After leaving the Imperial Capital and the Imperial Guard, Lancer had never returned to the city. He had no attachments here, so it made little difference to him. As long as he could grow stronger, it was all the same.
Still, he hadn't neglected gathering information about the Capital—particularly news of officials who had recently done anything "noteworthy."
Though this world had no newspapers, it had something similar: official notices. In truth, their primary purpose wasn't to inform the public, but to shape opinion. Lancer didn't care about that. He was watching one man—
Prime Minister Honest.
Of course, at this point, Honest was not yet Prime Minister. But Lancer refused to believe the man would remain obscure forever. The "story" never detailed how he rose to power, yet two things were certain.
First, the previous Prime Minister must have voluntarily retired before the former Emperor's death. Judging from his temperament, there was no way he would have stepped down suddenly while the Emperor was still young and the old Emperor had just passed.
Second, before ascending to the position, Honest must have accomplished something significant. Otherwise, how could he have replaced the previous Prime Minister? Or perhaps he later manipulated the young Emperor into appointing him. Either way, even before the former Emperor's death, he couldn't have been a nobody. Winning favor with the young Emperor wouldn't have been easy.
So, lacking direct intelligence channels, Lancer turned to these public notices, hoping to spot Honest's name.
He did.
Two months before returning to the Capital, he found the information.
The content left him half amused, half at a loss.
He had expected Honest to cloak himself in something respectable before fully revealing his fangs—but he hadn't anticipated something so dazzling.
"Governor Honest diligently serves the people, aiding famine victims within his territory. Upon recommendation, appointed as Minister of Finance…"
Recalling what the man would later become, Lancer nearly felt sick.
Then another thought surfaced.
Should he kill Honest now—before he fully secured power?
By this point, the Imperial Fist Temple had likely already sided with him. Lancer even suspected that Honest had long maintained private dealings with them. After all, Honest's own strength—and the presence of the Four Rakshasa Demons at his side—hinted strongly at such ties.
But in the end, Lancer abandoned the idea.
It wasn't a matter of confidence. Even if the Four Rakshasa Demons guarded him, striking first with careful planning gave Lancer a strong chance of success.
The real question was—
What then?
Honest would one day be branded the "root of all evil."
But realistically, could one man alone rot an empire to its core? Lancer doubted it. He saw Honest less as the cause and more as the fuse—igniting the malice already festering in people's hearts and dragging them into the abyss.
In that sense, Honest bore more than a passing resemblance to a devil from legend.
Killing him now would only delay an inevitable explosion.
So what was the answer?
Sever as many of his "tentacles" as possible first. Then deliver the fatal blow.
And if he failed...
Then, as before, he would make one reckless final move before leaving this world.
But that was a last resort. He wouldn't use it unless he had no other choice.
...
His "conversation" with General Budo lasted only minutes. Afterward, Lancer took his leave.
Unfortunately, his reputation seemed worse than he'd realized. Even former comrades—men who had nearly forged a kind of revolutionary brotherhood with him—now regarded him with visible unease. (In truth, they feared he might learn about their earlier attempt to test him.)
Finding it dull, Lancer left the barracks and wandered the Capital.
Since returning from the Western fortress, he had been waiting in Budo's office. Now that official matters were concluded, the rest of the day belonged to him.
At least one thing brought him some relief: in the past year, Honest did not seem to have affected the Capital. It appeared much the same as when Lancer had left.
With his hood pulled low, he strolled casually through the streets—until, without quite intending to, he drifted into the slums.
Why here?
Because if the Capital were changing, this would be the first place to show it. Other districts had appearances to maintain. The slums did not.
What he hadn't expected was how quickly "trouble" would find him.
As he brushed past another hooded figure, he immediately felt it.
His coin pouch was gone.
Normally, Lancer stored most of his money in his [HUNTER'S EQUIPMENT CHEST]—it only took up one slot, after all. But he carried some spare change on his person for emergencies.
He didn't shout or cause a scene. Instead, he quietly followed.
More than anger, he felt curiosity.
Who had the nerve to steal from him?
...
Leone hurried into an alley and pulled back her hood, grinning.
"Looks like another out-of-town sucker. Lucky you ran into me—hope you take the hint and leave soon."
To her, the man's earlier behavior—glancing around uncertainly—had screamed outsider. His hood, his clothes—none of it suggested poverty. What business would someone like that have in the slums?
Sightseeing? Or looking to buy certain "services"?
Either way, being relieved of a coin pouch was getting off easy. Even the Guard couldn't fully control the slums.
Still humming to herself, she opened the pouch.
Then froze.
A few silver coins. Some copper.
That was it?
He didn't look poor.
"Well? Disappointed? Wondering why there's so little in the pouch?"
"—?!"
The voice came from above, laced with faint mockery.
Leone's spine prickled. Instinctively, she stepped back and looked up.
A figure stood atop a clay rooftop, backlit by the sun. She couldn't see his face clearly, but the tone made it obvious—
It was the man she'd stolen from.
Leone had been caught before. The key in these situations was simple: don't panic.
"Ahaha~ Sir, what are you talking about? I have no idea what you mean~"
She laughed awkwardly, inching backward. At the same time, she subtly pushed out her chest, clearly attempting to distract him before making a run for it.
On most men, it would have worked.
But this one was different.
The instant she retreated, he moved.
He leapt from the rooftop, landing soundlessly, and lunged for her wrist.
Lancer's greatest strength was his technique. Even with a cavalry lance—his weakest discipline—he had honed it to a level most could only dream of.
But that didn't mean he was helpless unarmed.
His physical conditioning, combined with battlefield-honed perception, meant few ordinary people could evade his grip.
"We'll discuss the details at the Imperial Police."
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T/N: heres ur updates :3 meeting the 4 chaps a week quota :3
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