The sensation of thought transmission magic resonating in my brain was a rare occurrence, but as always, it was far from pleasant.
Even after long service, one never gets used to the direct influx of another person’s thoughts. Perhaps it’s due to the desperate disparity between species capable of handling magic biologically and those who aren’t.
“So, it’s been a while since you’ve spontaneously reached out rather than just replying, hmm?”
“I’ve never neglected my seasonal greetings, though.”
“Oh, please, as if you weren’t just piggybacking on your letter to Lady Eliza. I know you well enough to figure that out.”
The unabated mixture of amusement and mockery was a constant in her unvarnished emotional assault. While the telepathic magic that could share even sight and sensation was remarkably convenient, its sheer rudeness left me thoroughly weary.
“Well, it’s interesting receiving a message this way. Nostalgic, isn’t it? Delivering magic through the tears in space like this hasn’t happened since… hmm, before I turned fifty, perhaps?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know.”
“Regardless, it’s good you opened pathways selectively instead of creating chaotic rifts. Continue sharpening your skills.”
Wait… Did she just… compliment me? Relatively earnestly, too?
Despite years of conversation, there was no surge of emotion—no, only a lingering resistance. Yet against all expectations, I found myself oddly pleased. Was it because the compliment came from her, someone whose heights I hadn’t even glimpsed from the base below?
I quickly straightened my consciousness, reigning in any trace of joy or smiles. One must never forget that she’s the type who could do anything if you let your guard down.
“As anticipated… Since it’s around this time of year, I already have a general idea of what’s going on, so just wait a moment, dear.”
Before I could ponder her words, a presence unfurled behind me. In a flash, my body reacted explosively to the overwhelming “death” sensation triggered by the boiling force. The <Invisible Hand> magic slipped a hidden “Fairy Knife” into my palm as I spun to my left, wielding centrifugal force and muscle power to unleash my fastest strike.
The knife found its mark once… twice… three, even four times, before stopping, its tip embedded deeply. When I tried to gouge further, only a dull resistance met my effort.
“Hmm, managing to bypass all physical barriers and nearly dent my conceptual ones? You’ve improved, surprisingly.”
Ignoring the praise for the knife’s proximity to her, or perhaps unaware of it altogether, a being of the long-lived species chuckled carelessly. Her silver hair shone brilliantly even under smoky candlelight, her gold and silver eyes gleaming maliciously in emerald and indigo hues. Her pristine white skin lacked even a trace of blemish, surpassing even polished statues in beauty. Wrapped in a translucent, casual nightgown, her figure remained as elegant as the first day we’d met, unaffected by time or place.
“Ah… Count Ubiorum!?”
I hastily withdrew the knife, leaped back—accidentally colliding with a chair and bruising the back of my knee—and knelt. Though my retaliation was excessive mischief, I couldn’t deny the severity of my offense against this wealthy and high-ranked figure within the empire.
The slightest hint of killing intent could easily lead to clan annihilation—an unforgivable affront.
“Hm, so you’ve stopped calling me Master?”
Chuckling at my disarray, she casually perched on an available chair while still clad in her nightgown. Seemingly unchanged since our parting, she retained her radiant allure.
“Well… It has been three years, hasn’t it? By our standards, it’s been quite a while, Count Ubiorum.”
“Socializing is exhausting. There’s that person who says they haven’t seen you in ages after meeting last week, and that other who acts as though nothing’s changed after two years. It’s nerve-wracking.”
She rested her elbow on her bent knee, leaning her cheek into her hand, and sighed wistfully, “Being noble is such a chore.”
A black smoking pipe adorned with mother-of-pearl suddenly appeared in her hand, and she leisurely inhaled the soothing minty smoke billowing from its already lit contents.
“Is this a new hobby of yours?”
“Sort of. It’s an elixir designed to empower my magical energies. I’ve been so busy lately.”
After puffing a few clouds of smoke, she lazily extended the pipe’s mouthpiece toward me.
Uncertain, I tilted my head. She silently urged me to inhale.
I couldn’t call this a “kiss,” not by any stretch of childish imagination. Rather, the pipe had been her personal favorite all along. Whether or not her lips had been on it only moments earlier made no difference.
Still, this reflexive habit—following her orders without question, without knowing what might be inside the mysterious tobacco—was emblematic of our relationship. With the physiological and organ differences between long-lived and human species, the same medicine might not have the same effects. Actually, it was more likely to be harmful.
Yet, with no inkling of unease but merely a slight suspicion, this spoke volumes about our dynamic.
Given our years of familiarity and experience, I couldn’t fault myself. She often sold me off casually as experiments, but never had she force-fed me dangerous drugs or cast harmful spells.
As I obediently inhaled, the overpowering mint sensation coursed violently through my throat and body, leaving the strange illusion of passing straight through my brain and escaping from the crown of my head.
Simultaneously, there was the sensation of moisture being restored to a dried and cracked magical reservoir. While the exact location was hard to pinpoint, I could distinctly feel the once-stagnant energy rejuvenating, filling up incrementally.
“That must be some potent stuff. You’ve been very fatigued, haven’t you?”
“Very. It’s advisable for even beings of longevity to limit this to once a day.”
Though I seemed to be handling it better, she plucked the pipe from my hand with a smirk. From nowhere, she conjured a small pouch with remarkable sleight of hand. The pouch’s tactile feedback indicated finely shredded tobacco leaves within.
“I humbly accept it.”
“Be mindful of the dosage… Now then, speak up, ex-apprentice. Haven’t you forgotten how to contact your ex-master after all these years?”
