TING—
I flicked the blade once, then sheathed it.
Silence still hung over the tavern. Everyone's eyes darted about, trying to make sense of what had just happened. But for the moment, that seemed beyond them.
"Inspectorate agent Sion Karsen! Please stand by for your safety!"
After shouting that, I opened the locked door and stepped outside. I checked whether any of Yan Hashman's lackeys were lurking nearby. Or any Red Fang officers.
Sure enough. A faint trace of mana emanated from the rooftop of a building across the street.
'Concealment. Intermediate level, maybe.'
As humanity's last survivor before the regression, I possessed extremely sharp senses.
I hadn't always been like this—it was a gift from years spent walking the line between life and death.
In any case.
My senses had been keen enough to detect even the Demon King's concealment, so no one in this era could escape my perception.
But even by my standards, this hidden observer's skill wasn't bad—which was precisely how I could guess who it was.
A woman who handled intelligence, assassination, and managed several subordinate organizations.
She was likely the one who'd fed my information to Yan Hashman.
She was probably in the process of cleaning house among the lower-ranking cells, and had deliberately steered Yan into attacking the Grand Duke of the North's son—planning to use the fallout to wipe out the Red Fang entirely.
'Manipulating idiots is the easiest thing in the world, isn't it? Am I right?'
When I silently fixed my gaze on the rooftop, the presence slipped away without a trace. A measured withdrawal.
I didn't bother giving chase.
Now wasn't the time.
I went back inside the tavern and announced:
"It's safe now. You're free to come and go."
I left the door open.
A symbolic gesture.
"Roman. Let's go."
Roman had been staring at me blankly, just like every other patron, but he snapped to attention at my call.
"Ah! Yes! Young Master!"
Roman was holding a box. Inside were ten bottles of Iruna Noble. My brother must have thrown in some extras.
Just then, a Northern territorial police car appeared. My brother or the waiter had called for help.
I explained the situation to the officers, handed the case over, and got in the car.
'They'll handle the rest.'
VROOM.
The car pulled away smoothly.
But.
VROOM— VROOM! VRRRROOM—
Somehow, Roman's driving was even rougher than on the way here. Looking closely, his hands were shaking.
"Roman. Are you all right?"
"Hm? Ah, ......yes. I am fine. More importantly."
Roman glanced back at me.
"Young Master. You were truly incredible. I never imagined you had such skill...... no, that's not what I mean. The truth is, I should have stepped in, but I froze up, and...... ah, of course even if I had, it wouldn't have...... ah, I apologize. What I mean is."
Roman was so flustered he was rambling. I watched him and slowly closed my eyes.
Right. Does driving skill really matter?
"Roman. Enough."
"......Yes, Young Master."
"You don't need to apologize to me. I'm the one who failed to consider you. You must've been terrified. I'm sorry."
A brief silence followed my apology. It might have been my imagination, but Roman's driving seemed to have calmed a little.
"......Young Master. You need not worry about me. I am merely a servant, after all. The one who matters is you."
My eyes opened at Roman's words. I looked at him steadily.
'Is that why you threw yourself in front of those beasts for me in the last life?'
Roman seemed to be saying: if a truly dire situation ever came, leave him behind and go.
But. Roman. I already abandoned you once. How could I do it again?
"Without lips, the teeth grow cold. Roman. Never take your own life lightly."
Roman nodded, as though he understood.
"Thank you, Young Master."
Silence fell over the car once more. But this time, it was a warmer kind of silence.
VRROOOM—
***
After clocking out, Roman left the Karsen estate and headed home. Inside his bag, carefully wrapped to prevent breakage, were five bottles of Iruna Noble.
"The wife's going to be thrilled."
The blizzard was still howling, but somehow it didn't feel all that cold. 10 million zeni and Iruna Noble. His steps felt lighter than usual today.
After walking a while, he glanced back. The grand estate filled his view. A mansion where venerable tradition and history lived and breathed.
If not for House Karsen, would his family even still exist? No—would this many people even be living in the North?
Roman thought about it briefly, then set his jaw with a look of determination.
He thought of the master he served. Sion Karsen. The young master who'd been changing far, far too much lately.
"Is he really all right?"
The day of the fierce battle with the wanted fugitive Yoen Hashman at Drunken Dream Wildflower. He'd suddenly said he'd do better.
"Has he truly lost his mind?"
Pressing that huge sum of money into his hands. Coming back from the Daikah family villa without indulging in pleasure, unlike before. Donating to an orphanage.
'He really has changed so much. Especially.'
This time, stopping by the tavern the second young lord ran and killing the wanted fugitive Yan Hashman—that had been pure shock.
"He's changed too much. He's no longer the young master I used to know."
It wasn't all excitement. What if he suddenly fell apart after all this? That was the worry.
But. What mattered more?
He owed a great debt to House Karsen. No matter what kind of person the young master was, he would serve him with all his heart.
But. Truly.
If the young master really had changed......
Roman clenched both fists tight.
And said to himself:
'Your mother would be so pleased.'
***
Charles, a journalist for the northern newspaper Daily, stopped by Igwen Luna after work as usual.
No special reason, same as everyone else.
He'd just walked wherever his feet took him. Or maybe he couldn't get through life in this bleak world without a drink. Or maybe he simply wanted a beer.
"A beer here. The usual."
As always, he sat alone. His only company was the worsening state of the company, which he nursed alongside his drink.
GULP, GULP. CLANK!
He set the empty glass on the table and ordered another beer. Then he pursed his lips and muttered.
