Pleroma-related incident unless he behaves like a Pleroma himself…”

I removed my left glove, let a purification spell flow into the air, then swept my hand through it. After that, I dabbed a fingertip against the blood gathered at the edge of his palm and touched it to my tongue.

The nausea started the moment the smell of blood reached me. But ordinarily, no one would react this strongly to something so trivial. Only I—who had been regarded as a Pleroma by the entire world until just recently, only to finally cease being one and, in that very moment, inherit their traits. Only I—whose long-held beliefs had just been shattered, leaving me unable to tell right from wrong anymore—would react like this.

What kind of reaction would the pre-Ash Wednesday version of me have shown? Aside from vomiting before it even touched my tongue, that is.

I imagined that version of myself as best I could, twisted my face into a scowl, and spoke with open contempt.

“I had already known that a Pleroma serves as the Crown Prince of this Empire, yet somehow it still manages to surprise me.”

“Your impression?”

“I never suffered from germophobia before, but I believe I have just developed it. I feel quite nauseated.”

“Hahaha! I was asking about your mana reaction…”

I already knew what he wanted to see. He wanted to confirm with his own eyes whether I had truly gained the ability to absorb mana through blood after the Ash Wednesday Eucharist—in other words, whether his suspicions had been correct. He was already convinced, but conviction and certainty were two different things.

I had only tasted a drop. At most, the offensive mana made the tip of my tongue tingle slightly. There was no dramatic absorption that anyone could observe from the outside. And even if I drank an entire bottle, my resolve wouldn’t change.

Whatever kind of “mana reaction” he was expecting, I had no intention of showing it. I struck the table, cutting off his laughter.

Heike and Ismailov. I needed to get to the root of this, and that was where I’d begin. Right now, what I wanted most was answers about Heike. But whichever one I asked about first, I would eventually have to uncover everything.

“Now answer me. When did Pleroma begin preparing Ismailov to become the Messiah?”

“So, you managed to discover that Mikhail Ismailov is the Messiah.”

I asked when. I remained silent, ignoring his remark. Only then did he answer.

“Not all that long ago. August 31, 1897. Ah.”

He parted his lips slightly and motioned with his hand. He wanted me to open my mouth. What is this, a dentist’s office?

I stared at him, making it obvious I had no intention of playing along. Abraham simply raised his bloodied hand toward my face.

Splat.

“…….”

Before the blood falling onto my collar could even soak in, I slapped his hand away and rose from my seat. The blood that dripped from his hand afterward splattered across my clothes and pooled in a thin layer on the floor. I spat out the blood that had nearly entered my mouth.

“Whatever do you think you are doing? It got on my clothes. How exactly do you expect me to return home like this?”

“Something so trivial? Ask one of the attendants to fetch you a change of clothes. More importantly, surely this demonstrates that I had a reason for asking.”

“I never imagined you were capable of being this childish.”

Paying no attention to my remark, Abraham looked regretfully at the drops of blood that had landed on his documents after I knocked his hand away.

“Such a waste. Do you have any idea how much mana that blood contains?”

“You may say that all you wish. I cannot absorb mana the way you Pleroma can.”

“I understand. Continue telling yourself that.”

“I was planning to do so regardless, but thank you for stating it out loud.”

I replied coldly, snatched the handkerchief from his desk, and wiped the blood from my mouth.

“I never told you that you could use that.”

“And?”

“Ha! It seems we have finally grown considerably closer. As it happens, we are about the same age, are we not?”

“August, you say? You expect me to believe all of that happened within six months?”

Whether I acknowledged him or not, he calmly nodded.

“Naturally. If one is raised in a collapsing world, six months ceases to be merely six months.”

“Time dilation, then. In a sense, the collapse almost sounds like a privilege. What is your view?”

“In one sense, it is a form of transcendence. But if that transcendence races toward destruction—if it carries the lives of tens of thousands along with it—the Order has little reason to welcome it. Time dilation as a side effect is not the same as time dilation functioning as intended.”

Fair enough. There wasn’t a single person in the world who wanted to be swallowed by a black hole. It was time to move on to the next subject.

“How was Ismailov brought in? He must have lived somewhere before last year. Where was it?”

“I hope you fail.”

Thunk.

Abraham pulled the bracelet’s needle free and pressed it into another patch of uninjured skin. Watching the fresh blood well up, I replied, “The feeling is entirely mutual.”

“Mine was a lie. Yet somehow, yours sounded genuine.”

“Naturally.”

“My true feelings are the exact opposite of what I said.”

Abraham repeated the same gesture as before, telling me to open my mouth.

I briefly considered finding something to collect the blood in, but no good idea came to mind. Calling a servant into this madness wasn’t exactly an option, and he probably wouldn’t allow it anyway.

So I half-heartedly opened my mouth. After six or seven drops of Abraham’s blood slid down my throat, I grimaced.

“Urgh.”

I jerked my head back, scrunching my nose as I pressed a hand to my forehead. My unspoken expression of this tastes awful must have gotten through, because Abraham let out a sigh mixed with a dry chuckle.

