# Enhanced Translation
The weapons categorized as "firearms" - guns and bombs - are highly despised in this pre-modern fantasy world.
They're called "weapons of the poor." This is true. In a world where mana exists and line-of-fire detection is possible, ranged projectile weapons are never made with good materials or by skilled craftsmen.
After all, they're just mediocre weapons used by mediocre people to shoot at other mediocre people. Most shots miss their targets. There's no romance, no chivalry, and no justice - just blood spilled everywhere.
Therefore, simply carrying a gun reveals one's skill level. Using explosives means you've already lost.
The materials needed to create a sufficient quantity of quality magical bombs are managed as strategic resources at the national level. Thus, it's nearly impossible to prepare enough to completely burn down a building.
At best, they would only cause minor casualties. So why be afraid?
Dozens might die or be injured, but conversely, this means that all those carefully planted human resources would be expended for such a poor exchange rate.
However, just as even a kitchen knife can harm someone when stabbed into the body, firearms that may be useless against superhumans are still deadly weapons to civilians.
This simple killing tool, which sows death with just a pull of the trigger, tends to grant its wielder an inexplicable courage and sense of exhilaration.
"Huff... huff..."
"Why are you back already? You should have stayed at your post!"
"No way... How am I supposed to deal with that knight constantly patrolling around? If I had lingered there any longer, I might have been stabbed like last time!"
"You coward... The knight at that house can't follow you far anyway since he's busy protecting the kid. Just run away if needed!"
"Then you should have done it yourself. You haven't seen how that bastard swings his sword up close."
The man grumbled, trembling. His task was to monitor the house where Isabelle, the Hero's daughter, was staying.
No matter how talented she might be, she's just a little girl. Following or spying on her shouldn't be difficult.
But having a guardian changes everything. And if the bodyguard is a well-trained knight, that's an even bigger problem.
Bullets are meaningless against knights. This was common knowledge.
Going up against such people with just a gun, crawling into their range of attack, would be like sticking your head into a lion's mouth.
"So why haven't we heard anything from above when the execution date is so close? I can't stand this anymore. It's been a whole week already."
"Lord Dionarr will arrive in Pritzenkaya today or tomorrow. So, I guess we'll start the day after tomorrow."
"I've heard that name so many times. Is he really coming?"
"He's almost here. Apparently, he had to walk because border inspections are so strict these days."
"My God, from Droan all the way here?"
The men moved through the alley gaps, whispering. Confirming Isabelle's whereabouts wasn't important right now - as long as she didn't suddenly move somewhere else today.
She just needs to be there on the execution date.
"I see. Dionarr Eriksson."
The two men walking through the deserted alley froze in place.
Their gazes crossed.
-Were we followed?!
-No, I was extremely careful.
-Then what the hell is this, you idiot?
The men communicated with their eyes and then started running.
Who the stranger was didn't matter. Only two things were important:
The fact that the stranger knew the name "Dionarr Eriksson," and that they hadn't noticed someone approaching close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.
So this mysterious man must be powerful. In such situations, the strategy of the weak is always the same.
"Shit!"
-BANG!!
The man running ahead pulled out a small marble from his pocket, threw it, and dashed toward the alley entrance.
The marble exploded, filling the alley with thick smoke. A smoke bomb, cheap and non-toxic.
Ivan smiled slightly and followed after the fleeing men.
He didn't hurry. He knew that a powerful person who catches up despite the difference in speed, rather than one who runs to grab you, instills greater fear.
Interrogation is a delicate art. Blindly threatening, torturing, and intimidating are bad moves that blur the quality of information.
Accurate information gathering begins with breaking down the psychological foundation of the subject.
Ivan continued walking through the smoke in the direction the men had fled.
-Inhale...
-Exhale.
Taking a deep breath, reminiscing about the past.
Asidis was blankly staring at the night sky from her bedroom terrace.
"Uncle is dead."
Even her father had paid his respects at her uncle's death. Though he couldn't attend the funeral in person due to the suspicious political climate at the time, her father had returned and spent a long time drinking gloomily.
She vaguely raised her hand.
About where it would cover her mouth. With hesitation.
"But still."
Except for the beard, he looked similar, though she was too scared to look directly at him, so he might be a completely different person.
Those bright blue burning eyes, neat gaze, sharp eyebrows and nose bridge.
Yes, they do seem similar.
Or maybe...
"Nah."
Asidis shook her head. This was a wicked thought.
Uncle Ivan died as a great warrior. He died after slaughtering the Seven Dragon Generals, and his sacrifice allowed a small number of his men to return alive.
That was an incredible feat. The Seven Dragon Generals were powerful enemies that even the Hero Party had to face with caution.
To confuse such a noble man with someone else just because they "looked similar" would be an insult to him.
After all, there's no way Uncle Ivan would try to seduce Isabelle, sleep with Professor Enrique, and simultaneously stalk university students to satisfy his sexual preferences. (That's obvious.)
Feeling guilty for equating such a low man with Uncle Ivan, Asidis bowed her head solemnly.
Droan's religion follows the "God of Light," the common religion of the United Kingdoms, but has a peculiarly altered afterlife view mixed with traditional customs.
They believe that great warriors continue their eternal struggle by the side of the "God of Light" after death.
Since the enemy of light is always darkness, warriors wield their swords against the darkness at night on behalf of God.
The traces of these battles are stars. All those countless stars in the sky are warriors who have departed to God's side.
