Year 845 inside the Walls.
Winter.
Roger didn't know if public security had improved lately, or if their "Scorpio Group" had simply gone deeper to ground, but it had happened so many times now: not long after he stepped out the front door, he would run into one or two kids fooling around and playing.
Once or twice is whatever—but almost every time?
That made Roger curious.
What, playing house?
Brats playing make-believe at a gang's front door?
"Where are these kids even coming from, Nelly?" Roger finally couldn't help asking. "I remember this area's supposed to be a no-man's-land. Rich folks buy properties here and don't even bother to renovate—just leave them sitting to pump prices."
"Who knows." Nelly shook his head. With winter in and the group's rations a little better, he'd put on some weight and spoke from the diaphragm. "Might be because of our 'civic organization' thing."
"What do you mean?" Roger asked.
Nelly shrugged. "The rules you set: no stealing from or robbing regular folks, don't disrupt people's lives. On top of that, per your orders I opened a freight company in the east, taking contracts from the merchant guilds—doing business on both sides of the line. Think about it. At this point, how is Stohess still the 'bad district'? Civilians see us and can't wait to bow."
"I see…" Roger nodded. That he could understand.
As a Warrior candidate and someone born poor, he felt for the struggling—and he understood. That's why he set the bar so high for the organization. But he'd never expected it would form a "virtuous cycle." Things the Gendarmerie couldn't manage, a gang boss like him had somehow pulled off.
Across the capital, outside the royal palace and the Military Police, where was public order actually good? Chaos broke out almost daily—except in his Stohess District, calm and quiet.
Not that Roger was some governance genius—the peers just made him look good.
The Kamen gang was still doing murder-and-loot business. It looked booming, but from Roger's visits, Kamen lacked real pull. The Military Police didn't trust him and had completely sidelined him—his outfit reduced to wiping the backsides of big shots and officials.
Kamen had tried to get his fingers into Scorpio, but Roger wasn't stupid; he found ways to squeeze out Kamen's eyes and ears.
Time had passed, and Scorpio had earned real clout in the underworld.
Roger took a carriage to the outskirts of Stohess.
There, he had the "rookies" Levi was training on his behalf.
Levi was the best teacher—and the foulest-mouthed drill instructor.
Every time Roger stood by and watched him brief the recruits, he marveled that a man not even one-sixty could curse for an entire afternoon without repeating himself.
Born in the Underground, he shouldn't have much schooling—but his swearing vocabulary was thriving.
Worse, Levi's foul mouth seemed… contagious.
One inspection, Roger found the rookies' new stock phrase was "pig dung."
They'd tidy their bunks while yelling, "I'm gonna stuff crap into your skull," and somehow the bunks still ended up spotless.
Out on the outskirts, Roger could also have the rookies learn to operate ODM gear (Omni-Directional Mobility gear).
With Levi—an ODM master—teaching personally, the rookies picked it up fast.
Levi wasn't a fool. He knew what Roger wanted: to build a private regiment. That had nothing to do with him.
He took the money; he'd do the job.
Besides, he'd kept all his Underground companions. That was a debt Levi wouldn't forget.
Levi might have been a street tough, but he had principles. He would never shortchange a favor.
So as for Roger building a regiment, Levi pretended not to notice and focused on passing along his experience.
Roger was glad to have a fighter like Levi. Still, he'd heard the Survey Corps was recruiting again. Erwin seemed to have finally freed himself from "rooting out traitors" and planned to restart expeditions beyond the Walls—handing off the hunt for "Titan shifters" to the Military Police and the Garrison.
Word was Erwin had gone down to the Underground to scout talent—and come up empty.
Aside from the occasionally sighted "Kenny the Ripper," only Levi's name was too big to hide. Roger counted himself lucky he'd moved early.
And maybe he had Marley to thank?
If Marley hadn't advanced its Founding-recovery plan—if it had launched on schedule in 845—Roger might not have had the window to recruit someone like Levi.
All of it—fate's arrangement.
Roger didn't bow to fate, but sometimes he couldn't help wondering: miss one turn, and would fate keep toying with you—one miss after another?
After the daily sweep of the rookies, Roger hurried back to Stohess.
He had bigger business: lead his men to every likely spot to gather intelligence—clues about the "royal family."
They had already investigated the royal palace with care.
They'd learned the "King Fritz" on the throne was a puppet—a useless figurehead.
Across the Walls, big and small matters alike were decided by ministers. The king had nothing to do with it.
Through inquiries, Roger also learned the "king's" real name and his birthplace—the Underground of the royal capital.
Down there, his nickname had been the "Thousand-Meals King."
He begged everywhere; a bite of sour slop and he'd let you ride him as he crawled along the street. Hence the mocking title.
People in the Underground remembered him, but since they had never seen the king's face in person, they didn't realize the exalted "King Fritz" was the same fool they'd once ridden like a horse.
Roger had put it together.
So the intel focus shifted from the "king" to the ministers and other lords.
In his view, it wasn't impossible the real Fritz had changed his name and identity.
Night came quickly.
Roger brought his men back to the tavern in Stohess.
Unlike the usual lively nights, the tavern was quiet.
"Boss, think the gang got drunk and passed out?" Tours whispered, close at Roger's heels.
"Let's not go in," Nelly said, growing cautious. He drifted half a step away from the others, keeping space.
Roger sensed something off, but when they all stepped inside, they found the patrons—along with the newly hired barkeep—drunk and sprawled across tables, dead asleep.
"Hah, told you." Tours strode over to the barkeep and patted his head. "Boss, bet they stole Nelly's private stock. That stuff is strong as hell."
Grinning, he tugged the barkeep's ear to hoist him up and laugh at his drunken face.
But the moment he saw him, Tours' smile vanished. His eyes went wide.
"Boss…"
"He's dead."
Even as the words fell, blood seeped from the barkeep's throat before their eyes—a stark, slashing line of red.
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