"…Lord Kashchey, I've done everything you asked of me. Please… could you let me go?"
"Of course. I forgive you."
"Praise your mercy, my lord! I swear, never again will I allow greed to blind me, never again will I dare reach for your interests—"
"Hahaha~ you do have such a silver tongue. But if there is a next time…"
"There won't be! I swear it, Lord Kashchey!"
"Ah… then I shall believe you this one last time."
(After all, I cannot betray myself.)
(And how could I possibly entrust this task to you—someone with a record of failure?)
---
Across the frozen tundra of Ursus, the Reunion Movement was on the move.
They were marching toward Chernobog.
"…Forgive me. If I hadn't been so desperate to recruit allies back then, blurting out those words… perhaps none of this would be happening now." Talulah spoke with guilt heavy in her voice, trudging forward through the howling snowstorm.
"You need not blame yourself," came Patriot's rasping reply beside her. "If not for your decision at that time, Reunion would never have grown to what it is today."
Talulah fell silent, his words pulling her into memory.
Reunion was no longer the obscure little group it once had been. Infected across Terra now knew its name—at least in passing.
After all, in the beginning Talulah had thrown herself into charitable efforts, striving to rescue and support the infected. She had even gained a reputation for it, earning names both admiring and mocking: the Naïve Duke's Heir, the Infected's Little Philanthropist.
Talulah understood well enough: had she not borne the title of Kashchey's successor, the nobles of Ursus would have treated her far more viciously for infringing on their interests.
She had considered appealing to Kashchey himself. Yet deep down she knew—he would never agree to help her.
---
"No clear ideology, no material foundation, and most importantly—no profit to be made. All I see is a bottomless pit that drains wealth and effort. Talulah, I admire your purity of heart… but I know better than anyone: on this land, simple kindness saves no one."
Kashchey's voice was calm as his hands worked through her hair, weaving it into a complex braid.
Talulah, seated before him, had become his preferred model for experimentation.
(Hm~ If this looks good, perhaps I'll have the 'Teacher' wear her hair this way too.)
Kashchey, after all, had always held beauty in high regard.
"…So what then? We do nothing? We just stand by and let the infected suffer persecution, discrimination, death? Until we have some 'concrete plan,' we let countless innocents be trampled to their graves?" Talulah's fists clenched in defiance.
With her back turned, she failed to see Kashchey's distracted expression.
"Talulah, you've been with me long enough to know—I have neither the position nor the right to interfere in relations between infected and uninfected. I cannot be infected myself; I cannot comprehend what it feels like to live under the shadow of death."
"…"
"In truth, even the policies I enforce in my own domain exist only to prevent the waste of talent—so that they may create greater value for me."
Kashchey's words were meant to soothe her, to reason with her… perhaps even to pry open her heart.
Kashchey truly did wish to raise Talulah as his successor.
The Black Snake could manage many vessels at once—but every split consumed his own strength.
Why, then, did he not simply turn every host in his domain into another Kashchey?
Because he could not bear it.
To implant himself into another's mind was merely to set a mechanism: upon receiving the right signal, the Black Snake would awaken.
But to seize a body outright was different—it meant full possession, total control. And that required far more energy.
With the endless duties of a duke, having someone trustworthy to share the burden was the ideal solution.
Even Kashchey grew weary of the endless, grinding work of governance.
(At worst, I'll simply let Talulah live out her years. Once she grows old and dies, I can return and reclaim the title myself.)
He had already drawn up his travel plans. After all, his own lifespan stretched farther than even he could see.
---
"..."
Hearing Kashchey's words, Talulah felt powerless. No matter how she tried to argue, her rebuttals collapsed in her throat.
(But every reform begins with trial and error. If we do not dare to try, how will we ever learn?)
(If all we do is daydream, refining plans in our imagination, then how many more infected will be persecuted in the meantime?)
(…To truly empathize?)
(I understand now…)
(Forgive me… Kashchey.)
The very next day, Talulah fled from Kashchey's manor.
As an infected, she could no longer be his heir.
---
(As expected, Boris could not hold Chernobog.)
A Liberi woman strode openly through a Chernobog checkpoint.
By all rights, this body—Koshelna—was well known within Ursus, and should have been recognized at once.
Yet the guards treated her as though she were a stranger. After a cursory glance at her papers, they waved her through.
The woman nodded in thanks and walked on, left hand cradling an open notebook, right hand holding a quill pen.
She strolled forward, writing as she moved.
Upon the page was freshly inked a single line:
[Those who see Koshelna shall believe it is their first time meeting her.]
(Now then… which school is Natalya attending~?)
After all, even a hero required a guide.
---
"Hey! You there—stop!"
An infected man was cornered in a narrow alley by brutal Ursus police.
"Please, spare me! I don't want to die in the mines!"
He dropped to his knees, begging again and again.
"Tch, shut up already. So noisy."
The officer swung his baton, striking the man's skull.
Blood streamed down his head, pattering onto the frozen ground.
"Get up and move! The sooner I haul you in, the sooner I'm done. I'll toss you into the mines and make some extra coin on the side—"
He never finished the sentence.
An arrow struck his back. He collapsed, writhing in pain.
A figure in a Reunion uniform appeared, crossbow still in hand.
From a distance, he tossed a dagger to the bleeding infected man on the ground.
"Do not be afraid, brother. We are Reunion. We have come to save you."
He nudged the fallen officer with his boot. The man still clung to life.
"Prove your courage, brother. Show us you are worthy to join our ranks."
The frail infected man trembled as he picked up the blade.
He stared at the officer's pleading face.
'…'
'This is your own fault!'
With a desperate cry, he drove the dagger into the officer's throat.
"You've done well, brother," the Reunion fighter said approvingly.
"Together, let us save this corrupt city and build a home for all infected!"
He tossed his uniform over.
Overwhelmed with relief, the newly "liberated" infected man was too moved, too grateful, to question—
Why had the stranger kept his distance the entire time?