"Very well. We shall limit our direct state-level support for the Kazdel Communist Party. Furthermore, I will personally instruct the Kazdel branch to cooperate with the Lord of Fiends, Theresia. Does that suffice, Ms. Kal'tsit?"
"I appreciate your reasonability, Chairman Vladimir. If that is all, I shall take my leave."
As our two-hour long discourse concluded, I turned to depart, struggling to conceal my cold-sweat-slicked brow from Vladimir's piercing gaze.
The Chairman's intentions... were an utter enigma.
"Do you not require the documents?"
Vladimir's calloused hand gripped mine.
A handshake.
The moment I grasped the potential truth of his identity, I had to physically steady myself to keep my heart from drumming out of my chest.
If he was truly that person, could a mere verbal pact be trusted?
Driven by that looming dread, I finally spoke. "The documents... let us finalize them here."
"Excellent. Efficiency is a virtue."
He produced a pen, drafted the agreement, and scrawled his signature; I followed suit immediately.
Clutching the signed decree, I hurried out of the hospital as if fleeing a predator.
"...It was him."
This was no coincidence, no trick of the light.
His physique was perfectly that of an Old Human, yet it held a subtle, disconcerting lack of balance—the signature of a genuine legacy of 'Them,' rather than some biological imitation.
And that look in his eyes. That smile. A cold, ruthless calculus hidden beneath a veneer of deception and manipulation.
I balled my fists tight.
My nails dug into my palms, nearly drawing blood.
Cold sweat trailed down my cheek. I had spent two hours sitting across from him.
The Overseer. An ancient title from a time nearly forgotten by all on Terra.
He, Vladimir Park, was that very individual.
I was certain.
During the negotiation, I had not dared to voice my suspicions. But every gesture, the syntax of his speech, his choice of vocabulary, the crushing pressure of his logic... it was all far too familiar.
'The performance he gave, feigning ignorance of the Oracle.'
It had begun from that very moment. He had infiltrated my psychological defenses and deceived me from within.
Even this document... on the surface, it declared a 'halt to state-level support,' but the reality would be far different.
This was nothing more than a diplomatic smokescreen.
Under the guise of the International Communist Party, he would extend his reach secretly.
Like a spider weaving its web.
Like a crocodile waiting for its prey.
The realization paralyzed me.
My mind went numb. The fact that the entity whose hand I had just shaken was the same 'Alien Being' who had once issued unilateral commands to me ages ago made it feel as though the very air were being squeezed from my lungs.
'Why...?'
The question resurfaced, insistent.
Why, of all things?
He was of the Old Humans. I had believed—or perhaps I merely wanted to believe—that his goal was the resurgence of Old Human civilization.
But the system he was building now was something entirely different.
This was neither a restoration nor a revival; it was an act of raw 'creation.' It was not reconstruction, but 'Revolution.'
'Does he truly intend to spread Communism? Do not make me laugh...'
He was no such idealist. He had always mistrusted humanity, placing his faith in cold structures and systems rather than ephemeral emotions.
He would never choose republicanism or democracy, nor would he ever truly believe in the egalitarianism of Communism.
If so, then what was this?
"...A private dictatorship, one that even disregards his own kin?" I whispered to myself.
This Soviet system was undoubtedly a mere wrapping to justify 'his' hegemony. False equality. A staged revolution. In reality, it was likely nothing more than a tool to manipulate everyone on Terra.
And if it was not that... what if there was something even more sinister?
'A vanguard state designed to purge all New Humans who refuse to cooperate with the Old?'
As that thought crossed my mind, another shiver of cold sweat raced down my spine.
My knees shook. The crushing weight of knowing I had just missed my final opportunity to stop him tore at my heart.
By letting this moment slip through my fingers, I had effectively lost the chance to arrest his momentum. Gathering the nations of Terra to oppose him would now be a grueling, perhaps impossible, task that would take decades we did not have.
An invasion of Kazdel had been relatively simple to organize, fueled by the New Humans' shared loathing of the Sarkaz. But rallying power to topple this Soviet Republic—which neighboring nations currently viewed as little more than a loud, yapping stray dog—was a feat beyond my current strength.
Consumed by frustration, I stood frozen.
"...Theresia. How can I possibly tell Theresia..."
I breathed her name quietly into the air. He was surely already watching her. Her talent, her ideals, her charisma.
If he reached out personally with his honeyed words... even the brilliant Theresia might succumb.
