Chapter 3: To the Crow Who Once Was a Canary (3) (3/3)

Herta’s lips were still moving, seemingly saying something about the blood ration standards of the academy cafeteria.

But Claire could no longer hear her.

Her gaze rested on the minute changes in Herta’s expression—the slight furrow between her brows, the faint avoidance in her eyes, the speaking speed half a beat faster than usual.

These were all the recognition techniques Herta had taught her, used to judge whether an intelligence target was concealing true emotions.

And at this moment, the emotion she was concealing was reluctance.

A tremendous impulse suddenly surged up in Claire’s heart.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Herta’s waist.

Herta’s body stiffened for an instant.

She had clearly not expected the gesture.

In the past five years of training there had almost never been any intimate contact between them, aside from those embraces when Herta had stopped Flora from killing herself in the first two years.

Claire buried her face against the collar of Herta’s coat.

The fabric was rough and cold, carrying the scent of old books—this was Herta’s scent, one she had grown infinitely familiar with over five years.

“Thank you, Mother.”

Claire’s voice was very soft.

Soft enough that without a vampire’s hearing it would probably have been completely swallowed by the wind.

Herta remained silent for a long time.

Then she slowly raised her hand and placed it on the back of Claire’s head.

She said nothing.

The train entered the station.

The piercing screech of iron wheels against rails shattered the morning silence; white mist sprayed from the steam engine and filled the platform, blurring everything.

Claire released her arms, picked up her suitcase, and turned toward the carriage.

What she did not know was that after the steam dispersed, Herta still stood on the platform, motionless, staring in the direction the train had vanished, standing there for a very long time.

This was the last time Claire and Herta would ever meet.

Londinium.

Capital of the Northern Continent United Kingdom, heart of the Kingdom of Albion, the swirling center where all the power and wealth of the entire continent ultimately converged.

The Dragon King of Albion concurrently served as the Supreme King of the United Kingdom—a being who wore two crowns, either of which was enough to make the entire continent tremble.

The train raced from the outskirts into the city center; the scenery outside the window changed rapidly.

Desolate wilderness was replaced by gray factories, the factories swallowed by dense residential blocks, and above the residences rose still taller buildings—clock towers, churches, theaters, banks.

Lights grew denser and denser, from scattered points to entire sheets of brilliance, as if someone had overturned an entire chest of pearls upon the human world.

In the mansion district, elongated black limousines sped along broad tree-lined avenues; behind the windows one could vaguely glimpse the languid profiles of nobles and the wine glasses swaying in their hands.

In the Church district, white marble walls enclosed one red church after another; the melodious sound of pipe organs flowed out through the stained-glass windows.

Swaying flower fields dotted every corner of the city, refusing to wither completely even in late autumn—said to be maintained by the magic of elven mages.

Claire pressed her forehead against the cold window glass and watched the city slowly unfold before her eyes.

She had once lived in the imperial capital beneath the Platinum Tower of the Southern Continent.

When Lucis people spoke of the Northern Continent they always carried a kind of condescending contempt—radical systems, backward civilization, and those unsettling alien freaks everywhere.

In the salons of the Empire, “the glory of the United Kingdom has long since faded” was a statement that could win applause almost without need of proof.

Yet at this moment, when the full panorama of Londinium spread out before Claire’s eyes, she realized that the arrogance of the Empire’s people perhaps needed correction.

Steam locomotives thundered past on the elevated tracks above her head; factory chimneys belched white steam straight into the clouds; cranes on the docks were loading and unloading cargo from every corner of the world.

The dividends of the mechanical revolution were no longer enjoyed by the Empire alone.

The Northern Continent had quietly caught up with the Southern Continent’s pace, and in certain aspects had already surpassed it.

The train finally stopped at Londinium Central Station.

Claire picked up her suitcase, stepped off the platform, and was swept by the flow of people into the blood vessels of this vast city.

Orfa University.

It occupied the entire port area on the western side of Londinium, radiating outward in ring after ring of buildings from a black high tower at its core.

The tower was built entirely of black stone, its surface covered with dense reliefs and runes.

