Chapter 92 - Silver Horseshoe Beneath the Night Sky (4)

Chapter 92 - Silver Horseshoe Beneath the Night Sky (4)

Haires returned to the hotel just before noon.

By the time he finished a simple meal in his room and packed his things to leave, the clock had just passed noon.

"I'll carry it for you."

"No need. Just open the door."

"Yes, sir."

Fortunately, Hagen had finished his lunch early and was already waiting for Haires with the car parked out front.

The vehicle soon set off.

Rather than trouble Hagen, Haires drifted into thought while performing the habits of Paul Luther.

"Shall I take you directly to Grimman?"

"Ah, well… No, drop me off at the place we met the first time."

"Understood."

Hagen firmly believed that a covert Central Intelligence Bureau operation was underway in that village.

After all, why else would Major Luther, known for his distaste of poultry stench, ask to be taken there? Just as Haires intended, Hagen drew his own conclusions and was satisfied with them.

'This isn't good.'

As Haires sifted through the information the intelligence agent had given him, he pieced together that the situation was far more dire than it seemed.

But there was little he could do.

He had long since retired, and this was the price he had to pay for building and running a secretive, powerful organization under the Emperor's command.

Once, even Walter had feared Haires and dared not make careless moves.

As Director of the Special Security Bureau, Haires may have known more imperial secrets than Walter himself.

Only Haires knew the extent of the safety measures he had put in place without Walter's knowledge.

If Walter had tried to cast Haires aside back then, Haires would have died—but in return, the Empire's darkest secrets, especially the very existence of the Special Security Bureau, would have been exposed.

The Empire might have crumbled under the weight of a single man.

That was then.

Not now.

Not simply because Haires had long since retired—but because Walter now knew Haires had a weakness.

And he was right.

Haires' last remaining family.

His only son, Ernest Krieger.

Haires had always loved Ernest as a father should.

But Walter had waited, believing Haires might not form a bond with a newborn.

Now, convinced that Haires loved his son, Walter had started breaking promises and prodding him.

Haires thought of the Krieger house, of the somber air, and of the boy who had carried a torch into that darkness.

But the boy's flame alone couldn't drive away the shadows cast by Haires.

Upon arriving in the village, Haires again covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief before stepping out of the car.

He gave Hagen a curt farewell, grumbled about the smell of poultry droppings, and opened the door with his key.

Inside, everything appeared unchanged.

Haires changed back into his original clothes and removed his disguise.

Knock, knock, knock.

After a brief wait, someone knocked on the door. Haires silently stepped outside.

"We've been waiting. This way, sir."

Following the new coachman, Haires boarded another carriage.

"An honor to see you again, Sir Haires."

Martin, looking as immaculate as the day before, greeted Haires with a smile.

Haires said nothing, and the carriage set off toward Grimman.

"I've received a rough report. As expected, your skills are impressive. They didn't suspect a thing and accepted it all without resistance."

Martin seemed genuinely pleased.

Even after perfectly deceiving and killing two agents of the Central Intelligence Bureau who had devoted their lives to the Empire.

"Ah, I've been doing all the talking again. Don't you have something to say as well, Sir Haires?"

Haires looked at him for a moment, then began to speak in a quiet, murmured voice—relaying the information he'd been given by the misled intelligence officer.

Martin listened attentively with a cheerful face.

"I see. Fascinating."

After hearing everything, he clasped his hands tightly once and tapped the back of his hand with his finger.

"So then, what do you think, Sir Haires?"

Martin smiled and asked for his opinion.

Haires answered immediately.

"I think nothing of it."

"..."

Martin quietly studied Haires' expressionless face and monotone voice, like a doll or a machine.

"You already know everything, don't you?"

Martin pressed him again.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Sir Haires."

Martin's tone turned firm as Haires feigned ignorance.

"The Empire needs your help."

Martin wanted Haires to return.

"The Empire has never once needed my help."

Haires firmly rejected the idea.

Martin's brow twitched, and before he could argue further, Haires cut him off again.

"I have no intention of returning to the Special Security Bureau or any other agency."

"Sir Haires."

"You can't persuade me. Not even the Emperor can."

"..."

Martin looked at Haires with a gaze as if betrayed.

He had never imagined that the first director of the Special Security Bureau would so resolutely turn away from the looming crisis of the Empire.

"Sir Haires, the Empire is in peril."

After a moment's silence, Martin swallowed hard and began speaking calmly.

