Chapter 55 - Stalker vs. Stalker (10)

The Foreign Ministry residence was neither the Demon King's castle nor a sovereign's abode housing one of the Seven Dragon Generals. Like most government offices, it had an ordinary layout. Picture several floors of sterile white corridors lined with office after office, and you would have the general idea.

Admittedly, that was somewhat peculiar. A residence was supposed to be a building for living in, not for administrative work. But the point to remember here was that Krasilof's Foreign Minister was the Crown Prince. What nation's Crown Prince would live in a ministerial residence?

Thus, the Foreign Ministry used the residence as a multipurpose office building. Such was the Crown Prince's gracious favor. (The distinctly royal kindness of allowing employees to sleep in “comfort” at the office, if they slept at all.)

“This...”

Ivan frowned as he fought his way through the residence's third floor. Halfway through the five-story building, he had not seen so much as a hair of an office worker. Everyone who appeared was an armed soldier. An inferior sort, no better than mercenaries.

“This looks like a Chapter One stage...”

At this point, Ivan realized his mistake. Assuming the Hero's Party's children were the protagonists, it was only common sense that enemies, challenges, Quests, and other hostile forces would appear as the story progressed. That assumption explained the subtle sense of “sloppiness” and “incompetence” he had noticed.

Q) Why on earth had they kidnapped the Hero's Party's children instead of killing them on the spot? A) Because you had to clear the stage after selecting a character.

Q) Why were there only low-level mercenaries roaming the Foreign Ministry residence? A) Because the regular monsters in Chapter One couldn't be too powerful.

Q) What on earth was Counterintelligence Command doing, sitting around while the Hero's Party's children were abducted one by one? A) Because that was “common sense” in an arcade game.

Aha.

Damn.

Ivan let out a brief sound of realization and an equally brief sigh of dismay. Then wasn't he supposed to leave some of these people alive?

He looked blankly behind him. The sterile white corridor now looked as though someone had splashed buckets of red paint all over it. Seeing the perfectly ordinary Foreign Ministry residence successfully transformed in an instant into a thriving meat-processing plant (one unconcerned with health and sanitation), Ivan heaved a sigh.

To hazard a rather bold guess, this episode appeared to have been a “growth” event for the Hero's Party's children. The protagonists, in other words. The storyline considered “canon” would probably have been Esidisi's growth. Wasn't the intended design for her to rise to the occasion after being abducted by her trusted uncle—the Huscarl—and resolve the situation herself?

Ivan stroked his chin, considered the matter briefly, then shook his head. There was no way to know at this point anyway. Once something was set in motion, it had to reach its destination to be completed. Stepping off halfway because “this doesn't seem right” would accomplish literally nothing.

He dismissed those thoughts and climbed the stairs, axe in hand.

* * *

The fourth floor of the Foreign Ministry residence. The unlit corridor was quiet, with no sign of anyone. Walking down it, hearing nothing but the rain striking the windows, Ivan slowly tightened his grip on his axe. His hearing grew sharper, accompanied by the familiar high-pitched ringing in his ears.

“We were captured too.”

“Oh...”

The whispers belonged to the Hero's Party's children. They came from the office directly ahead, one floor up. The instant he located them, Ivan set off. His was a practical approach: whether this was a stage, an episode, or a chapter, whatever this story had been arranged to accomplish, he would rescue them first and think about it afterward.

Considering how sharply the difficulty had risen for Isabelle's tutorial after Esidisi's, this event would influence the next one too. Events that followed game logic, yet shifted organically with the political climate and the state of the factions. That subtle distinction between game and reality tangled Ivan's thoughts.

TWANG...

Then he heard a thread snap somewhere far ahead. The instant he recognized the sound, Ivan ducked. A moment later, his Line of Fire Detection flared violently.

WHOOOSH...

CRAAASH!!

A greatsword hurtled into the spot where Ivan had been standing and embedded itself there. He sprang away to put some distance between them and raised his axe.

The attack had arrived almost simultaneously with his awareness of his Line of Fire Detection. An ordinary superhuman would have died without advance preparation. Which meant that this was an attack by a superhuman. Battles between superhumans always went this way.

The battlefield of superhumans, entered by activating the senses, did not slow time. It was a technique that accelerated the nerves, enabling perception in fractions of a second.

Thus, anyone ambushed by a superhuman before accelerating their nerves could not respond. In the world of superhumans, the principle of moving second but striking first was meaningless. Attacking first conferred an unconditional advantage.

“Intuition” had developed to solve that problem. An instinct for ambushes that took Line of Fire Detection a step further. If Line of Fire Detection marked the divide between ordinary people and superhumans, “intuition” was the measure that distinguished one superhuman's caliber from another's.

“You dodged that?”

In other words, merely seeing someone react to a superhuman's attack through intuition revealed the level they had reached.

“Hah. Our people sweated blood all over the place to scatter anyone capable of that.”

“Daionar Erickson.”

“Seems you've met me before, too. I'm usually good with faces, but I can't begin to guess who you are.”

“You don't need to know.”

Ivan raised his axe. The pattering rhythm of raindrops striking the windows had already slowed. That did not mean the summer rain was easing. Time was stretching out. Yet their conversation continued without difficulty, meaning the two men facing each other were sharing the same timescale.

“I doubt this was what Maximilien intended. No. Did that bastard intend even this?”

“...”

