Chapter 9

At the very center of Pritchenkaya Central Park stand the monuments and statues that King Ivan the Great personally ordered to be built.

They are the Statue of the Departing Hero, the Statue of the Goddess of Victory, and the Statue of the Nameless Hero.

One day, after the Demon King had been slain and the war had come to an end, one of the statues in Pritchenkaya Central Park mysteriously vanished.

The Statue of the Nameless Hero.

It is said that a small plaque was left where the statue had once stood.

"The right to mourn them belongs to me.
—Enrique."

Crown Prince Aleksandr flew into a rage, denouncing it as an insult to the royal family, but Princess Elizaveta acknowledged Enrique's right and abandoned any attempt to recover the statue.

Of course, no one knows the truth.

After all, there was little point in making an enemy of the legendary master thief who had stolen a statue overnight from a garden in the very heart of the capital, right beside the royal palace—and who also happened to be one of the heroes who had slain the Demon King.

Elizaveta had made the wisest possible decision. She neither provoked Enrique's wrath nor diminished the dignity of the royal family.

"So this inscription was added."

Ivan stood in a corner of the underground sewer, gazing at the Statue of the Nameless Hero.

Three hours had passed since he began searching with nothing more than the information that Enrique's "dungeon" was somewhere beneath the southern Pritchenkaya sewer system.

"Even when your names are forgotten,
your glory shall remain eternal.
In place of all those who are absent from this place.
For all those who are absent from this place.
—Elizaveta Kirillovna Krasilov.
—Enrique Seregeyevika."

Ivan removed his hat, placed it over his chest, and offered a brief bow.

When he had first heard that this statue was going to be erected, he had been too embarrassed to even consider visiting it.

And on the day he had happened to stop by Central Park, Enrique had already removed the statue.

As his silent tribute came to an end, a voice tinged with laughter echoed through the sewer.

"Do not mourn those who departed before you."

"For I stand in the same ranks as they do."

"So... you still remember. Good. Welcome, 'Little' Ivan."

With a grating metallic screech, the base of the statue twisted.

The stone wall split apart, revealing a hidden passage.

Beyond it stretched a lavish reception hall corridor, completely unlike the damp, foul-smelling sewer where Ivan had been standing only moments ago.

As he walked down the extravagant hallway, its walls adorned with luxurious silk, Ivan slowly composed himself.

Like most members of the Hero's Party, Grandmaster Enrique was insane.

At that very same moment, Enrique was thinking exactly the same thing about Ivan.

Like most members of the Extermination Corps, "Little" Ivan was insane.

"So, it's been seven years since we've met face-to-face, hasn't it? Well then... have you been well, my disciple?"

"So-so."

Ivan sat in the reception room, quietly sipping his coffee.

The first sip was tiny.

He let it roll around his mouth before swallowing.

It was a matter of etiquette.

As with most etiquette among assassins, it also served as a precaution against poisoning.

No poison.

Ivan gave a faint nod and was just beginning to savor the coffee—

"Ah, but modern chemical poisons can't be detected by taste anymore."

"...I see."

He promptly spat the coffee back into the cup and set it down on the table.

"It was a joke, a joke! Shall I bring you a fresh cup?"

"No need. I didn't come here for tea."

"Honestly, you're so stiff. And you're still such a young man."

Smiling with narrowed eyes, Enrique sprawled lazily across an ornate sofa.

A glimpse of pale white leg appeared through the slit of her silk dress.

Naturally, it failed to draw Ivan's attention.

The monster before him was a woman well over a hundred years old.

Just how many miraculous elixirs and blood essences had she consumed over the decades?

Ivan couldn't help but imagine a viper staring at him, flicking its tongue.

Which was only natural.

This was the lair of a vampire.

An Elder Vampire.

Shadow Blade.

Fang of Darkness.

And the "Traitor," Enrique.

A century ago, she had betrayed the Elder Vampire who had turned her, drained its blood, and brought an end to the vampire rampage that had spread throughout Pritchenkaya.

Over the following hundred years, she had taken countless lives under the pretense of accepting assassination contracts.

Had the Demon King never risen, perhaps the Hero would eventually have come to kill her instead.

Beneath the table, Ivan carefully rested his hand on the haft of his hatchet as he thought.

"So... you came sooner than I expected. Though, honestly, that just makes you seem all the more like someone still in active service. Then again... among people like us, calling someone 'still active' isn't exactly a compliment. Right?"

"Where is Priscilla?"

"Ah, straight to the point! You've always been like that!"

Still grinning, Enrique laced her fingers together.

Her dress rippled softly, accentuating her alluring figure.

