Chương 6: Conspiracies
A stack of documents fell on the mahogany table before a man, the loud bang, shaking him out of his stupor. However, the man remained motionless, simply staring at the stacks of paper for a moment in a dazed manner. Soon, a hand came before his eyes and snapped its fingers.
"Wake up Captain. We've work to do," the deep voice said, causing the man to look up at a tall brown-haired woman with a muscular and toned physique covered by a manly attire, staring down at him. Her sharp features loosened up a bit, as she noted with a smile and a chuckle. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Well, I'll have the same reaction given all the files you've to review in like half an hour."
"Our captain has been lost since coming here," a man leaning against a wall beside the closed door, with arms crossed, said with a scoff. His deep brown skin tone indicated his native origins, while his low fade accentuated his provoking smirk. He then glanced at the tall man with brown fluffy hair seated on a chair behind the mahogany desk.
"Acting just like a tourist, or more like someone who had his spirit drained by a cheap hooker."
"Can't you at least say a town famous one, Heradin?" The woman said with a light chuckle, causing the man seated in his chair to finally get his bearing.
I guess my fate really is cursed… Codenamed Rah—Castiel Castiya Tyrellor, better known as Tyr, let out a sigh and cast one last glance at the pile of documents on his desk before laying his head on it.
The past six days had been a rollercoaster of emotions for Tyr, culminating in his present, depressed state.
Born in an average environment, with an average family, and living a banal life back on Earth as a typical corporate slave, Tyr could only wish something different—spicy could turn his life around. And something spicy indeed occurred.
Suddenly, he found himself in the world of his favourite novel, and not as some random. He was a member of the prestigious and ancient Castiya royal family of the Feynapotter kingdom, welding the imposing powers of an Interrogator while also secretly being a moderator of a mystical gathering which contained beings with an unfathomable amount of knowledge.
Tyr finally felt like he had reached it—his peak and still had room for growth. Until reality came crashing.
Did I really need to be the ambitious and rebellious kind!? He cursed in his mind as he endlessly regretted his previous actions.
Being an ambitious fellow, Tyr was dissatisfied by his position back in the Feynapotter kingdom. While he was a member of the ruling family of this ancient kingdom, he was simply one of many, and thus, his progression had a certain reasonable limit. A limit his young mind couldn't accept. And for this reason, he was assigned as a senior officer in the military, and during the war, he managed to become an Interrogator.
However, things went right back to the status quo, and even more as the Feynapotter kingdom among others were all forced to make remunerations to the Leon Kingdom. A decision which his past self and many others were infuriated with.
Why did we give up a war which we were winning, anyway!? With the Augustus family conquered, I had a very real chance of becoming an Imperative Mage. Heck, maybe even a Chaos Hunter! Tyr's past words of defiance rang in his mind as he scrunched his face from the cringe. Just what do you know, dumbass!? The world is much bigger than your pea brain can imagine!
Now, knowing part of the reason behind the anticlimactic conclusion to the world war, Tyr understood the distant and awkward gaze the highest of his superior would often give from the endless complaints. Unfortunately, his past self wasn't cursed with knowledge.
Naturally, I wanted more, and thus when I heard of the territory we had obtained, I rushed over… Tyr's eyes moved to the window reflecting the active streets below.
He could've never imagined that coming to the Matani state in West Balam would see him become more of a manager of some distant gold mine city town—Devise, instead of a more prestigious position in the actual city state.
I fucking died of a panic attack! A heart attack! Tyr leaned back in his chair, covered his face with his hands, embarrassed, and deeply exhaled.
This was both a sort of humiliation which had cast a curse of depression on him, right after he had fully regained his bearing, "post-transmigration."
From dust we came to dust, we returned. In my case, once a corporate slave, always a corporate slave. Tyr sighed as he observed the documents before him. The documents had detailed reports of the affairs of the region, both mystical and mundane in nature, as well as a number of other things, some noteworthy while others, not so much.
This is all probably a punishment for my insolence. Tyr turned to the woman standing still before him. Noticing his gaze, she smiled and turned back to Heradin by the door.
"See? Told you he'll come back soon." Her words were followed by a scoff as the man straightened his back and approached them.
"Instead of eternally brooding on your fate, how about you examine some of the presented cases?"
This sparked interest from Tyr, whose eyes wandered back to the stacks of documents before him. After letting out another deep sigh, his light yellow eyes focused as his stern demeanour returned, reading through the documents at high speed. His brows increasingly furrowed as he did.
After some time, he let out 'another' deep sigh, laid his elbows on his desk and interlocked his arms while examining the duo standing before him.