Those patterns came from different eras, different civilizations, different architectural schools; one could find classical colonnades, medieval flying buttresses, elven vine motifs, and even the gears and pipe decorations that had only appeared after the mechanical revolution.

Elements that should have contradicted one another were almost perfectly fused on this tower, like a symphony performed by countless instruments—chaotic enough to dazzle the eye, yet ultimately arriving at a strange harmony.

Its predecessor had been the high tower of the Mage Guild; under the impetus of the First Supreme King the tower had been converted into an educational institution.

It had originally stood alone on the western coastline of Londinium, facing the sea like a silent sentinel.

But in the seventy years that followed, teaching buildings, experimental facilities, dormitories, and libraries had sprung up around it like mushrooms after rain.

Then wealthy merchants who smelled opportunity had flocked in, scrambling to buy nearby property and open bookstores, taverns, tailor shops, and cafés—everything a university town should have was present here.

Today Orfa University had expanded until it was completely fused with the western district of Londinium; it was difficult to tell where the campus boundary ended and the city began.

After the great war the elves who had emerged from the islands had settled in Orfa University and, over the subsequent seventy years, monopolized the right to speak in the Northern Continent’s academic world.

In the College of Magic, the College of Philosophy, the College of Law, the College of Mechanics—almost every major held a seat occupied by an elf with pointed ears.

They presided over academic conferences, published papers, and evaluated professional ranks in that characteristic unhurried tone of theirs.

Occasionally a genius human scholar would produce some epoch-making research result, yet those results, in this deep water dominated by elves, could usually only raise a small ripple before quickly falling silent—not because the research itself was insufficient, but because in this system anyone without pointed ears naturally possessed one fewer reason to be heard.

As for the Intelligence Academy, it was an existence within Orfa University that was almost never mentioned.

Its location was at the outermost edge of the campus—a gray building ordinary to the point of deliberate intention, without any distinctive decoration, looking no different from the student apartments next door.

It had been established specifically for the training and assessment of vampire agents; the lecturers and instructors were all assigned by the Cerberus Bureau, every one of them a veteran withdrawn from the front lines.

Their faces were carved with marks that could only be left on a true battlefield, and their eyes carried a weary sharpness.

Here Claire received even more systematic training.

Infiltration studies, intelligence studies, mechanics, practical training in bloodline abilities, practical firearms training…

Every course was like a brick precisely laid into a wall, and the wall that was ultimately formed was a perfect spy.

During her days at the Intelligence Academy Claire met Liz Toriduo.

Their first encounter took place on the shooting range.

Claire was practicing on moving targets; after emptying a magazine she stepped back to reload when a burst of gunfire denser than she had ever heard suddenly rang out beside her.

Bang bang bang bang bang.

Five bullets almost simultaneously struck the five bull’s-eyes in the distance; before the gunsmoke from the muzzle had even dispersed, the girl with long chestnut hair beside her had already spun her pistol in a flourish and holstered it at her waist.

Then that girl turned her head and gave Claire a wide smile.

“Your grip is a little off. Want me to teach you?”

That was Liz.

She and Claire were almost the two kinds of people least likely in the world to become friends.

Yet somehow, without either of them knowing when, they had become inseparable partners.

Some encounters are simply like that—needing no reason, no buildup, only a perfectly timed moment and two hearts that happen to resonate with each other.

In training their coordination grew ever more seamless, until later they no longer even needed language.

A glance, a gesture, was enough to precisely convey each other’s intentions.

Four years of time slipped by in the blink of an eye.

Those four words look light when written on paper, yet anyone who has truly lived them knows how heavy they are.

Countless mornings woken by an alarm at five o’clock, countless training sessions crawling forward through wind and snow, countless pages of textbooks and intelligence files worn to tatters, countless bullets fired—only when all of them were added together did they equal the weight of four years.

The final qualification review was held on a cloudy day.

The content of the review was classified; only the participants knew what they had experienced.

What could be revealed was only the result: of the thirty-seven trainees in that cohort, only eleven ultimately passed.

