Vol 1.5: House Painter Chapter Text
I let out a sigh of exasperation as my horse galloped at top speed, carrying me from Trost District back into Wall Maria. The recent encounter with those peculiar Military Police soldiers had left a lasting impression on my mind.
Do I have to worry about bounty hunters now?
They were different from the standard Military Police, these individuals displayed a level of skill and competency beyond the ordinary. It seemed they didn't appreciate resistance from their targets, however.
I do recall a memory from when I was 9, when I fought government-trained fighters. Those MPs were a notch or two below them in power. I guess that's the best you can get in this world.
Speaking of this world...
One piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. If I were to draw a comparison, it resembled something out of the Soviet Union, akin to the KGB—a unit adept at silencing dissent and, in literary terms, suppressing wrong-think.
I began to form an understanding of how the government managed to hide their lies for so long—they simply killed individuals who delved too deeply into the true nature of humanity's existence within the walls.
Could the MPs have multiple informants scattered across the walls? If so, how many? I speculated on a few dozen in each major city like Trost. Did this mean the librarian or the pastor was an informant? That means, since they've seen my face, I'd be a target...
Another unsettling thought lingered...
I hadn't shared my theories or the information I possessed with anyone. Was there some form of mind-reading magic at play that I wasn't aware of? This could explain how they perceived me as a threat.
However, that theory didn't entirely add up.
As the wind pushed against my back, I delved deeper into my situation. I still hadn't obtained the necessary documents of identification or made significant progress in solving the mystery surrounding my predicament. Constant trouble seemed to follow me in this world—encounters with the military police, criminals, and the regression of my age. Ignorant people, lazy people, and those with competence—my journey in this world presented a myriad of troublesome challenges.
Either way, my challenges were human. They had flaws that could easily be exploited...
They also bled the same blood that could soak the streets.
||𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑: 𝐖𝐀𝐗 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒||
Mitras, the Royal Capital of the Walls, stood as the opulent abode of the royal Fritz Family. A haven of luxury, it attracted the wealthiest and most elite members of society. Its grand architecture, delectable cuisine, and extravagant indulgences made it a coveted destination for those within the walls, provided they could afford the privilege.
Within its walls resided the renowned Royal Assembly of King Fritz, a council comprising the most influential figures in the realm. Their official duty, under the king's jurisdiction, was to provide counsel to the monarch and oversee local governance.
In theory, at least...
SLAM!!
The resounding echo of a wooden table and a pair of hands slamming against it reverberated within the council chambers.
"Lord Aruille, please calm yourself," a voice attempted to pacify the visibly agitated man.
"How can I be calm? I was taught that the Asian Clan was wiped off the face of the map! The truth behind the walls can be put into jeopardy as long as that—that—whatever it is still exists!"
Lord Deltoff raised his hand to speak. "I agree. The Asian Clan's continued persecution wasn't annulled by His Majesty. It's only reasonable that to keep the truth from leaking, we continue the First King's wishes. Though I find it troubling that..."
The men within the council chamber grimaced as they recollected the report of the incident in Trost District. A young man, presumably of Asian descent, strolled into a library in the early morning, requesting books on the history of the world. Nothing inherently wrong, except for his appearance.
The Asian Clan had faced persecution for decades for not conforming to the First King's wishes. Coupled with their perceived threat to the paradise the First King sought to create, they were hunted down and, essentially, driven to extinction.
Until now, it seemed like a haunting echo.
The described scene was a nightmare. Twelve bodies of Interior Military Police were found scattered in a Trost District alleyway one day, all killed by blunt force.
Shattered ribs and punctured lungs suggested deaths from either asphyxiation or powerful punches to the solar plexus. Snapped necks were the easiest to diagnose.
What disturbed the council most was the expressions on the faces of the Interior Military Police—they all appeared terrified.
Each takedown or kill was executed with maximum efficiency. It shouldn't have been possible, they collectively thought. The fact that there was minimal blood spilled, a teenager took down and killed twelve grown men from the Interior Police without sustaining injuries. Only an Ackerman could achieve such feats.
Could it be that there was some sort of Ackerman-Asian mix?
The report was built on inferences and circumstantial information. A cover-up was deemed necessary, as they had no clear understanding of what transpired in Trost.
The mission was seemingly straightforward—capture or eliminate the remaining members of the Asian Clan and withdraw. Simple, yet...
What kind of monster was this person?
Gerald, a high-ranking military official, raised his hand to speak. "With the information available, I propose we search for the culprit in the surrounding area near Trost District. Can we all agree on that?"
Nods of approval followed the suggestion, and Gerald continued.
"Upon identification of the suspect, instruct the Interior Police to shadow him until we can make contact with...Kenny's Squad. The suspect has proven to be dangerous, even without a weapon. Do we have a physical description?"
"Yes. Here it is."
"I see..." Gerald inspected the rough sketch.
Aruille spoke out. "Wait, we're just going to let Kenny's Squad handle it? The brat only got a cheap shot because the Interior Police weren't prepared. Give them another chance, and they'll deal with him easily."