"The rebels question His Majesty's authority, they've smuggled away Balt Batteries, they're training Baltrachers, and from the shadows, they wait to insult, pollute, and trample our land, our people, our nation."

Haires remained silent, letting Martin speak.

As Martin gazed into Haires' dark, deep eyes, he felt like he was racing through a narrow labyrinth.

"In the regions far from the capital, the Imperial influence is waning, and the people suffer under harsh extortion and embezzlement."

Martin even began to speak words he should not have dared.

He didn't fully understand why he felt so urgent and desperate.

"And as you just reported yourself, the Allied Forces are sharpening their blades in secret, waiting to threaten our Empire. Even so, Sir Haires, how can you—who once built the very foundations to protect and uphold this Empire—say such a thing?"

The mission itself had been designed to persuade Haires.

Otherwise, they wouldn't have threatened him with Ernest just to assign him such a menial task.

Martin had hoped Haires would see the danger for himself and voluntarily return.

Martin pleaded with him.

And when his breath finally calmed, Haires opened his mouth at last.

"That peace you spoke of yesterday—where is it?"

"..."

"Tell me. The insurgents are rising, people are being extorted in lawless regions, and enemy nations surround us, preparing for war. Where is this so-called peace?"

"..."

"Even after covering everything in corpses you've labeled as peace, you can no longer hide the problems."

"..."

"This 'Empire of ours' you speak of—whose Empire is it?"

Martin opened his lips but only sighed.

"You, of all people, know where all these problems began."

"That's…!"

"It all could have been avoided had there been no war."

Haires said calmly.

"If we hadn't recklessly expanded our territory through war, we wouldn't now be surrounded by enemies. If we'd sent proper administrators to the conquered lands, we could've stopped the nobles' exploitation and even prevented rebellion."

"..."

"This Empire has never once known peace. A throne built on blood and corpses is destined to rot and collapse. And the Emperor, atop that crumbling throne, seeks only to pile on more blood and corpses."

Martin remained silent, face pale.

Then Haires questioned him again.

"How can the Special Security Bureau, which deceived and killed loyal intelligence agents for information, claim to preserve peace? Is this your noble sacrifice for the greater good?"

Martin listened breathlessly. Then, eyes glowing faintly, he stared at Haires.

"…That's why we need someone like you."

"No, you're wrong."

Haires cut him off immediately.

"If this massive nation needs the help of a single man, something is terribly wrong."

"No, I didn't mean—"

"What the Empire needs now isn't someone like me. It's someone like you."

"..."

Martin stiffened, surprised.

"Do you not know why you're in that position?"

"...I... I mean…"

"You're not someone who forges new paths. You're someone who tends to what's already built."

"..."

"Do you still think I'm necessary for the Empire?"

Martin stared at Haires, speechless.

As dusk fell and the city of Grimman came into view, Martin finally murmured in a strained voice.

"That's exactly why we need someone like you."

Haires closed his eyes.

Martin had chosen to look away.

Even though he had reached the truth with Haires' help, he clung to what he wanted to believe.

He convinced himself that everything the Bureau had done was right—that the man who created it had to be right, and thus still necessary.

Yet there was no falsehood in Martin's devotion to peace.

He was truly a man ready to do anything for it.

But Haires already knew what lay at the end of that misaligned path. And beyond this, there was nothing more he could do.

"This is the last time. There won't be another."

"..."

"Tell him—just as I have something to lose, so does he."

Just as Ernest was Haires' weakness, the Empire was Walter's.

Though much time had passed since Haires' retirement, the secrets he carried could still destroy the Empire.

Right now, as the nation teetered under cover-ups and instability, if Haires deliberately leaked those secrets, even Walter—the sole master Baltracher with control over Balt Battery production—could not prevent the collapse.

The carriage passed through Grimman's west gate and came to a stop.

Click.

"Sir Haires."

As Haires opened the door and stepped out, Martin's whisper followed him.

"Did you tell him too, yesterday?"

It was a strange question, but Haires understood.

The coachman from the day before—the man who had asked for answers.

Haires turned slowly.

His dark eyes met Martin's blue, and narrowed.

Martin's expression twisted.

"You're the one who killed him, Sir Haires."

"Don't look away. You're the ones who killed him."

"No. You killed him."

Martin replied firmly, though his voice trembled with despair.

"He took his own life."

Because he realized from the start it had all been wrong.

Because he despaired, knowing peace could never come to this blood-soaked Empire.