This is unbearably fishy. But that wasn’t the real problem. Abraham’s nauseating mana crashed wildly against my own, making flashes of white burst across my vision. A wave of nausea hit me. I spat everything I had swallowed back out, along with blood-tinged saliva. My body kept trying to absorb and strengthen itself with his mana, no matter how desperately I resisted. I pressed a hand over my mouth, drove my foot into the floor, and forcibly suppressed the mana threatening to rage through my body.

“My… to think you would actually vomit. Do you never eat? Nothing came up but blood.”

Did he really have to phrase it like that? Every word out of his mouth made me want to punch him. Thinking exactly that, I slowly raised my head.

“It would seem your standards have become rather distorted.”

Just listening to him talk made it obvious—he was the least sane person I’d ever met. He had been like this back when he was the Chairman. No, he’d been like this from the very beginning. Maybe I’d think differently if I met the Archbishop of Freiburg again. Then again… probably not.

At this very moment, if I had to name the most irrational person I’d ever encountered—the one whose soul was undoubtedly suffering from the gravest of defects—it would be him.

“This is no Sanguinaccio Dolce. That blood came straight from your veins, and the mana within it hasn’t even been stabilized. No one in their right mind would feel refreshed after drinking that. Frankly, it hasn’t even been heated. I don’t even wish to imagine how much bacteria it contains. I cannot believe you expected me not to throw up…”

“…….”

For the first time today, Abraham looked genuinely dumbfounded, though the corner of his mouth still twitched upward. I leaned toward him and shook my head.

“It would seem that the future Emperor of our Empire has grown so accustomed to drinking blood that he now expects everyone else to become Pleroma as well.”

“Haha.”

Abraham laughed openly before folding his hands together.

“Very well. I shall concede that much. Perhaps my notion of common sense has become somewhat… distorted.”

“Or perhaps you never possessed any to begin with. It’s not as though you were ever normal.”

“I have revealed quite a number of weaknesses to you today. At this rate, you may well find a way to turn even this moment against me.”

“I am pleased to hear you are aware of that.”

“Even so, isn’t it rather entertaining? At least, I find it so.”

Of course you do. You’re out of your mind. Abraham quietly watched every change in my expression before speaking.

“To answer your question, I know nothing about him beyond the fact that he came from Russia.”

“Someone capable of brainwashing Ismailov could only have been you. You must have been involved. And yet you are claiming you know nothing?”

“Come now. By that point, I was already being pushed aside.”

“Because of Primrose Path, I presume. So even Pleroma sensed that something was amiss.”

“Not exactly, though it is close enough. Hearing Sir Ernst speak of it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I sincerely hope you never rise again.”

Thud.

He spoke his answer and triggered the artifact at the same time, making it sound as though every word had been directed at me. At this point it felt like he’d spent the entire conversation cursing me in every possible way.

But the artifact reacted, which meant it wasn’t the truth. And after watching him use it countless times, I knew he wasn’t cheating. Looking at the utterly tiresome—truly, unbearably tiresome—drop of blood gathered at the tip of his finger, I asked, “How did they discover someone like Ismailov? He wasn’t even German.”

“I would not know. The human resources department must have handled that.”

Not knowing something was fine. What he knew—and what he didn’t—was information in itself. But…

I seriously considered grabbing him by the collar before settling for a cold stare instead. Abraham burst into laughter before answering.

“We do not call it that, but there is, naturally, a separate organization within the leadership that oversees personnel.”

“Go on.”

“Hmm… There are those valued for their abilities, and those valued for their social capital. The former are classified beyond top secret. In my case, people of the same category often have never even met one another. As for the latter, they are usually professors or combat mages. Naturally, while Pleroma is based in Germany, it is by no means limited to Germans. Members from neighboring countries, particularly Russia and Austria-Hungary, are by no means rare.”

I already knew that. In Old Human terms, a combat mage was simply a soldier. More importantly, ‘people of the same category often have never even met one another.’ That much made sense. He didn’t need to waste time explaining it, and I didn’t need to waste the effort asking about it. After a moment’s thought, I asked, “Are there Pleroma members within the Imperial Mage Association as well?”

“Did you truly think there would not be? At this point, it hardly matters.”

“Had you purged them sooner, the kidnapping of the magic scholars would never have happened.”

“Hmm. Why are you so certain? I—”

“Even after leaving Pleroma, you never attempted to purge them, did you?”

“…….”

Abraham looked at me without a word. Tilting my head, I asked, “The more I observe you, the more it seems you deliberately feign incompetence. Why?”

Silence followed. To break it, he chuckled and once again held out his bleeding hand. I crossed my legs, rested an elbow on my knee, and propped my chin on it. When he noticed I was openly studying him, he tilted his head with a questioning look. Only then did I answer.

“I have indulged you long enough. Let us leave it at that. The room reeks of blood. What exactly do you intend to tell the Deputy Minister?”

