Editor 149

The Pastoral of Albion (1)

‘The priestess who cared for Melchior’s mother, Lady Elene… is no longer one, it seems. It’s not wartime, so a priestess wouldn’t be walking around in a military uniform.’

The contents of the Eight Faiths that Cleio knew were no longer reliable guidelines for living in this world.

He hadn’t wanted to learn that fact in this way.

‘Come to think of it, in the previous manuscript there was no depiction of Melchior so openly using secret police methods.’

This was an excessively modern style of arrest.

‘A country that’s never had a regime overturned, yet it already has secret police… Unbelievable.’

A result existing without a cause was a contradiction and an error inherent in the protagonist’s fate. Was it now happening on a larger scale?

Perhaps interpreting Cleio’s stiff reaction, Vesna’s tone became even softer.

“If you refuse the summons, you may be considered an accomplice to first-degree treason.”

Of course, the content of her words was anything but soft.

The fact that Vesna was only a level 3 mage didn’t matter much. Even senior knights or senior mages, if they had status, family, friends, and titles, and were bound by honor, would not be able to ignore her summons.

“Of course, the choice is yours. Please act wisely.”

Vesna hadn’t even brought restraints. If Cleio used magic to escape, he’d instantly become a traitor eligible for summary execution.

When Cleio opened the envelope, he saw a concise summons stamped with the royal regent’s seal.

‘Request for witness testimony regarding Baron Schliemann Kishion’s charge of first-degree treason.’

This thin sheet of paper was a stronger shackle than any physical restraint.

“I don’t know what this is about, but since it’s the Crown Prince’s order, I’ll comply with the summons.”

Getting out of bed, he removed Behemoth from his lap.

“Kitty, ask the others to take care of your meals today.”

Sensing something from Cleio’s uncharacteristic tone, Behemoth, who had been struggling not to let go, licked his cheek once before retreating.

“…Meowwww, meowooong. (…That way of speaking is embarrassing, but I get it. I’ll try to come up with a plan too.)”

Behemoth answered with surprising resolve, but to others it sounded like the plaintive cry of a cat who’d lost its owner.

Barefoot in slippers, wearing only a coat over pajamas, Cleio was gripped by armed soldiers and dragged to a windowless carriage.

.

.

.

It must have been at least four hours since he’d been brought here, yet no one had come to look in on Cleio’s cell.

The barred window in the semi-basement was about 10 centimeters above ground level, letting in faint, blurred daylight.

‘…From this angle, it just looks like an ordinary prison.’

The infamous North Gate underground, which he’d only heard about in rumors, had much better facilities than the nineteenth-century prisons he vaguely imagined.

The stone walls, built when Absalom II reclaimed the royal palace and suppressed traitors and nobles, bore the weight of years.

Yet, contrary to the antiquity, a brightly lit electric bulb hung from the ceiling.

‘If they leave that light on all the time, it’s its own kind of torment. Why is everything so modern here?’

Since early last year, 24-hour electricity had been supplied to major districts in Rundane. Tiplaum components were used to improve mining environments and boost efficiency, making it possible.

‘It was odd that the palace got electricity before the Royal Opera, but maybe it was for interrogation room facilities.’

Though the electric light made it hard to see, Cleio could sense the ether of activated Tiplaum along the boundary between the wall and ceiling.

It wasn’t grounded or engraved with a magic formula, so he couldn’t tell exactly what function the Tiplaum in the ceiling served.

Sitting on the makeshift mattress of the flimsy iron bed, Cleio surveyed the now-familiar cell again.

The thick iron door was locked. The food slot and peephole for monitoring inside were both shut from the outside.

Opposite the bed was a washbasin with a faucet, and next to it a lidded chamber pot.

The floor was newly tiled and clean. Unlike most dry indoor spaces in Albion, the sloped floor had a drain on one side.

Everything was strangely clean.

With “Perception” sharpened, he picked up the sound of water flowing through the pipes buried in the floor, and the resonance of the heating pipes set into the wall behind the bed.

‘Being here, it feels like I’ve leapt across centuries.’

What was going on?

The basement level where Cleio was held was near the North Gate of the palace, at ground level, so within the prison, this was a special cell.

With nothing but time on his hands, he had plenty of leisure to observe and sense his surroundings. The basement went deeper still.

‘Below this, there are at least two more floors. Also, a large amount of activated Tiplaum… the smell of mold, excrement… and blood.’

Even this cell bore traces of blood splattered and wiped from the handles and floor.

The floor was made wet to make it easy to wash away blood and filth.

Shivering with cold, Cleio cranked up the function of “Separation.”

‘Penetrative insight has a limited number of uses and severe restrictions. No one would abuse such a skill, so physical abuse must have been used alongside it.’

Without an even stronger “Separation,” he wouldn’t have been able to stay calm in this situation.

He never imagined he’d realize the increasing narrative intervention in this way.

‘…That madman Melchior, what kind of knowledge did he gain over his repeated lives to run things like a modern surveillance state?’

