Chapter 8 - These Orphans Need Their Director (1)

This was back when he served in the Extermination Unit.

There were commanders known as the Seven Dragon Generals of the Demon King’s army. Each had joined with the fate of an entire race at stake; they could effectively be called the “heroes” of their respective peoples.

Until the Hero's Party appeared, the United Kingdoms had been swept aside with pathetic ease. There was simply no way to hold out against demons who were physically superior to humans to begin with, now massing by the race to conquer the world.

In other words, the war against the Demon King’s army could be described as a war between humanity and every other race.

Driven onto the defensive, the staff officers of the United Kingdoms devised a clever solution to their predicament.

‘To break the demons’ unity, we need a decapitation operation, not an all-out war.’

Throw the soldiers of the United Kingdoms into the fray and cling to the front lines by any means necessary. In the meantime, dispatch “assassins” to kill the Seven Dragon Generals and shatter the enemy’s cohesion.

The demons were merely a loose patchwork of tribal states where strength ruled supreme. Take out the Seven Dragon Generals, and their subordinate commanders would begin fighting among themselves for the vacant positions.

They were right.

Viewed in the grand scheme of things, then, the Hero's Party was nothing more than a band of assassins. The kind who were thrown into certain death yet always returned alive—and whom even the kings of the various realms could not readily touch.

That was why Ivan disliked the Hero's Party. It so closely mirrored the reason the royal house of Krasilof had decided to disband the Extermination Unit.

We were a blade far too sharp to keep in hand in peacetime.

* * *

Having received intelligence on the Hero's Party’s children’s scheduled journeys to enroll, Ivan was enjoying some pleasant downtime. His planned timeline was perfect.

First, Esidisi, whom he had rescued a few days ago.

Next, Isabelle. Daughter of the hero Maximilien. From the Kingdom of Thilles, departing in the first week of February.

Then, just a few days later, Oscar, son of the knight Gilles Vert. Also departing from the Kingdom of Thilles.

Those two were nothing to worry about. Thilles and Krasilof had enjoyed reasonably good diplomatic relations even before the war, and they were fairly close, leaving him ample time to respond to a train attack.

As for Elpihera, daughter of the mage Veolgrin, she would not even be coming by train. Veolgrin’s homeland was an island across the Black Sea, in the Kallion archipelago. She would cross on a warship, which made her safer than all the others.

Since Krasilof had no ice-free ports, she would probably come via Thilles, but surely someone arriving on a warship would not leave her attendants behind.

Last came Enrique’s disciple, Lucia. She was from the Kingdom of Krasilof, which meant she was already somewhere here in the capital.

Not only would there be no problem with leaving a quick check on her until last, he had no desire to meet her any sooner.

In short, as long as he weathered the two incoming students’ train attacks in February without too much fuss, the rest would amount to issues that resolved themselves without his personal intervention.

After all, the train attacks themselves were tutorials. Esidisi’s case had now convinced him completely. There was no reason for him to take any personal action before enrollment.

Therefore.

“I want kimchi stew.”

He was once again passing the time scribbling in his “List of Things to Eat When I Return to Earth.” These moments in his office, basking in the warmth of the fire with a cup of coffee, were precious leisure time he would trade for nothing.

Tteokbokki. Not the creamy rosé kind. Nor the soupy kind from delivery chains, with nothing going for it but oversized portions.

The tteokbokki he wanted was the kind sold at snack shops outside schools: just enough sauce, with that hipster street-food vibe. He remembered the place that sprinkled curry powder on top being the most popular.

“I want to go home...”

“Are you abandoning us again?”

“...”

Ivan’s relaxed eyes snapped into focus. The Kim Seonwoo within him vanished, crushed beneath Ivan’s sense of self. Only Ivan remained as he turned around.

A kid was clinging to the window.

“How long have you been there...?”

“Since you started muttering about wanting to eat something, Director!”

“This is the third floor.”

“Well, I am famous for paying attention in class!”

“... Did our curriculum include wall climbing...?”

Ivan walked straight to the window and flung it wide open. He lifted the mischievously grinning child inside and carefully set the kid down.

“I won! You know that, right?”

“Don’t turn this into a contest. Use the hallway next time. It’s dangerous.”

“Aww, this is what it takes just to barely win!”

St. Vasilisa Orphanage had a time-honored game: sneak up on the director without him noticing.

It was wildly popular among the children. Ivan was a mysterious man who could catch a ball thrown at his back with one hand without even turning around. Besides, however quietly they crept about, hiding anywhere near him was impossible.

Despite his appearance, this brusque, sharp-eyed man was utterly harmless. To children, who judged people by their actions rather than their looks, he was one of the best playmates around.

