Episode 31 - Bizeth's Gambit 3

The Phantom Fang Lord had been in the middle of laying his groundwork when the news reached him — and he went completely still.

What the man had done was so far outside anything he could have predicted that he had no idea how to process it.

There was only one person in the room who could make any sense of Kaftin's actions.

"It's begun..."
"...! Whispermere! You know something about this?!"

She was chained tightly to a thick stone pillar, breathing hard. She shook her head and let out a slow sigh — and Bizeth's expression darkened.

He was starting to genuinely wonder whether this woman had some kind of arrangement with the man.

"He... his way of doing things..."
"......"
"He aims for a perfect crime."
"What? A perfect... crime? Ha! What kind of fantasy is that, coming from some upstart brat?!"

A perfect crime.
The sheer absurdity of it made him want to laugh.
But Whispermere shook her head.

"He's the kind of person who would burn an entire district full of people alive if that's what it took to make that fantasy real."
"......!"
"Until now I was beside him — keeping him in check with requests..."
"What...? He was listening to you?"
"No. Not orders. Requests. Desperate... requests."
"......!"

Bizeth ground his teeth.
He had no idea what he — what any of them — were actually dealing with.
If Whispermere had been the thing holding Kaftin back all this time, then what was happening right now meant —

"...He's reverted to how he operates when left to himself...!"
"Yes... probably... no, I'm certain of it. He intends to end this fight by burning the entire city to the ground..."
"That lunatic...! Does he have any idea how many innocent people live here?!"

Even he wouldn't go that far — the thought alone made him snort in disbelief. Whispermere shook her head again.

"To him, this place means nothing. He has no ties here. It makes no difference to him how many people die."
"...Damn it—! Hey! Get ready! We're going after him—!"

The original plan had been for Bizeth to set the stage himself and lure Kaftin into a trap.
But the trap wasn't even finished yet — and Kaftin was already trying to burn the entire stage to the ground.

No, the stage burning wasn't even the point.
If this continued, Pink Rose Street — the Gang Lords' own kingdom, in every meaningful sense — would be reduced to a sea of fire.

They had to stop him before that happened.

"Wait — take me with you."
"You stay exactly where you are. Until I come back with his head—!"
"But if you go without me—!"
"Ha! You think I'm going to lose to some brat like him?!"
"...Yes."

Bizeth's subordinates swallowed hard.

Was this really Whispermere?
She had always been careful around her superiors — measured, deferential. Today she was different.

Bizeth's forehead veins were standing out as he ground his teeth.

"Whispermere... are you saying that seriously...?"
"...Yes. As your loyal subordinate, having observed and analyzed the enemy — that is my assessment. If you go as you are, Lord Bizeth, you will—"
"Tch—! You insolent—!"

He finally drew his broadsword and swung — and his subordinates somehow managed to restrain him.
Whatever suspicions of betrayal might exist, she was a young and capable officer.
They couldn't afford to let her die like this.

"Fine then...! If your precious analysis is so reliable — tell me how I win!"
"...Take me with you. And then..."
"And then...?"
"...Use me as a hostage."
"......"

Bizeth shook his head.
If Kaftin was the kind of man who cared about hostages, he wouldn't be trying to burn an entire city down.
Which meant the value Whispermere held for that monster was —

"He already knows you're being held — and he's still setting fires. You really think a hostage play is going to work?"
"...Yes."
"Ha! What exactly are you basing that on?"
"The reason he's rampaging right now is because I'm not beside him, asking him to stop. If he can see me in front of him — if I ask him myself — that alone will be enough."
"......!"

It made no sense to him. But Bizeth gestured to his subordinates to bring her along regardless.
She was always so careful with her words. The fact that she was pushing this hard meant she had real conviction behind it.

And that conviction was worth gambling on.

*

At that same moment.
The district was already ringed in a circle of yellow-green flame — the color of something out of hell.
The moment Kaftin had finished burning the City Guard station, he hadn't waited a second before igniting the oil he'd spread around the city's perimeter.

Nothing inside this district was escaping now.
Kill every living thing within the ring of fire — and the perfect crime would be complete. No witnesses.

The Four Gang Lords and every last one of their people would be exterminated. Not one left.

Of course, the majority of those trapped inside were almost certainly innocent — but that was of no concern to him.

No — more than that. It was welcome.
The screams and cries of innocent people burning, limbs tearing away —
Just imagining it made something stir and boil inside him.

"Now then... time to go and say hello."

He loaded eight pre-prepared drums onto a cart and began hauling it toward the temple.
He knew that was where the remaining Gang Lords — everyone except Bizeth — were hiding.

Kaftin also despised religion with a particular intensity.
If he could blow up that pretentious building constructed in the name of faith and send the idiots inside to whatever hell they believed in, there was nothing better in the world.

"That's far enough! Kaftin!"
"......!"

A familiar voice.
He glanced back. Bizeth was there — Whispermere's chain in one hand, broadsword in the other, subordinates fanned out behind him.

"Well, well—..."
"I said that's far enough—! One more step and Whispermere dies—!"
"...Ngh."

