# Karma (2)
*
Rewinding time slightly.
The evening of the day Charlotte and Jenny had come to visit.
I had buried myself in an armchair, reading a book, when the sound of footsteps approaching from somewhere down the far corridor reached my ears.
Without thinking, I glanced out the window.
Faint moonlight, veiled behind the city's smog, was all I could make out.
'...Who could it be at this hour?'
I was the only person detained on this floor at present.
Clump.
Soon, through the corridor's dimly lit gaps, a middle-aged man appeared, trailing a suffocating cloud of perfume.
He was on the shorter side, and there was considerable weight concentrated below his neck.
His well-tailored uniform did a reasonable job of presenting him decently enough—but it couldn't quite conceal the subtle strain at the buttons.
The prison atmosphere had a certain noir quality to it, which had made me reach for rather dramatic phrasing; but to summarize: he was a severely obese middle-aged man.
'The Investigation Bureau Director? What on earth is he doing here?'
As a professor of Black Magic Defense Arts, I'd taken on consulting work for the Investigation Bureau often enough that we were acquainted.
Occasionally he'd even had me over to his home for a meal.
That said, I'd never once thought of us as particularly close.
Probably the Count's Family upbringing.
A certain condescension toward the Nihilrit Viscount Family had a habit of leaking through in subtle ways.
"Professor Yulian Nihilrit. It's been a while."
"It has, Director Orlant. What brings you here at this late hour?"
"I've come to sort out a few facts regarding you this evening."
Thud.
A heavy crystal orb was set on the desk on the other side of the iron bars.
A truth-discerning orb.
An otherworldly lie detector that glows red for lies and blue for truth.
For reference, its accuracy rate is ninety-five percent.
Meaning roughly one in twenty answers could be an error.
"Then let's begin the investigation."
"I don't see a recording crystal orb. Are you not recording this?"
"The case is a sensitive enough matter that we won't be recording."
And there goes any pretense of fair investigation.
"From this moment forward, be advised that everything you state may be used against you, so I trust you'll choose your answers with care."
Creak.
The obese middle-aged Orlant settled into his chair.
The detention center's worn seat screamed beneath that considerable mass.
"We'll begin. There are eyewitness accounts placing you at the Airship Terminal multiple times over the past month. Is this accurate?"
"Yes."
I had frequently traveled back and forth between the Imperial Capital and the Academy Territory on weekends and days without lectures.
It had been a busy period for developing antibiotics and other medicines.
Since the airship made it a two-hour journey, I'd often done day trips.
Though externally, Yulian Nihilrit had only ever been seen passing through the terminal—he had never actually been seen boarding an airship.
That was because Perisia had been filling my role at the Academy.
And naturally, I had prepared a suitable alibi for why I'd been going to the terminal.
"However—"
"Answer only what I ask."
"..."
But Orlant had no intention of hearing that alibi.
He kept his gaze fixed downward, recording my answer in the written statement.
That brief exchange alone was enough to give me a rough sense of what the Investigation Bureau Director was after.
After transforming my single affirmative into a fifteen-line declaration, the Director turned the page and moved to his next question.
"You are the Academy's professor of Black Magic Defense Studies. Immediately prior to this year's Graduation Exam, the Hero Department's professors sought your consultation regarding the students' meals—specifically, I'm told, a consultation about provisions and food supplies."
That was also true.
After I had flagged the dangers of arsenic and various other food-related hazards, the Hero Department professors had frequently come to me for consultation.
Queries about plants safe to eat in Demonic Realms, and about various parts of demonic beasts' bodies, made up the bulk of it—but questions about provisioning supplies came in from time to time as well.
'This time, rather than a one-word answer...'
"The location for this year's Graduation Exam was somewhere that made on-site supply difficult, which meant the provisions required particularly careful attention."
"Answer yes or no only."
"..."
"Silence will be treated as a yes."
Son of a bitch.
That was my conclusion on the Director, reached after only two exchanges.
At this point, any constructive conversation was clearly meaningless.
Instead, I needed to figure out what was driving this man.
Was he blinded by ambition? Did he have some personal grudge against me? Or was he in league with the black sorcerers?
"I'll ask just one final thing, Professor Nihilrit."
"Is there any point to this interrogation?"
"During the incident—more precisely, during the nighttime hours over the past fifteen days—is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?"
