Chapter 36

Chapter 36
While caught in a whirlwind of confusion, Alon was able to extract three key facts from the effortlessly flowing discussion.

The initial fact was that the pact between Count Zenonia and Duke Altia seemed to have been masterminded by Alon himself.

The second was that this coalition, named “Kalpha,” had been established because of a letter Alon had dispatched to Count Zenonia.

And third, the presents he had been accepting were actually from nobles wishing to align themselves with this coalition, and these gifts served as their method for petitioning the faction’s leader.

From the flood of words pouring out of Duke Altia and Count Zenonia, Alon could, with considerable effort, assemble these truths.

Maintaining a composed face while inwardly reeling, he fixed his gaze on the two of them.

Even with this newfound understanding, vast stretches of the situation remained unclear.

—Or, to put it more accurately, he had an endless list of things he needed to ask.

Unless Alon was living with some kind of split-personality disorder, he had never issued any directives or commands via Count Zenonia.

Put simply, he had certainly never instructed them to form an alliance… he truly hadn’t…!

‘But I only sent a letter expressing my distaste for certain nobles. How did it come to this?’

Alon’s mind raced as he studied the two, struggling to make sense of it all.

‘Is this the genius mindset, where the culprit can’t follow the logic of a strategic master…?’

Alon remembered a clip from his past life, which claimed that average people interpret words literally, whereas brilliant minds discern multiple intentions within a single statement.

He looked at the two again, his eyes now tinged with a more complicated light.

—Now that he considered it, Deus wasn’t the one to blame after all…

He thought of the endless stream of gifts that had arrived over many months.

Alon had certainly thought it was strange. No matter how much influence Deus wielded, he didn’t believe his renown was so immense that other nobles would send lavish gifts just to build a relationship.

Only now did he understand that the letters he’d received were overflowing with praise—not for Deus, but for Alon personally.

—This is a serious problem.

Remaining quiet, Alon recognized that through a chain of unintended events, he had accidentally assisted in creating the faction himself.

By the time he had connected all the dots, his gut feeling warned him that there was no getting off the “Kalpha” wagon now.

He had already accepted far too much.

Naturally, if he were truly determined to leave, paths existed, but they were far from appealing.

Now that both the royalist and aristocratic factions unmistakably viewed him as a foe, abandoning this faction would be more detrimental than beneficial.

Honestly, if the consequences were manageable, he would have hit the “quit” button without a second thought.

…But what if he explained it was all a mistake—how would those two react then…?

Alon shot a look at Duke Altia and Count Zenonia.

Their discussion had just concluded, and both were now watching him. To an outside observer, they would seem like gorgeous, refined aristocrats.

But Alon knew the reality. He was aware of Count Zenonia’s truly terrifying nature.

And even though Duke Altia wasn’t the game character he remembered but someone who should have vanished, he wasn’t underestimating her either.

Ultimately, master strategists always have their logic, and they operate on a wavelength that ordinary people cannot access.

Even if Alon laid out the entire story plainly, the odds were high that these two would simply think, ‘This is too humiliating, let’s just eliminate him,’ which appeared to be their default reasoning.

Of course, Alon didn’t know them intimately, but in this game’s universe, most characters tagged as “masterminds” were typically profoundly disturbed people.

Therefore, willingly or not, he had to continue as the head of Kalpha.

Yes, whether he wanted to or not.

…At the very least, until he could devise a sufficiently convincing excuse to resign later.

Still, Alon had no intention of remaining in the leadership position indefinitely.

He was aware that leading a faction involved heavy duties, in spite of the many advantages.

In short, for Alon, whose life’s philosophy was to live a carefree existence as a noble without ever working again, the role of leader was a poor fit. So he reached a decision.

He would guide the faction for a short time and then gracefully retire when the moment was right.

“So, what are your intentions now?”

“Hmm.”

Just as he settled on that course, Duke Altia’s voice cut in, prompting a short, thoughtful sound from Alon.

From their exchange, it was clear that Duke Altia and Count Zenonia were convinced Alon had some grand scheme behind the faction’s creation, but of course, he had no such design.

No, there was no way he could have had a plan.

After all, he had only discovered he was the leader of Kalpha today.

But since revealing the truth was not an option, Alon shifted his eyes and opted to buy some time.

“For the moment, we’ll begin by purging the criminal underworld.”

“…A purge?”

“Correct. That will make our operations smoother.”

Naturally, Alon had no real concept of how things would actually become smoother.

But since he couldn’t even recall what subjects had been debated at the assembly earlier that day, introducing a political topic was clearly a poor move. This was his best effort at thinking on his feet.

…It was awkward, but for Alon, it was the most he could manage.

“Well then, I have some business to attend to, so I must be going.”

Alon rose, turned his back at once, and started to walk away.

He quickened his pace, as he had no substantial answers if they pressed him further.

And so, moving at a notably brisk speed, Alon exited, eventually breaking into a run down an empty corridor, afraid that someone might call him back.

“Count?”