Despite her loaded smile, I refrained from quipping, “You came here, after all.” Had three years of growing maturity made me kinder on the surface? Or was I still the obedient lad I once was, even with the added honorific tinge?
Be that as it may, my calm wasn’t to last. Halting all thought, I transitioned fluidly into discussing my current assignment. Summarizing as much as possible, I shared details about my client, my adversaries, and past events. Pertinent questions followed, probing into key relationships and specifics.
What struck fear most deeply was how her trademark, mischievous grin grew wider as the conversation proceeded.
By the time I recounted sending my private letter to Lady Agrippina, she could no longer suppress her laughter, clutching her stomach in fits of amusement.
Of course, I’d known her for years; she was someone who relished watching others struggle through life’s trials, finding delight in the misfortune of others, a penchant evident even within the first few days I served her.
Still, her increasing depravity upon our reunion nearly overloaded my brain.
“Oh my, what a knack you have for trials. Life dropping danger on you while you’re silent, running into fate head-on—it must be divine favor at its most severe. Haven’t you been praying for misfortune at the foot of some ominous slope?”
“Of course not, such prayers to endure seven misfortunes monthly…”
“Hmm? Sounds like a folk tale or perhaps some Cleasian ritual?”
Recalling an undaunted hero’s tale from the eastern lands—and realizing a similar motif in our folklore—I remembered how trials would often involve seeking improvement via prayer on steep stairs or divine slopes. Yet even sadomasochistic characters didn’t celebrate such peril gleefully.
“Nevertheless, you’ve always been in all the right places.”
“… It’s delightful you find amusement, Count Ubiorum. Might I consider your laughter worthy of equal return?”
“Oh yes, certainly. For you, I’ll divulge the strategies swirling in this western region. There are many itching with curiosity, yet only a fraction of the full picture, toxic as it may be, reaches the central hub.”
She swung the pipe side to side and chuckled indulgently as Lady Agrippina resettled her legs. By this point, the room’s tension was so thick it seemed palpable, her thighs nearly within sight but no longer of concern.
Powerful magical invigoration smoke dissipated into the air, and the floodgates of her fearsome narrative opened.
“Well then, let’s trace it back to the beginning—the current Emperor’s ascension, perhaps?”
“The Bloodless Emperor, you mean?”
A few years ago, coincident with Lady Agrippina’s promotion, the then Emperor Martin I, known as the Bloodless Emperor, stepped down from power ahead of his term, following the Elector Princes’ approval. Once a Grand Duke reigning for three terms and forty-five years, he was famously an emperor who had never initiated a large-scale conflict—a curious moniker for someone from a lineage of Vampire nobility.
Amid laughter, the joke that “Bloodless Emperor” was indeed apt struck home when I once explored historical texts to better understand the current Emperor’s achievements. I was surprised to find the name carried no irony, only truth.
The Bloodless Emperor had significantly improved the already advanced sewage infrastructure, formalized water and waste systems, and popularized the usage of tri-headed hunting hounds in urban patrols—an initial shock to behold but now nostalgic. His magus-level achievements were undeniable.
More spectacular still, throughout his forty-five-year reign, not once was an official war recorded domestically or abroad.
Legally, an “official war” required both parties raising armies of over five hundred conscripted peasants or soldiers. Given the Empire’s feudal framework, granting independent military command to nobility, such definitions were significant.
Common misconceptions paint Empires as absolute, top-down, and centralized, but the reality is closer to medieval Holy Roman fiefdoms. Loyalties are layered, and local nobles enjoy substantial autonomy, sometimes even defying direct overlord commands.
Thus, the empire’s structure itself, more federal than monolithic in nature, explains why even petty fief disputes occasionally escalated to war.
Despite this volatility, Martin I managed to keep the peace for decades—an almost divine accomplishment in governance.
Regional nobles, akin to children sneaking biscuits from a pantry when their parents turn away, endlessly schemed for personal gain, sparking disputes over minor rights and privileges.
These squabbles often escalated through knights’ duels or minor skirmishes, culminating in mass recruitment and official battles. Their feudal structure mirrored Japan’s Kamakura-era military aristocracy in peculiar ways.
So, how did a figure capable of such prolonged peace manage it?
At this, my former employer laughed openly, her expression reminiscent of someone watching a dog desperately chase its tail.
“Finding true humanitarianism among those who raise smashed tankards aloft is likelier than a wolf birthing a puppy.”
“… So you know more than you let on? While I don’t wholly trust imperial-sanctioned histories, the repeated consistency across texts gave me some confidence in their reliability.”
“History has its secrets, dear. Just like the infamous Electors who allegedly hate each other, only to share wine once every few years, grumbling about indigestion while throwing extravagant feasts.”
Her smirk was unnerving—bright yet murky, refined yet unsettling. I’d seen this expression countless times: when she revealed Eliza’s half-fairy nature, when she taught me my first magic, or during the mansion raid on a mansion occupied by a monstrous ogre. Every time, this smirk preceded something significant.
And now, I was certain. Whatever was coming next wouldn’t be pleasant—but it would be crucial and inescapable.
This wasn’t merely a gut feeling or experience-based intuition. This was… a minor prophecy, perhaps?
【Tips】 The term “Campaign” refers to a significant military conflict within the Tri-Line Empire, surpassing smaller militia skirmishes. Defined not only in historical texts but also concerning regional penalties, reparations, and resolution procedures.
—
As I worked on adapting this book, it seemed every chapter ballooned unnecessarily, like adding baking soda to a mix. What initially started as a tidy five-thousand-word segment grew uncontrollably with each addition, reaching nearly nine thousand words by the time I integrated the next scene. Scheduled for an upper and lower volume publication, I wondered just how many pages this would eventually span.