"Would servants from the mansion count as witnesses?"
"Testimony from those within your household is inadmissible."
I knew it.
Outside of lecture hours, my existence had consisted of operating as Director Schun or being holed up in my laboratory.
So where exactly was I supposed to have been meeting people in the middle of the night?
I had no reason to be visiting pubs, and certainly no reason to be visiting brothels. And the sheer lunacy of scaling the women's dormitory wall to meet my fiancée was so far beyond consideration it wasn't even worth dismissing.
That dedication to routine had apparently come back to bite me.
Ah, wait—I do have witnesses.
Charlotte and Jenny, with whom I'd had dinner just a few days ago, came to mind.
But I said nothing about it.
I had no desire to drag them into this.
"It seems you have no witnesses."
Taking my silence for confirmation, Orlant gave a slow nod.
Without my noticing, my five-minute interrogation had become a three-page written statement.
"Good."
Tap, tap.
Straightening the papers on the desk and switching off the crystal orb, Orlant spoke.
"Professor Yulian Nihilrit. There are two major transgressions you stand accused of."
He leaned back in his chair and raised one finger.
"First. The crime of misusing black magic to murder multiple Hero Department students, faculty members, and airship civilians."
A second finger joined the first.
"Second. Conspiracy with the black sorcerer order, the Round Table of Thirteen. For these two transgressions, I will now deliver the judgment."
The Investigation Bureau Director raised his considerable frame from the chair.
"Both charges fall under the jurisdiction of the Imperial Court's direct legal authority and constitute serious crimes without grounds for consideration. All your titles, all your assets, and all your academic rights shall be transferred to the Imperial Court—"
The Director paused briefly to collect his words.
Ordinarily, his subordinates would have read out something like this. Having to do it himself for the first time in a while, he seemed to find it slightly awkward.
"...Execution will take place one week hence. Ah, and regrettably, there is a high likelihood the sentence will be death."
Orlant retrieved the crystal orb from the desk and pocketed it.
He gathered the bundle of documents as well and tucked it under his arm. Then he slowly rose from his chair.
He moved toward the iron bars and lowered his voice.
"But here's the thing, Professor Nihilrit. It's not as though there's no way to survive this. There is a way for not just you alone, but the entire Nihilrit Family, to avoid clan annihilation."
I chose not to react to that.
My non-response—neither confirmation nor denial—made the Director's brow furrow with mild irritation.
But with the air of a man who intended to say what he had come to say, he continued his explanation helpfully.
"There is a student. A first-year Hero Department student who took your class. A commoner, with some tuition debt."
Orlant smiled, and it was an ugly thing.
"That student leaked the contents of your lectures. Blinded by some petty cash."
"Did that student cooperate with the black sorcerers?"
"If you want, I can make it so. Ah, correction. If you want to survive, it'll have to be so."
I understood.
That student had been momentarily blinded by money and leaked the lecture material.
The black sorcerers had obtained that information through the underworld and used it in this terrorist attack.
"I'll arrange it. In which case, you'll be found innocent."
"I don't follow. What does the Director gain from going this far?"
"This."
He produced a sheet of paper from inside his jacket.
A contract.
The sort one might encounter frequently in a plea bargain.
Though this contract didn't appear to be intended for a plea bargain.
"Sign here."
"..."
I looked down at the contract in silence.
In the faint light, the words were barely visible.
The terms themselves appeared unproblematic.
A minor form of judicial transaction: in exchange for being found innocent in this matter, I would henceforth cooperate with the Director to the fullest extent possible in any black magic-related investigations.
That was the substance of it.
And yet.
"Elegant," I said.
"Hm?"
"I'm not sure what era this technique is from, but you've used different inks for different words in this contract. The meaningless words use ordinary ink, while the words constituting the runic formula are mixed with blood. You must have gone to considerable trouble preparing it."
The contract itself was a black magic activation device.
A trap where each meaningful letter had been swapped for ink mixed with blood, so that the moment you signed, your heart would be pledged as collateral.
No wonder the detention center's lighting and furnishings had seemed strangely reddish.
It had been a setup to conceal the slightly off color of blood-mixed ink.
Not that it had mattered—running a finger across the contract made the difference in texture between the letters immediately apparent.
"...How did you know?"
"There's a reason the military assigned me as a professor of Black Magic Defense Arts."
