~Chapter 18~
The small, modest party they had planned with quiet hopes was canceled without ceremony. The food they had painstakingly prepared never even made it onto plates, instead cooling lifelessly in the pots. Someone hadn’t shown up. The three people seated around the empty table sat in silence, all for the same reason, each at a loss for words.
It was Edith, who had barely managed to steady her emotions, who finally broke the stifling quiet.
“What do we know so far?”
“So far, nothing beyond the fact that the ‘King’ has fallen. A curfew was imposed immediately. That’s why Ferrel was detained at the shop. He went back to buy something he’d forgotten on the way here and got stuck there.”
“Ha…”
She hadn’t meant to, but a sigh escaped before she could stop herself. They had been one move away from checkmate, only for the chessboard to be overturned entirely. The King—Herman Miller—had been assassinated under mysterious circumstances.
“Who on earth would do something like this?” Sasha asked vaguely.
Karon answered her.
“Well, there are far too many suspects. It won’t be easy to pin it on anyone.”
As Karon said, Herman Miller’s death wasn’t entirely strange. As a high-ranking official treated as an elder within Hasmal, he was revered by many—but just as many despised him. Political rivals he had pushed aside and exiled, families of those who had died in the camps… There were more than enough people who wished him dead besides Edith’s group.
But still—
“There’s a clear difference between wishing someone dead and actually doing it,” Edith said. “Especially when the target is a big figure. Just attempting it means risking your life. Simple resentment isn’t enough motivation.”
Karon nodded in agreement.
“That’s true.”
“On top of that, the target was a professional. Even we, who had been monitoring the King continuously, noticed nothing at all. Whoever it was planned the assassination without anyone knowing and succeeded despite massive security.”
The more she spoke, the heavier Edith’s mood became. It would be convenient if the enemy’s enemy were their ally—but that wasn’t always the case. In an already chaotic situation, the appearance of an unknown force was nothing but a headache.
“So… what do we do now?” Sasha asked.
“How about choosing another target?” she suggested.
Edith slowly shook her head.
“Glissen wanted the ‘King.’ To replace him, the target would need a similar level of influence in Hasmal. Identifying someone like that, conducting preliminary research, planning, and then executing—it would take far too long.”
“But we don’t have another option, do we?”
Edith’s eyes dropped as if weighed down by a sigh.
They had lost their target. If their goal had simply been elimination, they could have celebrated that someone else had done the job for them. But this was different.
What Glissen demanded in negotiation was justification. A proper cause that would allow those who had maintained neutrality to stand against Hasmal. That was why they had excluded secret assassinations from this operation in the first place. To display the resistance’s strength while exposing Hasmal’s atrocities to the world, something more dramatic was required. Above all, negotiating with Glissen was essential to rescue Loris and the others imprisoned in the camps.
Edith’s deep contemplation, stretching on in the silence, fortunately did not last long. The path they were on had no retreat anyway.
“There is a way.”
“…What?”
“Some kind of…?”
Two pairs of differently colored eyes turned toward her at once. Edith met their gazes—eyes glittering with expectation, or perhaps a hint of unease—and spoke.
“No one knows who brought down the King.”
“Yes.”
“And chances are, no one ever will. Assassinations like this usually leave no trace of who’s behind them.”
“R-right?” Karon said, the word surely flickering across his face.
“Regardless of the truth…”
Edith pressed her lips into a thin line before opening them again.
“The King will be said to have fallen at the hands of the Bishop and the Queen.”
A sigh—no one knew whose—escaped over the table. Though spoken metaphorically, the meaning was unmistakable. She was proposing that they claim responsibility for something they had not done.
Seeing their stunned expressions, Edith continued.
“Once the curfew is lifted, gather information immediately. We need as much as possible. Especially—”
“……”
“Information about the assassin.”
Someone who definitely existed, yet whose identity must never be known.
***
It wasn’t only Edith’s group who were shocked by Herman Miller’s death. Those standing on the opposite side were just as caught off guard.