And when he faced everything he'd rationalized for peace, he chose death rather than carry that guilt.

"You started all of this. Shouldn't you take responsibility, Sir Haires?"

Martin knew it was cowardly, but he still wanted to cling to Haires—the founding director of the Special Security Bureau.

His hero.

But Haires said nothing.

He turned away, walking into the twilight of Grimman, toward the east where darkness now trailed his steps.

Martin watched his back vanish into the night.

But in that darkness, only one person in the world could now recognize the man with such deep, shadowed eyes.

And Martin soon lost him.

Step. Step. Step...

Haires did not return to the carriage.

He walked the streets alone.

Time stood still around him, but night pushed him on relentlessly.

By the time he regained awareness, he was standing in front of the small Krieger house.

He pulled out his key, slowly reached for the lock—

Click.

That familiar sound.

Just as he gripped the doorknob, a flash seared across his vision.

―!

Then, the sound of the sky tearing roared in his ears.

A whiff of rotting corpses crossed his nose.

Haires stood in the darkened street, eyes closed, silently enduring the memory.

Then, slowly, he opened them.

But he couldn't bring himself to go inside.

Instead, he locked the door again.

If he went in now, he feared that moment would replay again.

Just as he had done ever since Ernest left for the academy, he turned to flee the house he loved.

"..."

But as he was about to head back toward the street, he stopped.

His gaze fell on the mailbox.

A letter stuck out slightly.

Ernest.

Haires reached into the mailbox.

He tried to pull out the familiar envelope—but found something heavy inside.

He checked the envelope under the moonlight and starlight and confirmed it was from Ernest.

Rip.

With his dry fingertips, Haires tore open the envelope on the spot.

Inside, something heavy remained.

He tipped it into his palm.

Tap.

The moon and stars seemed to lean down to peek at what Haires held.

It sparkled.

Like wax, or perhaps like a corpse, the dry, hardened lines of Haires' face softened with warmth.

"…You did it, Ernest."

He must've meant to give it as a gift in person after his leave—but couldn't help himself and sent it by mail immediately.

Haires gently stroked the silver horseshoe Ernest had sent, then carefully tucked it into his pocket.

Leaning against the night sky, he began reading Ernest's letter on the spot.

Ernest's handwriting was visibly excited.

Haires smiled faintly but soon found it too dark to read.

He unlocked the door and went inside.

***

"You sent it right away? Should've hung it up on the door to show it off!"

"I got it for my father, not to show off."

"Right, right."

Robert grumbled, but then grinned and stretched his arms wide.

"Man, you were incredible. As expected of you, Ernest! Drek looked so happy during the mounted shooting."

"He was confident he'd win even before the results."

"I've never seen Drek that excited."

"I always believed we'd win together."

"Yeah, well, it was the finals like last year."

Ernest sighed deeply at the memory.

"I was so scared again this time."

"Worse than last year. Who'd have guessed Bereter would pull something like that?"

"For real. Honestly, if Bereter started running on two legs next year, I wouldn't even be surprised."

"Maybe get a new horse? He might get banned next year."

"Hmm… But we've been together two years now and won together…"

"True. …Wait a minute. Bereter's my horse!"

"That's why he's named Bereter."

Ernest laughed at the trouble caused by Bereter's antics in the finals.

Robert, who had screamed and clutched his head along with the rest of the audience, also laughed.

"Everyone said Bereter was a weird name, but I proved them wrong."

"But not Spion, right?"

"Spion's perfect!"

"You should've picked a proper name like Drek."

"Actually, Drek is weirder. Naming him 'mud' just because of different-colored hair on his hooves?"

"I don't want to hear that from someone who named their horses Bereter and Spion."

"Touché."

The two boys giggled and went into the room.

Soon, Marie arrived, and the three of them chatted excitedly about the Silver Horseshoe Tournament finals.

Robert laughed about the commotion caused when Marie shouted Ernest's name in surprise at Bereter's outburst—and got a sharp glare that made him retreat.

Eventually, as free time ended, the three said their goodbyes.

Marie left, and Ernest and Robert's banter faded behind a closing door.

A scolding voice echoed through the hall, yelling at cadets still wandering about, and then silence returned.

Before long, night came to the Imperial Military Academy dorms.

The excitement from yesterday's finals would fade by tomorrow.

Time never stops or turns back; it only moves forward, and all things, no matter how vivid, blur beneath new memories.