Claire and Liz were both among them.

The great hall of Cerberus Headquarters.

The induction oath ceremony was held on a certain late-autumn dusk.

The crystal chandelier in the center of the hall cast cold white light that rendered every face especially clear and especially pale.

Claire wore a black coat, the emblem of the Cerberus Bureau—Cerberus the three-headed dog, guardian of the gates of the underworld—embroidered on her chest.

The black fabric was stiff and heavy, pressing on her shoulders like an invisible suit of armor.

She stood in a line with the ten colleagues who had graduated in the same cohort.

Liz stood right beside her, her chestnut hair neatly arranged, her expression so serious she seemed a different person.

The voice of the oath officer echoed through the hall, refracted repeatedly by the soaring dome and stone columns; every word sounded solemn and beyond question.

Claire’s gaze passed through the ranks and looked toward the far end of the hall.

There hung the flag of the United Kingdom—a scarlet fire dragon coiled upon a golden field, its eyes wide, claws outstretched, as if it might break free of the cloth at any moment.

Claire felt no loyalty toward the Northern Continent.

Her loyalty did not belong to this flag, did not belong to this city, did not even belong to this nation.

Her thoughts crossed the dome of this hall, crossed the skyline of Londinium, crossed the vast and icy ocean between the Northern and Southern Continents, and flew back to that distant summer.

Golden sunlight poured across the gardens of the summer palace; roses bloomed in full glory; the air was filled with the cloying fragrance of flowers and the scent of fresh greenery.

A girl sat beside the fountain, feet soaking in the pool, clumsily trying to scoop a butterfly from the surface of the water.

Sunlight fell on her golden curls, on her slightly puffed cheeks stuffed with pastries, on the unreserved smile that bloomed when the butterfly was rescued.

That was her only attachment left in this world.

Not the crown of the Lucis Empire, not the sealed-away name of Flora, not resentment toward fate or hatred toward enemies—only a person.

Only that one person.

She had come to the Northern Continent, cut off her golden hair, dyed it black, changed her name, allowed herself to be polished into a cold weapon under Herta’s training, endured four years of rigorous assessment at the Intelligence Academy, and finally stood in the great hall of Cerberus Headquarters—all for a purpose so simple it was almost naïve.

Perhaps after becoming a member of the Cerberus Bureau she would truly be able to see her one more time.

The oath officer’s voice rose again and called her name.

Claire drew a deep breath.

She forced herself to drag her thoughts back from that distant summer to the cold hall before her eyes.

The laughter beside the fountain faded; the floral fragrance receded; the sunlight was replaced by the cold white light of the crystal chandelier.

She straightened her spine.

“Claire Vandro swears loyalty to the United Kingdom and will spare no effort for the interests of the Supreme King.”

***

The scroll of memory slowly rolled up.

Claire rose from her reverie and gently squeezed the remaining portion of the blood bag in her hand, injecting the last few drops of crimson liquid into her throat.

This was the last of her ration for the month.

To a vampire the preciousness of blood needed no explanation; as a newly promoted enforcer the blood ration she received was far from generous, and compared with colleagues who held clerical posts it appeared even more meager.

This was the third year since Claire had become an enforcer.

Although under Herta’s protection she had been entrusted at the age of only fifteen with the heavy responsibility of executing her own kind, on this long road of promotion she was still only a newcomer; those old fossils with decades more seniority than she were also waiting for advancement.

Claire took out the parchment notebook and let her fingertips glide lightly across the fine paper; her fountain pen gleamed with cold light under the moon.

She slowly crossed out the name “John Cornwall” on the newest page.

In three years Claire had circled the whole of Albion by train; this was the twenty-first unregistered wretch she had hunted.

Yet even with such results she was still only a junior enforcer; the authority to handle cases abroad still lay a long road ahead.

She sighed softly and turned her gaze to the window.

A silver moon hung in the night sky, casting a faint radiance that added a touch of tranquility to the silent night.

She wondered whether, beneath the Platinum Tower in the imperial palace, that Princess Flora could also see this new moon.