“A man of few words. Fine. Talk isn't what we need now.”

Daionar gave a short laugh and flicked his hand.

TWANG!

With the sound of a plucked thread, the greatsword embedded in the wall spun around and flew into his grasp. Gripping it tightly in one hand, his other arm hanging at his side, he raised the blade upright.

“Come. Let me see what you can do. I'll teach you what it means to be a ‘Reserve.’”

“Amusing.”

Ivan chuckled. Strictly speaking, the classification “Reserve”—that is, “Hero Reserve”—had first been created because of his own existence. Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Petrovich.

An odd feeling stirred in him, and he smiled. In those days, the Hero's Party had no hierarchy. Regardless of age, race, or rank, they had all risked their lives to bring down the Demon King.

But the same did not hold for those classified as “Reserves.” Had they been comparable to the Hero's Party, they would have ascended to the Demon King's castle together as active members rather than reserves. Thus, among these powerful individuals classified as reserves—people who unquestionably held a singular standing even among the mighty and the superhuman—there were differences in caliber.

Ivan was perfectly willing to teach him just what those differences looked like. Being an exceedingly courteous man, he decided to personally correct his junior's arrogance. As the senior who alone among those bearing the name “Reserve” had accompanied the Hero's Party.

Kindly.

* * *

TWANG!

A thread snapped taut.

WHOOOSH!

The greatsword plunged straight toward his head. A ferocious blow, its downward force carrying enough power to shatter boulders and demolish castle gates. Ivan knocked aside the blade, densely woven with mana, and twisted his body.

CRAAASH!!

The blade he had deflected slammed into the corridor. A great crack split the floor, and it collapsed. Ivan kicked off the crumbling footing and leaped.

“Got you!”

Daionar grinned viciously and twitched his empty hand.

TWANG!

With a sharp sound, a thread glinted in midair, in the darkness.

'This one's a technical fighter.'

Rather than overpowering his opponents with sheer strength like Einar, he was the sort of warrior who used finesse to conduct the match. His huge frame and feral looks made it easy to get the wrong impression, but his fighting style was actually closer to Veolgrin's.

'He controls the space with mana threads, weaving a web, then varies the rhythm with greatsword strikes.'

There had been a fair number of demons who fought this way. In dark, confined indoor spaces, booby traps alone posed a considerable threat. Ultimately, Line of Fire Detection and intuition reacted to attacks carrying “intent.” Stationary traps could only be dealt with through prior knowledge and improvisation.

That was why the Hero's Party needed a rogue. Someone had to be well versed in that sort of knowledge. Malicious traps lurking in the dark. Ferocious blows exploiting the openings between them.

“Normally,” of course, it was a difficult pattern to counter. It certainly had its challenges. Ivan smiled faintly, twisted to deflect an attack, and thought that this would indeed be a tough challenge for the children.

Assuming this was a stage for the Hero's Party's children, and this man was the boss, the stage was probably designed to force them to learn how to enter the “realm of superhumans.” It was the sort of fight where, if you didn't know the mechanics, you had to take the hits. Exceedingly malicious design, one could say.

But that was how it looked at the children's level. Once again, the reason a rogue was essential to the Hero's Party was to handle traps and enemies of this kind. Which also meant that the Hero's Party had encountered countless such enemies during its active years. And Ivan had served as the party's “scout,” breaking through enemy territory in step with Enrique.

WHIIINE...

The axe glowed blue in the darkness.

SHIIING...!

The threads caught on its edge snapped and fell away.

WHOOOOSH!!

He heard the menacing rush of the greatsword lunging into that opening. The moment he heard it, he calculated its distance and speed. The moment he finished calculating, he turned and moved forward instead. Another step forward, slipping inside its reach.

“Hahaha!! I've already—”

“I know.”

Threads intertwined with mana could themselves function like a sensory organ. The structure was quite literally a spiderweb. Restrict movement, divert attacks, create openings, and thrust the greatsword through them. Ivan already knew this method. And because he was an efficient man, he did not struggle twice with something he had already experienced.

CLAAANG!!

“H-how...!”

“Because I'm a Reserve.”

What sort of Reserve let something like this surprise him?

Ivan's axe struck the greatsword and sent it flying. Between them, severed threads fluttered into view. Daionar stumbled backward and hastily reached out. Mana threads slithered and tangled, drawing the deflected greatsword back into his hand—

CRUNCH.

It never reached him. The airborne greatsword landed in Ivan's grasp.

“You... bastard...!!”

Without replying, Ivan turned and drove the greatsword straight into the man's abdomen, then twisted away from the threads curling toward him.

SHIIING!!

At the same instant, he whipped his axe around. Its gleaming edge sliced through the air, tracing a graceful arc toward the floor and cutting through everything in its path. Thread, flesh, and bone parted in a single stroke. Blood sprayed across the pristine white wall.

“Ghhh... uhhh... AAAAAAGH!!”

“Screaming? Save your breath.”

Ivan approached Daionar, who knelt clutching his mangled forearm, and planted a foot on his chest.

THUD!

He shoved the man onto his back, stood over him, and raised his axe.

“You have a great many questions to answer. It would be a shame to waste your breath screaming.”

After all, he had only so many breaths left to draw. Ivan expected him to answer slowly, conserving his breath. Beneath the shadows of the unlit corridor, Ivan's eyes blazed a brilliant blue.