Chapter 662: Dawn (5)
Click. Click. Click. Click...
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch...
The capital of the United Kingdom Alliance.
A secluded underground room.
From within came a steady, mechanical, repetitive sound that reverberated throughout the chamber.
What was strange was that there wasn’t just one sound; multiple sounds overlapped, blending into a single harmonious symphony.
Naturally, this symphony was not one born out of design and had no name, but if anyone here were asked to give it one, they would likely call it the same:
The Harmony of Information.
There were two main reasons for this.
One was that the clicking sounds came from the telegraphs.
Telegraphs, transmitting messages across vast distances through signals and coded transmissions. Although telegraphs had fallen into decline since the invention of voice communication devices, they hadn’t entirely disappeared, merely lost their primary role. Thanks to their extensive range and enhanced security compared to voice transmission, some places still relied on them. One such place was the Intelligence Division of the Kingdom’s Royal Secretary’s Office.
This was where information, from both domestic and foreign sources, was gathered for the royal family of the United Kingdom Alliance.
In other words, each click, click, click held within it packets of information. Thus, calling it the Harmony of Information was no misnomer.
And then, what about the scratch, scratch sound?
That was the sound of data being compiled onto paper, transcribed from the telegraphs lined up along the walls.
Decrypting the telegraph codes, sorting the data into categories, consolidating overlapping information, and systematically organizing all the raw material—this was the process.
The resulting information was delivered in a weekly report to the head of the Royal Secretary’s Office, who, though once responsible only for the coordination of clerks, at some point had grown to play an integral role in the kingdom’s affairs.
Click. Click. Click. Click...
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch... Stop.
The relentless, mechanical harmony suddenly broke.
Someone had paused.
The clerks of the Intelligence Division, more like parts of a machine than people, all turned their heads toward the disturbance in unison.
It was a sight enough to send chills down one’s spine.
The cause of the break in harmony, Secretary 1, seemed unperturbed by the stares as he read over the message he had decoded, slowly and carefully, one character at a time.
The gazes of his colleagues changed as they watched him.
They sensed that this was not a mistake borne of laziness or inexperience but something more ominous.
And their intuition was soon validated when Secretary 1 rose from his seat and headed toward the door.
The empty spot was immediately filled by another clerk on standby, seamlessly maintaining their numbers.
Meanwhile, Secretary 1, though calm, walked swiftly out of the Intelligence Division. Soon after, the Harmony of Information resumed its mechanical tune.
Click. Click. Click. Click...
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch...
...
Knock. Knock.
Secretary 1 knocked on the door in a secluded wing of the palace.
“What is it?”
“I have something to report.”
“Come in.”
After the exchange of curt words, Secretary 1 stepped inside.
The room, as it turned out, was none other than the office of the head of the Royal Secretary’s Office, which, contrary to the splendor of the grand palace, was remarkably modest.
However, what felt even more out of place was the people inside the room.
“I apologize, everyone. Could I ask you to postpone your conversation and continue it later?”
The head of the Royal Secretary’s Office addressed the guests seated at his desk, requesting their patience.
The guests were an assortment of individuals whose presence was substantial.
They included a senior mage from a traditional school like Salas, high-ranking nobles, politicians representing the kingdom, and even executives who did direct business with the royal family, like the head of Pinkman.
Every one of them could easily be described as a heavyweight figure.
Yet, as soon as the head of the Royal Secretary’s Office mentioned that an urgent matter had come up, they all complied without complaint. Though phrased politely, it was clear that he was asking them to leave due to a pressing concern.
Could it be that his authority stemmed from his affiliation with the royal family?
The reason was unclear, but one thing was certain: these prominent figures left without any fuss.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of measured footsteps marked their departure.
Secretary 1 waited quietly to the side until all the guests had left and then entered the office of the head of the Royal Secretary’s Office.
With the guests gone, the room resumed its original ambiance—ordinary, plain, and unremarkable.
“What is it?”
The head of the office asked.
Despite overseeing a hundred royal clerks, the head of the Royal Secretary’s Office had an unassuming appearance, so ordinary that one might forget his face with only a moment’s lapse. Though it had been crafted deliberately.
Secretary 1 handed over the telegraph message he had transcribed.
“This came from the Central Continent... Woodcutter Dave is joining the hunt for the Piper.”
“...”
The Piper.
A walking catastrophe who, despite having committed hundreds of kidnappings across the Central Continent for centuries, remained unchallenged.
Though his influence had been curbed by the Archive, which somewhat diminished his notoriety, he was still a monster among monsters—one whom no one dared to confront.
In the past, every nation, including the United Kingdom Alliance, had sent armies to subdue him, only to fail.
The event was already hundreds of years old, yet it remained imprinted in everyone’s memory.
