"My goodness, Lucas!"
Somehow, I managed to find my way to the carriage station and return to the boarding house.
When I rang the doorbell, Mrs. Schmidt came rushing out and pulled me into a tight hug.
"Guh! Mrs. Schmidt, that hurts!"
Her ample frame pressed down on my wounds, sending waves of intense pain through me.
"S-Sorry about that."
She released me and hurriedly led me inside.
"Are you okay?! You have no idea how worried I was."
Whether she hadn't slept a wink waiting for me or had even shed tears, the sight of her puffy, red-rimmed eyes tugged at my heart, filling it with a bittersweet swell of emotion.
"I'm fine. You didn't need to worry so much."
"Lucas!"
With a loud clatter, Daniel came tumbling down the stairs like he was rolling.
"You're back. What the hell happened? You're not hurt, are you?"
"I'm perfectly fine."
I deliberately spread my arms wide.
"It was nothing. Just a little misunderstanding at work."
"If Ossel showed up, it's not 'nothing.'"
I just shook my head at Daniel's skeptical look.
I hadn't signed any formal nondisclosure agreement, but I wasn't dumb enough to go blabbing about it and risk getting dragged back in.
"I need to get some sleep. Mrs. Schmidt, is there any food left over?"
After eating some warm soup and bread, I headed up to my room. I collapsed onto the bed and fell into a deep, deathlike slumber.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"...Lucas. Lucas. Time to wake up, dear. Lucas?"
How much time had passed?
I woke to the sound of someone calling me from outside the room.
I sat up groggily and glanced out the window. The sun had dipped quite low—it was late afternoon. I rubbed my face a few times to shake off the drowsiness and shuffled toward the door.
"Yes, Mrs. Schmidt."
She smiled in relief when I opened the door.
"Didn't you say you were going to some play tonight?"
"Yes, that's right. Thanks for waking me."
"You invited me and Daniel, remember?"
Right. Lucas had bragged endlessly—enough to bore anyone to death—before inviting the two of them.
In truth, it was more like desperate begging for them to watch his play, but on the surface, he acted like he was bestowing the great honor of witnessing a masterpiece.
"Please come. I've got some prep to do, so I'll head out first."
I headed to the theater, which was close to the office.
It wasn't some grand hall frequented by the stars, nor a rundown little venue—just your average theater.
The show was still hours away, so the seats were empty, but the stage buzzed with people setting up props and scenery.
How were they managing without me, the guy who handled the practical stuff?
Curious, I scanned the area and spotted a familiar chubby silhouette.
"Oh, Clerk Redan! You're a bit late."
Hoffmann, who had been barking orders left and right, spotted me and approached with his usual affable grin.
He clapped me on the shoulder without hesitation. Goosebumps prickled everywhere his hand touched.
"I heard you got out of there! You must've had it rough."
For a split second, I stared at him with what had to be the dumbest look on my face.
What the hell is this guy's deal?
His subordinate, whom he'd snitched on, had gone through hell and come back.
Normally, you'd apologize for the misunderstanding, act awkward, or at least pick a fight like, "Are you sure you're really innocent?"
But Hoffmann? Not a word of regret about the betrayal. He didn't even mention it—just picked up like we were old pals.
It didn't seem like normal human behavior at all.
This guy was a monster, plain and simple.
"Alright, let's give it our all today too? I brought something good—eat up and recharge!"
He cheerfully shoved what looked like a lunchbox into my hands.
"Y-Yes. Thank you."
"Now that you're here, I'll take off."
"Sure thing."
I watched Hoffmann's retreating back, biting my already cracked and split lips.
That bastard's beyond saving. He's terrifying. No way he actually believes the misunderstanding's cleared up. With him around, who knows when it'll happen again.
The idea I'd been mulling over the whole way here? Yeah, time to put it into action.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The lunchbox contained chicken braised in wine.
I chucked it straight into the trash and headed to the lead actor's dressing room.
"Long live the Great Leader! Greetings."
I flashed a businesslike smile as I entered. The actor playing Krüger, who had been lounging on the sofa reading his script, stood up.
"Long live the Leader! You've arrived, Clerk Redan."
"How's your condition? Checking the script already?"
"Never better. Yes, just giving it a final once-over before rehearsal."
"Actually, about that script—we've made some changes."
The actor looked puzzled.
"Again? Does it have to be changed? The show's in just a few hours..."
Hoffmann had already nitpicked endlessly under the guise of being the acting director, forcing multiple revisions to lines and stage directions.
Lucky break for me.
I bowed my head apologetically.
"Sorry. It's Assistant Clerk Hoffmann's decision. Just one word swap—shouldn't be too hard. In Great Leader Krüger's final speech scene..."
My finger traced the script, and the conspiracy spread from there.
A petty-seeming plot, but one hiding a razor-sharp dagger.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Come see a fun play! Just 50 pfennigs! A drama about the life of our Great Leader!"
