Chapter 29

“Mago, how certain are you?”

Captain Shimena rested her chin in her hand and murmured.

I’d steered every clue so the vampire would look guilty; in my mind the odds were a flat one-hundred percent.

Still, I couldn’t show it.

“It’s only a theory, ma’am. But I see no harm in checking.”

“You sound absolutely sure—almost rehearsed.”

“That isn’t—”

“Good. A ready mind is never bad. I’ll authorize a solo mission.”

Shimena waved the matter aside as if it were nothing.

“Sure you’re all right with this? It’ll delay your Special-Task-Force posting. Next time we meet you’ll be in black uniform—feeling rushed?”

“I believe the wait will make the reward sweeter.”

“Nice line.”

“Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment. One more thing. Your plan is to infiltrate that tavern, collect intel, and confirm it’s a vampire den—correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She tapped the desk with her index finger.

“You’re a soldier. Not officially sworn yet, but Task-Force is the Empire’s elite. Think you can handle tavern work? Control your strength?”

“Until last winter I was a slave. No one’s better at odd jobs, ma’am. I’m confident.”

“Who knew that counted as experience... All right, how long?”

She tossed the question the way a merchant asks the price of goods.

Too short would look reckless; too long would look timid.

So, something in between.

“Two weeks should do it.”

“Two weeks, noted. Last question, Mago—what if you’re wrong?”

That was the core.

“If, in the middle of this war, I use Task-Force authority to investigate an innocent citizen—how will you own it?”

“What must I do to take responsibility?”

“That depends on the victim. If it were up to me, I’d say strip the uniform. Think hard.”

“Before I’ve even worn it...”

“Too heavy?”

“Heavy, yes—but I’ll see it through.”

* * *

Captain Shimena lined up the five recruits from First Training Center’s 66th class.

“Louise Murphy, Oscar Sita, Amon Coster, Belle Red—and finally, Kinjo Shua.”

She called each name in turn.

“Pleasure to meet you all. In wartime, volunteering for Task-Force isn’t easy. Thank you for your courage.”

Starting from the left she handed out black uniforms, one by one.

“Captain, may I ask something?”

Kinjo’s voice trembled.

“Where’s Mago? He graduated top of the 66th and enlisted. By rights he should be here beside me—”

“Kinjo Shua.”

“Sir!”

“You knew Mago before the Center. In your view, what’s his biggest flaw?”

“Flaw, ma’am?”

Kinjo hesitated, wondering whether to mention Mago’s phobia.

Before he could decide, Shimena answered for him.

“His conduct—and the instructors’ competency sheets—show one thing.”

“What is it?”

“He’s excessively self-reliant. Call it duty, call it guilt—whatever the root, he tries to solve everything alone. Overconfidence off the charts. That’s why I sent him solo. To let him fail.”

The words caught them off guard.

“Ma’am...?”

“Task-Force moves as one. If Mago doesn’t shed that lone-wolf streak he’ll foul future ops. One Marcello Arnes is already plenty for solo work. This mission is his prerequisite: fix the attitude before he joins you. He’s brilliant, but poisonous in a pack.”

“So even if he nails the culprit—”

“The instructors’ deaths are regrettable, but are they humanity’s enemy? I’m not convinced.”

Shimena studied the recruits.

‘Mago, come back having learned you can’t do it alone.’

Five new soldiers stood at attention, each with a standout specialty.

To draw those talents to the max, the unit needed a leader who trusted them.

‘The seat’s open; all you have to do is be ready.’

* * *

We are one.

Right about now Captain Shimena will be saying that.

Yet she shipped me—freshly assigned—straight into a solo op.

Ridiculous.

No commander values the group more than she does; making it move like a single body is her obsession, however difficult.

She’s pulled it off again and again—enough to “eat the rank alive,” as they say.

So for Shimena, always preaching unity, to hand me a lone mission...

It felt fishy.

“She wants me to realize I can’t go it alone...?”

But that would mean she’ll welcome a call for backup.

I can’t read her.

Task-Force runs from Unit 1 to Unit 41.

That was true last week.

This week, with the 66th class from the First and Second Training Centers assigned, the roster had stretched to Unit 43.

Proof that the numbering reflected combat strength.

Captain Shimena and Marcello Arnes had been Unit 1.

I pictured the “1” emblazoned on their chests.

“I have to get there soon...”

Which meant I had to nail this mission.

Everything was for a fast-track promotion.

To seize high-level clearance and launch the officers’ purge a single day sooner.

I’d been handed dozens of jigsaw pieces needed to solve the case.

But before I even picked them up, I’d already seen the finished picture—

from my last life.

I speak only through results, and only to the extent of what I know.

If I fail despite knowing, I’m finished.