And now, after all this time, they were planning to provoke the Piper once more?
This time, with only a coalition of secondary nations and a faction of the Pater Church in the Central Continent. It was—
“A desperate act.”
The head of the office—or rather, the Eternal Puppet—remarked.
“A desperate act, Master?”
Secretary 1, the Puppet’s apprentice, asked.
“A desperate act against the approaching end. Even the Pater Church, which upholds the order of the world, wouldn’t be so foolish. They’re trying to do something, just as we are.”
A look of confusion crossed Secretary 1’s face.
“Forgive me, Master, but I don’t understand. How does targeting the Piper relate to the end?”
“That, I do not know.”
The Puppet placed the paper back on the desk. Unfortunately, Secretary 1 found that hard to believe.
His master, though despised as a black magician, had risen to this exalted position, untouchable even by the Archive—a truly remarkable man.
From the lowest depths to the highest realms, his master’s presence was everywhere.
Secretary 1 was confident that such a man would possess even the deepest secrets of the Pater Church.
Of course, confidence was one thing, but questioning was another.
And this was not due to his status as the Puppet’s disciple, nor was it a matter of power.
There was a more fundamental reason.
From a young age, Secretary 1 had viewed the Puppet as a father figure. He could never bring himself to doubt him—doing so would feel like an act of betrayal.
Just as his fellow disciples did.
All Secretary 1 could do was express concern.
“Is this alright?”
“What is?”
“Woodcutter Dave. You have expressed interest in him before. Are you sure it’s wise for him to face the Piper?”
Secretary 1 recalled his master’s hint to avoid interfering with Dave.
“Why do you assume Dave will lose?”
“Well...”
For the first time, Secretary 1’s mechanical speech faltered. He had countless reasons for thinking so.
The opponent was the Piper, after all.
However, Secretary 1 could not respond, having caught on to his master’s deeper intentions.
“Do you believe he will win, Master?”
“No, the Piper will almost certainly prevail. No human can defeat him... But there is always an exception. After all, I, too, live for that exception.”
“Even if he wins, it will be a problem.”
For the first time, emotion tinged Secretary 1’s voice, previously calm to a fault.
“He is already being called the new Finger.”
“That’s a name I made up as a half-joke.”
“Well, that name now holds power. A number of black magicians within Black Hand are secretly reaching out to the new Finger.”
This was indeed the case.
Black Hand was an enormous organization made up of black magicians but also a loosely bound alliance.
Yet, despite its loose structure, Black Hand had lasted as long as it did because of its core members—the Fingers—who had ruled for decades or even centuries, wielding overwhelming power and deep-seated greed and madness.
It was thanks to the existence of these individuals that Black Hand, despite being a loose alliance, managed to endure longer than most organizations.
However, as if mocking that long history, the Fingers had begun to fall one by one in recent times.
The Flesh Chef, known for his monstrous strength and meticulous scheming, was hunted down by the Archive after he launched an utterly reckless endeavor. Likewise, Fan, who had once created his own kingdom of dreams, was eliminated alongside his creations.
With the downfall of these once-indomitable Fingers, Black Hand’s very foundation began to crumble, leading even some of its members to consider leaving.
This is precisely why someone not officially a Finger was able to gain followers within Black Hand’s ranks, absorbing its power and influence.
In fact, this shift only accelerated after the formation of a new group called The Chosen in Gallos.
To the black magicians of Black Hand, this was nothing less than an unbearable tragedy.
“Why do you see it that way?” the Puppet asked.
“Black Hand is your creation, isn’t it, Master?” Secretary 1 replied.
Remarkably, this was indeed the case.
Though the Puppet hadn’t set out to build an organization, Black Hand had come into existence largely because of him. He had spread the seeds of black magic, nurturing ambitious and talented young ones, sponsoring their groups, and eventually uniting these families together.
One couldn’t claim that Black Hand was solely the Puppet’s doing, but neither could one deny the many ways his influence had shaped it.
“If Woodcutter Dave defeats the Piper, it will be dangerous. Although we will continue to serve you, Master, others will not. The only reason the Piper never rose to prominence despite his immense power was his single-minded obsession with kidnapping. But if Dave, already with a following, were to defeat him and build his reputation... both Black Hand and black magicians as a whole—”
“—Perhaps so.”
The Puppet cut off Secretary 1, who was growing increasingly agitated, as if his very own was being taken from him. The Puppet, however, remained calm, even to the point of detachment.
“It may have been created for such a purpose all along.”
“...What?” Secretary 1’s face grew blank, struck by an idea he couldn’t comprehend.
“It’s just a passing thought,” the Puppet murmured, “that perhaps Black Hand was meant to serve someone from the start, created for the purpose of some cunning individual.”
