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“We ran straight out of the infirmary and dashed toward the Atrihall. Since the infirmary was on the top floor, we had no choice but to take the stairs.

“Where is it?”

“At the main entrance. This way, please.”

I raised my revolver and pointed toward the main entrance as I led the way. I had given Camila, who couldn’t use magic, my pistol, so I had no choice but to use a pistol snatched from a terrorist.

Just as I was checking to see if six rounds fit snugly in the cylinder to guide the way—

Out of nowhere, Lucia jumped out and blocked our path.

“Wait a moment.”

“What is the matter?”

“Consider your condition. If you’re not careful, you might worsen your injuries right here.”

“Let me lead!”

With that, Lucia pushed me back, reminding me to take care of myself. However, I wasn’t willing to back down either, trying to push past her words.

“Why are you trying to go first when you are unarmed, hmm?”

“It’s fine. I have my own plans.”

Lucia said this while flashing a gentle smile. No doubt, she’s really not listening. What a nuisance.

We didn’t have time for this squabble. Eventually, I entrusted the rear to Francesca wielding a sword and Camila holding a gun, and proceeded forward toward the Atrihall with Lucia keeping watch.

Episode 8 – Say Hello To My Little Friend

“Nothing here?”

I surveyed the Atrihall. Camila, who was scanning the surroundings with her gun in hand, muttered in a flustered tone.

“There was definitely cargo here… Where did it go?”

The terrorists had suspiciously brought cargo in through the main entrance of the Atrihall. Where we expected the cargo to be, there wasn’t even an ant or a speck of dust.

Looking back at my companions with an awkward expression, I said, “Looks like the terrorists moved the cargo while we were gone.”

Six terrorists were transporting the cargo. I had eliminated those pursuing me, but it seemed like others had moved the cargo. It was likely the Beastman terrorists. Perhaps new ones showed up to take care of it.

Francesca, who was surveying the area alongside Lucia, posed a question to me.

“Colonel, the Hero said two terrorists were pushing a single cargo. Do you remember how big it was?”

“The cargo? It’s hard to gauge the exact size, but it was quite considerable. It was so large that two adult males had to push it at the same time.”

“Were all six of the terrorists you faced on the stairs the only ones present?”

“…No, there was one Beastman.”

There was only one cargo. It was wide enough for an adult male to hide his body and had considerable height, as far as I remembered.

But what exactly it was, I couldn’t say for sure. The distance was too far, and it was covered with cloth.

“Were there any other distinguishing features? Anything at all will do.”

“Nothing particularly memorable since I only caught a glimpse…”

At that moment, I recalled how Camila’s state had rapidly deteriorated upon seeing the cargo. Calmly, I explained to Francesca what I had observed and heard.

Francesca gently closed her eyes and mulled over what I had conveyed.

“Hmm. Just a guess, but it seems like the Hero sensed some kind of magic emanating from the cargo. However, we can’t ascertain whether it was black magic or something else.”

At this point, Camila, who had been quietly listening, suddenly interjected.

“Then what I sensed might not have been the aura of black magic?”

“It could be. Considering the Hero’s constitution, that possibility can’t be dismissed.”

However,

“Combining the rosary carried by the Saint and the information provided by the Colonel, I believe it’s likely to be black magic. You said you felt something intense the moment you saw the cargo, right?”

“Yeah, I felt extremely nauseous.”

To Camila’s affirmation, Francesca gently smiled and nodded.

“The sensation of nausea is one of the traits of black magic. Specifically, it’s a phenomenon that occurs when mages with a constitution opposed to black magic witness it. Of course, it can also happen when one uses vast amounts of magic that exceed their limits at once or is directly or indirectly exposed to such large-scale magic.”

I interrupted Francesca’s explanation with a question.

“Creating a barrier that could cover an entire department store is considered large-scale magic, right?”

“Typically, yes. I thought you’d know that, Colonel, if you’ve ever seen combat magicians from the military in action.”

“I don’t particularly have close relations with magicians.”

“Surely, you must have at least one magician you’re on friendly terms with? I assumed all executives had a few acquaintances.”