"Numerous reports of assaults, violent murders, attacks by the surrounding primitive tribes, as well as women showing symptoms typically associated with pregnancy?"
Heradin let out a satisfied huff as he responded in a slightly less provocative tone. "Indeed, captain. All this reached its heights by the end of each year, and has been observed for the past thirty years."
His subordinate's report caused Tyr to go into deeper reflections. This sounds familiar… Oh, yes. Matani state, Port Pylos. Devise town is neighboring Tizamo town… The Dream festival takes place at the end of every year…
Could it be that the abnormality of that event spreads to the surroundings? He looked at his two subordinates; The tall and valiant Ilyas—a sequence 7 Seafarer, who was also a Feynaporterrian like him, albeit half blood, and the native Heradin—a sequence 8 Provoker.
"The past week was mainly for me to establish connections to my territory, so I could tackle more pressing matters?" Tyr said in a low tone, causing Ilyas, who didn't exhibit the typical harshness associated with her pathway, to nod and then speak. "These mundane law enforcers, as well as most people and villagers, blame all this on the actions of the hostile primitive tribes, evils spirits, or the lingering influence of their Intisian colonial masters."
Tyr nodded in understanding. I now understand why our small team is this packed. Of course, he also knew they were one of three groups assigned to this region. These three groups, all branches of the Patrol team—an official beyonder force, all reported to Admiral Querarill who governed Matani state.
The brown-haired seafarer continued, realising her captain was attentive. "This town among many is embroiled in undercurrents, with the perpetrators typically being secret organisations, which tend to support the underground gangs, who either cause havoc or establish a firm grip on their sphere of influence. For this, the admiral, after reorganising the chaos due to the power vacuum created with Intis's retreat, sought to navigate through this chaos and pacify the various forces.
"Of course, some speculate he has deeper motives with this action."
Tyre keenly listened and analysed. Indeed. Instead of forcefully controlling every facet of the new territory, he lets those already having some control continue at it. Of course, they still need to recognise who's the boss… For the ones who want to use this opportunity to stir trouble, the Admiral won't need to do much as the underground forces who want to suck up to him will deal with the corresponding mess.
Various thoughts crossed Tyr's mind as he soon spoke. "I'm guessing we're not the ones jumping straight into this mess, and instead we'll look over at those 'factories' to do their job?"
Factories was the general term the official forces used to refer to the Underground forces in West Balam.
Their nods of affirmation made him continue. "Then, my focus would be to establish contact with them, make them know who I'm, and if possible, bring a 'trustworthy' one closer?"
Having an insider who was ready to suck up for benefits from the official forces and, by extension, Admiral Querarill was a reasonable deduction.
The duo nodded once more as Heradin smiled and mentioned. "You can finally upgrade your boring bureaucratic work to a diplomatic one, congrats. Of course, if we're lucky or unlucky, we might temporarily change this to a more aggressive work."
Tyr didn't mind the snide remarks as he got up from his chair and moved towards the window to peer closer at the town below. "Among the number of 'factories', there is one which focuses heavily on 'innovation and development.'"
This time, Ilyas responded. "They emerged on the eve of the war, and were quite hostile to the Church of Steam, often making remarks on how uncreative they were. Rumor has it that about a week ago, they lost their 'Voice' with a rebel gang, apparently falling as well."
Losing their 'voice'? Tyr pondered for a moment before saying, "It's said that the group as a whole vanished."
Ilyas nodded at this, as she added. "Most members seemed to have gone their own way, with a few loyalists, and their immediate surroundings turning hysterical. The people who witnessed this madness sensed their own emotions fluctuating, with most eventually perishing."
Tyr paused, hearing this as a term formed in his mind—Mental Plague.
A Manipulator!? No, it could be a corresponding sealed artefact. But even then, that would be very dangerous… Of course, it could be something else entirely.
He then turned to his team and asked. "You mentioned a rebel group also fell. I suppose there's none left?"
"Who knows?" Heradin said with a shrug, as he moved to the door. "Maybe they burned to ashes or maybe their remnants crawled and latched on to a lifeline." He opened the door, and with a smirk, gestured toward the corridor. "The only way we can figure out all this is by heading out. Of course, we've to be well equipped."
Indeed… You never know if someone will be stupid enough to attack us. Tyr nodded and, together with his team, moved out.
…
Thick smoke emitted out from numerous elongated and elaborated chimneys attached to large factories all throughout the gold mining city of Devise. This smoke accumulated in the air, forming the typical pall that covered the afternoon sun, only faint rays illuminating the weathered, calloused, and rugged form of the average civilian.
