Like its name "Brouscella"—or "fortress in the middle of the swamp"—Brussels, located in the middle of former river paths that entwined the plains like net holes, had been vital for commerce since long ago. Although Brussels glorified its reputation as the center of economic activity—from its production of woolen cloth and trade in precious metals to its nexus of various kinds of national systems—multiple factions aware of its strategic value instigated numerous wars around the region. The flames of war occurred so frequently that the ground had absorbed a lot of blood over the years. At present, Brussels was an independent, free city that publicly enjoyed peace and liberty as the leading power of the Four Cities Alliance.
"First, let me introduce myself—I'm George Roddenbach. As you see, I'm a man—age thirty—and a bachelor living in Brussels. As I told you a little while ago, my occupation is public prosecutor, Brussels District Prosecutors Bureau, Fourth Division. I'm in charge of legal action against organized crime by the mafia or syndicates," the young man introduced himself rapidly, as if declaring his opinion before a judge.
Dim gaslights illuminated one cozy room of a farmhouse located on the northern outskirts of Brussels. The place definitely wasn't a courtroom, but it wasn't a prison, either. It was clear that it wasn't in use at the moment as there were no animals to be seen in the barn, and thanks to the rain, the expansive garden with nobody in it was quickly becoming a swamp.
"This is a safe house used by the Prosecutors Bureau for protecting witnesses. As long as you're here, I can guarantee your physical safety, Father Watteau," George said.
"Why did you rescue me?" asked Hugue, neglecting to shake the hand extended to him. The drops falling from his clothes were creating a small pool of water on the floor, but he walked around the room as if he didn't care, checking under the carpet and between the curtains. "Am I not being hunted as a terrorist? What reason could somebody from the authorities—and a prosecutor at that—have for bringing me to a place like this?"
"It is correct that at present you're being pursued as a named suspect, but to call you a terrorist is a mistake. Carrel van der Verf of Amsterdam, Hans Memlink of Antwerp . . . the ones you put your hands on all were vampires and the leaders of Count Four. Is attacking and killing them terrorism?" asked George.
Hugue didn't answer the prosecutors question; the priest's eyes merely sparkled brightly.
Sensing that he'd received his answer silently, Roddenbach continued: "We've been searching for your whereabouts since the disturbance occurred in Amsterdam. We barely picked you up when you came walking into Brussels, but prosecutors have keen eyes."
"Vampires seem to be walking around openly despite that," Hugue said sarcastically as his eyes studied the length of the iron staff" in his hand. "Count Four—how does a competent prosecutor let that group run rampant?"
"Unfortunately, it's not incompetence but powerlessness," George answered bitterly, half-expecting Hugue's question. "The influence of Count Four in the city alliance is considerable. It's not just the underworld—they're also backed by the surface world.
We've tried to take them down numerous times, but whenever we have, all it's done is increased the number of victims—until you appeared, Father Hugue."
As though he'd arrived at his main point at last, the public prosecutor pushed his rose-tinted glasses up the bridge of his nose and peered at the priest head on. "When you appeared, all the circumstances changed. Count Four's leadership was killed one by one, and cracks began to appear in their control. It seems that they're wasting a lot of time worrying about what to do about you, too. Dissatisfaction also is rampant among those in the Alliance parliament who had cooperated with Count Four until now because of this sham order for martial law. This is the first time a thing like this has happened," said George.
Outside, it was still raining heavily. A cascade of raindrops poured down the window, illuminated by the fire in the single hearth. Somehow, the young prosecutor's voice managed to overpower the sound of the elements. "It's all thanks to you, Father Watteau. One more step—with only one more step, we can choke them to death! How about it? Can't we get your support from now on? We can't do battle with Count Four publicly, but we can give you information and support. And by supporting you, we're supporting the rest of their leaders. H-hey, where are you going?"
"I'm returning to the city," Hugue replied casually as he stood up and turned on his heel. He reached for the doorknob and said over his shoulder, "I'll find lodgings in the city tonight. Thank you for rescuing me, but I don't have any intention of forming a united front with you people."
"P-please wait a minute! Darsus has long since heard that you've come to this city. They're expecting you and are completely prepared. If you approach in that kind of situation, you'll be killed at once! And after you've been abandoned by the Vatican . . ." George said.
"Thanks for the warning, Prosecutor Roddenbach, but . . ." It was the voice of a man refusing somebody. Gliding his fingers over the iron staff that contained his beloved sword, Hugue added with unbeatable clarity, "I have no intention of joining you. If you want to defeat them, do something yourselves or look for somebody else to do it. Whichever option you choose should have nothing to do with me."
"Th-there is a relationship!" George shouted, but Hugue already had taken off down the corridor. Roddenbach maintained his stance with an intensity that hadn't been in his voice before. "There is a relationship! Your father, Police Inspector Jean Jacque de Watteau, was my mentor!"
The priest stopped, slowly turning around.
Noticing the suspicion in his eyes, Roddenbach carefully spoke through clenched teeth. "Ten years ago, when I was a novice prosecutor's aide, it was Inspector Watteau who took care of me, asking for nothing in return. I was a public prosecutor and he was a police chief, but he taught me that the most important role is a guardian of the law. He also told me that more important than doing our job is to be proud of being a guardian of the law. They killed him — and so cruelly."
Considering his occupation, Roddenbach undoubtedly had witnessed the scene of that tragic event. With his eyes opened wide, as if he were once more recalling the image that had been burned into his retinas, the young prosecutor shouted in anger: "1 absolutely won't forgive them! Your grudge is my grudge! Can you still say it's nothing to do with you, Father Watteau? No, you can't, Hugue de Watteau!"
Hugue made no reply to George's blood-curdling revelation. As he peered down at the young man who was gazing up through his lenses at Hugue, a dark light shone in Hugue's eyes, as if he were a dead person wandering purgatory. "Is there a bath here?" Hugue asked as his black eyes scanned the room.
"Eh?" The prosecutor regarded him and inadvertently replied with another question.
Taking his hand off the doorknob, Hugue said, "I'm a little too tired tonight. For now, I only want to refresh myself with a bath—but afterward, I'd like a meal. Can you prepare it?"
Roddenbach's face lit up. "Th-then, you're . . . after all?" Unconsciously leaning forward, he tried to shake Hugue's hand, but Sword Dancer put his hand in front of his face instead and quietly shook his head.
"First, the bath and the meal—I'll listen to what you have to say in detail after that," Hugue said.