“Then the simplest solution would be for you to drink it and be rid of it.”

“…….”

For some reason, it reminded me of one of those food campaign slogans from a neighboring country back in the 21st century¹. The absurdity of it made me laugh.

Abraham watched me let out something between a sigh and a laugh, tilting his head in confusion. Looking at him—completely oblivious to how ridiculous he’d just sounded—I calmly explained.

“Remarkable logic. Instead of draining what belongs in your veins, perhaps you should concern yourself with keeping your sanity.”

“Once it is in someone’s stomach, it won’t end up in the open air.”

“Fair enough. Then you drink it.”

“Are you finished with your questions?”

“If you were gradually being sidelined, then who carried out Ismailov’s brainwashing? I already have my suspicions, but does it make any sense that they would exclude you?”

“Even if Primrose Path had never happened, I would never have been entrusted with his brainwashing. The moment I became indispensable to the Order, they began keeping me in check. They couldn’t allow their dependence on me to grow beyond a certain point, lest I swallow Pleroma whole.”

This was the subject I’d already decided I didn’t need to press any further. I gave a slight nod, signaling for him to get to the point.

“It is the same principle. You do not place one bomb beside another. Only under exceptional circumstances would they permit it, and even then, both parties would have to sign an additional covenant acknowledging that Pleroma could eliminate them at any time. So no—I do not know who brainwashed Ismailov, nor do I know much about him. You wouldn’t get a different answer from the other powerful members of Pleroma, either. On the other hand, asking an ordinary priest, monsignor, or bishop would be equally pointless. They simply wouldn’t know.”

He didn’t know who had brainwashed Ismailov…

The problem was, I couldn’t think of anyone besides Abraham who would be capable of conditioning someone like him. A divine power mage like Narke was another possibility. Pleroma harbored people whose abilities defied imagination, and if there were divine power mages who had been resurrected—mages who could no longer openly return to the Papal See—they might well have been recruited by Pleroma.

“…….”

Hmm.

“Could that kind of brainwashing be completed in a short period?”

“Does it seem that way to you?”

So the answer was no. That was my conclusion as well. Abraham continued casually.

“They must have kept working on him right up until the moment they presented him to us.”

“Then how did you know Ismailov existed? You weren’t even involved in turning him into their messiah.”

“Which is precisely why I couldn’t help being surprised when I saw him again. They had no idea I was Gregorio, so they made the mistake of bringing Mikhail before me. In other words, I intend to do everything in my power to ensure Mikhail does not harm you.”

Instead of answering how he had known about Ismailov’s existence, he simply continued on with what he wanted to say. Glancing at the clock, he went on, “I imagine your next question would be about your friend… Let us leave that for another time. The Deputy Minister is waiting in the adjoining room, and I cannot keep him waiting any longer.”

“Very well.”

“Then shall we proceed the same way the next time we meet? Let us consider this our new agreement.”

As he slipped his black glove back on, Abraham tapped the back of his hand.

Without a word, I rose to my feet, struck the floor with my staff, cast a purification spell, and formed a mask out of mana. After pulling my robe brooch over the bloodstained collar of my shirt, I opened the door. The Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs was waiting in the hallway. He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure what to say, then offered me a handshake.

“This was rather sudden, but I am pleased we had the opportunity to meet today. Are you feeling all right?”

I looked down at him blankly and muttered, “Why should I not be?”

“Pardon? Earlier, inside—”

“You must have been mistaken.”

“Pardon?”

I gave him a slight nod and walked past him without another word. Instead of leaving through the front entrance as I had before, I exited through the rear gate and picked up my pace.

The familiar streets of Mitte came into view. I hooked the communication artifact, which I’d left off for security reasons, over my ear and contacted Narke, who was still waiting by the palace’s main gate.

“Narke.”

— [Ah, yeah. So you’re finally done?]

“Yeah. But I can’t go back with you after all. Go on without me.”

— [Huh? Wait, Lukas!]

There was too much to think about, and right now, his Insight was the last thing I wanted. I decided to wash the taste out of my mouth and sort through my thoughts, so I turned toward a café I’d often visited back during academy days.

‘Heike and Ismailov aren’t connected. Ismailov was raised as one of Pleroma’s most closely guarded secrets…’

Heike’s life depended on my decision. And I had been warned to beware of those who wanted me to stand on my own while making myself my only refuge. Everything I’d heard today kept colliding and separating in my mind. None of it seemed connected, and yet I knew there had to be a thread tying it all together. How?

After taking a seat, I downed both my coffee and the potion I’d brought with me, then closed my eyes.

“So that’s why you said we couldn’t go back together.”

A calm voice came from in front of me. I’d slipped away for all of five minutes before Narke found me. Wearing a faint smile, he tapped lightly at the corner of his own mouth.

“Open your mouth.”

Translator Note

1. A reference to China’s “Clean Plate Campaign” (光盘行动), a nationwide anti-food-waste campaign encouraging people to finish all the food on their plates. ↩︎