This was the reality for those calling the mining city home, with most deciding to move here due to the opportunity to get a somewhat stable job.
And on one of these rugged streets was a man dressed in a brown and long coat and a low hat, covering most of his features. He observed men in dust filled and noisy gambling men playing in the open. The man occasionally focused on the newspaper he held, and occasionally slightly lowered it as some of the men got rowdy, and swung fists at each other.
Lysander Valois treated his mining city much better… Too bad we now have some profit oriented maniac governing this place… The man reflected while examining the various "safety and environmental protocols," the main factories in Devise supposedly implemented.
Oh well. This only makes it a primary ground for various conspiracies. A large grin partially exposed itself on his mostly covered face as he closed his newspaper and moved along the road. As he did so, the man expertly moved around the various alleyways, sometimes making detours or circling back to where he came from to make sure he wasn't tracked.
After doing his usual habit of anti-tracking, the man went to an unassuming property, soon kicking open an ordinary wooden door, and then closing it with another kick.
The action caused the nearby street noise to suddenly vanish; a change which didn't go unnoticed by the man.
He let out a soft chuckle as he confidently moved in, soon sporting a man with his back to him seated on a chair which faced a large canvas depicting a war hero.
"Humph, old Yagras. I didn't think your allegiance could be brought." The man said with a scoff, causing the elderly Yagras to release a puff of smoke, remaining silent for a moment.
He then said in a slightly hoarse tone, "And yet you walked right in, Fabian. Are you really that confident in that mysterious backer of yours?"
Fabien's lips curled as he responded. "Take a wild guess."
Yagras finally spoke after a prolonged silence, his voice sending shivers down Fabien. "I guess not."
Instantly, Fabian released a torrent of bright orange flames from his long sleeves, which instantly caused a chain reaction leading to a series of explosions all throughout the room, instantly engulfing the now empty seat before him. Clearly, the room had been a trap.
However, Fabian, due to his increasingly erratic and harsh nature, didn't care even after his posing failed.
Flames aren't that dangerous to a Pyromaniac, and the damage from the shockwaves can be taken care of by my artefact. This was Fabian's thinking.
Within the blazing inferno, a partly charred and mangled body moved, as a chalice he now tightly held in his hands, caused the flesh around his wounds to wriggle, and reattach. His eyeballs reformed as his tattered form looked before him at the empty chair, which was completely blown away from the earlier explosion.
However, his grin vanished as he realised the walls of the room were still intact!
… Isolation? That was what it was? Like that spell… Did… Did that old fuck hire a Baron of Corruption!? Doesn't… matter. With the Chalice, I'll fully heal, and then continue to blast the surroundings until I create an escape. Fabian reined in his thoughts as he ignored the heat while noticing most of his wounds had already healed.
His grin grew maniacal as he started analyzing the room. Naturally, Fabian didn't come here just to get blasted, instead he came here to receive his expected reward. Fabian knew with absolute certainty what he wanted was here in this room, and thus he wasn't in a hurry to leave.
Hmm… I should probably make an exit first. Fabian felt some of his rational thoughts return as he examined the surprisingly unscratched painting before him closely. The explosion had very little effect on it, which made it very suspicious.
Let's—suddenly, Fabian felt his body grow weak, as he suddenly dropped down to his knees, before falling right onto the blazing hot floor.
P-Poison!? His eyelids now felt heavy, while his breathing became ragged due to the sharply reducing breathable air in the room, but also by the paralysis that affected his voluntary muscle.
… D–Dammit… The chalice clouded my mind too much! Why did I even think any of this was a reasonable idea!? Fabian, on the floor, questioned life, as the surroundings flames didn't depart, and instead intensified. As a Pyromaniac, what will get him wasn't the intense flames or the high temperature, but instead the lack of breathable air in the surroundings.
His consciousness blurred as he felt like he could briefly spot a purplish grey brain close to the tumbled chair before him. This was the reward he was supposed to obtain from that old man, unfortunately he would never lay his hands on it.
A street away from the house, seated on a bar stand, was a man drinking some ale by the window without looking at the quaint house.
No matter how mighty we might seem, below godhood, we aren't that different from mundane humans. Codenamed Ashveil—Marcelle placed his large mug on the table before him and wiped his thick black beard. His green eyes wandered to the window, observing the wooden house across the street whose windows didn't reflect its interior like it was in its own space.
If he were of a higher sequence, and I was a Conspirer preparing to become a Reaper, then this setting would've been perfect for the ritual. He smirked, reclining and going over his past week.
A betrayal still stung deeply in his heart.
