Episode 14 — Struggle Is Like the Air

After safely delivering the train.

A section of ground in a forest clearing, not far from the estate, tilted downward at an angle, revealing a hidden passage. Once Whis-Kiss's vehicle veered off the road and descended smoothly into it, the ground sealed back over as if nothing had ever happened, erasing every trace.

"Phew—!"

Shadow was the first out, kicking the door open, pulling loose the hair she'd tied into a ponytail and yanking down her mask.

"Something felt a bit unsatisfying about that, but it ended well, so I'll take it."

The opposite rear door opened, and Sister Grave gathered up the empty ammo canisters from her grenade launcher, handing them off to the waiting Cuticle and brushing off her hands.

"Unsatisfying? We completed the job flawlessly — that should be enough."

The Professor spoke up as the passenger door opened, his voice carrying that familiar toneless, mechanical edge.

"I just prefer things a little more — you know, blowing stuff up, turning the place into a sea of fire!"

"...Restrain yourself from reckless destruction. We're professionals."

"Tch!"

Shadow found herself, privately, genuinely fascinated by Grave's personality. Normally she was a warm, kind older-sister type, but the moment combat started, something in her ignited completely, sending her into a full trigger-happy frenzy. Shadow found it a small miracle Grave had managed to hold her own in official matches all this time with a temperament like that.

"Good work today, everyone. Dismissed."

Leaving Whis-Kiss where she'd already passed out asleep in the driver's seat — having steadily sipped away at her flask right after parking — the Professor was the first to leave. Shadow trailed after him. Grave watched the two of them for a moment before turning to help Cuticle disassemble the turret.

"Why don't you go rest?"

"Eh, since I'm already here, I'll help out with this much at least. I'm the one who used it, after all."

"Aw, how sweet."

"Professor—! So, what are you up to now?"

Shadow sidled up and asked the question, but the Professor did his best to ignore her, pulling off his gloves and stepping into the elevator.

"Seriously, would it kill you to indulge in ordinary conversation once in a while?"

"...I'm about to log out."

"Huh, that's rare."

"I've made it a rule to always eat breakfast in reality. And today I have a prior engagement, so I won't be back until later in the morning."

"What engagement?"

"...Personal matter."

It was always like this. The conversation would be flowing along fine, then right at the important part, he'd throw up a clean, sharp wall by invoking "personal matters." Since prying too deeply into someone's personal affairs was forbidden by the estate's rules, there was nothing more she could dig up.

Once the Professor had gone up to his room, she silently pulled a notebook from near her chest and opened it. Having spent years as a thief and assassin-type user, she'd always been meticulous about gathering information — and right now, her biggest intelligence target was the Professor himself.

The notebook was already neatly filled, in tiny handwriting, with fragments of information she'd gathered about him over the past few months living together.

In truth, most of what she'd written down hadn't come from the Professor himself — she'd picked it up secondhand through Cuticle. Whenever she asked the Professor directly, he'd invariably fall back on "personal matters" or stay silent.

She'd also been collecting scattered fragments of information about him floating around online. Curiosity aside, information about a mercenary who'd built this solid a reputation as a freelancer over years within the game was bound to be useful for something, somewhere down the line.

The capsule opened, and the real-world Professor stepped out, scratching his head.

"Hah... what should I make for breakfast today..."

"...!"

A wrongness rippled through the motion as his right arm reached out.

He'd figured it was about time — sure enough. The Professor slowly pulled a rod-shaped battery from a drawer along the wall and set it on the desk. His prosthetic arm's battery had apparently reached its limit.

Pressing one side of the prosthetic's cover with his left hand, the battery slid out from inside. He pulled it free, set it aside on the other end of the desk, and slotted in a fresh one.

"And the legs..."

After testing the arm's movements a few times, he checked his legs as well, shifting his footing back and forth to make sure nothing was off, before finally starting on breakfast.

He made himself a gratin — rice topped with vegetables, ham, cheese, and cream sauce — and pulled up a screen while eating.

"...As expected."

What the Professor was studying was the stock market — specifically, shares in a company that had been in steady decline for years.

Gadion Security.

A robotics manufacturer founded right before the Third World War, once a global giant in combat drone production. Now, with war a thing of the past, the company — which had been supplying security drones to the Crimson Shield Council up until recently — had seen even that business become a sunset industry, and it was gradually collapsing.

"Hmm..."

Breathing in the rising scent of melted cheese, the Professor — no, Platinum Kim — gave a deep, satisfied smile.

The Professor used a portion of what he earned from the game primarily for slowly buying up shares in a handful of companies like this one. This time, he'd bought — not a huge amount, just 5% — of Gadion Security. That brought his accumulated stake in the company to 43%. Just a little more, and he'd be in a position to take control.

Of course, what the Professor wanted wasn't managerial control. He wanted the company itself.

"...For the new war. For the war called life. For the war that never ends..."

Murmuring those loaded words, he ground his teeth and hurriedly finished off the rest of his meal. He had somewhere to be in the real world today.

Getting ready to go out was always a complicated affair for him. An ordinary citizen had their DNA and other biometric data submitted to and kept on file with a government agency from the moment of birth. If someone in the Professor's position lost a limb, medical institutions would typically culture cell tissue from that biometric data to regenerate the missing part and restore it through regenerative surgery — good as new.