“Well, damn. Whoever did it must have nerves of steel,” Marcus remarked with a hollow laugh as he skimmed through the incident report.
“Did it at early evening, not even late at night. And broke into the chief superintendent’s private residence—with over a hundred guards.”
Unlike his slightly excited tone, Rachel and Jekart, seated with him, said nothing. Jekart’s indifference was normal enough, but Rachel’s silence was unexpected. As if trying to draw a reaction, Marcus raised his voice slightly.
“The problem is, nobody saw the bastard escape. Like he vanished into thin air. So now the staff stationed at the residence are dropping like flies. The Stifts have arrested them all and are interrogating them.”
When he still got no response, Marcus slammed the papers onto the desk with a loud smack.
“Damn, you guys are cold.”
“What?” Jekart finally replied.
Marcus shot him a glare.
“I mean, come on. The atmosphere in the ‘organization’ is tense because of this. Didn’t you hear the order to suspend ongoing directives for now?”
This secretive group—referred to simply as the “organization” for lack of an official name—operated under Hasmal. It was so secretive that even its own members didn’t know the identity of the superior known as χ who issued their orders. They didn’t even know what their missions ultimately served.
They were a covert unit specializing in assassination, infiltration, and erasing evidence. Not military, and officially nonexistent. Because of that, they were extremely wary of exposure, especially during times of political upheaval in Hasmal.
“At the very least, as someone in the same line of work, you should feel something about an assassination this clean. Seriously, you’re no fun. And why do you look so serious?” Marcus added, turning to Rachel. “Something wrong?”
His gaze lingered on her. Indeed, she had been unusually quiet—almost anxious.
Jekart turned his head. Rachel, who had been watching him, looked away the moment their eyes met. The white glow of the gas lamp shimmered across her red hair. After staring at it briefly, Jekart called out to her.
“Marcus asked you. Is something wrong?”
“…Do I have to answer?”
Her reply came sharp, like sandpaper. Jekart recognized it immediately—she was throwing his own words from days ago back at him. A faint chuckle escaped him. Marcus, on the other hand, looked genuinely surprised. Rachel snapping at Jekart was unheard of.
“Did you eat something bad?”
Rachel bit her lip once, then turned away as if giving up.
“…I’m tired.”
“Hey, where are you going? Hey!”
Ignoring Marcus’s shouts, Rachel left the hideout. Outside, she closed the front door and leaned against it. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled.
The smoke clouded the air.
That was when she sensed someone nearby.
A tall man’s shadow swallowed her whole. Rachel looked up.
Cold, dark eyes.
Jekart.
“…It was you, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t answer, but Rachel was certain. That night, he had killed someone. But it hadn’t been the target—Ferrel Monti. When she had asked him, he’d clearly said no. Even then, unease had crept in, but she hadn’t pressed further. Jekart hated interference. She’d assumed there was some other reason.
She hadn’t imagined this.
“Why would you do that? At least say something—”
Instead of answering, Jekart smiled lazily and took the cigarette from between her lips. Holding it between his fingers, he brought it to his own mouth. His refined lips drew in the smoke, then exhaled it slowly. Rachel stared at him blankly.
“Wouldn’t it be better not to ask?” he said lightly. “Like always.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier to hide things when you don’t know.”
After a few drags, Jekart placed the cigarette back between Rachel’s lips. The ash, grown long, fell softly to the ground.
Resentment welled up in her dazed green eyes.
“So this is how you are.”
“……”
“You knew I wouldn’t say anything.”
His slow blink was an acknowledgment.
Of course. That’s why he’d been able to bring her home that night, drenched in Herman Miller’s blood—and even have the nerve to speak to her casually afterward.
“…You bastard.”
Rachel muttered through clenched teeth.
What infuriated her even more was the fact that she couldn’t deny it. A large hand descended onto her head, ruffling her hair once. Then Jekart turned and walked away.
Even after he was gone, Rachel remained there for a long time. The cigarette that had passed between their lips lay near her feet, reduced to a short, lonely butt.