In all honesty, a palpable sense of fear permeated the room at the mere mention of the Rogue Ackerman, fueled not only by his sheer strength and ruthlessness but also by the haunting echoes of his past exploits.
This incident served as a reminder of the era when Kenny Ackerman held the moniker "Kenny The Ripper," a name etched in history for the relentless killing of numerous Military Police officers across the walls, tallying an impressive count of 100 kills.
Oddly enough, within the confines of these council chambers, there lingered a peculiar sense of pride among the nobility. The memory of Kenny's notorious past stirred a simmering ambition—to seize the opportunity and rid themselves of this formidable force.
If they could successfully eliminate someone similar to Kenny's calibre, then perhaps the audacious dream of confronting the big man himself, became within reach.
One prominent family, conspicuously absent from the current proceedings, held a key association with Kenny Ackerman's allegiance. The unspoken understanding permeated the room—neutralizing Kenny would pave an unobstructed path toward greater influence and power.
It was a strategic move, one made from pride and greed—a means to eliminate a crucial piece from the chessboard of power politics.
Confidence was the currency they sought to cultivate. The conviction that with Kenny out of the picture, their aspirations for dominance and control over the Walls, wealth—and so many others would be one step closer to fruition.
"Maybe...That will be taken into consideration..."
||𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑: 𝐖𝐀𝐗 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒||
Nobles, contingent upon their titles, wielded several forms of authority within the governance and societal fabric of the higher lord to whom they pledged allegiance.
Consider this: a Baron, when juxtaposed with a Count or a Count with a Duke, would not command as much influence. It essentially mirrored the workings of medieval politics during that era.
What's the underlying point here?
Societal perception deems individuals as inferior based on the diminished prestige of their noble titles. That sounds familiar, correct?
Now, the core of the matter arises—what would be the highest noble title you could have to remain anonymous, but at the same time have an abundance of power? Perhaps a Marquess? Or perhaps a Count?
I pondered those statements as the ODM hooks grappled onto the rooftop tiles of the massive estate. From my vantage point, I could observe the meticulously trimmed garden hedges and lawns. If I could estimate, this place was around a few dozen hectares large, a majority of the land being covered in ornate gardens.
Highly flammable...
No, no, no. Kiyotaka, don't think those thoughts. Or maybe...
I shouldn't have destroyed so much of my stuff, I could've used it now. But there's no use in dwelling in the past. No matter how troublesome it is to remember.
It's not like I was attached to Flint-and-Steel-chan or anything.
The open window presented itself as a welcoming invitation, a gesture likely made to invite the cool evening air into the room while its occupant slumbered peacefully.
In a humid climate, the risk of mosquito bites soared exponentially, especially in the darkness of night when these tiny bloodsuckers ventured out in search of their next meal.
Malaria, if it plagued this world as it did in my original, would undoubtedly reign as one of the most challenging adversaries within the confines of the walls.
While human movement could be constrained, the freedom of birds and, regrettably, mosquitoes remained unchecked.
With a calculated decision, I unfastened the cumbersome straps of my ODM gear, its metallic components emitting faint sounds with each movement. I placed the device gingerly by the window's edge. However, I kept the swords for safekeeping.
I would return here.
The window stood ajar, providing just enough space for a potential intruder to slip through without arousing undue attention. However, widening the gap further would be necessary for my silent...
I'm not sugarcoating it, breaking and entering. That's what I'm doing.
Scree!
As I began the delicate task of expanding the opening, the faint sound of metal meeting metal filled the air—no louder than a whisper. I paused.
The window has been kept in this position for so long that it doesn't move easily. How...annoying.
Peering cautiously into the room, I discerned the presence of one figure, likely the room's inhabitant, lost in the depths of slumber, oblivious to the world outside her dreams...snoring, her rhythmic breaths punctuating the stillness of the night.
Is there an elephant in there?
With measured steps, I eased my body through the narrow threshold, mindful of each creaking floorboard that threatened to say, "Hey, listen! Kiyobaka is here!"
In the eerie silence of the room, I couldn't help but recall those suspenseful horror movies I used to watch, where a single misstep often spelled doom for the unsuspecting protagonist.
Step!
Step!
The floorboards, freshly replaced and meticulously renovated, betrayed no hint of protest as I advanced further into the room.
Taking a moment to scrutinize my surroundings, I found myself in a space that exuded luxury. Various items of opulence adorned the room, tempting me to consider them as potential souvenirs.
Am I becoming Kamuro?
My attention gravitated toward the source of the resonant snoring emanating from the bed. The sleeper, despite the less-than-dignified symphony of snores, captivated my curiosity.
Her ebony locks, reminiscent of a certain compass devil, framed her face with an almost ethereal quality. Despite the droll coming from her slightly parted lips, her beauty was undeniable—clear, porcelain skin accentuating her exquisite figure.
In a subjective comparison, I found her allure on par with the likes of Horikita or perhaps Ichinose. It wasn't lost on me that she appeared to be in the age range I was before my regression into my 14-year-old self, placing her at around 17 or 18 years of age.
