“Who are you lot?” Seagall asked with a frown, staring at the three demi-human women as they stepped forward through the murmuring crowd.
“What’s with all the noise at this hour?” Zophia asked.
“I’m still sleepy,” Lynga grumbled.
“I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” Loewe added.
“Zophia of the lizardmen, Lynga of the werewolves, and Loewe of the orcs. They’re key figures in the slums,” one of Seagall’s men whispered in his ear.
“Ah, so you’re the infamous ne’er-do-wells, are you?” Seagall asked. “Come to think of it, I saw you all at the lake.”
As a member of the Royal Guard, he had, of course, heard of them. But since the Special Ops division rarely dealt with the slums and their previous encounter had been in dim lighting—and at a time when he’d been too focused on finding the saintess to pay attention—he hadn’t recognized them at first glance.
Seagall glanced over at Zophia and the others. “If you’re in charge here, you must know something. We’re looking for a young woman. Are you hiding her?”
“What are you talking about?” Zophia asked.
“I don’t know a thing,” Lynga said.
“Don’t accuse us without proof,” Loewe protested.
“Fire,” Seagall said, his face betraying no emotion as he raised his left hand.
Gun barrels erupted left and right as the knights let loose. The nearest homes exploded into flaming debris, sending wreckage raining from the sky in all directions.
Zophia, shielding her face with one arm, glared at Seagall. “That’s quite the greeting. I thought the Royal Guard’s job was to keep the peace?”
“Eliminating the poor is an excellent way to guarantee public safety,” Seagall replied, his expression unchanging. “We have evidence and no time for pointless back-and-forth. That was your first and only round of warning shots. Next time, we shoot to kill.”
“I’m telling you—”
“Fire.”
Before Zophia could finish, countless gun barrels erupted once more—and this time, the bullets were fired indiscriminately at the poor. Blood sprayed into the air as screams echoed through the plaza.
“Gah!”
“Augh!”
“Ugh!”
Seagall remained expressionless. “I warned you. Now we shoot to kill.”
Zophia, who had used her hardened arm scales to deflect the bullets, continued to glare at him. “So that’s how it is. Since you’re picking a fight, we can’t just sit back.”
“You didn’t even flinch. Your nerve is impressive, though not surprising for a crime lord. I wonder how long you can keep that look in your eyes, though.”
“Sis!” Zonde called out.
“I know,” Zophia replied firmly. “Let’s do this! This is our home, and we protect what’s ours!”
“We’ll make them regret barging onto our turf!” Lynga declared.
“Man, I haven’t fought in a while. I’m itching for it,” Loewe said.
“Raaaaaaah!”
Zophia, Lynga, and Loewe rushed forward, and the poor raised a collective battle cry. A fierce aura of resolve and bloodlust surged from the crowd.
“L-Lord Seagall! The poor are attacking!”
“Do not falter! We have justice and military prowess on our side! Charge them all with obstruction of justice, and add high treason while we’re at it!” Seagall commanded, lightly stroking the barrel of his magical gun.
They were one spark away from total chaos. The poor charged at the knights, who raised their weapons in turn. Seagall was ready to give the order to fire again when he paused, staring at the poor in shock.
“What is going on?” he asked shakily. “They’re fully healed!”
The ones his men had just shot were calmly rising to their feet and joining the fray. Blood stained the ground, but somehow, not a single trace of injury could be found on their bodies.
“Who’s healing them?! Don’t tell me Lady Artemisia is...” Seagall muttered quickly, then raised his left hand. “Hold fire!”
“Backing down already?” Zophia asked mockingly.
Seagall clicked his tongue. “Silence! Men, switch to sabers! Find the young woman, and kill all the others!”
“Yes, sir!” the knights said, all drawing their sabers at once.
If the saintess was mixed in with the crowd, magical guns weren’t an option—the risk of a stray bullet hitting her was too high.
Just as the authorities and the poor were about to clash, however—
“Hold it right theeere!” came a voice from the crowd, making the poor stop moving as though a fire had been doused.
“What now?” Seagall muttered, frowning as he gripped his saber.
The crowd of slum dwellers parted to the sides, creating a path. A man clad in a cloak black as the surrounding night stepped forward with a relaxed stride.
“I don’t know who you’re looking for, but if you’re wondering who healed the injured, that would be me,” the man said in a calm tone that was at complete odds with the surrounding chaos.
“You’re...” Seagall trailed off. The man looked familiar—Seagall recalled seeing him by the lake.
“Doc!” Zophia called out, worried. “I told you to stay back!”
“Look, I don’t want to be here either, but I have to do something. At this rate, you’re all gonna be charged with high treason.”
“B-But...”
Seagall switched from his saber back to his magical gun. “What was that? You said you healed them?”
“Yep. So I’m the one you’re looking for.”
Boom!
The magical gun fired, striking the man directly and sending flames coiling into the air.
“Filth like you can’t heal people,” Seagall spat. “Stand down. I don’t have time for senseless games.”
“You’re not very good at listening, are you?” the man retorted. “Is this a Royal Guard thing, or...?”
“What?”
The bullet had hit its target, but as the smoke cleared, the man was still standing there, unscathed and completely calm.
“What just happened?” Seagall asked.
He pulled the trigger again and again. Two, three, four shots. But the man in the black cloak didn’t suffer a single scratch, simply shrugging in irritation.
“You really aren’t gonna listen, huh? Look, getting shot repeatedly at this range stings a bit. I’m gonna need you to calm down.”
The next instant, the man vanished, and before Seagall knew it, he’d circled around to the bearded knight’s left. His fist, glowing a faint blue, slammed right into Seagall’s flank.
Shing!
“Gaaah!”
Although Seagall was wearing reinforced light armor, a tremendous shock rippled through his body, making his stomach churn. He instantly knew several of his ribs had broken. His gaze involuntarily tilted skyward as he was launched into the air before he could even process what was happening.
“Captain!” a knight shouted.
Seagall landed on his back with such force that the ground cracked beneath him. The other knights all raised their magical guns, pointing them at the man.
“Hey now,” the man said, raising both his hands innocently, “I didn’t do anything.”
One soldier, keeping his gun trained on the man, furiously shouted, “Like hell you didn’t! You just hurt our captain!”
“Did I? He doesn’t look hurt to me.”
“You dare mock—”
“Wait,” Seagall cut in, sitting up slowly.
“Huh?”
Seagall pressed a hand to his flank in disbelief—there was no pain at all. Even the spot where he’d clearly felt his ribs break earlier was perfectly fine, with no signs of discomfort. It was as though he’d never been injured at all. He was perfectly healed.
“Did you do this?” he asked the cloaked man.
“I told you,” the man replied, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, “I healed those guys. Do you believe me now?”
Seagall stared blankly at the man before him.
Yesterday, he’d received a report about a group of mortally wounded slum dwellers being completely fine. Aside from the saintess and elite healers, no one should be capable of such a feat. And since there were no signs of an elite healer being involved, only Saintess Artemisia could’ve done this. Or so he’d concluded, until this new possibility stood before him.
If this man was the one who had healed the poor, then where was the saintess? And who even was this man?
“Who are you?” Seagall demanded.
“Me? I’m a shado—”
“Wait!” a voice rang out, interrupting the two men.
All eyes turned to a narrow path at the edge of the plaza, where a girl in an old-fashioned dress stood, breathing heavily.
As she caught her breath, she removed her glasses and pulled off her headdress and wig, revealing long, elegant soft-pink hair that swayed in the breeze.
“I’m right here,” said Saintess Artemisia.