Being part of the Rebel forces in the Underground world always made him susceptible to multiple accidents, and thus, caution was a key factor in his life; until he met a brilliant ray in his dangerous life.
Completely entranced… The moment I met her eyes was the moment I fell within her grasp.
Marcelle's mind meandered to the elusive and unassuming woman he had met about two years ago, not long before the world war. All his worries seemed to fade when he talked with her; these memories were a great solace for the past him, but the present him was greatly unnerved by how invested and docile he had been whenever she was close.
In the end, I was just a tool… With her help, Marcelle swam through the underground, rising in power and prominence. The average human he was before turned into a Pyromaniac by the war's twilight. Naturally, even back then, he knew all of this was for a reason, and it became clear when about three months ago, he was tasked with infiltrating a "Factory" which focused on "innovation and development." More precisely, he was tasked with getting to know just what made their elusive leader and founder special.
In this mission, he betrayed, stole, killed, replaced, forged alliances with many, most notably an interesting detective.
Through a number of very "fortunate" encounters and events, he reached a critical point where he was close enough to this elusive leader, but not so much, to draw unnecessary attention. And with this, he gave an opportunity to all those he suspected were "raised" by the woman who had tasked him with this very mission to complete said mission. An action which earned him his reward.
And unfortunately, it wasn't the Sphinx brain he needed to become a Conspirer, but the tight embrace of death.
Coming to a location with enough chaos and interesting phenomenons that can be exploited. "Manipulating" various "underdogs" within this system and making them your proxies who can bring forth your will, all while you remain backstage… As expected of a Manipulator. I'm guessing she was digesting her potion…
Marcelle used his meta knowledge to deduce the full reasoning behind all the events he was involved in. He let out a sigh as he took another gulp from his drink while glancing back at the house.
My guess about that woman—Celia being a Manipulator was confirmed after hearing about the "contagious madness" those fellows from that "factory" suffered.
And Marcelle also knew Celia had likely succeeded in obtaining the living sealed artefact which he now theorised was that of a sequence 4 Alchemist. This would explain this specific "factory's" emphasis on innovation and development and its aversion to the Church of Steam and Machinery.
A rogue artefact which likely gave itself life with an Alchemist's abilities, and resided in this backwater mining city, soon latching onto a hopefully engineer… Before the war, and during its first half, it was very careful and low-key, but at the war's height, and with the focus of the Intis Republic and the Church of Steam and Machinery mostly diverted to the Northern continent, this artefact became more brazen and open. Not realising it was already stuck in the machinations of another formidable foe… I'm sure there's more to this, but that's all I can deduce for now.
He shook his head while maintaining his gaze on the houses whose windows were beginning to reflect its interior.
All worked according to her plan, and she profited greatly from all this. However, lo-and-behold, the one who she had watched with her very own eyes bit the dust, then walked under the open sun the very next day. How interesting.
As a high sequence beyonder of the Spectator pathway and one who is deep into the realm of mysticism, she'll know that this wasn't a fluke, and there was definitely something amiss. Unfortunately, her extreme cautiousness and her wanting to remain on the backstage can be exploited.
Marcelle, upon "transmigrating" and getting his bearings, hid himself, but he made it in a way that Celia would still be able to notice him.
Even if the persona you showed all those times was fake, with my current knowledge, I could still draw various conclusions. For example, there are very few ways for such a thorough and complete resurrection. Wouldn't this mean this random "country bumpkin" I've raised has a potent backing? Or maybe there is actually an issue with this "resurrection" and he's or whoever is behind this is trying to bait me into action? Marcelle imagined Celia's speculations after realising he still lived.
At first I believed she'll run away, but given she sent one of her "pawns" it seems she's instead focused on probing. The pawn in question was the Pyromaniac who had come to visit a particular broker to receive an ingredient—A Sphinx's brain.
Upon deciding to probe, Celia gave the Sphinx brain to that broker, likely with the task of gifting it to someone in the following week. Simultaneously, she made use of her reach and abilities so I could get hold of this information in a reasonable manner. Her question now would be, will Marcelle still need the Sphinx brain, or did his mysterious backer already provide one to him?
Hehe, naturally I've no such thing, so I made use of my own—no, the mystical item and reagents you helped me obtain. Reaching this thought, Marcelle pulled out a purple fountain pen with a large cartridge.
This was a mystical item which corresponded to a sequence 6 Scrolls professor, which he had obtained in his long mission. By turning spiritual ingredients into an aqueous solution, and inserting it into the cartridge, the fountain pen would turn it into an ink which could be used on goatskin to make corresponding mystical spells.