As dusk began to settle over the streets, a boy with signs front and back hawked tickets enthusiastically.
The theater scene had taken a hit since movies came along, but people still flocked to plays.
Unlike costly films, new productions came out frequently, and compared to movies stuck in black-and-white silence for over a decade, plays offered more vivid energy.
"Just 50 pfennigs! Come on in, everyone!"
The boy called out tirelessly in a clear voice.
"Hmm."
A man strolling by stopped in front of him.
"Hey, kid."
Just those words, and the air around them grew chillingly heavy.
"Eek! Long live the Great Leader!"
The boy stiffened like a log and thumped his chest.
And who could blame him? The man wore the black uniform that inspired both terror and awe.
Stiff peaked cap, rows of gold buttons. Plus, his shoulders bore epaulets with three red stripes.
Special Police Ossel—and a fairly high rank at that.
The boy shrank back in instinctive fear, and the Ossel agent smirked unpleasantly at the sight.
"What kind of play is it?"
"It's... based on the Great Leader's autobiography, depicting his life's journey..."
Despite his trembling, the boy tried to speak coherently.
The Ossel pondered for a moment, then turned to another agent beside him.
"Hey, adjutant. What do you think? Suitable for this week's inspection target?"
"I'll follow your lead, Colonel, but I'm curious. Who has the guts to turn the Leader's autobiography into a play?"
"Hm, fair point."
The man called Colonel stroked his chin thoughtfully.
They attended plays and films weekly at random—for reports, sure, but really just for kicks.
Of course, the colonel always found nitpicks to justify disapproval, satisfaction be damned.
"Alright, let's check it out. Hey, kid—two tickets."
"Thank you. That's 100 pfennigs..."
But under the adjutant's glare, the boy swallowed his demand and just handed over the tickets—stolen, essentially.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Ha, impressive. No wonder we're broke."
I muttered in disbelief while watching the rehearsal.
It was a full-on luxury production.
From leads to extras, everyone wore authentic uniforms sourced for the occasion. They'd even hired a somewhat famous orchestra. The sets were top-tier as budget allowed.
Lucas had maxed out his allocation, then dipped into his own meager savings.
I'd laughed hollowly reading the expense log.
This farce ends today.
I ignored the rehearsal building to its climax and glanced at Hoffmann, who was lording over the audience seats.
In Schupaven Republic, every cultural work required pre-approval from the Culture Committee.
Mock the Leader? Deny his feats? Criticize policy? Smut? Promote multi-ethnic harmony? Any violation of the detailed guidelines earned a red stamp—swift and merciless.
In severe cases, you'd get hauled off by Ossel for a stew enema up the nose.
Typical charges: "reactionary elements," "failure to uphold core national values."
That was the wicked law I planned to exploit.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The sun had just set, faint stars twinkling.
"Right on time."
The colonel muttered, checking his pocket watch.
7:05 p.m.
They entered with their pre-obtained tickets. Being a Sunday evening, the house was mostly full. The colonel and adjutant took seats side by side in the back row.
The curtain rose, and the show began.
A cherubic young actor played the lonely boy.
The precocious, brilliant child Krüger lost in anguish.
In the chaotic late kingdom era, corrupt nobles exploited the commoners mercilessly.
Krüger's widowed mother toiled all day outside, returning exhausted.
She knew her son was special. Fighting fatigue, she shared tales of history's greats, hoping he'd dream big.
The fine young man Krüger grew into.
He roamed battlefields, earning fame as a mighty knight. But his torment over reality deepened.
Homeless wanderers roamed.
Elf con artists swindled neighbors with usury and scams.
Nobles, raging against liberal waves, refused to ease exploitation.
Krüger became the youngest knight commander.
Loyal to the kingdom, he tried to revive its dying flame, but the inept king ignored him.
Then a revolutionary leader approached Krüger.
Hearing the man's ideals, Krüger agonized, made a final plea to the king—only to find him lost in debauchery.
Resolved, Krüger joined the revolutionaries and toppled the royals.
But the new regime decayed just like the old.
The people groaned louder.
Krüger gazed at his sword and lamented.
"I've lived by this blade alone. I wished for a world needing it no more, yet I must draw it again."
His late mother's spirit appeared, singing, sending Krüger back to childhood.
The boy drew courage from her words and led a second revolution...
The colonel smiled contentedly, resting his interlocked fingers on his knee.
The Leader's youth...
It was a grand play.
Thrilling enough to swell the heart of a diehard Leader supporter like him.
The Leader might actually like it. He's got a rumored flair for the arts.
The colonel nodded, thinking of the Leader.
Finally, the climax arrived.
Krüger as Leader.
The day he must address the masses.
Trembling with fear, he gripped his sword, recalling his mother's words from childhood.
"Judge yourself. Be proud before God's judgment."
At last, Krüger ascended the podium.
"Citizens."
"Citizens."
The colonel whispered along.