“There are many in the afterlife.”

“Oh dear.”

Francesca made a sad expression, wearing a bitter smile. The Tower Master might have sent magicians from the Magic Tower to conflict areas, resulting in numerous magicians perishing. It wouldn’t be surprising if Francesca had acquaintances among them.

Could that be why she harbored a dislike for the Magic Tower, perhaps due to the deaths of her acquaintances? Though I had no evidence, it certainly seemed worth investigating.

One thing was for sure. By this point, it was certain there was something in that cargo sustaining the black veil enveloping the department store.

“Aha… I thought it was a bomb, but that’s a relief.”

If this hypothesis is correct, we need to find the cargo and smash it. Once the black veil collapses, we’ll be able to communicate with the outside and call for military police support to deal with the remnants.

With a sigh of relief, as I was catching my breath, Camila nudged me in the side.

“Stop with the ominous sounds. Why do you keep saying things like that?”

“What did I do?”

“Whenever you say things like that, something bad tends to happen.”

Camila made a distasteful face, pouting her lips as she sulked. I ended up bickering with Camila over such trivial matter.

As we were having a little spat amongst ourselves, one of the armed individuals watching us burst into laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, it’s just… I thought you two seemed to get along better than I expected.”

“Who’s getting along with whom?”

We retorted, riled up by Francesca’s comment. Francesca shook with laughter, and Lucia, who had been away for a moment to check the surroundings, joined our group.

Camila shared with Lucia the theory proposed by Francesca, and Lucia listened seriously, nodding in agreement afterward.

“I think similarly. Let’s figure out the details after we find the cargo.”

“But how do we find the cargo? It’s vanished, and we still don’t know where that furry one went.”

Camila placed her hand on her head and tilted it as she questioned. It seemed that to Camila, that Beastman looked like a furry creature.

“Huh? Why are you looking for it?”

“Eh?”

“We don’t need to go out looking for it all complicated-like.”

I shook a civilian radio and chuckled. We didn’t need to look for the terrorists who took the cargo.

“We can just sit back and wait.”

“What do you mean by that? You’re not having some strange idea again, are you?”

“Just trust me and wait.”

We just need to make the terrorists come to us.

*

“…Have all the hostages been found?”

“Yes.”

In response to the middle-aged man’s question, the young man replied. Two…

The people spoke Kien, each holding a gun.

A young man, shouldering a hunting rifle, opened his mouth.

“Uh… Teacher.”

“What is it? Do you have something to say?”

At the middle-aged man’s question, the young man made a sulky face. He trailed off without saying anything, but the older man read much from his expression.

“What’s the matter? You displeased?”

“That’s not it….”

Thud. The middle-aged man’s thick, wrinkled hand rested on the young man’s shoulder. The one called teacher gently patted the young man’s shoulder as he began to speak softly.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“…….”

“I was a doctor once. I’ve heard countless times in the Academy and the university not to take people’s lives lightly. Do you think I want this?”

The doctor gently scolded the student.

He was once a doctor who saved lives in a hospital, a person who knew how to raise his voice against unfair realities.

With the same courage to hold pickets for the precarious treatment of medical professionals in the impoverished empire’s healthcare, he was a person of conscience who could speak out against unscrupulous practices in the medical field, like overcharging patients for medication to make up for his meager salary. At the same time, he had an ethical awareness aimed at improving the unfair treatment patients faced.

The reason the doctor felt the need to vent his complaints about the world wasn’t particularly grand. The Kien Empire’s healthcare system was a chaotic mess, even worse than the already broken Chinese medical industry.

In South Korea, doctors are a socially respected and well-paid profession, but in socialist countries like China, North Korea, or Cuba, they don’t receive much better treatment, reflecting similar logic.

Low salaries,

plummeting support rates,

distrust towards hospitals,

high workloads,

strife with clients, and so on.

Doctors charge patients for unnecessary medications to fill their thin paychecks, while patients are left financially strained by exorbitant treatment costs. As this cycle repeats, they find themselves grabbing each other by the collar, shouting, and wielding knives.

The root reason for this outrageous situation is the law.

