2 Minutes 5 Seconds Remaining

Chapter 42

The news that those who had involved themselves with the Penitence Cult were all imprisoned, and that two key figures from the Aristocratic faction were among them, caused Duke Barmut to instinctively press a hand to his brow and sigh.

‘My son… couldn’t you perhaps tread a little lighter?’

As a father, he couldn’t help but feel proud of his son’s zealous devotion to the Empire.

But as the head of a faction, he was simply perplexed.

That members of the Aristocratic faction, who held half the Empire’s power, and prominent members at that, had been discovered to be deeply involved with a pseudo-religion…

This would naturally lead to a weakening of the Aristocratic faction’s voice.

‘It’s a small mercy that the Anti-Aristocratic faction is in a similar predicament, but…’

Ultimately, it was the Emperor alone who benefited politically from this affair.

If scandals that crippled both factions arose, then naturally the Emperor’s word would carry more weight, and if his power increased, then Imperial authority would be strengthened.

To put it more bluntly, it meant that it would be harder to restrain the Emperor should he try to do something in the future.

‘That boy is responsible. Strengthening the Emperor’s power, surely it was done to reestablish the balance.’

In other words, Ervin must believe that both the Aristocratic and Anti-Aristocratic factions had become excessively powerful.

Duke Barmut could see the sense in that to some extent, but emotionally, it was still hard to accept.

‘To play the roles of both father and leader at the same time…it’s no easy task.’

The Duke sighed again, and then rose from his seat, already fretting about how to placate the nobles this time.

—

‘To think that after all that care, I’d be caught before I even properly began.’

Goetz Mbarev, the priest of the Penitence Cult and, in truth, its leader, frowned as he gazed at the capital city from afar.

He had expected this outcome to some degree, but given the effort he had invested, and the lack of any return, he couldn’t help but feel a bitter sting.

‘Well, trying to pull something off in the Empire, and in the capital no less, it would be stranger if I *wasn’t* caught right away…’

Even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this speed was abnormal.

He had considered the assessment from ＜Thunder Dragon＞ and ＜Puppet Showman＞ about how ridiculous the Minister was to be an overestimation, until he heard what it was like to be targeted by him.

But he had been wrong.

If anything, he had underestimated the Minister.

‘No matter. If it doesn’t work from within, then I’ll have to provoke from the outside.’

Having re-established his plan in his mind, the ＜Heretical Divine＞ turned his back on the Empire without a shred of regret.

—

“Goetz Mbarev kept his activities a secret even from the priests of the Penitence Cult, so we were unable to find any clues for pursuit, but we were able to trace the source of the drugs they used to addict their followers.”

I assumed that it would be something brought in from another country, but the source of the drugs that Celine mentioned was unexpectedly strange.

“Those who supplied the drugs, trading with the Penitence Cult, are presumed to be members of ‘Fighters’.”

“Fighters?”

Isn’t that where only those mad for fighting gather?

Less an organization, more like some hobbyist club. And those guys supplied the drugs?

“As you know, Fighters outwardly proclaims to be an assembly of warriors, but in reality, they regularly host arenas, drawing in vast funds through illegal gambling.”

Oh? Is that so?

Nasty b*stards, then.

“As such, quite a few with immense capital are tied to Fighters’ warriors. Apparently, there was someone among them with close ties to the Inquisition.”

Seems they not only provided drugs but also funds, under the guise of donations.

So, we shake down the Inquisition priests, find out who it is, and then send in the Owls, right? End of story?

“Regrettably, the one supplying the drugs and funds only ever contacted the Inquisition through an intermediary. Even the priests apparently don’t know exactly who it is.”

Hmm. That’s quite the predicament. So, we’re at a dead end, then.

“The only remaining option is to mobilize intelligence agents, even the Order, to directly confront the Fighters… but that would likely escalate into a bloodbath.”

A bloodbath, huh? I’d rather avoid seeing blood if possible. Isn’t there another way?

I wracked my brain, but there was no chance of a good idea springing forth from my head.

More than that, I think I drank too much water. I need to use the restroom.

I was just getting up to go when…

“Minister?!”

“Y-you’re going yourself?”

What’s that supposed to mean? Do people go to the restroom indirectly?

“…Understood. Please take the Owls as escorts.”

At Celine’s words, the Owls all stood and followed me in unison.

…Why?

—

The Fighters’ headquarters was as rowdy as ever.

Some were guzzling alcohol from midday, while others broke into fistfights and knife fights over the pettiest things.

However, in the next moment, all that commotion was instantly quelled by the visitor who opened the door.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say it stopped, rather than being quelled.

That’s how unexpected the presence was.

“Those Owl masks…”

“…Could it really be?”

“Why here, among the Fighters…?”

Whether in the light or the shadow, within the Empire, the Owl Mask was synonymous with terror and death.

A covert assassination organization directly under the Intelligence Minister, known as the Owls.

They deliberately revealed a measure of their presence, despite the ability to conceal it completely, to instill precisely that fear.

And the master of those Owls, the Intelligence Minister, holding also the title of Grand Duke, a man second to none.

Erwin Warmuth.

He turned his head, slowly surveying the Fighters’ headquarters.