“I’ll make you a cup of cocoa. Drink it, then off you go.”

“Yessir!!”

Ivan did nothing to discourage the game, either. After all, the children needed some way to make a living once they graduated from the orphanage. If they could fool his senses, they would never starve, no matter where they ended up.

After seeing the beaming child out, Ivan reclaimed his peaceful downtime.

Just over two weeks remained until Isabelle boarded her train. Until then, he was free.

Or rather, there had been a time when he thought so. Before one of his orphans was abducted out of the blue.

* * *

“Hey, I asked who you work for.”

“No, I don’t think you gentlemen understand. If our director finds out about this, you’re in serious trouble!”

“Wow, listen to this kid! You’d think we were the ones who’d been dragged here!”

Prizhenkaya, the capital of Krasilof, was one of the largest cities on the continent. Naturally, every city had its shadowy corners, collectively known as the “back alleys,” and Prizhenkaya likewise had several “slum districts.”

Even among the gangs and outlaws of the back alleys, some stood apart: the collections of hopeless degenerates classified as “assassin organizations.”

Stick a knife into someone, and naturally you would face the judgment of the law. The more important that someone was, the harsher the law tended to become—but the pay also skyrocketed.

Thus, assassin organizations consisted of people who thought it was fine to stake their lives on a single swing of a blade and end up dead on the execution grounds, so long as they got paid. After all, those cinematic assassins who emerged stylishly from the darkness, neatly cut down only their target, and vanished did not exist in reality.

“So who the hell is this director of yours?”

“I-Ivan Petrovich! Y-you’ve heard the name, haven’t you? Right?”

“What? Ahahahaha!!”

Of course these men had heard the name Ivan. They had heard the surname Petrovich, too.

Wasn’t Ivan the most common first name in Krasilof, and Petrovich the most common surname? Even the former king, renowned as a wise ruler, had been named Ivan.

It was much like hearing, “Hey, you know my man Kim Cheolsu?” and laughing before anything else. The low-ranking members of this back-alley assassin organization in Prizhenkaya snickered.

Then a low voice rang out from the darkness of the alley.

“Wait.”

The members startled, lowered their weapons, and stumbled back. A figure walked out along the path they had cleared, one measured step at a time.

“Who did you say?”

“I-Ivan Petro, Petrovich... Our director...!”

The newcomer looked the captive up and down for a moment, then broke into a broad smile.

“That cheeky brat said he was retiring, and he’s been putting together a band of assassins behind our backs?”

At St. Vasilisa Orphanage, masking one’s presence and creeping up on Ivan to surprise him was treated as something of a traditional game. To an outside observer, the children might well look that way.

Especially to an expert among experts—the person most versed in this field in all humanity. In the eyes of Enrique, the “Shadow Blade,” they could hardly look like anything else.

He had spread false rumors of his own death and said he would retire cleanly and start a new life.

Ha. Of course. A dog might change its ways before anyone from the Extermination Unit did.

Enrique grinned and nodded.

Ivan Petrovich: fingered as the head of an evil organization that collected orphans and trained them as assassins!

* * *

“You think one of the children has been kidnapped?”

“Yes, Director! Um... Do you remember Priscilla?”

“Of course I do.”

Ivan had memorized the personal details of all three hundred or so children in his care, graduates included.

Priscilla. No surname. Seventeen years old. War orphan. Parents unknown. He remembered taking her in after she had been abandoned during the war and survived by begging near a military base.

She was a little mischievous, but fundamentally spirited and talented, so he had not been particularly worried about her despite her approaching graduation. Lately, she seemed to have been going here and there looking for work...

“Who, where, and when?”

“I don’t know the details, but only the coat Priscilla was wearing came back... This is a threat, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

Ivan took the coat the teacher handed him and examined it carefully.

Snagged threads on the sleeve. A badly worn collar. One loose button, barely hanging on.

He turned it over, finding nothing useful, until suddenly his hands stopped.

It was an ordinary handprint, left in dirt, the sort of mark one would miss without a close look. Within it remained the faint trace of a scar on the heel of the palm, barely discernible through the dirt.

People who carved cross-shaped scars into their palms.

“Enrique.”

It was the mark worn by members of that ill-tempered woman’s organization.

No one could be stupid enough to kidnap an orphan for money, so this was a provocation or a warning. Or... a summons.

Ivan felt the need to rearrange his schedule—the meeting he had put off until last because he wanted it least of all.

Enrique, the Shadow Blade. In other words, a summons from his great master. After all, the Extermination Unit was Enrique’s creation.