In the Empire, laws restrict the cost of medical services from being set too high. To lessen the burden on patients, hospitals are legally prevented from charging above a certain threshold, leading to losses, prompting healthcare providers to cut expenses to the bone.

Restricting medical services. Cutting labor costs. Doctors, with their inadequate salaries, bill patients for medications to pocket commissions, while patients, burdened by excessive costs, either seek priests or grab knives to head to the operating room.

In short, the empire’s healthcare industry was a ticking time bomb that ricocheted between explosive handovers, a vicious cycle that was chaotic enough to boggle the minds of the medical professionals involved.

So, the middle-aged man, who had never even heard the “s” of protest, found himself donning a doctor’s gown and heading out to a demonstration for the first time in his life. He couldn’t even gauge where it all went wrong, but he thought that at the very least, attempts to resolve the issue needed to be made.

And, like so many authoritarian regimes, the government responded by brandishing truncheons instead of addressing public grievances.

For participating in drafting a manifesto, he was kicked out of the hospital, had his license revoked for being part of an independent association rather than a government-run one, and was captured and beaten by public security for holding a picket sign at the rally.

The doctor was dragged to the police station by public security. He got beaten alongside a dozen others in the cramped police holding cell. After being battered all night, the doctor was loaded onto a truck, and police continued to drive, pulling one person out at a time. When it was finally his turn, he was dropped off in a secluded countryside area he had never visited before. After asking residents for directions, he walked roughly 50 kilometers just to get home.

He had no job, his license was revoked, and his household lay in ruins. With a red mark against him, there was no one willing to take him in. Those who knew what he had done avoided him for a while.

Of course, that was all in the past.

Now, he was not a doctor but a vagrant exiled to No Man’s Land. Having lived his life healing others, he now bore the burden of leading those who found themselves in circumstances similar to or worse than his own.

The teacher, who had once been a doctor, spoke to the young man.

“Don’t worry too much. I understand it all.”

“…Yes.”

The young man nodded with a somber face as he adjusted his rifle. Though his expression was downcast, he didn’t feel too bad.

Just as the middle-aged man was softly encouraging the youth, someone peering into the entrance pulled down their scarf from their mouth and shouted.

“Teacher! A Morrian has come! With cargo!”

“Johan, please don’t call a Morrian a fur wheel. Who calls beastmen that?”

“That’s not important! This guy’s hurt!”

“…What? The Morrian?”

The middle-aged man ran out, oblivious to the revolver holstered at his waist. All but a few terrorists holding hostages gathered at the entrance, each with weapons in hand.

A fox beastman who had dragged in a massive cargo collapsed to the ground, looking exhausted. The beastman’s clothes were torn in several places, and blood that had hardened from being pressed against the skin dripped to the floor, mixing with droplets of sweat.

“Morrian! What in the world… Are you hurt?!”

“Huff… Huff…!”

Stabbed, I see.

The fox beastman gritted their teeth and spat out the words, a low growl emanating from deep within.

“A knife? Who the hell… Wait, why did you come alone? Where’s Franz? Vicente? Where are the others who went to move the cargo, and you’re the only one….”

“Some son of a bitch killed Franz. That bastard killed Franz and took his gun! Ugh…!”

The middle-aged man quickly bent down to check the side that the beastman was leaning on. The frail waist had been slashed with a knife.

One of the terrorists quickly grabbed a radio to inform the others that their comrade had been hurt. But the middle-aged man didn’t even glance that way, focusing on the wound instead.

“What the hell…!”

“I’ll kill that bastard… I’ll make sure to kill him….”

“Marco, Paula, go get bandages and a hemostatic agent. Hurry!”

As the medication touched the wound, the fox beastman writhed in pain on the ground. The middle-aged man sprinkled hemostatic powder made from herbs gathered in No Man’s Land, praying the beastman would please stay still.

“Morrian, don’t move.”

“That damned black-headed beast… Ugh…!”

The fox beastman’s eyes brimmed with tears as they thrashed about. The comrades held her limbs to prevent her from moving, and just when the middle-aged man was about to wrap the wound with a bandage.

-Cheek.

The radio began to ring.

 

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