But he had officially been dead for years now, and predated the biometric registration system entirely. Without that data on file, he couldn't receive regenerative treatment — and shouldn't, even if he could. The instant any information about him entered that system, the Crimson Shield Council's board members — his enemies — would know he existed.

"Right, then."

Fortunately, it was early winter. A long coat, long pants, and gloves were enough to naturally conceal his prosthetic arm and leg. The problem was—

He paused, facing the mirror, absently touching his artificial right eye with his prosthetic hand.

"Tch."

No choice but to head out with sunglasses on, as usual. Stepping out of his home — an old camper van, heavily converted into a living space — he pinched his nose against the smell of the nearby landfill, regretting having settled here, and made his way through the back alleys.

The place he lived was, in a word, a slum. Home to those who'd fallen out of favor with the Council for one reason or another, been purged from the system, or who'd joined Blue Spear from the start and ended up as drifters.

"Hey! Buddy! You got any money?"

A vagrant, missing most of his front teeth, approached grinning. Grinning as he was, the hand he held out was anything but friendly — clutched in it was a blood-stained kitchen knife, presumably having stabbed someone somewhere along the way.

"........."

Without a word, the Professor pulled out his wallet and held it open. Inside sat exactly one bill — a lone 10,000-credit note.

"Y-you messing with me?! Where'd you hide it?!"

"........."

Shaking his head silently, he pulled the bill from his wallet and skewered it on the vagrant's knife.

"Th— what's this?! Where'd you hide it, I said?!"

"...That's all there is."

"You bastard! You think this is a joke?!"

The vagrant brandished the kitchen knife threateningly. The Professor just shook his head.

"Card's back home. Apologies."

"Damn you!"

Grinding his teeth, the vagrant's eyes suddenly flashed with a new idea.

"Fine...! Then that expensive-looking coat of yours! Take it off and hand it over!"

"...!"

The Professor shook his head again at this demand. The coat was a problem. If his prosthetic arm was exposed while stripping it off, that would create serious trouble — he'd have to kill every last witness on the spot.

"Seriously! Take it off! Or I'll carve your gut open—!"

Glaring, mid-threat, the vagrant never saw the kick coming — the Professor drove his foot squarely into the man's groin.

Naturally, given that his leg was a prosthetic, the force behind the blow bore no resemblance to a normal kick.

"AAAAAARGH?!"

Unfortunately for him, as he was flung to the ground, his own kitchen knife bounced into the air and landed, blade-first, straight into his backside, leaving him writhing in agony.

Naturally, a man like this couldn't afford regenerative treatment either. In a world where even ordinary medicine had become scarce, a wound like that was practically a death sentence. Tetanus shots had disappeared from availability long ago.

"AAAAAH! The— the knife! My ass, my ass! S-somebody help—!"

"........."

The Professor said nothing, simply ignoring him and continuing on his way.

His conviction was simple: losers deserved to bleed and die. He'd offered the man a chance, handed over what money he had — and the man had chosen to pursue his own greed to the bitter end instead. If that led to an irreversible, miserable death, the vagrant ought to be satisfied with the outcome.

No — he had to be satisfied with it. That was the philosophy, the guiding principle, of the Professor — of Platinum Kim.

Reaching the clinic run by the slum's sole doctor, the Professor knocked lightly with his left hand.

"Who's there. We're closed today, get lost."

An irritable old man's voice answered, but the Professor smirked, quietly opened the door, and stepped inside.

"Damn it, I said we're not—"

An elderly doctor — bald on top, thinning at the front, a liquor bottle cradled in his arms in the middle of the day — burst out of the examination room at the sound of the door and came face to face with him.

"You son of a—!"

"Been a while, Dr. Kwon."

"You damn menace! So you actually managed to stay alive!"

Dr. Kwon. He'd been acquainted with Platinum Kim's father. Though he'd never joined Blue Spear himself, he was the one who'd given the Professor the legs, arm, and eye that let him walk today.

"As you can see. Very much alive."

"...Suppose that's something to be glad about."

"...Heh. Why the long face?"

Dr. Kwon half-regretted ever treating him.

Platinum Kim — an undeniable genius, once in a generation, but his ideology had been extreme enough to turn even some members of Blue Spear pale. Somehow, miraculously alive even now, he still hadn't stopped fighting for a single moment. He'd simply changed his methods dramatically — and he was still, to this day, thirsting relentlessly for blood.

The critics within Blue Spear had given him a nickname damning enough on its own — "Vlad Tepes" reborn in the modern age. If circumstances ever aligned, this brilliant, war-mad lunatic would, without a doubt, lead an army to tear the Council's board members limb from limb, marching with their heads mounted on pikes.

If it were limited to just the Council, that would almost be a relief. But maybe—

"What is it. I know you're not the type to show up without a reason."

His buzz gone entirely, he set the liquor bottle back on the shelf and straightened up.

"Checkup."

The Professor said only those two words, saying nothing more, and raised his prosthetic arm.

"Ah. Broken? Please tell me you weren't going around punching people."

He asked it half-jokingly. The Professor gave a shameless shrug in response.

As a boy, he'd been a charming young man — cheeky, but with a genuine sense of humor. Now, grown, he'd become the very picture of a man waging war against the entire world.

"Hah— fine. Wait here. Let me go get a glass of water first."

"Sure."

Once the doctor slid open the shutter to his private room and stepped inside, the Professor settled comfortably onto the examination table in the middle of the clinic to wait. Soon, the doctor returned, the flush gone from his face, and the checkup began in earnest.

—To be continued—