With the help of his backing, he acquired a number of supplementary ingredients which included but were not limited to; the Black Hunting Spider's Poison Gland, a Thousand-faced Hunter's Blood, wings of a blinking incandescent fairy, some crown tree sap, the blood of an Adult mind dragon among others. All this corresponded to the supplementary ingredients of a Conspirer, a Faceless, a Traveler, a Mentor of Disorder, and a Dreamwalker. With this, he could make various spells such as flame transformation and control, Shapeshifting, blinking, distortion, psychological Invisibility and hypnotism.
Having a backing sure is amazing… Without all this I obviously wouldn't be able to infiltrate, and of course, the biggest problem with this mystical item is, where I'll find more ingredients without a convenient backer and of course, how that they're ultimately weaker versions of the corresponding abilities… For the latter issue, I guess that "gathering" can be used.
Just one more day…
Marcelle fiddled with his mystical item a bit before placing it back in his pocket.
After knowing where the Sphinx brain would be, he unceremoniously replaced the broker and used a Shapeshifting scroll to hide this act to an extent, waiting for his expected customer.
And with his knowledge and association, he naturally knew who this customer was.
Fabian is the typical image of a Pyromaniac—reckless and hot-headed. He's more like a hunting dog, and it doesn't help that he constantly abuses that mystical item Celia gave him, giving him the regenerative attributes of a Rose Bishop, but also half their already degenerated brain. And knowing his "explosive" style, I laid a trap.
Through the use of his equipment he had obtained through his many alliances in the middle of his infiltration, he stumbled upon something very interesting.
Carbon monoxide. Back then, we didn't really know what it was about, just that it was a colourless, tasteless, odourless, and very lethal toxin in an enclosed environment. And I obtained a batch of it from that Detective…
His expression grew weird remembering the laid back detective, which he actually had an intimate connection with. That's right, he was also one of the nineteen "meta transmigrators", codenamed Krimson.
The two had naturally recognised each other in the first gathering, but neither of them spoke out, only giving occasional awkward glances to each other.
But seriously… I need to meet him either today or tomorrow.
Marcelle shook his head as he got up and moved out of the bar.
While Fabian was always the impulsive kind, it's still suspicious that he walked right into such an obvious trap… But if I count Celia possibly affecting his already unstable mind, then it makes more sense.
Celia…
He had decided not to use his resurrection to run away, but instead relished the chance of placing Celia, who had played him like a fiddle for the past few years in the unknown.
Whether you appear before me, or decide, like expected, to stay in the shadows will work for me. I suspect she either is from the Psychological Alchemist, or another unknown force… But the bigger her backing, the greater the caution she'll take. Marcelle smiled as he held his breath and stood by the wooden wall, still mostly isolated from prying eyes.
He then took out a scroll, with the words' door opening inscribed in deep black, as it instantly burned to ashes, enabling him to walk right through the wall. After doing so, his figure appeared in a smoke filled area.
A Mentor of Disorder's distortion is very powerful. Of course, the corresponding spell I used is much weaker and can only last for a few more minutes. While he isolated this room, he still knew a corresponding rule imposed upon every concealed space: they all possessed a corresponding door to the outside, which in this case was the Hero painting he phased through to enter.
At the moment Fabian used his flames to blow up the surroundings. Marcelle, who was disguised as the old broker, had used a blinking spell to move out from harm.
Marcelle looked at his chair, which was now overthrown, and beside it was a greyish purple brain which had somehow remained intact from the explosions and flames.
This was the Sphinx brain. He had naturally used the actual ingredient to lure Fabian, as he knew the latter would at least do some divinations with the help of his associate before heading to the meeting place.
Marcelle then glanced at the charred corpse not too far from the chair, still holding onto a melted chalice, while a scarlet object resembling a heart rested on his back.
Of course, the Chalice of Blood was destroyed. Oh well, at least there's the beyonder characteristic. Marcelle inwardly remarked and with his gloved hand, he bent down to pick up the pulsing beyonder characteristic, its surface pocked with countless tiny holes, from which indistinct flames seeped.
After collecting some loot, Marcelle moved and retrieved the Sphinx brain, and then let an anti-divination scroll burn. While his actions were still open for scrutiny, he still followed his basic built-in safeguarding instinct.
While still holding his breath, Marcelle kept his possessions in his coat, and then used the effect of Door opening, which still momentarily remained in him, to exit the building.
It's an abandoned house, and the effects of distortion will soon wane. I couldn't care less who gets affected by it though… Marcelle took in a deep breath as he looked up at the plum covered sky.
Let's see what more "probe/reward" you've for me Celia.
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