Chapter 148: A Visit to Progen (2) I'd rented a studio apartment in Progen.
It was only meant to be a base of operations for a week or two, starting today.
"...It's tiny."
Was this a prison cell?
Even excluding my time as a fugitive when the streets were my bed, this place was barely the size of an underground dungeon. The monthly rent for this cramped box was 1,300 livres—roughly 1,000 Imperial dollars.
University students really had it rough these days.
I began unpacking my gear: a terminal, wiretaps, a communicator, a pistol, a dagger, and a stack of Progen currency. I hadn't brought the Ebenholtz longsword; a weapon that conspicuous would make me an easy target for identification.
Sssshhhk—
I drew the curtains. The sprawling campus of Progen National University lay directly before my eyes.
"..."
I gazed at the university, lost in thought.
Before my regression, there had been a pivotal moment in history—the most famous failed assassination in the books. Around this time in Progen, an attempt was made on the lives of two giants: Louis Marceau, the Minister of National Defense, and Prime Minister Bernard of the eastern nation of Yursled.
However, the bomb the assassin threw turned out to be a dud. He was shot and killed on the spot.
"There will be no failure this time."
I would ensure the assassination succeeded. The targets were staunch anti-imperialists—the very figures who would later become the driving force in uniting Progen and Yursled against the Empire.
Weakening an enemy's strength before a war was common sense, but above all else...
No matter how I looked at it, I couldn't shake the suspicion that the Izenheim were involved in that incident.
*
At Progen National University, amidst the chaotic mess of posters plastered across a hallway wall, one caught my eye.
[For the True Reconstruction of the Nation – The Revisionist Society is Recruiting New Members]
[Progen's 'Republic' is a Sham!]
[Location: Estrige Hall, Room B-112]
"Hmm."
Progen's republic is wrong, eh? My interest was piqued.
I made my way to the basement of Estrige Hall, an aging building that smelled of damp concrete. Room 112 was tucked away at the very end of the hall.
Knock, knock.
I rapped on the door.
Creeeak.
The moment it opened halfway, the stale stench of cigarettes washed over me. A gaunt man poked his head out, squinting.
"Who are you?"
"I saw your poster."
The man looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my clothes before he raised an eyebrow.
"Name?"
"Felix."
"...Come in."
I stepped inside. The space was suffocatingly cramped. Hand-drawn posters were strewn across every surface in a room thick with smoke. Three men and two women sat around a table, all wearing sharp, intense expressions.
"If you want to join the Revisionist Society, you have to pass a one-on-one interview with the president."
The man jutted his chin toward a separate office door at the back.
"Before that, let me see your student ID."
"Here."
I handed it over.
"Felix. Military Science, third year... You took a three-year leave of absence?"
"Yes."
A third-year student returning from a three-year break—it was the perfect cover. I wouldn't know anyone on campus, and no one would know me. Better yet, the Military Science department didn't even have a graduate program to worry about.
The man, his suspicion seemingly satisfied, knocked on the inner door.
"President. A new applicant is here."
"...Send him in."
The man opened the door. As I stepped inside, I was taken aback.
I'd expected some grimy, middle-aged radical, but instead, I found a woman with curly hair, fair skin, and a cute, baby-faced appearance.
"So, you want to join the Revisionist Society?"
Contrary to her youthful looks, her voice was hoarse and gravelly, as if her throat were perpetually clogged with phlegm.
"I do."
"Sorry."
She smirked, pointing a finger at me.
"I'm good at spotting guys like you. Your face practically screams that your insides are dyed bright red. You're a Socialist Party mole, aren't you, you bastard?"
"...Are you calling me a spy just because I'm too handsome?"
"..."
She couldn't find a retort. Her lips simply twitched in annoyance.
Quite the character.
I let out a small laugh. "Everyone's insides are red. You can't judge a person's ideology by their appearance."
"Don't make me laugh."
The Progen Republic, of course, had its light and its darkness. A perfect political system didn't exist. Currently, Progen was shackling itself with the fetters of 'ideology.' The Socialist Party, the People's Party, the Liberal Party—they were all locked in a cycle of extreme, unproductive opposition.
Perhaps ideology was both freedom's greatest strength and its most crippling weakness.
"Let's just talk," I said, sitting in the chair across from her.
"Get lost. Who said you could sit? Get out!"
"I want to join. Why are you so intent on kicking me out?"
Her brow furrowed deeply. "A guy who took a three-year leave is suspicious by default. Do I have any obligation to accept you?"
