The crowd surged, their angry cries rising and falling until they merged into a deafening roar of fury and protest.
Soon, people began fetching harpoons, wrenches, crowbars—anything heavy or sharp—from their homes, joining the furious tide like glinting drops of steel merging into a river—a river now raging toward the Port Constables’ Bureau.
“Justice for Benny’s family!”
“To hell with the so-called air pollution tax!”
“—Take away those bastards’ tax privileges!”
“Professor,” Azukar’s face darkened as he placed a hand on the dark-haired man’s shoulder. “It’s too dangerous to go out like this.”
A stranger dressed so differently from the people of Fish Tail Street could provoke chaos among a grief-maddened crowd—anything could happen.
Captain Scarbough had also come to his senses. “Professor, just stay here. Whatever happens, don’t go out there!”
Nova shook off the Divine Chosen’s hand and leaned against the wall near the doorway, calmly and sharply observing the silhouettes flashing past the door.
“Because of the Dawn Festival, the Port Navy and Constables are already on high alert,” he said coolly. “What do you think happens when an irrational mob clashes with a prepared force armed with magelights and guns?”
Eviction. Suppression. Public shaming. Then, a one-sided massacre and massive casualties.
A slaughter—brutal, unforgiving.
Nova Brody was a cold man, indifferent to many things. But if showing his credentials could deescalate the conflict and save lives—then why not do it, even if only out of arrogance and pride?
Damn noble blood. He laughed bitterly at himself, always saying he didn’t need it, yet always wielding it when convenient.
—None of this should have happened.
He casually picked up a tattered coat from the captain’s home and threw it over his shoulders. “Besides, I need to go to the Constables’ Bureau anyway. I want them to help me contact White Spire University—don’t give me that look, I’m not some reckless idiot.”
“…”
The Divine Chosen stared at the side of the dark-haired man’s face for a moment before sighing in exasperation.
“Please come here for a moment—I don’t mean to stop you, but we need to make a small preparation,” he said gently.
Nova stepped forward in confusion. The other man waved a hand in front of him, murmured a few words, and a soft breeze brushed across his cheek.
No glowing runes or dramatic magical effects like those in games or movies—yet suddenly, Captain Scarbough blinked and looked around, confused.
“Wait, where’s the professor?” he asked in alarm, sounding like someone who’d just lost track of their cat. “O my Sea God, don’t tell me he already left?!”
As the captain was about to charge out the door, the Divine Chosen grabbed the baffled Nova and waved his hand. Nova immediately started glaring, annoyed by the gesture. “Don’t worry,” Azukar said with a smile. “The professor is still here.”
“Wha—why does it suddenly look like there’s someone else here?!”
“Just a bit of perceptual misdirection.” Azukar gave an elegant nod like a magician after a successful trick, as Nova’s eyes gleamed with keen interest.
In his past life, the Samman family had joined forces with the Port Navy to massacre the Natalin in Asachi Valley, leaving the harbor’s defenses lax. Azukar had never heard of a large-scale crackdown in Graybridge Port—perhaps the Constables’ attention had been elsewhere, or the “Air Pollution Tax” hadn’t been imposed yet, or maybe the resistance from the Fishtail Street folks had forced them to compromise.
The storyline had subtly shifted, and perhaps the hands behind the curtain would finally reveal themselves. Either way, he had every reason to follow and observe.
……
Neit Samman, the Director of the Graybridge Port Constables’ Bureau, had been in quite a good mood recently. The Dawn Festival had gone off without a hitch, and the bigwig from the Radiant Church seemed pleased. Even the Samman family’s patriarch, General Barthefield Samman, was in high spirits. Neit seized the moment to complain about the cost and effort of maintaining security during the celebrations, and the dignitary had graciously handed him an official writ stamped with the seal—authorizing him to collect back taxes.
If things went smoothly, there’d be plenty of gravy to skim.
Nobles, with their noble silver blood, enjoyed tax exemption. Those with hereditary fiefs even held partial taxation rights within their domains—pending approval from the Royal Court, of course.
Celebrations were expensive? Just raise tax categories, increase the rates—so many tricks to play. Squeeze the wretches dry and see what flows out.
But recently, his subordinates had reported that some lowborn fools had dared to resist—clashing with the Constables.
Neit Samman wasn’t worried. The lowborn were cowardly and dim-witted. Grab the boldest ones and execute them—and the rest will fall in line like sheep.
And besides, the Constables’ guns and the Navy’s magelight cannons weren’t just for show—Especially the magelight cannon—a single shot was said to rival the full-force strike of a Light-element Apostle-tier Spellcaster.
That weapon was a hand-me-down from the Royal Capital. Though the Samman family had long been stationed at the Empire of the Silver Iris’s westernmost frontier, technically serving as border garrison troops, Graybridge Port was surrounded on three sides by sea, shaped like the toe of a shoe jutting into the ocean. Beyond its borders lay nothing but vast, treacherous, and ever-shifting waters—aside from pirates, there was barely anything to defend against. If not for the favor of that high figure, they never would have had the chance to equip such a treasure.