“We are going directly to the colony.”

He resolved to depart for the colony that very night.

‘The letter ought to have arrived by now. I hope I can receive assistance, just like I did with Deus.’

With these thoughts, Alon’s carriage set into motion.

…It was a midsummer night.

***

At the same time,

“A purge of the underworld, you say…”

Count Zenonia muttered, remembering how Count Palatio had vanished like a gust of wind, as if he had nothing further to add.

After a short period of reflection, Duke Altia spoke.

“When he speaks of ‘purging the underworld,’ there’s really only one possible meaning, correct?”

“Precisely. Our own domains have been strictly controlled for a long time. So if he is ordering us to purge…”

“The only remaining option is the other territories.”

“Indeed.”

At that, Count Zenonia and Duke Altia grew quiet, but soon, as if by unspoken agreement, both of them smiled.

What they were about to propose was an ambition that would have been unthinkable when they were acting alone.

But now, with their alliance and the faction in place, it was achievable.

“Unifying the underworld.”

“That sounds entertaining.”

Count Zenonia and Duke Altia smiled with profound depth.

“I am curious about what he is scheming. He grows more fascinating by the day.”

“Indeed. I am quite eager to witness what he has planned for us.”

Clink.

With those words, the wine glasses they held met with a refined chime.

“I am anticipating it. Very much so.”

Their esteem for Alon diffused along with the wine’s aroma.

***

One week later.

While Alon was traveling south to the desert city after departing Teria,

“Hmm~”

A man, known as the “Agent,” was observing a distant carriage.

It was the carriage transporting Count Palatio, the individual who was his target.

Watching the carriage progressing steadily southward, the “Agent” retrieved a quill from his pocket and reflected.

‘The Abyssal Core is compelling, but a few points still trouble me.’

Of course, the “Agent” could easily approach Count Palatio whenever he wished, and with a single stroke of his quill through the air, he could terminate his life.

Yet, the reason for his hesitation was precisely the code shared by all those who carried the title of “Agent.”

“I was advised to avoid making troublesome enemies if possible…”

In truth, Count Palatio did not qualify as a “troublesome enemy.”

Rather, the ones deemed troublesome were those in Caliban, specifically Deus, who appeared to hold a significant debt of gratitude toward Alon.

‘He will undoubtedly act.’

Naturally, the Agents were not fearful of Deus moving against them.

Each of them possessed skills comparable to a Swordmaster, and they were sure they could eliminate even the Sword of Caliban if they so chose.

However, regardless of their ability, it was always wiser to avoid forming unnecessary animosity with those who held substantial public influence, as it could lead to inconvenient entanglements.

Even when a substantial monetary reward was offered, the principle held.

Nevertheless, the reason the Agent accepted Carmine’s proposition was that the compensation he offered was too alluring to refuse.

‘Three Abyssal Cores…’

The Abyssal Core.

It was a rare item covertly distributed in the underworld by Duke Komalon. When assimilated using a particular method, it bestowed superhuman abilities upon the user. It was not something that could be purchased.

This was because, unlike Abyssal Gems, which augmented physical prowess, Duke Komalon almost never released Abyssal Cores.

Thus, Abyssal Cores commanded astronomical prices on the black market. However, the Agent hadn’t taken the job merely to sell them.

‘What level of power could I attain if I used it…?’

The Agent’s lips curved into his trademark malevolent grin, excited by the very idea.

Swiftly dismissing these distractions, the Agent concentrated on the carriage, which was now rapidly approaching.

He raised his quill.

And then.

“My apologies, but this is strictly professional.”

With a soft utterance, the Agent’s hand started to draw a horizontal line with the quill—

“?”

The Agent suddenly became aware of something.

His right hand, which had just been holding the quill and releasing black ink into the air, was now missing.

For an instant, the Agent wore a look of pure bewilderment, unable to process what had happened. But soon, as agonizing pain washed over him, he tried to cry out.

“Guh—!?”

Before he could, an even more piercing pain struck him, and his body, which had been hovering in the air moments before, was flung violently into the forest.

The next thing he saw, as he crashed against a tree and clutched the stump of his severed arm, was—

“!?”

A boy with black hair and blue eyes.

He appeared very young, not yet an adult, with a boyish countenance.

The Agent quickly concluded that the one who had severed his hand was this very boy standing before him, and he attempted to speak—

“!”

But he found that his mouth would not open, as if it had been sealed shut by some invisible force.

“What a pity.”

The boy, still wearing a radiant smile, spoke in a voice that seemed incongruously cheerful and vibrant for the circumstance.

And then.

As the Agent stared at the boy’s face.

Crack—!

His neck twisted two full rotations, and he died.

The Agent perished with a look of utter confusion, as if he never comprehended the manner of his death.

The boy, who had been observing him, turned away.

“If your target had been anyone other than the Count… no, if it hadn’t been him, you would not have died by my hand.”

With that, the boy vanished, leaving only the Agent’s body behind in the forest.

A corpse with its neck twisted twice over.