Bizeth yanked the chain taut, bringing the flat of the broadsword to rest lightly against her slender throat. Kaftin's feet stopped.

"...Do you really think a hostage play works on me?"
"...I have no idea, which is why I'm trying it. So — what's it going to be—?!"
"Kaftin..."

Kaftin clicked his tongue softly, released the cart handles, and turned slowly to walk toward Bizeth.

When he had closed part of the distance, Bizeth stamped his foot — a signal to stop there.

"That's close enough. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head. Now!"
"...You think I'm going to follow that instruction without question?"
"...You will. Unless you want to find out what happens if you don't."
"......!"

Kaftin looked between Whispermere and Bizeth for a moment, let out a slow breath, and quietly went to his knees.

He had hoped it might work — but to actually see it work.
A satisfied smile settled onto Bizeth's face.
Perhaps a small reward for Whispermere later, after all of this.

"Good... stay exactly like that. Any tricks and Whispermere's head comes off!"
"Hm... you don't have to tell me. Let's get this over with."

Grumbling — but slowly, calmly, folding those large hands together at his heels, sitting still.
Bizeth's smile widened as he tossed the chain to the nearest subordinate and began walking toward him.

He had considered having his people do it — but according to Whispermere's intelligence, those bones wouldn't yield to anything short of an Aura Blade.
Only he, as a Sword Master, could take the man's head cleanly.

Savoring the victory, he pressed one foot down on the back of Kaftin's head, grinding his face into the ground.
Kaftin went along with it without a word — and that compliance only deepened Bizeth's confidence as he raised his broadsword.

"Then... any last words? Kaftin—!"
"...This robe belongs to Athunga. Since I'm dying anyway — strip it off me afterward and give it back to him. He'll be pleased."
"Hoh... decent of you to say... I'll make a special effort to take your head in one clean stroke."
"......"

The broadsword came down toward the bowed neck —

And Bizeth's consciousness began to drift.
He was certain he had brought the blade down on the man's neck.
Was he dreaming from sheer elation?

The thought crossed his mind — and then the cold surface of the ground struck his cheek.
Why was the ground touching his face? Something was wrong.
His skull was ringing, pounding, and an explosive pain was detonating from his temple.

His subordinates' voices were reaching him from somewhere far away, muffled and indistinct.
What had happened? What had gone wrong?

By the time the ringing faded and he could process his surroundings, everything had already changed.

"Heheheh... hfhahahahaha... hihihiheh... yes... I suppose you could say the terms are equal now... or not, actually, since my hostage is worth more than yours?"
"Y-you bastard — let Lord Bizeth go, NOW—!"
"Oh? And just who do you think you're giving orders to?! HMM?! I could tear this old man's head off his shoulders right here if I felt like it — so choose your words carefully."
"Ngh—!"

That was what had happened.

In the precise instant the broadsword was descending toward his neck, Kaftin had whipped one of his kneeling legs up behind him like a scorpion's tail — driving the reinforced metal horseshoe sole of his boot squarely into Bizeth's temple in a single explosive strike.

The positioning had been poor enough that it wasn't a killing blow — but it was more than enough to induce a light concussion. The moment Bizeth's grip on the broadsword loosened, Kaftin had seized him by the hair, slammed him face-first into the ground, and pinned him underfoot.

"Hey — Lord Bizeth? Go ahead and start begging for your life. Otherwise your people are going to start thinking they can trade your head for Whispermere's, and I'm not sure that math works out in your favor."
"Ngh... ugh...?"
"Still ringing up there? Let me help with that—!"

As if paying back the earlier indignity of having his head stood on, he brought the metal boot down hard onto Bizeth's skull with a resounding crack.
The subordinates, teeth clenched, immediately pressed a blade against Whispermere's throat in response —

"Do it! Go ahead, you idiots! DO IT! Whispermere's throat against Bizeth's head — let's see which side comes out worse! Come on! Your choice! I'm giving you the choice! Go on! DO IT! Slice her! SLICE HER! Hahahahahaha—!"
"Wh — wha—?!"
"......"

Bizeth, barely clawing back to consciousness, assessed the situation — and quietly began reaching for the broadsword lying nearby.

"Hey — Lord Bizeth. Let me share a little wisdom with you. There's a saying that's been passed down among fighters from the eastern lands since ancient times..."
"...Ngh—?!"
"'A kick carries three times the power of a punch.' So here's the thing..."

Bizeth flinched at Kaftin's grin and kept straining toward the broadsword.

"What are you getting at—?!"
"Just between us — the instantaneous destructive force of my punch is approximately 1.2 tonnes. About 800 kilograms is enough to reduce a human skull to pudding in an instant, as it happens..."
"So what of it—?!"
"A punch that puts out 1.2 tonnes of force... so a kick, at three times that... what do you think that comes out to?"
"......!"
"I'd think very carefully before trying anything. The foot currently on your skull can, at any moment, come down with three tonnes of force and crush your head like stepping on a snail. You understand?"
"G-go... go ahead and... try it—!"
"Alright. Sold."

Crunch.

—To be continued—