So Ivan's star must be somewhere up there too, and Asidis whispered respectfully, bowing her head:
"Uncle, I miss you. Lately, even more. I've picked up an instrument as you told me to. It's not easy, but I'm working hard. I've made many friends too. I'm doing well."
Since stars don't appear during the day, you probably don't know what happens during daylight.
"So please watch over me. When I graduate, when I become skilled enough, I'll play an epic for you at your grave. I'll tell how your sacrifice wasn't in vain, and how the world remains so beautiful because of it."
She sniffled, clutching her instrument with tears in her eyes.
She didn't dare play at night. She couldn't let her uncle hear her unrefined, crude skills.
So Asidis resolutely wiped away her tears and stood up.
The confusing situation earlier in the day made it impossible to sleep early. Since tomorrow was a day off from classes anyway, she thought she'd go for a night walk.
"Uncle Mord! Let's go out for a bit!"
"Where to?"
"Just out!"
"Well, alright."
Mord, who had been maintaining his weapons downstairs, shrugged and got up.
The two headed out into the summer night streets of Pritzenkaya in light attire.
King Einar has many sworn brothers. The Huskarls, the king's loyal servants. They are killing machines who willingly obey the king solely out of loyalty, friendship, love (not in a strange way), hope, and other bright, happy emotions.
These energetic slaughterers usually stay in the king's palace. They dedicate their lives to holding feasts every night, consuming meat and alcohol, and fighting amongst themselves.
From Ivan's perspective, they are gangsters. Organized and violent, so that's not wrong.
But thugs have their own code. Their law is just one: "Big Brother."
As long as you consistently provide meat and alcohol, and maintain enough strength to earn their respect, there is no more loyal or powerful armed group on the continent than these thugs.
Therefore, betrayal by a Huskarl is extremely rare. The important point here is the phrase "extremely rare."
The word "rare" implies that it has happened in history.
And as history proves, what has happened once can happen again.
Isn't the betrayal of a believer the most painful?
"Spring for the Citizens?"
"Yes!! That's, that's all! I don't, don't know anything else...! Damn it... So, so stop..."
"You mean the healing potion?"
"Don't mess with me! How is that a healing potion?!"
Ivan straightened up after looking down at this poor man who was delirious with pain.
Even at that small movement, the man trembled violently with a "Heek!" and curled up.
"Spring for the Citizens. Quite poetic for a rebel group name."
Ivan smiled bitterly. Unsuited to this primitive pre-modern society, the group this man belonged to had the characteristics of a multinational human rights organization.
Of course, that's just on the surface.
'One general and one sword should not control the absolute majority of the people... huh.'
Isn't this a slogan for democratic revolution?
But Ivan knew this was nothing more than sweet propaganda.
Unlike Earth, this world has mana. This versatile resource called magical power is literally a special material that can be whatever you need it to be.
It enhances individual power to split mountains and cut through the sky, and strengthens human hearing, smell, and vision to beast-like levels.
When woven into magic, it can destroy fortresses and slaughter armies - that kind of special material.
The overwhelming power that an individual can achieve through talent and effort alone makes democracy meaningless.
This was something he could be certain of precisely because he had lived in a democratic society.
Contrary to many people's misunderstanding, rights don't simply stem from duties. They are created based on a social system that can secure and maintain those rights.
And that social system is, of course, maintained by force. Overwhelming force. The driving power that allows the state to enforce duties on individuals.
As long as magical power exists, people cannot be equal. Sad but true. This is even more so in a world with demon folk, elves, and dwarves.
So this is malicious propaganda designed to deceive people with pleasant-sounding words.
And one more thing.
'An international organization in a world where there are no means of communication except telegrams and letters.'
Even in a world where telephones and video calls were commonplace, establishing international organizations was extremely difficult. And in pre-modern times, an international organization?
Obviously, this means there's a powerful figure behind it who can maintain an organization of such scale.
Isn't it paradoxical? An organization created by a powerful figure advocating for democracy. At first glance, it might appear to be a beautiful "revolution from above," but the world is not a fairy tale dreamland.
All powerful figures act rationally for their own ambitions.
"Alexandr. I don't know where you are or what you're doing, but you're using your head well."
Ivan shook his head with a slight smile.
'Targeting the children of the Hero Party was itself part of the propaganda.'
Their slogan is "Salvation for the majority of people ruled by a minority of the powerful."
If we're talking about symbols of the old power representing the minority of the powerful, it would definitely be the Hero Party. After all, their individual power rivals that of nations.
Therefore, if the reason for targeting the children of the Hero Party is terrorism against inherited individual power, it makes sense. This is an achievement they can directly show to the people they're trying to deceive.
Ivan nodded as he finally understood the stories of the past days.
'The field training terror wasn't a coincidence.'
Recalling the demon remnants who had tried to assassinate the Hero Party's child with surprisingly accurate knowledge of the field training location and nature, Ivan narrowed his eyes.
Someone in the Krasilov monarchy, military, or administration had sold the information.
And this would just be a preview of many more terrorist acts to come. An organization of this scale wouldn't be discouraged by just one or two failures.
'Alexandr.'
Ivan smiled bitterly. What was that smiling young royal thinking now, and what was he planning to do?
What does he want? What benefit would come from dismantling the monarchy, collapsing the United Kingdoms, and undermining the authority of the nobles and public sentiment?
And why was Beolgrin chasing Alexandr?
Where did Maximillian disappear to?
Thoughts piled up layer by layer. Ivan sighed.
The simplest way to untangle a complex knot is to cut through the knot itself.
Ivan placed his axe on his shoulder.
"Where should I go to make contact with Dionarr Eriksson?"