Secretary 1 stared in astonishment, his expression unlike anything he would normally dare to show.
To think that an organization that had survived for centuries could have been intended from the start to be an offering for a person born hundreds of years later.
Such a notion was no different from senility... or, worse yet, if not senility, then a profound absurdity. Who could dare claim such a right...?
Yet it was the Puppet himself who had practically created Black Hand saying this. Could he really be so indifferent to losing it to someone else?
“I don’t mind. Black Hand has always been a means to an end for me.”
“…”
“Hmm... Still, this news cannot go unaddressed. Whatever the reason, it is true that a promise has been broken.”
The Puppet murmured, rising from his seat.
Secretary 1 couldn’t quite understand what his master meant, and the Puppet offered no further explanation.
Not that there was any need—especially given the urgency that had just presented itself.
Oliver, who had always kept his word, had broken his pact with the Piper, an agreement to stay out of each other’s affairs. This now meant that even he himself was no exception.
The first step may have been difficult, but the second would come much easier.
A safety measure had to be implemented.
“I’ll go for a little stroll.”
“To where, Master?”
“Landa... with the pretext of... a fissure. The fissure is still open, after all. Will you join me?”
With that, the air within the office seemed to warp, and an unexpected figure appeared.
It was Lilith, donning a thistle crown over her murky, weary eyes, her discolored skin twisted and worn, embodying the form of the Unyielding Knee and Flesh Chef’s sister, Gretel...
...
Shhhhh. Shhhhh.
A simple, unadorned room, neither shabby nor extravagant.
In the middle of it, Oliver, his shirt off, was rinsing his head with a scoop of water.
Oliver’s skeletal frame, visible even through his clothing, became all the more pronounced when bare.
His ribs jutted out clearly, and his spine curved in a way that was as unsettling as it was pitiable.
It was a gaunt figure, one might say of skin and bone, yet he exuded an air of imposing pressure.
At the very least, no one in this city would dare to underestimate Oliver.
From commoners to soldiers, from holy knights to priests, even kings.
Drip. Drip.
When the water he’d drawn had run out, droplets fell from his soaked hair.
Oliver, squeezing his wet hair back, then wiped the mirror clean to look at his reflection.
Thankfully, his hair dye had taken well, and the bleached portion of his hair was now fully black.
He couldn’t understand it. Though his hair had shown only slight signs of whitening recently, the color had somehow completely faded overnight.
“Did it spread further?”
Oliver recalled the extent of his bleached hair before he’d dyed it again. Perhaps it was just a feeling, but it seemed as though the bleached area had grown. At any rate, with his hair dyed once more, it was no longer a concern.
After confirming the dye had set, he dried his hair and body with a towel before dressing himself.
He donned a crisply ironed shirt and trousers, adjusted his cuffs with cufflinks, and tied a necktie, all as the House of Angels’ staff had taught him.
He followed by putting on a matching vest, adding a dash of cologne, and slipping on an outer coat.
Although his skeletal frame did little to flatter the expensive suit, he’d chosen it for propriety, not appearance.
After one final check of his attire, he picked up the quarterstaff he had leaned against the wall, ensuring the dagger at his waist was secure before stepping out the door.
Waiting there were Kevin, Yareli, and Rosburn—the companions joining him on this occasion. Who would have thought they’d be caught up in this?
“Don’t worry about us, just focus on your task,” Kevin said, seemingly reading Oliver’s thoughts.
Although not quite as perceptive as Merlin, he seemed to know exactly what was on Oliver’s mind.
“Don’t worry.”
“Yes, Sir!”
Yareli and Rosburn echoed Kevin’s reassurance.
“Thank you.”
With heartfelt gratitude, Oliver offered his thanks, then started down the hallway, his footsteps echoing through the corridor.
As he walked, Kevin, Yareli, and Rosburn followed behind.
Once outside...
Creeeak.
A multitude of eyes turned to Oliver all at once.
The eyes of townspeople who had lost children...
The eyes of soldiers, tense and fearful...
The eyes of hopeful nuns...
The eyes of holy knights, still struggling to believe the current situation...
The eyes of kings, feeling both jealousy and fear...
And the eyes of Roderick, gazing at him with a complicated expression.
Suffocating under all those stares, Oliver walked on in silence.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The gaze of the crowd moved with each of Oliver’s steps.
In that moment, all were the same—commoners and superhumans, the rich and poor, the noble and lowly alike.
All because of a single person.
That person climbed a set of steps in the center of the square.
It was a small elevation, only a few centimeters above ground level, but it made everyone feel as if they were looking up at Oliver.
In a silence as deep as the one that had engulfed the city after the Piper’s devastation, everyone fell quiet.
A silence so dense, it was almost suffocating.
In the midst of it, Oliver spoke.
“Let us go.”