If they moved beyond a simple alliance and she began to view him as a 'Kindred Spirit'—that was a catastrophic outcome I had to prevent at all costs.
But extracting someone from his influence was a task far more daunting than any physical battle.
And most decisively... I held no 'proof' to expose the truth of his nature to her.
Ancient memories. Abstract feelings. Intuition. These were not enough to sway Theresia.
His path thus far had been entirely different from the 'Overseer' I remembered. If Theresia sensed any contradiction in my words, she would likely turn her scrutiny upon me instead.
My head throbbed under the weight of these dilemmas.
But if... just if... he managed to subvert Theresia?
A Caster whose power appeared once in a millennium, the Lord of Fiends of Kazdel, siding with the Overseer... how could I possibly counter that? Even Mon3tr and I had nearly perished at the hands of her brother; who on this earth could possibly stand against a Theresia who left no weaknesses for her enemies to exploit?
There was no one.
I bit my lip. Standing in the shadows of the hospital's rear alley, I leaned against the cold brick wall and looked up at the grey sky.
It was then that I heard it.
"Ms. Kal'tsit, a moment please."
His voice drifted from the distance. My blood ran cold instantly.
'...Did he notice me?'
Through the gaps between his surrounding guards, he approached quietly. I took a steadying breath. If he had realized I knew his secret, he might choose to eliminate me here and now.
He was shielded by a cohort of elite security. As a man who prioritized his own safety, his guards were undoubtedly masters of their craft.
Yet... despite everything, he was still human. Could he truly withstand even one strike from me? If I was to die here, I would ensure my final struggle was one he would never forget.
I gritted my teeth and walked toward him. However—
"...You left this behind."
Held in his hand was... my medical coat.
He handed it back with effortless naturalness. On the lapel, the gilded gold star of a Hero of Socialist Labour shimmered.
"You shouldn't leave your medal behind. You've come from so far; you should at least accept our hospitality."
He then reached out to a guard and took a small book. A red book.
The Communist Manifesto.
He flipped it open and began scrawling something on the first page. Where the pen had passed, a short message remained:
To the Lord of Fiends, Theresia. For the friendship and goodwill of the Union - Vladimir Park.
In that moment, my arms began to tremble uncontrollably.
It was not rage. It was not sorrow.
It was pure, unadulterated terror.
The corners of his mouth curled upward in a quiet smile. His eyes creased slightly at the corners as well. He looked at me as if I were something pitiable, a minor obstacle to be toyed with.
That smile said everything.
'I know exactly what you've realized. But you can do nothing to stop me.'
I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. My lips quivered. The book in my hand felt like a massive iron shackle, weighing several thousand tons, binding me to his path.
I had glimpsed the truth. And the magnitude of that truth was a weight far greater than I was prepared to bear.
************************************************
Whew... that was one hell of a long negotiation.
Diplomacy is a first for me, so it felt a bit awkward, but I think it ended well enough. When I gave Kal'tsit a gentle, fatherly smile, her expression of pure hatred seemed to soften a little—perhaps she's starting to respect me.
Thanks to that, the negotiations were successful and I managed to farm some decent favorability points too.
"How was my smile just now?" I asked my guard.
"...Honestly, sir? You looked like an antagonist from a third-rate theater troupe. The kind of villain who mocks the protagonist's party before getting a proper 're-education' by the end of the play."
"...Do you enjoy having your salary docked?"
"Not at all! Comrade Chairman's smile was as bright and radiant as the sun, shining upon the people in stark contrast to the hideous face of the Victorian royal family! It was a smile that would make every worker and peasant unite as one to defend the Comrade Chairman to the death—"
"Enough with the flattery, man. You're giving me goosebumps."
Though, personal creepiness aside, it did feel good to hear.
In any case, I sent off the book for Theresia, managed Kal'tsit—god knows why she showed up—and most importantly, I'm still alive.
Could there be a better day? I climbed into my carriage to return to the residence, privately celebrating my continued survival. I think I'll have some vodka tonight.
.
.
.
"Vladimir! Did I not tell you to never sign such things when I am not present? Do you think the administrative system you created yourself is a joke? Why did we even establish the People's Commissariat of Foreign Affairs? If you were going to handle it yourself, you should have just held that post concurrently and let me manage the Commissariat of Labor!"
"I-I'm sorry, Wrangel. I'll make sure to inform you first next time."
"Stand up straight, Vladimir! I'll let it slide this time because the treaty turned out well, but next time, you'll be on the receiving end of a true Leithanian Splash!"
