Wedged between the city district where the ordinary citizens lived and the slums where the forgotten lingered lay a ruined zone—the remnants of a district devastated by a plague.
Normally the area was quiet with no signs of life, but today the atmosphere was heavy and oppressive. The Royal Guard had assembled en masse in an old plaza leading to the slums, their hostility almost palpable.
“All units, in position,” said a bearded man at the front, raising his magical gun into the air.
“Lord Seagall, the poor are gathering quickly,” a guard said.
The streets of the slums, visible in the distance, were filled with people—demi-humans included.
“Prepare warning shots. Do not concern yourselves with stray bullets.”
“Yes, sir!” the guard replied, bringing his right hand to his forehead in a salute. He did not move, however.
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, um, I was just wondering... I mean, we’re attacking the slums just to seize one person. What kind of operation might this be...?”
“Watch your tongue, soldier. That’s not something you need to know.”
The guard stiffened for a moment, then got into position. “Yes, sir! Apologies, sir!”
Seagall furrowed his brow as he watched the man retreat. I’d rather not make this into a spectacle, but...
The existence of the saintess, her royal heritage, and the fact that she was hiding somewhere in the capital—these were all truths that could not be made public. Therefore, Seagall had only fed his men vague information: They were searching for someone connected to an important figure. The operation had to be completed before it raised too many questions, and so the man who had ordered the search, Prince Figaro, had set a strict deadline, which was fast approaching.
The prince is a strict man. We can’t afford to worry about saving face.
On top of that, there was the report from yesterday. A number of poor men who had resisted a forced search had been shot as an example and left for dead, but then later seen walking around completely healed as though nothing had happened. That night, Seagall had led a unit back to the men’s homes, but they’d been completely empty. They’d probably moved locations just in case.
Since there were no reports of elite healers having taken action, there was only one person in the kingdom capable of thoroughly healing such extensive injuries.
“Saintess Artemisia must be somewhere in the slums.”
Indeed, someone had to be hiding her. Seagall gripped the trigger of his gun, his gaze turning cruel.
“You’ve gone too far, slum filth. I will uncover your ploy.”
✦ ✦ ✦
“Whoa... What the...?”
By the time Zenos arrived at the plaza, following Zophia and the others, the Royal Guard had nearly completed their besiegement. Sunlight glinted harshly off the many sabers drawn from their scabbards, and countless cold gun barrels were aimed at the slums.
“Listen up, filth!” said a bearded man at the front holding a magical loudspeaker—the same man who’d come to their camp looking for Arty.
Seagall, if Zenos recalled correctly.
“We have information that our target is hiding in the slums. Anyone who knows anything, speak up immediately. Otherwise, we’ll be forced to attack indiscriminately!”
“This is way over the line,” Zenos muttered to himself. He tried to step forward, but Zophia and the others gripped his shoulders.
“Stay back for now, doc,” Zophia cautioned.
“We’ll go first,” Lynga said.
“Yeah, we’ll show ’em,” Loewe declared.
“All right,” Zenos conceded. “You guys be careful.”
The three demi-humans cracked their knuckles as Zenos glanced back toward the clinic where Arty and Lily were waiting. Ahead of the group were several hundred knights of the Royal Guard, but Krishna was nowhere to be seen.
It was a dire situation indeed.