I had to bet everything.

“Within two weeks.”

One: prove the tavern I’d marked is a vampire den.

Two: prove the vampires are enemies of humanity.

Three: push the Special Task Force in and wipe them out.

Demon-King officers are the Demon King’s swords.

I knew exactly how they were forged and how deftly they cut.

There are only two ways to erase the Demon King’s power:

take the sword,

or break it.

Handing it back so the king can wield it again was never an option.

* * *

I rode a carriage south.

A full two days.

Two of my fourteen, gone.

The moment I stepped down I bought plain clothes—

white tunic, brown trousers,

fabric drab enough to pass for a commoner.

I hadn’t slipped out of uniform in ages.

Changed and done,

the street beneath my feet felt alien.

I didn’t belong.

“Can’t breathe....”

My first time in a red-light district, and the discomfort was suffocating.

War doesn’t quiet a place like this.

If anything,

the drunks retching in gutters and the brawlers trading blows looked positively detached from the war.

A luxury only the privileged could afford, yet the district’s pulse hadn’t died.

These southerners still untouched by war—

a textbook case of peace-induced complacency.

Come to think of it, I’d never let my own mind unwind.

When the war ends, I’ll get my chance,

I used to tell myself.

A neat four-story brick building stretched ahead.

“Anakonda.”

The name leapt out.

Memorable.

A tavern run by the ancient vampire, the Vampire Lord.

Every floor opened onto breezy terraces.

In the roaring nightlife,

Anakonda pulled the biggest crowd.

I scanned the wall:

job flyers lined up.

I tugged one free, skimmed it, and stepped inside.

“Welcome!”

A clerk greeted me the instant the door swung wide—

black hair, red eyes.

“Are you meeting anyone?”

Beyond her, the bar,

and below it, round stools

set at the perfect height for chatting up the bartender.

“No. I saw your hiring notice.”

“Ah, right. Hmm... could you wait in the corner? I’ll be back in a bit!”

She left me standing and dashed off.

Noise and clutter.

Music and chatter layered into a dizzying haze.

Whether by design or not, only six ceiling lamps lit the first floor,

casting a dim orange glow.

A bartender shaking drinks.

A musician strumming a ukulele.

Faces flushed scarlet.

“Feels like another world.”

Is the war someone else’s problem,

or are they desperate to forget?

A parade of images I couldn’t begin to understand.

Yet every strange detail felt tethered to the Vampire.

I waited.

“Sorry to keep you!”

A server sprinted up.

“This way, please!”

She bounded up the stairs ahead of me.

“Handsome,” she said over her shoulder.

“Pardon?”

“We hire by the face. Oh—right, let me explain. First floor’s for guests who want to drink in peace.”

“It didn’t sound very peaceful.”

We reached the second floor—louder than the first. My ears rang; I wanted to clap my hands over them.

“Now the first floor feels like a library,” I muttered.

She corrected herself without missing a beat.

“Second floor: guests who want to drink noisily. Third floor: guests who want to misbehave.”

“And the fourth?”

“Guests who don’t want to drink at all.”

“What does that—”

“Right this way!”

She cut me off and steered me into the second-floor kitchen. Cooks in white darted between stoves. We squeezed through a narrow passage into a tiny back room—staff lounge, she said.

“Assistant Manager! New guy says he’s here for a job.”

Inside, a man lounged in a chair. He gave me a once-over.

“You start tonight.”

Straight to the point.

“Glad it’s that simple. What should I—”

“You saw the flyer, right? We need servers.”

“I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Nah, nah, it’s fine. Start with serving. We’ll pile the rest on later.”

He looked me up and down.

“Strong? With that build I’m not expecting miracles...”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

“You’ll stay on the first and second floors. Just so you know—never, ever go to the third or fourth. Understood?”

Which, of course, sounded exactly like an invitation to investigate.

* * *

“New kid lifted two Orc barrels at once.”

“Two full wine barrels?”

“Yup, brim-full.”

“Huh...”

“No idea where he worked before, but he’s handy.”

“Table 5, first floor, order up!”

I slid the ticket into the kitchen pass. The chatter among the cooks died.

Three days inside Anakonda.

Seven days left until my promised report to Captain Shimena.

“Mago, take these.”

The Head Chef nodded at two plates.

“Where to?”

“Second floor, Table 18. You’ve memorized the layout, right?”

“Every corner.”

Plates balanced in both hands, I left the kitchen. Up to the second, down to the first, shuttling food like a pendulum. The staff had warmed to me—zero mistakes will do that. Bit by bit I earned their trust.

Bit by bit.

Find proof. Report to Captain Shimena.

I reminded myself between trays: work hard, remember why I’m really here.