My Teacher, the Great Sage, had once mentioned that this sort of ploy had been fashionable about a hundred and ten years ago.
Apparently, because of knights who'd had their hearts pledged at the time, fortress gates had been opened without a fight on more than one occasion.
"I'd thought you were someone the Imperial Princess Consort's influence had put in place, but I was wrong about that."
"Had you sat through even one of my lectures, you wouldn't have thought so."
Not that non-enrolled students could attend, of course.
Orlant gave a bitter smile and perched himself on the edge of the desk.
Atop the creaking surface,
he crossed his legs and spoke.
"But do you think you have any options here?"
"What happens if I tell the people who come to visit me, or the other judicial officers, that the Director is a minion of the Round Table of Thirteen?"
"I'll gag you so that nothing of the sort leaves your mouth."
He clicked his tongue as he said it.
"Among black sorcerers, there are those who can place curses through the Power of Words. So for those judged to have violated two or more taboos and deemed high risk, it is entirely possible to have them gagged until execution."
"How terrifying."
"So you'd do well to choose your words carefully. I may be the last person to have a conversation with you."
At that, I looked back down at the contract.
The contract's terms pledged one's heart as collateral.
To someone designated as 'Party A.'
Whether that was the Director or someone from the Round Table of Thirteen, I couldn't say.
But that it wouldn't be a particularly pleasant future was certain.
My deliberation was brief.
"A pity, Director Orlant. Did you truly believe you had cornered me with this approach?"
I took a step back from the iron bars.
And tore the contract in two.
"Smell is the most effective sense for triggering memory."
"What are you suddenly talking about?"
"I mean that your ambition is admirable. Perfume is the most convenient means of concealing one's origins. The most effective way of masking the wretched nightmares of a humble past that smell can conjure. Cedarwood? A fine choice."
"..."
"The problem is where you've applied it. A person who has been taught the proper way to wear perfume applies it to the inside of their clothing. An excessive scent is no different from a foul odor. And yet you've applied yours to the outside. If there were even one woman in your life, she'd have pointed that out..."
I thought of the fact that the Director was a bachelor.
"It seems your mother never taught you."
Translated literally, it was a passive-aggressive way of asking whether his mother was even alive.
I had learned the technique from Charlotte, for the record.
Apparently criminals just loved it when you provoked them like that.
Judging by how the Director's face went red immediately, the effect was quite considerable.
"...Fine."
Orlant's voice came out flat, the refinement gone from it.
"Honestly, I never liked you, Professor Nihilrit. A few of the elders say they need your knowledge, but I don't belong to that faction."
Orlant slowly set the bundle of documents he'd had under his arm back onto the desk.
"Allow me to notify you of a change in schedule."
He reached inside his uniform jacket.
When his hand emerged, it held a ceremonial sword—the kind belonging to a judicial officer.
The same compact self-defense folding sword that my father and Freya, both judicial officers, often carried.
"Director. Have you considered the future consequences?"
"Good of you to worry. As it happens, once this assignment is over, I was already scheduled to disappear from the Academy Investigation Bureau."
He brought his hand to his face.
His face began to crumple, like clay.
As he roughly seized and tore away at the surface, a pale, gelatinous mass of flesh was revealed—nearly indistinguishable from human skin.
From the featureless mass where a face had been, a voice emerged as though filtered through water.
"I am merely moving the schedule forward."
A shapeshifter.
Madmen who lovingly destroy their own faces with acid in order to use shapeshifting.
Just as it is far easier to paint on a blank canvas than to paint over an existing picture,
shapeshifters would go to great lengths to meticulously ruin their faces in all manner of ways.
"Tonight, Professor Yulian Nihilrit will attempt a prison break using black magic, only to be subdued by the Director during his rounds. In the process, the Director will fail to control his force somewhat, resulting in Yulian's death—for which the Director will take responsibility and step down."
"A fascinating scenario."
There was, however, one thing it had failed to account for.
[Perisia.]
Directly behind it.
My bodyguard, blended into the wall like a chameleon, had been listening to all of this.
[Can you win against the Director in a fight?]
[The Director's rank is 3rd. As easy as wringing a chicken's neck.]
Perisia's dry reply came back through my mind.
The Director took a step closer.
Behind it, Perisia—still merged with the wall—slowly drew out what appeared to be wire from her hand.