Anyone affiliated with the Fighters, as was evident here, was a hardened veteran, a survivor.

Yet these survivors flinched under the Minister’s gaze.

Like mice before a cat.

However, even a mouse, when cornered, could turn on the cat.

“What business brings the rumored Minister to such a lowly place?”

A man, swords strapped to both hips, stepped forward to face the Minister.

His name was Ryan Ferdinandt.

An S-Rank adventurer, known by the alias “Double-Headed Serpent.”

As Ryan emanated a palpable force, seemingly to resist the Minister’s scrutiny, the Owls tensed to react.

But before they could, the Minister answered Ryan’s question.

“I have a question to ask.”

“Of whom?”

“The strongest one here.”

“That won’t do. The Fighters have no ranks.”

“Then I’ll ask you.”

As if awaiting those words, Ryan grinned, baring his teeth.

“Here, strength alone is the absolute rule, the absolute truth. No matter that you are a Minister, if you cannot prove your own strength, you can do nothing.”

His own strength.

Meaning, even if he had the Owls fight, he wouldn’t get what he wanted.

In their minds, the Owls scoffed at Ryan.

There were countless ways to loosen his tongue.

But the Minister’s next word stifled their amusement.

“Very well.”

“If it pleases you… pleases you, how?”

“I will fight you.”

A kaleidoscope of reactions bloomed.

The Owls recoiled, attempting to dissuade him. The warriors, watching with bated breath, widened their eyes in shock. And Lion, he simply couldn’t mask his incredulity.

“…Are you jesting? If you think that because you’re the Minister, I’ll simply roll over, you are sorely mistaken.”

“I hold no such illusions. But I would like to propose a condition.”

“A condition?”

The Minister relayed his terms to the bewildered Lion.

“As you can see, I am no warrior. Therefore, let my victory condition be surviving for three minutes.”

Lion, now less incredulous and more enraged, questioned him again, as if to confirm.

“…Three minutes?”

“Too brief? Five, perhaps ten minutes then. If you can fell me within that time, victory is yours.”

“Silence!”

Lion, finally pushed past his breaking point, drew two swords from his waist.

Immediately, he pushed back the Owls who tried to intervene, ordering them not to interfere and screamed at the Minister brandishing his swords.

“One minute! No, I’ll finish you in ten seconds!”

“It would be a pity if you lost, wouldn’t it.”

The conversation ended there. Lion’s twin blades were unleashed upon the Minister.

His anger boiled, threatening to consume him, yet Lion maintained a fragile grip on his composure.

‘I can’t kill him, but if he gets hit, he should prepare to be at least a paraplegic!’

He aimed for the legs.

Swinging with the flat of the blade.

Even as he wielded his twin swords, Lion anticipated the Owls would intervene.

But something was amiss.

He sensed no intent from the Owls to interfere.

‘What is this? They truly intend for me to fight him one-on-one?’

In the time it took to blink, Lion was drowning in a sea of thoughts.

Should he withdraw his swords now? Was it truly permissible to strike him? There would certainly be problems afterward. The thoughts continued to pile up, until.

‘Ah…!’

His swords, still wavering in their resolve, struck the Minister’s legs.

He was flung back, just like that.

“Huh…?”

Ryan, stumbling back a few paces, stared blankly at the Minister.

His legs were fine.

Not even a scratch on his trousers.

“Wh-what is this…?”

He hadn’t intended to kill, true, but this was a sword swung with all his might, expecting to be stopped by the owls.

And it was blocked.

He thought he’d connected, but in reality, he hadn’t even touched him.

The Minister, noticing Ryan’s confusion, pulled out a pocket watch, checked the time, and spoke.

“Ten seconds have passed. Shall we continue?”

“B-but, you said three minutes!”

“Indeed. Then, let us proceed.”

Slightly relieved by the invitation to continue, Ryan reassumed his stance.

‘The attack didn’t work… must be the power of some artifact. A defensive artifact? If that’s the case…!’

He abandoned the idea of striking with the flat of his blade.

He abandoned, too, the thought of not killing him.

‘I’ll strike with the *intent* to kill!’

The twin swords’ pristine white blades blazed with light.

Those two swords were the very symbol that had earned Ryan the moniker “Double-Headed Serpent.”

No arrogance.

No carelessness.

Just the execution of his specialty – a blindingly fast barrage of attacks to obliterate the enemy before him.

“Hiss, exhale… Here I come!”

“Two minutes and ten seconds remain.”

Like two vipers, Ryan lunged towards the Minister, his swords a blur of motion.

An S-Rank adventurer, he could unleash over a hundred consecutive strikes in a single breath.

Among those present, only the owls could follow Ryan’s blades with their eyes.

100, 200, 300, 400… Enduring the pain that felt like his arms were about to snap, Ryan gritted his teeth.

In his experience, even the most powerful defensive artifacts had their limits.

And so, to whittle away his endurance, he struck, struck, struck, and struck again.

“Hukk…!”

It was Ryan’s stamina that gave way first.

The Minister spoke again to Ryan, who was straining every sinew to stay upright despite his body screaming in protest, pushed beyond its limits.

“Two minutes, five seconds remaining.”

Eventually, Ryan collapsed.