A man approached Oscar from behind. Unlike the men in suits, his clothes were disheveled, as if he had just come from battle. He was the one who had been hiding among the bushes, waiting for Oscar. His report came quickly, his voice tight.
“Search teams have recovered the bodies of the three deceased team members. However, we have not been able to ascertain the location of the team leader and deputy leader, who appear to have been captured alive.”
“Survival probability.”
He asked the question, though he already knew the answer.
“…We are searching with the objective of recovering bodies.”
Oscar took a deep drag from his cigarette and let out a low laugh.
So. One entire spy team—embedded within the Beta Mercenary Corps, the secret support arm of the Luxen King—had been utterly annihilated.
Oscar’s laughter made the reporting man, Simon, and the surrounding wolves hold their breath. The sound was dry, like embers that had not yet cooled. He flicked the half-smoked cigarette onto the gravel of the railway track and slowly crushed it beneath his shoe.
“Not one or two. The entire team, deployed sequentially, all discovered…”
And not even inside the Luxen royal palace. The agents planted within the mercenary support organization had been exposed just as thoroughly.
Through the smoke he exhaled, his sapphire eyes gleamed with cruelty.
“It means I’m being toyed with by some bastard.”
He added, almost softly, that the wolf had been torn apart and fed to the hounds—no different from killing it and displaying the carcass.
“What shall we do?”
Oscar stared at the endless railway tracks.
“Discard all intelligence originating from Team 3-2.”
A natural decision. Information from a compromised unit could no longer be trusted.
“Stop the search for the two captured alive.”
At the cold command that followed, the wounded wolf lifted his head. He was about to beg for permission to continue searching—just once more—but lowered his gaze again upon seeing his master slide sleek black gloves onto his hands.
Another train was approaching from the distance.
Oscar stepped back several paces and unbuttoned a few buttons of his shirt, which felt constricting. He slipped a gloved hand into his pocket. Then, with a tremendous gust of wind, the head of the train swept past him. A violent metallic screech followed as it decelerated sharply.
When the train, which had slowed as if in an emergency stop, came to a complete halt, Oscar ascended the steps.
Unlike the train that had carried Seo-ah—gorgeously appointed—this one looked like exposed steel girders left behind after a fire that had failed to consume them. Raw silver metal. Raw men.
The elite search and combat teams of Reinhardt bowed deeply toward the master who had summoned them. Oscar strode through the narrow corridor between sharply honed wolves.
With another metallic screech, the train departed.
Oscar reached the vantage point from which he could observe them all. He conducted his final review, eyes passing over the bowed soldiers.
The mercenary group where the compromised agents had been stationed was an armed force used by the King of Luxen for discreet cleansing operations. The assassins who had followed Felpe were hired through them. They were the hands that carried out the King’s dirtiest work. The plan had been to infiltrate, observe, and expose.
But the spies had been discovered.
“They tore the wolf and fed it to the hounds.”
At the softly spoken words, those bowing began to lift their heads.
Oscar’s deep-set gaze met the eyes of agents burning with vengeance. As they straightened fully, he delivered his order.
If they couldn't find out what the King was plotting, they would simply cut off the hands that plotted. Since those hands had been dipped in filth, they wouldn't be able to pick up the severed parts.
“Five days.”
His voice did not rise.
“Bring me the head of the Beta Mercenary Corps leader within five days.”
The agents—still seeing the mutilated bodies of their comrades in their minds—answered with a resounding unity. As if they had been waiting for that command.
“Understood, sir.”
—
Luxen.
A land with a mild climate year-round, blessed with vast, unblemished territory. Geographically positioned at the heart of the Norfolk Continent, it had served as a hub of trade for generations. Money flowed naturally, and where money gathered, art and culture bloomed.
Vues, the capital of Luxen, was called the Pearl of Norfolk—so advanced in art and culture that even a museum found on an ordinary street often surpassed the grandeur of foreign royal palaces. Yet the true essence of Vues’s artistry lay, without question, in the royal palace.
At the palace’s main gate stood two colossal pillars, each ten meters high, perfectly symmetrical. Atop each, a double-headed eagle—the symbol of the royal family—spread its vast wings, gazing in all directions. Just as the pillars mirrored one another, so too did the palace itself. Perfect symmetry.
But the beauty of symmetry was not meant for the outside eye. It was meant to be seen from within, looking out. The palace architect had designed everything from the King’s viewpoint.
The King’s balcony sat at the center of that symmetry, the very heart of the palace.
It was the most beautiful balcony in the palace—some said in the world. Marble railings, marble floors, every detail a crafted work of art itself. Yet what truly stole breath was the view beyond.
A clear horizon beneath a sky that remained blue throughout the year. A golden eagle gleaming sharply against that blue. Below, a lawn garden patterned like a painted tapestry, symmetrical fountains aligned along its design. Colonnades of repeating arches stretched outward, framing the garden like a living painting made solely for the King.
Everyone praised this balcony.
Everyone except its owner, to the point of detesting it.
The problem was that this person was the owner of the royal palace and the owner of the balcony: the King.
King Leopold of Luxen stood alone at its center, gazing straight ahead.
He had not always hated this place. Once, he had loved it enough to paint the view as a keepsake. As a memento.
Until that bastard became an eyesore.
Beyond the main gate, in a straight line from the balcony, lay a vast circular intersection. At its center stood a towering statue.
Where the statue of Luxen’s first King should have been, stood the statue of the late Marquis Reinhardt.
The hero who saved the nation.
Even now, commoners passing by would stop to explain Reinhardt’s glory to their children.
That cursed statue, visible every day, reminded Leopold of that smug bloodline.
But it was not only the statue.
Leopold stared at Oscar’s face printed on the front page of the morning newspaper and threw the paper down.
The major daily papers of Luxen endlessly reported on either the decline of foreign royal families or the growth of Reinhardt Steel Company. Since fallen foreign kings made poor headlines, Oscar’s photograph frequently occupied the front page.
The Pillar of Luxen — Reinhardt Steel Company.
A damnable title.
The lady-in-waiting, standing like a shadow, bent to pick up the discarded newspaper. Just then, a middle-aged gentleman entered the balcony through the open doors.
“Your Majesty.”
It was Count Jerome, known as Leopold’s right hand. Late last year, he had successfully offered his only daughter as the King’s fiancée.
The Count bowed deeply, but Leopold barely acknowledged him, placing a cigarette between his lips. Then, the lady-in-waiting, who had folded the newspaper and placed it on the sofa, approached and lit the King's cigarette, then quietly closed the balcony doors. Only then did Leopold speak, irritation coating every syllable.
“Did you see today’s newspaper?”
“……”
“The news I wanted wasn’t printed. Instead, ‘The Pillar of Luxen, Reinhardt Steel Company.’ At this rate, they’ll rename the country Reinhardt soon.”
“Your Majesty…”
“What should I do? Open a bank like the King of Felpe and sell vault accounts?”
Leopold snapped, flicking ash from his cigarette.
“You bragged you could kill him this time. But instead of killing him, not a single one of your men returned alive. How did that happen?”
“I apologize. I am ashamed.”
“Or perhaps…”Leopold’s eyes sharpened.“…you are afraid of the Marquis’s wife and unable to kill him?”
At the loaded question, Count Jerome’s expression stiffened—just slightly.
—