That night, I was thoroughly lectured by an enraged Wrangel.
*****************************************************
"I still... cannot understand it."
Leaning her back against the wall of her cell, Amfielice flipped through a book, murmuring to herself. Her silver hair swayed gently over her shoulders each time the pages rustled in the draft.
The book she held had been given to her yesterday by the prison guard.
The Communist Manifesto.
The reasoning had been simple.
"I'm not sure why you're so skeptical of our prison management policies... but as they say, to know your enemy is to win a hundred battles. If you want to understand communists, wouldn't it be best to read this?"
That was what Lise Cromwell, the woman who had become her closest companion since arriving at the camp, had told her with a light laugh. Upon hearing that, Amfielice had requested the book from a guard. She had accepted it without bothering to hide her intense wariness, even as the guard handed it over with disturbing nonchalance.
At first, she had scoffed. Raised on the aristocratic education of her father and the court nobility, she was a product of the feudal order—a believer in the righteous authority granted by bloodline. She firmly believed that one small book could never overturn her world.
Yet something strange happened. As she read, an uncomfortable sensation began to grow in her chest.
Words like 'Class,' 'Oppressor and Oppressed,' and 'The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles' began to stitch themselves into her own memories.
She remembered the garden parties of her youth where nobles berated serfs. She remembered a cousin, a Baron, threatening maids with 'concubinage proposals' they couldn't refuse. She remembered the tax collectors' beatings in the duchy—violence that happened in secret but was quietly condoned by her father's administration.
The idea that all of that could be explained by a single word—Class.
"No." She shook her head violently. "This is... propaganda. A biased theory designed to distort the facts. I won't be deceived."
Because if this was the truth... then had she and her father truly spent their entire lives struggling only to protect a rotting, decaying system?
She did not want to believe it. She gripped her blanket until her knuckles turned white, her heart pounding in rhythm with her rising anxiety.
Only days ago, she had been certain this camp would be a torture chamber. A ducal daughter, the heir to a great duchy, captured as a prisoner of war—it seemed inevitable. Yet the camp was too quiet. Too kind.
Her meals had begun to include meat. The water she suspected of being poisoned was perfectly clean.
She didn't understand. Why capture me and then refuse to abuse me? At first, she thought they felt guilty. Then she thought it was a psychological tactic to break her by isolating her.
But now she saw it was different. They didn't care about making her yield. There was no torture, no brainwashing. Instead, they gave her books, a warm place to sleep, and occasionally requested 'discussions' or 'dialogues.'
'People who are desperate to explain something.'
Amfielice saw that spark in their eyes. A passion for a cause. A look like someone staring at a tidal wave approaching from the distant horizon.
"...That's even more terrifying."
Torture would have been easier. It would have been better if they slapped her, cursed her, and called her an 'evil noble.' But they said no such things. Instead, they smiled and spoke like this:
"I believe you also suffered, even if you didn't realize it—perhaps your pain was merely lesser than ours."
"This struggle is not just for the oppressed, but for everyone. There are no classes here. If you cooperate with the Revolution, everyone is a comrade and a brother."
"Because all forms of oppression against freedom must fall."
It made her head spin. And that was why she gripped the Manifesto tighter. She kept whispering to herself, "...I do not agree. I will never agree..."
But her hands kept turning the pages. Her eyes kept tracing the lines.
"A spectre is haunting Terra—the spectre of communism. All the powers of old Terra have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: Pope and Tsar, King and Governor, Leithanian nobles and Victorian secret police."
"Owing to the extensive use of machinery and to division of labour, the work of the proletarians has lost all individual character... He becomes a mere appendage of the machine... the slave of the supervisor, the employer, the bourgeois, the noble, the royal, and the State."
"Your very ideas are but the outgrowth of the conditions of your bourgeois and noble production and property, just as your jurisprudence is but the will of your class made into a law for all..."
One by one, the razor-sharp sentences carved into her heart. Amfielice closed the book with a heavy sigh. She stood by the window again, looking out at the sky through the iron bars.
A red flag was fluttering in the wind. And beneath it, someone was laughing.
The peasants and workers she once thought of as 'poor, unlearned souls in need of my protection.' Now, they held the flags, they had built a Soviet, and they were enlightening and governing themselves. And she was the one trapped beneath their flag.
"I... I have to understand them."
Muttering those words, she opened the book once more. This time, her eyes were much quieter. They were no longer the eyes of fierce denial, but eyes searching for meaning, desperate to grasp a new reality.
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