Episode 25: Red Star (3)
After ten minutes, we got moving again. First, I woke Esren, who had passed out, and interrogated him further, repeating earlier questions to verify his answers. His responses remained consistent.
If he were lying or fabricating, his story would’ve shifted slightly, but Esren’s didn’t. To lie while having nails pulled and bones broken would mark him as an exceptional crook. Even if he fooled me, I might’ve let it slide once for the effort. Not that I would.
“Master, what do you plan to do with him?”
Astier asked, switching back to calling me “master.”
“He’ll disappear.”
I hadn’t genuinely meant to spare him, nor did I plan to let his body be found immediately. Esren would vanish here. His face paled as he realized I was playing word games.
“You… you bastard! Disappearing isn’t something you make happen!” he spat.
“Should’ve thought harder, then. If you had any use left, maybe I’d consider sparing you.”
“…Think about it. If you want to hit the corpse disposal site, you’ll need my help. You really going to kill me here?”
Esren revealed other trade routes and money flows, including the corpse disposal site. But that was the extent of it—just their existence. Despite his protests, my decision didn’t waver. Seeing my unmoving expression, Esren closed his eyes.
“…Guess you came prepared,” he muttered.
But then his eyes snapped open, all emotion drained from his face, replaced by an eerie chill. His gaze wasn’t on me—it was on Astier.
“You sure about this? Your little servant girl seems to have other ideas.”
Astier, standing silently behind, shook her head.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Fine, my ass,” Esren sneered.
“Think no one knows you’re an intelligence rat pretending to be a servant? Enjoying your little detective game?”
His grin was venomous. Was he appealing to her emotions? No, it felt more like he was provoking her. He’d been relatively docile until now, but the moment he saw an opening, he dug into it without hesitation. Was this his true nature?
“A rat playing spy, but still sloppy. You could’ve stabbed me back there, but you didn’t.”
Esren’s lips twisted grotesquely.
“Hypocrite bitch. Or maybe you chose not to stab me? My bad—I didn’t realize we had a real lunatic here.”
I slammed my fist into his solar plexus. The crack of his ribs echoed through my hand. Esren vomited, but the venom in his eyes didn’t fade.
“You can’t fix that shitty habit, intentional or not—you’ll die for it. Or maybe you’ll die anyway. I know your type,”
He sneered, trembling in pain but cackling.
“Killers pretending to be noble. They never fix that flaw until they’re dead—”
Another strike silenced him as his broken ribs began piercing his lungs. Blood filled his chest, his face paling as he gasped for air that wouldn’t come.
I grabbed his hair, yanking his head up. Even as he choked, he grinned—a disgusting, lowlife joy. I turned to Astier, whose expression remained blank but felt different from before.
“You can step out. I’ll handle this alone.”
Astier hesitated, lips pressed tight. Her clenched fists trembled before she relaxed them, replying quietly. Her nails had dug into her palms, drawing blood.
“…Please take care of it.”
As Astier left, I picked up Esren’s sword. He mouthed something, voiceless but clear enough for me to understand intuitively. Just before I thrust the sword with a Wave, I answered him.
“Sorry, but hell isn’t a place you go after death.”
I left the rest unsaid. Esren likely knew it already. No fear lingered in his eyes. He smirked, his face whitening, and that was the end.
***
After dealing with Esren, I moved on to the next target: the corpse disposal site he’d mentioned.
This place processed bodies from the northern front, turning them into commodities or passing them elsewhere.
It was, in essence, a direct source of the Red Star’s funding. That same day, we arrived at the sewer entrance, one of the infiltration routes connected to the site.
“Further ahead, there’s a fork. It splits into two paths: one to the archive, the other to the dissection area. What’s the plan?” Astier asked.
“You take the archive, Astier. I’ll head to the dissection area.”
The goal was to secure physical evidence and uncover links to the higher-ups. Astier nodded. The sewer was old, lined with moss, with rusted metal pipes in places. The stench was piercing.
“By the way, breathing through your nose might be easier,” Astier advised.
“You do this often?” I asked.
“Yes. My role’s more about gathering intel than direct combat.”
Following her advice, I breathed through my nose. The foul odor seemed to seep into my bones. After a bit, my nose adjusted, though the stench remained vile. Astier glanced at me and handed me a candy from her pocket. Popping it in my mouth dulled the smell slightly.
At the fork, we split up. The path narrowed, forcing me to squeeze through a passage not meant for people. I infiltrated the dissection area successfully. Light seeped through the worn walls.
Crouching low, I peered past the wall. People in black robes moved busily, wielding saws and knives. On the worktable lay a demonic beast’s corpse, which they dissected with practiced skill—skinning the hide, separating bones and flesh, and extracting organs. The parts were placed in special containers.
“That’s for the necrophiles. Don’t dissect those,” one said.
“Send it intact? I heard not to touch the carapace either,” another replied.
“That’s what the higher-ups said. What they do with it isn’t our business.”
“Fair enough.”
I observed further. Most tables held demonic beasts or monsters, but occasionally, human-like forms appeared. Closer inspection revealed they were actual humans, identifiable by stab wounds.
“This carapace got roughed up bad,” a worker commented.
“Came from the north. There was a subjugation. For a while, it’ll just be these,” another replied.
“Oh…”
They used strange terms: necrophiles, carapace, coins, veins. From their conversation, “carapace” meant human corpses, “necrophiles” were clients receiving dissected bodies, and “coins” likely referred to parts sent to the auction. Limited information left much to guesswork.
“Why do we dissect carapaces, anyway?” one asked.
“You never dissected a regular corpse?” the other replied, shaking his head.
“Why would I? Usually, we just burn or bury them.”
“Then you wouldn’t know. Carapaces have tough skin and muscles.”
“Because they’re muscle-bound?”
“No, it’s different. Like demonic beasts, almost.”
‘So “carapace” refers to corpses of Aura-trained humans.’
“They’re not that tough compared to demonic beasts, though. No use for them,” one said.
“Most think that. I heard the vein guys make some kind of tonic from them.”
“Really? Who’d eat something made from corpses? That’s disgusting.”
“They say it works if you don’t know.”
Their casual chatter while dissecting was chilling. I thought of Irena, then the faces of those I’d fought alongside on the front. For some reason, a faint laugh escaped me.
There was no boiling rage, just a hollow resignation propping up a storm of emotions. Not all humans were virtuous—I knew that. Even someone who seemed kind to me might not be to others. So there was no betrayal. Anger existed, but it didn’t consume me.
I was just here to do what I had to.
I entered the dissection area’s workspace. Without hesitation, I stabbed a younger worker through the vocal cords, severing their spine to silence any screams. With my other hand, I clamped the mouth of an older worker and pinned them against the wall.
“Scream, and you die.”
Through the bird-beak mask, I saw their trembling pupils.
“Answer my questions clearly from now on.”