"I need a scoop. A scoop."
After draining five beers on his own in rapid succession, he ordered a sixth.
CREEEAK—
The door opened, and Sion Karsen walked in with his attendant.
At first, Charles paid no mind. House Karsen's half-wit visiting the tavern his brother ran was hardly unusual.
It was just...... the aura? The presence? The bearing...... he wasn't sure what to call it, but something about the man seemed a bit different.
He downed the sixth beer while watching the Karsen brothers. How to put it.
The feeling was strange.
A journalist's instinct? He couldn't pin it down exactly, but he had a sense that something was about to happen.
"Waiter, one more."
And so. Just as he ordered his seventh.
CREEEAK—
A masked man walked in. The hand reaching for his seventh glass stopped. A chill ran down his spine.
Then the man opened his mouth.
Goosebumps crawled up his back.
'Red Fang? Those are the bastards who've been in the news for all those gruesome crimes!'
And when the man declared he'd kill everyone in the tavern, Charles dropped the beer sitting on his table. CRASH.
'Fuck! What the hell is happening?! He's going to kill everyone? Because of Sion Karsen? Is this a joke? I've got nothing to do with any of this!'
Charles didn't want to die. He desperately, madly wanted to live. But there was nothing he could do. Endless despair crashed over him.
That was when.
BANG! CLANG! SHINK—
What had just happened? By the time he came to his senses, the masked man's head was on the floor. Blood fountained from the stump of his neck.
WHOOSH—
He even witnessed flames surging up the length of the blade. It had all happened in the span of a heartbeat.
Before the thick scent of blood had even fully spread, Sion Karsen walked out of the tavern. He looked around and said:
"It's safe now. You're free to come and go."
He then turned over the case to the police who arrived shortly after and got into his car.
VROOM.
The people watched the black sedan pull away in a daze. Relief at having survived and shock coexisted in their hearts.
Charles scrambled to pay for his beers and rushed to find the police. His journalist's instinct told him: under no circumstances should he dismiss what had just happened.
He flashed his employee ID and asked:
"Good evening. I'm Charles from the Daily. I was also a witness to the incident at the tavern just now. Could you tell me what happened?"
The officers exchanged glances, then answered.
"This man's name is Yan Hashman."
"......Excuse me?"
Yan Hashman. A wanted criminal who had committed dozens of heinous crimes including murder, rape, and robbery.
A fugitive too quick on his feet and too skilled at fleeing to have ever been caught.
"Th-this man is Yan Hashman?"
"Yes. As you saw, Young Lord Sion caught him for us...... You were lucky."
The officers patted Charles on the shoulder, told him to get home safe, and left with Yan Hashman's body.
Charles watched them go and collapsed to the ground.
"I, I nearly died just now?"
But.
One fact nagged at him.
"W-wait. Sion Karsen just killed Yan Hashman?"
From that point on, Charles began investigating Sion Karsen's recent activities. He mobilized every resource he had—fellow journalists, police contacts, Inspectorate connections.
Most of it was exactly as he'd known. A record perfectly befitting the title of the North's half-wit.
But starting with the Drunken Dream Wildflower incident, things were different. It hadn't been widely publicized, but Sion Karsen was the one who'd caught Yoen Hashman.
'So Sion Karsen took down both Hashman brothers?'
His subsequent activities were also unusual.
Even in the aristocratic social circles, word was spreading that Sion Karsen had changed. His attendance at banquets had dropped dramatically.
There were also rumors he'd had a falling-out with Guseto Daikah, a central figure in those circles.
He'd even visited an orphanage and made a donation.
'What? The man actually changed?'
And.
One more detail that caught his eye.
The participant roster for the Golden Star Tournament.
"Sion Karsen is entering the Golden Star Tournament?"
His fellow journalists mocked Sion Karsen, laughing about the scoop they'd get from it.
Driven by inferiority, they said, he'd crawled out without even knowing he'd be publicly humiliated.
Charles let his colleagues' laughter go in one ear and out the other. Then he organized the chain of events in his head.
House Karsen's failure joined the Inspectorate through nepotism.
He went undercover at Drunken Dream Wildflower and summarily executed Yoen Hashman.
In self-defense.
Since then, he'd been moving like a completely different person.
Could it be.
......He'd been hiding his claws all along.
Charles trusted his instincts. The untouchable aura he'd felt in that tavern was no illusion. He was certain.
"Ha. Hahahaha. Hahahaha."
Suspicion turned into conviction. That man was no failure. He was a swordsman strong enough to dispatch Yan Hashman in an instant, one who could ignite flames on his blade.
A sleeping dragon that had been deceiving the world was finally stirring to ascend. Most likely, the Golden Star Tournament would be the stage for his ascension.
Charles swept his hair back.
"This is front-page material."
Time to go big.
Charles quietly fetched his typewriter.
CLACK, CLACK, CLACK-CLACK.
He typed out the words.
『Sion Karsen, leading the charge against criminals for the sake of the territory's people.
Sion Karsen, third young lord of House Karsen and agent of the Northern Inspectorate, went undercover at Drunken Dream Wildflower to apprehend Yoen Hashman, a wanted fugitive listed for heinous crimes.
There are two reasons he chose to execute Yoen Hashman on sight.
......
......
......
- Daily, Charles』
A satisfied smile settled on Charles' lips.
"Good. The next headline is."
『Sion Karsen.
Is he a predator who has been hiding his fangs?』
CLACK, CLACK.
The steady rhythm of the typewriter filled the room.