The journey remained incredibly quiet. Kal'tsit sat to one side with her eyes closed to rest her mind, leaving only the grandfather and grandson in the front row whispering softly to one another. Their voices were exceptionally faint, as if they were deeply terrified of disturbing Jeanne and her companion.
Jeanne wasn't entirely certain whether their smooth passage was a stroke of pure luck or if Kal'tsit had orchestrated flawless preparations beforehand; they genuinely did not see a single trace of the imperial inspection teams along the way. In fact, they barely encountered another living soul across the desolate landscape.
Despite the empty roads, the old man operating the driver's seat remained wound incredibly tight, his eyes nervously scanning the surroundings. The slightest movement in the brush filled him with immediate dread; even if it was just a harmless wild rabbit darting across the snow, he would instinctively duck his head and hold his breath, terrified to make a sound.
Jeanne could clearly discern from his behavior that if this elderly man wasn't a native of Ursus himself, he had lived there before. Given the empire's notoriously extreme, draconian policies regarding the Infected, he had likely endured an immense amount of suffering.
"Old gentleman, are you originally from Ursus?" Unable to suppress her blooming curiosity any longer—and frankly finding herself entirely bored sitting alone in the back of the cabin—Jeanne spoke up softly, addressing the elderly driver.
The old man clearly hadn't anticipated that Jeanne would actively strike up a conversation with him. A flash of sheer panic washed over his expression, causing his hands to jerk violently against the steering wheel. The vehicle swerved sharply left and right a few times before he managed to wrestle it back into a stable, even line.
".. Ah, yes, I was indeed a citizen of Ursus once upon a time. Back then, I actually owned a fairly substantial amount of property and assets in Chernobog! Unfortunately, once you become an Infected, you're stripped of everything! Still, being able to escape with my life makes me exceptionally lucky."
The old man's tone bore no traces of profound regret or longing for his past life. On the contrary, his words were saturated with a distinct sense of broad-minded open-heartedness, as if he felt immensely grateful just to have survived that horrific purge.
Jeanne had also caught wind of that utterly terrifying purge. It represented the apex of Ursus's absolute madness, a dark era where the Ursus military treated the Infected across various mobile cities as mere performance metrics, actively competing with one another for the highest tally.
In fact, in certain regions, the oppression wasn't restricted merely to rounding up the Infected; a vast number of non-Infected citizens were systematically swept up during the chaos and branded as Infected. Once they were cast into the depths of the mining fields, it mattered very little what you originally were—you became an Infected regardless.
Jeanne distinctly recalled that FrostNova's entire family had been dragged out to the frozen tundra under those exact circumstances. Looking at it from that perspective, for this old gentleman to successfully break away and flee after being captured during that era meant he possessed quite a fair bit of personal capability.
"Heh, my escape was entirely reliant on the strength of others. We waited until those bastards grew complacent and made a desperate break for it all at once. In the end, only my son, my daughter-in-law, and I survived out of the entire group; the rest were ruthlessly gunned down."
The old man easily detected the underlying question swirling within Jeanne's eyes, prompting him to recount that narrow escape from the jaws of death. Yet, even now, a lingering trace of absolute dread flickered across his gaze as he spoke.
Back then, he had never truly expected to make it out alive. He had simply been entirely unwilling to march quietly into the mining zones to perish. Fortunately, fortune had smiled upon them, allowing three members of their family to escape with their lives.
Hearing his grandfather recount these events yet again, the youth sitting in the passenger seat remained entirely tight-lipped. He had heard this piece of history detailed from his grandfather's lips more than a few times, and had listened to him repeatedly emphasize how incredibly fortunate they were to have escaped alive.
Yet, he struggled to comprehend what there was to celebrate. Was simply running away considered a grand stroke of luck? Lacking any personal memories of that despairing era, the youth merely tightened his grip around the black Originium crystals jutting from his arm, refraining from uttering a single word.
"Then you truly were exceptionally lucky! A vast number of the people in our village were personally liberated from those mining fields, and they consistently emphasize exactly how excruciatingly difficult it is to slip away from the clutches of the Ursus military!"
Hearing Jeanne's response, the old man turned his head in profound surprise to cast a glance at the rear seat. This girl was a non-Infected, right? How did she happen to know the very miners who had been systematically rounded up and enslaved in those mining camps years ago?
Instantly, a singular name materialized within the old gentleman's mind. It was a name that echoed with absolute resonance among the Infected populace, one he had frequently caught wind of even while operating far away from the borders of Ursus.
"Little girl, could you perhaps be... a member of the Infected Guerrillas? Yet, you don't bear the traits of an Infected yourself!" The old man had naturally caught wind of that legendary guerrilla force, operating under the command of the former hero Patriot, which dedicated its existence to rescuing the Infected across the frozen tundra. But why on earth would a child like her intertwine her fate with the Infected?
"Strictly speaking, you could say that. Our organization has formally merged with Patriot's Guerrillas. Our current title is Reunion."
Even while embarking on a grand journey abroad, Jeanne didn't forget to put in a good word for Reunion's branding. There was simply no avoiding it; Reunion's current reputation was entirely too minuscule—so small that aside from the isolated villages scattered across the tundra, barely anyone had ever caught wind of their existence.