(Of course, Ivan wasn't about to be swayed by a woman over seventy years his senior. His acceptable age range only extended about ten years above or below his own.)

"So then... what do you think? Did I question her? Or didn't I?"

"You didn't."

"Oh? And what makes you so certain?"

"If you had, you wouldn't have invited me here."

"You would've ambushed me instead."

Ivan fixed her with an icy stare and continued.

"Wasn't the most important principle you taught me revenge?"

"Hmm? Don't tell me that filthy little girl actually falls within the scope of your 'revenge.'"

"I took her in."

He remembered the day he had taken Priscilla in.

She had been an orphan despised even among the refugees gathered outside the military camp.

To lose one's parents at such a young age was a cruel thing.

It meant there was no one left to protect you except yourself.

Having realized that, the girl always forced herself to appear strong.

The world already had more than enough children drowning in sorrow and despair.

To pity someone else, one first had to have enough room in one's own heart.

Back then, the United Kingdom had no such luxury.

That was why Ivan remembered Priscilla and a handful of other children.

He had retired from the military specifically to take them in and establish an orphanage.

To him, those children were no different from his own.

Naturally, if his child was hurt...

Then revenge was only to be expected.

"Don't look so bloodthirsty. It doesn't suit you."

Enrique smiled faintly as she set down her teacup.

The black tea inside remained untouched, the surface rippling gently.

"Didn't I teach you? Bloodlust is the privilege of prey. Painting yourself in colorful justifications about revenge and self-defense is nothing more than the desperate struggle of the weak."

"Your answer?"

"She's still alive. I haven't bitten her. She's perfectly fine. I had her cleaned up, dressed in pretty clothes, and fed good food. Now... your turn."

Slowly resting her pale fingers upon the table, Enrique asked,

"What are you plotting?"

"...What?"

"I asked what you're plotting with that orphanage of yours."

She genuinely wanted to know.

When she'd first heard he was taking in orphans, she'd merely laughed, thinking that perhaps it was because he'd been an orphan himself.

It was rather touching.

He had been an adorable disciple—one she would have gladly accepted as family had he come to her.

Then two years passed.

And suddenly, one of those "orphans from the orphanage" appeared, displaying an ambush technique polished to an astonishing degree.

Honestly...

It felt like she'd been stabbed in the back.

Not that she could complain about leaking techniques.

It wasn't some extraordinary secret, nor was it an art passed down to a single successor.

She had no problem teaching it.

But what was this?

Sending operatives into the same territory as your own master, as though trying to compete for business?

She felt genuinely wronged.

The brat had faked his death after retirement, erased his identity, and vanished, so she hadn't even gone looking for him.

Even though he'd been living practically within walking distance, she had never once stopped by to invite him out for a drink.

And now what?

He was sending agents to operate in her own backyard as if to stake a claim?

Wasn't that practically a declaration of war?

She hadn't even killed that insolent little brat she'd captured.

Instead, she'd politely invited her over as if to say,

"Come on, let's not do this. We've shared plenty of memories. Do we really need to fight?"

And yet...

This blockhead of a man was sitting there radiating nothing but,

"Touch her, and you die."

Honestly.

It hurt.

And what was with that beard?

It was driving her insane.

That style had gone out of fashion a century ago.

He couldn't seriously be calling that a disguise, could he?

She certainly hadn't taught him that.

Even as countless thoughts raced through her mind,

Enrique still gazed at Ivan with the easygoing smile befitting a legendary vampire who had lived for over a century—and a member of the Hero's Party.

"Plotting...? How much should I tell her?"

Ivan couldn't decide.

The reason Elizaveta employed him was because he worked undercover.

His past had been thoroughly erased.

His name was ordinary enough to arouse no suspicion.

His appearance had changed dramatically—at least by his own standards.

And above all...

The former Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Petrovich had already been officially declared dead and buried in the National Cemetery.

Which meant that, according to Elizaveta's orders, both his identity and his mission were classified.

Should I tell Enrique?

No... but didn't Enrique and Elizaveta have some kind of connection?

Enrique founded the Extermination Corps in the first place, and Elizaveta became its commander.

Both of them were developing headaches from the lack of information.

Yet, as thoroughly trained operatives, neither allowed that uncertainty to disturb their composed smiles.

"What the hell is this lunatic thinking?"

"What the hell is this crazy woman thinking?"

Those were the thoughts running through their minds.

"This is betrayal. How could she do this to me?"

"Is this betrayal? Did she actually switch sides—from Elizaveta to Aleksandr?"

Teacher and disciple continued to strengthen their bond, united in perfect harmony as always.

It was a winter night in the middle of January.