Secret intelligence activities must have been completely foreign and new to the people of Albion.

But for Cleio, who remembered another world, it was a familiar mode of operation.

‘In the previous manuscript, Melchior never lived through the twentieth century. So how could he think to use things like media politics and secret police, which came much later?’

With no way to get answers, questions he hadn’t even thought to ask sprang up at random from the bottom of suppressed memories.

The god of this world could read about other worlds. Then, who could say Melchior hadn’t also looked into the same?

‘Not that I could ask him directly what he knows. Hoo.’

Cleio, perched on the bed, slumped. In this state, even just sitting sapped his energy.

‘Even as a minor noble, Schliemann Kishion now has quite a reputation. He’s diligent, humble, and capable, so he’s highly regarded among the border lords.’

The first-degree treason charge Arthur worried about when Cleio joined him was also a legacy left to Albion by Absalom II.

‘The last time first-degree treason was applied was during Queen Carmela’s reign. Only monarchs with strong royal authority could enforce such a law. The regent has weak justification for summarily executing a baron without trial.’

Cleio straightened up, folding his arms to keep himself from slumping.

‘If Melchior remembers history, he must know that Baron Kishion will be the vanguard stopping Brünnen… If he can’t touch Arthur, does he mean to destroy the country itself?’

But if Melchior wanted Albion’s crown, didn’t the country have to remain?

This late-night arrest had an unclear purpose.

It couldn’t be that the goal was to execute Baron Kishion or make Brünnen easier to invade.

He needed to figure out the Crown Prince’s true intentions.

That was why Cleio had not yet tried to escape this prison.

He’d been searched and had his mana stone wallet and wand taken, but they hadn’t put him in restraints and the door was locked with an ordinary latch, without magical force.

Becoming a wanted traitor was a problem, but the greater problem was if all of history’s course was disrupted—so Cleio was weighing his options.

Under the electric light, the divided fragments of morning sunlight slowly crossed the tiles as time passed.

From far off, the sound of church bells rang. Seven times.

Clunk.

Clatter. Bang.

As the bells ended, the iron bar was lifted from the door.

Entering the cell was Vesna Driscoll, carrying a tray with a piece of bread and a cup of water.

“Did you sleep well last night, Sir Cleio?”

One of the navy-uniformed men Cleio had seen at dawn yesterday followed Vesna in, set down a stool, and returned to stand by the door.

“First, please have breakfast.”

Food, in this situation? There was no way he could eat. Cleio took the tray, set it on his lap, and only sipped the water.

‘A little cold water helps clear the head. Ugh.’

“I can’t say I spent a peaceful night, Ms. Driscoll.”

Beneath the cap, Vesna’s lips curved up as she faced the bright light. Though she smiled, her eyes, which swept Cleio up and down, were cold.

“My, I never dreamed even you would know my name.”

“There are no secrets in the world. As someone who leads a loyal and powerful institution, you must know that better than anyone.”

Cleio tossed out his guess as bait. The probability that Vesna was the secret intelligence chief—‘the Crown Prince’s fervent devotee’ Chel had once mentioned—was extremely high.

Vesna, her lightly tinted lips curling higher, took out a cigarette case and lit one naturally.

It was a silent affirmation.

‘So… this really is the head of the secret intelligence bureau?’

This, too, was something not written in the previous manuscript.

By now, the sunlight had retreated to the foot of the bed, avoiding Vesna’s heels. In the dank basement air, bluish cigarette smoke spread.

“That’s right. There are no secrets in this world. Especially not for His Highness the Crown Prince and his loyal intelligence bureau.”

Vesna flipped open a silver cigarette case and held it out to Cleio. For some reason, her manner was friendlier than before. He accepted a cigarette without hesitation.

Flick.

She took out a match and lit it for him, and he drew deeply.

The last time he’d smoked was in the military, but the memory carved by habit didn’t register the long gap. Even with a different body, lighting a cigarette was easy.

Vesna’s lips moved once more—a gesture of slight surprise.

For a while, it looked as if the two were simply savoring the tobacco in silence… but in truth, it was a bit different.

‘Is it because there’s no filter? Why is this cigarette so strong?’

He didn’t want to lose the psychological battle, so he matched her drag for drag, but it truly felt like his bronchial tubes were being scorched.

Living in the clean air of Rundane, it had been a long time since he felt such lung pain and stuffiness.

But if he coughed here, he might lose even this ambiguous stalemate, so Cleio held back his cough.

Flick.

Vesna, as if nothing, stubbed out her cigarette on the floor and began to speak.

“I arranged for you to have a special cell so you could get some sleep before morning, but it seems you didn’t rest well. What a shame.”

“I’m rather picky about where I sleep.”

For a tall youth with delicate bones and hands unused to labor to say such a thing, even with polite speech, sounded somewhat arrogant.

If that young man’s surname was “Aser,” all the more so. Vesna personally had quite a fondness for this type.

Teaching a young man who’d only known the good things in life about pain and obedience was quite enjoyable.

‘If only His Highness hadn’t told me to just keep him detained.’