Nodding, I pulled a small coffer from my coat and placed it on the table.
"During my leave, I was studying abroad in the Empire."
"Studying abroad?"
"Yes. And while I was there, I got lucky and hit it big with an investment."
I opened the lid. Inside sat a mana stone of such high quality it would fetch at least 300,000 dollars.
The president's expression wavered.
"Now I've returned to my homeland, looking for a stage to realize my ideals."
Gazing at the brilliantly shining stone, the president bit her lip.
"Come to think of it, I haven't had the pleasure of hearing your name, President."
"..."
She tore her eyes away from the mana stone and stared at me intently. Finally, she spat out her name.
"It's Clara Magal."
I repeated the name mentally. Clara Magal.
I didn't know a Clara, but I knew the name Magal. In my memories from before the regression, the leader of an armed group that committed acts of terror in Progen—in sympathy with the Empire—was named Kura Magal.
Coincidentally, that leader had also been a woman.
"...I see."
Progen National University was a high-caliber institution, and the quality of talent it produced was equally impressive.
"A pleasure to meet you. I am Felix Renoir."
It seemed I had found exactly the right person.
*
"We are being persecuted."
On a deserted walking path at the edge of the university, strolling through a sparsely wooded area, Clara Magal spoke with fervor.
"The Republic is trash."
It was a radical statement, but I listened with inward satisfaction.
"Look at what the Empire is doing across the border. The Empire is the only one truly taking the form of a real nation."
A strange feeling washed over me. The Empire as seen from Progen, and Progen as seen from the Empire—they each looked at only one side of the other, admiring and hating in turn.
"You... have you even heard of Maximilian?"
"..."
My own name coming out of her mouth made me clear my throat for no reason.
"Of course you haven't. You military science types just think and act exactly as you're taught by those incompetent Socialist Party-stooge professors."
Clara pulled a cheap cigarette from her pocket and lit it.
"Progen is rotten to the core. Those old raccoon bastards in the Socialist Party are passing on the massive losses they incurred from the Kanilan speculation to innocent citizens through taxes, just to line their own pockets."
The fallout from the Kanilan incident had reached even here.
"But look at the Empire now. They've drastically lowered taxes for the lower classes. The state is stepping in to seize the wealth of those filthy parasitic races like the Merin, Izenheim, and Edlem, and distributing it to its own people!"
The president kicked a stone.
"The Merin and the Izenheim especially... those cockroach bastards are the real cancer of this continent."
At that moment, I actually started to like this girl.
"The Izenheim... you say?"
"That's right. The Merin and the Izenheim. They share the same disgusting trait: they're vermin who lend out money they don't even have and live off the interest!"
It was true that many Izenheim worked in finance. 'Capital' was the most powerful weapon on the continent, and the ultimate tool for forming a cartel. The Izenheim had realized the power of money early on.
"...But why Maximilian?"
"Ha! This is why I can't stand military science guys." She shot me a look of pure disdain. "The bills proposed in the Empire to legally confiscate the assets of those sub-humans and kick them out? Maximilian spearheaded all of them. I was in awe when I read his declarations."
"Ah. I see."
An interesting thought occurred to me. Even outside the Empire, there were voluntary heroes contributing to the survival of humanity without even knowing it.
"President. Then how many members does our Revisionist Society have who share these views?"
If that was the case, I needed to help a group like this flourish.
"There are quite a few who support our cause. Not just students. Hospital directors, doctors, nurses, entrepreneurs, small business owners... the real citizens who work their asses off only to be robbed by those Socialist Party bastards."
They were clearly furious with the status quo.
"But there are few official members who actually take action. The 'real ones' who are willing to sacrifice themselves, to get blood on their hands for the cause... they are rare."
"I see."
"...So."
Suddenly, she stopped walking. Click. A familiar metallic shape emerged from her pocket.
It was a pistol.
"Now I'll ask you again, Felix Renoir. Where did you get that mana stone?"
"..."
Clara Magal was serious. She was sincere about building her organization, and her convictions were deep.
"Hmm..."
I considered my answer. But then, why make things complicated?
"Didn't I tell you I studied abroad in the Empire?"
"So?"
"I met many distinguished figures there. As you know, the nobles of the Empire are quite fond of Progen's art and intellect. They are also earnestly hoping for a leader with a 'great ideology' similar to the Empire's to emerge here. I received patronage from people like that."
A smile touched her eyes, but it was a sneer.
"Is that so? And how do you prove that? You could be a spy sent by the Socialist Party to dismantle us. A mana stone of that value isn't impossible for them to acquire."