"Reunion, is it... To think that an old fellow like me would have the distinct honor of driving an important figure today! Even if the boss chooses to withhold my wages for this trip, it will have been entirely worth it!"
Although the name Reunion was entirely foreign to his ears, learning that this organization operated alongside Patriot's Guerrillas in the noble work of liberating enslaved Infected filled the old gentleman with an immense wave of excitement. He harbored a profound, deep-seated reverence for figures of such caliber.
In truth, he had once harbored the desire to ride out and liberate enslaved miners himself, but he simply lacked the raw courage required to face the Ursus imperial inspectors a second time. This personal limitation, however, did not diminish his absolute respect for these brave combatants in the slightest.
With that revelation, the rigid, awkward atmosphere lingering between the elderly driver and Jeanne evaporated completely.
As for the possibility that Jeanne might be spinning a web of lies to deceive him? The old man didn't believe such a scenario was remotely possible. This wasn't merely because Kal'tsit, who sat right beside her, offered no refutation to Jeanne's statements, but rather because the girl possessed absolutely no logical motive to do so!
There was zero reason for her to deceive a wretched Infected like him; after all, she stood to gain absolutely nothing from his person.
Concurrently, the grandson sitting beside the old man stared at Jeanne with gleaming, intense eyes. It appeared he harbored an absolute mountain of questions he desperately wished to pitch to her, yet he repeatedly forced those curiosities back down his throat, restricting himself to stealing subtle glances at Jeanne from the corner of his eye.
"Welcome, welcome! I never expected our paths to cross again so soon, Dr. Kal'tsit."
Not long after breaking away from the frozen tundra, the old man navigated the transport vehicle toward a substantial caravan camp pitched in the desolate wilderness. The individual leading the group—a Lupo displaying a prominent wolf-like head—greeted Kal'tsit with practiced, professional familiarity.
Casting a glance at the jagged, sinister black crystals erupting from his forearm, it was readily apparent that these individuals were entirely comprised of Infected. A transport caravan composed strictly of Infected? Jeanne couldn't help but feel a sudden urge to meet the proprietor of this specific merchant company.
Exactly what kind of staggering boldness and grit did it take for a merchant to explicitly employ an all-Infected caravan?
"They were contracted precisely because of their cooperation with us, specifically to navigate the logistics of transporting cargo into Kazdel. At the very least, when an Infected perishes, there is absolutely no requirement to disburse compensation or funeral expenses," Kal'tsit explained in a muted whisper directly into Jeanne's ear.
The underlying reality was remarkably straightforward: out of ten cargo runs conducted into the heart of Kazdel, nine and a half would inevitably run into violent highway robberies. If an ordinary employee were to perish during a violent confrontation, the proprietor would be legally obligated to disburse a massive sum of compensation to the surviving family members.
However, if one deployed Infected workers, such financial liabilities ceased to be a concern entirely. The Infected not only commanded exceptionally abysmal wages, but their deaths during a deployment also required zero financial restitution—and a unscrupulous merchant could even pocket their unpaid wages upon their demise.
"Though looking at it now... did your proprietor happen to strike it rich recently? How is it that your transport vehicles and tents appear vastly superior compared to your previous setup?" Kal'tsit questioned, her eyes narrowing slightly as she surveyed the quality of their tents and vehicles.
Kal'tsit was well-acquainted with the owner of this specific caravan. He was an exceptionally shrewd Zalak merchant—thoroughly cunning and calculating, much like the general reputation of his race. There had even been a past incident where he had attempted to mix substandard, defective goods into a premium shipment he was selling to Babel.
Fortunately, Kal'tsit stood as the absolute paragon of well-traveled expertise; she was naturally far too experienced to let a mere mouse pull the wool over her eyes. After being thoroughly disciplined a few times, the fellow had grown remarkably compliant, never daring to play any further underhanded tricks in Kal'tsit's presence.
Perhaps this was simply a Terra-style manifestation of a mouse naturally fearing a cat.
Yet, that remarkably miserly fellow had historically equipped this specific caravan with nothing but the cast-off, decommissioned scraps of other logistics companies! Their previous Originium-powered transports were in such a state of structural decay that bolts would actively rain down from the chassis while the vehicles were in motion!
Even under those abysmal working conditions, that proprietor actually maintained a remarkably decent reputation among these Infected workers. After all, within the current economic climate of Terra, there were precious few logistics companies willing to offer employment to the Infected at all. Of course, Rim Billiton is a completely different matter.
"We've transitioned to a new owner! Our previous proprietor took out massive high-interest loans to invest in some absurd stock market venture. In the end, he lost every single scrap of his fortune, went completely bankrupt, and leapt straight off a building to his death."
A subtle trace of pity and bittersweet irony flickered within the middle-aged Lupo's eyes as he spoke. Upon receiving this piece of intelligence, Kal'tsit's brow furrowed slightly. A transition of ownership of this magnitude... why on earth did I receive absolutely zero advance intelligence regarding this matter?