And then the moment the Director reached for the iron bars—
"Good thing I came early, having had a feeling it might come to this."
The far end of the corridor.
A sudden presence brought every gaze snapping toward it.
Perisia swiftly melted back into the wall, and I and the Director—or rather, the thing that had been the Director—both turned toward the direction of that voice.
Under the dim light, a middle-aged man with dark circles beneath his eyes came into view.
I had never seen the face before.
"I'm Marquis Barlot. Given the circumstances, I'll save the proper introductions for later."
The man who had introduced himself as Marquis Barlot gave a bow.
The one who reacted to his introduction was not me, but Orlant—or whatever it now was.
"Why are you here—"
Before the mass of flesh could finish speaking, the Marquis vanished.
When Marquis Barlot reappeared, he had his hand around what was presumably the shapeshifter's throat.
Crunch!
"The night is late, foolish friend. If you're not quiet, you'll be a bother to the neighbors."
A sizeable hole opened in the shapeshifter's neck, and blood poured forth.
The shapeshifter staggered back from the Marquis, spraying blood from its neck across the floor as it put distance between them.
The Marquis dropped what he was holding—the shapeshifter's larynx—onto the floor and clicked his tongue.
"Honestly. Black sorcerers all have their vital points in different places, so it's always a puzzle knowing where to strike first."
The shapeshifter said nothing in reply, and instead drew tentacles out from its flesh.
At the ends of the tentacles were sharp barbs fashioned from processed teeth.
The tentacles, flooding the prison corridor, surged toward the Marquis.
But the Marquis didn't so much as change his expression—he simply charged straight at the shapeshifter.
"There's no need to bring a demonic beast lance just to kill a chicken, friend. You waste far too much."
Hands clasped behind his back, the Marquis moved freely between the tentacles.
As though he already knew exactly where each one was headed.
Eyes closed, he strolled between them lightly.
As the distance closed, the Marquis drew a large, needle-like dagger from inside his jacket.
Fwing—
With a sound of air being sliced, the needle flew toward the shapeshifter.
The shapeshifter lightly turned its head aside and avoided it.
With a sharp Crack!, the wall where the needle embedded itself spiderwebbed with fractures.
"Checkmate."
By then, the Marquis had already closed the distance to just in front of the shapeshifter.
Thud!
The Marquis's kick connected with the shapeshifter's solar plexus.
The shapeshifter flew backward and struck the wall.
The needle that had just been embedded in the wall pierced through the shapeshifter's chest.
It hung there, pinned to the wall in that exact position.
As though signaling the end, the tentacles of flesh that had flooded the corridor crumbled to ash.
The Marquis, having dispatched the shapeshifter in an instant, produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his brow.
"Using such large, indiscriminate techniques in a confined space like this—is it any wonder your field of view gets obscured and you lose room to maneuver? Tsk tsk."
He pulled free the needle that had mounted the shapeshifter to the wall.
And somehow—I couldn't quite tell how—made the corpse disappear in an instant before turning to face me.
He looked at me with a genial smile.
"Are you unharmed, Lord Yulian?"
"...Thank you, Lord Barlot. Though I must ask—why are you here?"
"Couldn't sleep tonight, so I was taking a walk, when I sensed something ominous in the way the magical power was moving near the detention center—I came out in a hurry. I'm glad I wasn't too late."
The delivery was somehow a little too neat.
Completely unaware of the impression I was forming, Marquis Barlot approached the iron bars.
With a casual gesture, the prison door swung open.
The Marquis held out an open palm toward me and said,
"The detention center seems a rather unreliable place after all. I'd hate to have His Majesty think poorly of me should a talent like you come to any harm—if it's all right with you, why not spend tonight at my estate?"
I didn't answer immediately, exchanging telepathy with Perisia instead.
[What is the Marquis's rank?]
[Higher than mine. 6th Rank at minimum.]
[I ask only to be thorough—can you win?]
[If I were prepared to die, I might take both his arms. Against a 6th Rank.]
Mm. It appeared I had no options.
"Thank you for the invitation, Lord Barlot. I'll take you up on it."
"Not at all."
The Marquis smiled.
"I'm the one receiving a favor—having the healer and professor who resolved His Highness's trouble come to stay. The debt is mine."
That smile was suspicious in a way that was decidedly not just a feeling.