She spoke those words in the Imperial Aranian language. Her pronunciation was as fluent as a native's. Clara Magal was a sharp woman.
"What, surprised? If you didn't understand that, get lost."
She seemed to have no immediate intention of killing me, as she tucked the pistol back into her coat.
I shook my head.
"No. The people of the Empire told me something else," I replied, also in the Imperial language. "The Empire only gives opportunities to those who prove themselves."
A flicker of shock crossed the president's eyes.
"In the three years I was away, a group with such excellent ideals has emerged in Progen. My patrons in the Empire are looking for people like you, President. So please, accept me. I can secure even more support by traveling between here and the Empire."
"...You have a silver tongue."
She snorted. Her suspicion had softened, but she didn't trust me completely.
"That's enough for today. I'll let you know the result of your application next week."
Clara Magal walked toward the university's main gate. I watched her back for a moment and chuckled.
"...Peculiar."
She was an odd one, but I saw no reason why she wouldn't be useful.
*
—Exploring Progen, Day 2.
I sat at an outdoor table in front of a sandwich stall, scribbling on a napkin.
[Felix: Requires parental background.]
[Parents driven to suicide by exploitation from a loan shark company controlled by Izenheim capital.]
I left the note on the table. A moment later, an employee in an apron brought out my sandwich and discreetly collected the napkin.
They were intelligence agents belonging to the Genen Annex. The number of unofficial agents under my command now exceeded several hundred. They didn't know who they worked for, and I didn't know their individual identities.
By tomorrow, the identity of 'Felix' would have a perfect, tragic background.
I walked down the street, chewing on my sandwich.
Thud. Thud.
I immediately felt a tail. It was the Revisionist Society kids. They were surprisingly systematic for a university club. Clumsy, yes, but their meticulousness made them worth supporting.
"...This sandwich is actually pretty good."
I admired the neatly folded wrap. I'd have to take a few back later and have the palace chef analyze the recipe.
—Exploring Progen, Day 3.
Early on a weekend morning, I visited Comert Avenue—the street Minister Louis Marceau and Prime Minister Bernard would pass through for their meeting.
I was standing at the exact scene of the failed assassination.
"...Why did it fail?" I muttered, checking the route.
The assassin had thrown a bomb from here, where the welcoming crowd was thickest. But it was a dud. The moment he pulled a pistol to finish the job, the guards gunned him down.
"More than the failure itself..."
The security was too lax. The fact that the assassin was even given time to throw a bomb was strange.
"Hmm..."
After scouting the area until nightfall, I returned to my studio.
"—Hey."
A cold voice greeted me. My room had been turned upside down.
"Nice to see you."
It was Clara. I had expected this. I'd already cleared out any confidential documents, so all they found were fake papers, a self-defense dagger, a communicator, and a wiretap.
"What the hell are you doing here? And what is all this?" Clara asked, fiddling with my dagger. Behind her, a society member glared at me menacingly.
"Hmm..."
I looked at her for a moment, then swept my hair back.
"President. Would you mind dismissing your men for a moment?"
Clara Magal frowned, but she gestured to her subordinates. They obediently filed out.
I perched on the edge of the bed.
"So you were a Socialist Party lackey after all? You son of a bitch."
As she brandished the dagger, I told her the exact opposite—a partial truth.
"No. I am preparing for a great undertaking."
"...What? A 'great undertaking'?"
"Yes."
In a group like this, those words meant only one thing: an assassination or an act of terror.
"I can't give you the details yet."
"What kind of bullsh—"
Clara's expression shifted. She looked at me like I was a lunatic, but in the next heartbeat—
I moved.
In an instant, I was behind her. I pressed down on her wrist, forcing her to drop the dagger, and pressed my thumb firmly against her carotid artery.
"I could kill you with a single finger."
"..."
Gulp. Clara's eyes trembled with raw shock.
I smiled faintly and released her.
"Well. It's because I have skills like these that I can plan such an undertaking."
I sat back down on the bed. Clara rubbed her neck, stammering an excuse. "I-I can use mana too."
"Yes. So it seems."
"..."
The way she looked at me had changed. The disdain was gone, replaced by a wary respect.
"...You're planning something big?"
"I am." I fiddled with my fingernails. "Two days ago, I was deeply moved by what you said, President."
I let out a heavy sigh, lowering my voice to a somber tone.
"President... would you like to hear my story?"
The narrative of the fake 'Felix'—a story I had crafted to be irresistible to a radical like her.
I began to recite the tale.
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