"..."
"..."
"..."
82/59/84
"..."
"..."
"..."
Ahem...
The silence enveloping the entire estate was deafening as I began to complete a singular objective: obtaining evidence.
My goal was straightforward—acquire simple evidence or any correspondence that might unveil the government's hidden truths. It was a calculated risk, a discomforting element I preferred to avoid.
If indeed the government was lying to the populace, harbouring a secret significant enough to warrant killing certain individuals, then those in positions of authority or individuals close to the government likely possessed crucial clues or the complete truth.
These deductions were drawn from a subtle blend of deductive reasoning and, let's say, a few enhanced interrogation techniques.
Wink wink, nudge nudge.
CRACK!
The deafening sound of bones cracking and breaking reached my ears as I finished off the second-to-last of my pursuers. I turned and moved toward the last one, the most inexperienced one, the most terrified one.
He was whimpering and crying, such a pathetic man. Ever since the tides turned against them, which wasn't that quick—it took less than 2 minutes—his resolve had broken faster than Kei's. He watched his comrades die while he cowered in a corner of an alleyway.
So weak.
I approached him slowly. Judging by his bodily condition, he appeared to be around 23 to 24. He had an entire life ahead of him and yet got assigned to the worst task possible: hunting me.
"May I ask you a question?"
My voice echoed through the room, devoid of emotion, cutting through the tense air like a blade.
"Heeeeeii!" He threw his hands over his head, panic gripping him like a cobra's choke. "P-Please! Don't hurt me..."
If you say that, it makes me want to hurt you.
"Relax. May I ask you a question?"
The young man trembled, his trauma palpable. No injuries marred his body, no specks of blood stained his clothes, no signs of exhaustion, adrenaline, or fear. There was nothing, and I'm sure he realized it too.
But the human mind always sought solutions in desperate situations. They could either fight or retreat. In different contexts, such as psychological trauma, the same formula applies. If the individual right here decided to fight me, he'd be dead faster than he could blink.
So that option was off the table.
The only remaining option was the slim chance of fleeing the premises, reporting me to his superiors, and then licking his wounds. I purposefully left his ODM gear intact for this reason.
"I-if you're just going to kill me, then do it already! I'm not telling you anything!"
"No."
"H-huh?"
"No."
"W-what do you mean, no?"
"I just want to ask you a question. That's all."
His voice quivered and shook, it reminded me of Sakura's stutter.
"W-w-what's your question?"
"How expensive is salt in the walls?"
This caught him off guard, his expression morphing into a blend of fear and confusion.
"I-I don't understand—"
"How expensive is salt in the walls?"
"R-really expensive! I-it can only be mined i-in Wall Rose! There's only one mine that does it! I-if this is some sick joke, then kill me already!"
This man's resolve shattered like glass, scattered by the wind. How fascinating. Teenagers in ANHS had more mental fortitude than the adults of this world. I don't know whether to be disappointed or curious about what they're feeding these people to make them such weaklings.
"I see. May I ask you another question?"
The man, a broken soul reduced to tears, weakly but frantically nodded his head.
He was grappling with the reality of his predicament, grasping onto the slim hope of survival. The fear of death had long ago conquered the human race.
Coming to terms with mortality was something that most people didn't want to think about. The simple fact that all the things you do, the relationships you cultivate, the achievements, the love—all the sensations of simply being alive disappear as soon as you die, is...something.
Perhaps I'm in hell, and this is the afterlife.
I wonder what it would feel like to be the first person to see another dead human. I wonder what they felt at that exact moment.
"...How much salt would it take to dissolve your eyeballs?"
"W-w-w-wha—"
"Stop stuttering," I pulled out a few containers of a certain rocky substance that became so common to put on foods in the modern era—salt. There were about 200 grams total of salt in the two. "Would it take 1 or 2? Answer the question."
"Sob...sob...sob...sob...I don't know...!" He just kept crying.
"I bet your tears are salty too..." I remarked, slowly opening the cap off one of the containers.
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know...!" Time was running out, I needed to get out of here and quickly. My horse was waiting for me outside the city gates and I couldn't dawdle any further.
I simply stared at him.
"Please...please don't hurt me..." He begged and begged. "Don't...don't pour salt in my eyes...I'll...I'll...
"You'll what?"
"...Anything...I'll..."
I wonder if people are this afraid of salt in real life.
In medieval times, one method of torture was known as "the goat." This involved placing a person in a prone position on a table. Their feet were tied, and a goat was placed on top of them. The goat was then often encouraged to lick salt placed on the person's feet. The rough texture of the goat's tongue, combined with the abrasiveness of salt, could cause discomfort.
I believe I read somewhere on the internet that there was one incident where the captives' feet's skin was ripped off by the goat's tongue, but that may have been a misinterpretation.
"You will what?"
"I'll tell you...you...who ordered us!"
Not the best answer, but a satisfactory one. They really want me to go down a rabbit hole...