“Director! Something’s happened!” His deputy burst in, panting heavily. Neit Samman’s brow twitched; he immediately kicked the man in the knee, sending him stumbling backward.
“Why are you panicking like that? Have some damn composure!”
The deputy didn’t dare cry out from the pain and rushed to report, “The lowborns from Fish Tail Street have really rioted! A huge crowd is marching toward the Constabulary—at least a hundred people, no, more than two hundred—and they’re armed!”
Neit Samman flew into a rage. “Ungrateful scum! How dare they?! That honored guest hasn’t even left Graybridge yet—who else knows about this?”
“All the nearby residents have seen them. They’re coming straight up the main road!”
Fat rippled across Nit Samman’s face as he sucked in a sharp breath. “Send the order—have the constables disperse them. If they resist, open fire. And if that still doesn’t break them up… well, the pirates in this region must be getting pretty bold to launch an assault on the Bureau!”
“Yes, sir!”
The deputy understood immediately and turned to leave, but was stopped again.
“Wait.”A cruel gleam flashed in Nit Samman’s narrow eyes, buried in folds of fat. “How long would it take to ready a magelight cannon?”
—If they were going to deal with a bunch of brazen ‘pirates,’ this would be the perfect opportunity to test its power.
The Constables’ Bureau was now completely surrounded by the enraged crowd. The armed constables stood nervously, scanning the mob for a ringleader to make an example of—but every filthy, weather-worn face they saw mirrored the same seething fury.
Azukar shielded the professor as he slipped through the crowd like a fish through water. Others merely felt a faint breeze pass them by, and when they turned their heads, they saw only the backs of their fellow protesters.
“What do you plan to do?”
He looked down at the professor, who had hidden half his face beneath a grimy cloak hood—something he insisted on, just in case the spell failed. He’d even tried to drape it over Azukar’s radiant golden hair.
As a visitor from a materialist world, the professor was naturally wary of magic. The Savior, slightly offended by the implication that his spell might fail, nevertheless hid it behind a polite smile and refused the offer.
He would never let such a thing touch his hair, never.
“The Samman family. Its patriarch, Marquis Barthefield Samman, is also one of the generals of the Port Navy,” Nova said, swiftly recalling the tangled web of noble relations.
“The Constables’ Bureau is backed by the Samman family. I’m just a viscount’s son—also an ordinary person with no magic potential. They might simply shoo me away and then massacre the civilians, branding them as rebels or pirates.”
“Simply revealing my noble identity won’t be enough to calm things down—but I’m also a theology professor at White Spire University, a guest of the Radiant Church. And this year is the once-a-decade publication year for the Sacred History. The Church will want to avoid conflict with White Spire’s Seminary, which falls under the Ockensell Society.”
“As for the Samman family…” The black-haired youth let out a cold laugh. “They were stationed in Graybridge after losing a political struggle—practically exiled. They may bear the title of marquis, but their status is far beneath even minor nobles of the central districts.”
“Bartfield Samman is desperate to return to the Royal Capital, so he’s bound to curry favor with the Radiant Church. The magelight cannon was one such gift from the Church. Rumor has it a Cardinal from the capital is attending this Dawn Festival—oddly, the Church seems to be putting a lot of weight on it. I suggest keeping an eye on that Cardinal. The Samman family won’t dare disgrace the Church over something like this.”
Azukar listened intently. He had endured his fair share of this kind of political scheming, but rarely had anyone dissected it as thoroughly and clearly as the professor just had. So this was where his nemesis’s frightening grasp of human nature and seemingly prophetic strategic style came from? For a moment, he felt as though he were witnessing history in the making.
“The situation is very clear now,” the professor said, raising three fingers. “First, we get ahead of the Bureau and define the nature of the uprising ourselves. Second, we reveal my noble and academic identity and ask them to contact White Spire Seminary. Third, we force them to revoke the ‘air contamination tax’ and release the detained civilians. In the worst case, if negotiations fail… the death of an invited theology professor in Graybridge would be considered a direct provocation. All we have to do is—”
The Divine Chosen suddenly interrupted him.
“Are you really thinking of gambling your life again?”
His voice was soft, but if one listened closely, there was a bone-chilling undertone of restrained fury.
“…Like I said, I’m not someone important. Just an ordinary man, using what leverage I have to force them to weigh their options.” Nova blinked, looking at him in mild confusion. “Besides, it’s not like I’m really planning to die—it’s a last-resort fallback, extremely unlikely to happen. And according to our deal, aren’t you supposed to protect me?”
“Also, don’t interrupt me while I’m analyzing things. It’s terribly rude,” he added, somewhat annoyed. “And another thing—why does everyone have such a bias against this method? It works really well.”
It was a scoundrel’s tactic, shameless and crude—but it suited him perfectly: a madman who neither cared for reputation nor sought any career path.
