Semi-Coercive Imperialist

[ Victor Heim: I wonder where that dreadful hatred you carry comes from. We're all human, aren't we? ]

Filty's studio. She was peeking in on the conversation between Victor Heim and Maximilian, preserved on the page.

[ Victor Heim: We feel pain just like you do. We long to live, just like you do. We're people all the same. ]

She had seen it and drawn it through her All-Seeing Eye, yet it was absent from her own memories. In that sense, she was a voyeur.

[ Maximilian: You're not human. ]

The Maximilian Filty saw was always certain. He was certain even of things that could not be known for sure. Whenever he faced Izenheim, without a single exception, he defined them as those who were not human.

[ Maximilian: "Silent Communion. A ritual where they crush the heads of their own kind with stones. Izenheim carries out demonic rites, even offering up their own lives..." ]

Maximilian's eyes, trapped within the square panel, sharpened more than ever before.

[ Its purpose is ]

[ to ]

[ open ]

[ the ]

[ dimensional ]

[ gate. ]

Filty found his certainty strange. He spoke of something so absurd it went beyond madness.

[ Victor Heim: ...Are you insane? ]

He was too certain to be a delusional patient, too cool-headed to be a madman, and had no doctrine whatsoever to be called a fanatic.

[ Maximilian: Then let me ask you one last thing. It's a personal question, so I'd appreciate an honest answer. ]

Click.

Maximilian removed the man's handcuffs and stepped closer.

[ Maximilian: How did you know Halbert Goring's pocket watch was fake? ]

After changing his appearance into Eli Zella's, he tilted his body slightly and recited that incomprehensible "wave."

[ ! ]

At that instant, Victor Heim's fingertips were caught in the comic. An unknown black shadow rippled over his skin, captured in precise detail.

Of course, it could have been a transformation of mana. There were countless ways to use mana.

The issue was the perspective of the artist called Filty.

Her All-Seeing Eye did not reflect memories. There was not even room for her own subjective view to intervene.

If her emotions had been projected onto the page, she would have depicted Maximilian as a devil and Victor as a victim.

But her brush had not moved that way.

Her All-Seeing Eye was seeing something in Izenheim, something different from mana.

Something that was not mana, something possessed only by them.

"Izenheim..."

Filty rolled the word around in her mouth.

Were Izenheim truly different from us?

What on earth did Maximilian see in them?

Filty guarded against herself and doubted herself, realizing that she was slowly being influenced by him.

The cause was probably Maximilian's certainty.

A mass murderer of this age, a man who had declared he would kill countless people and keep killing them.

Yet a person who never doubted himself gave off a strange pull that made her want to watch the path he took, wherever it led.

"..."

That was why Filty's eyes remained on Izenheim's fingertips on the page for a long time.

* * *

I'd been assigned the irritating task known as the World Expo. Time was tight.

I hurriedly drew on my knowledge from before the regression and recruited artists who would become masters in the future.

"...Is this the right place?"

Today, I had come looking for someone who would become central to this project.

His name was Yulian Schupel Becker, an Imperial Guard member and mana stone sculptor.

Just in case, I sharpened my senses, but thankfully, there was no sign of Izenheim.

Knock.

The door opened on its own under the pressure of my knock. Inside the shabby studio, finely sculpted mana stones gave off light on their own.

They did not flicker or pulse like other mana stones. They shone with an intense, steady radiance.

"Uh, who are you?"

Someone in work clothes emerged from the corner.

I smiled and answered.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Maximilian von Ebenholtz."

Yulian Schupel Becker's expression changed at once.

He had been an Imperial Guard member before the regression, and he still was now. He had not been treated as a first or second-class war criminal like the others, and had received a prison sentence instead of execution.

"Why would a knight come to a place like this...?"

There was no rule saying an Imperial Guard member could not possess artistic talent.

Yulian Schupel Becker was, in fact, overflowing with talent. He was an architect I absolutely needed for this Expo.

...

The next day.

I arrived in Prozen at once. I found the conspicuous treatment reserved for foreign dignitaries uncomfortable, so I dressed plainly. I wore a brown trench coat suited to the autumn season.

"You look wonderful, sir."

At my attendant's praise, I only shrugged.

There had been a lot of bothersome things lately. Apparently, the coats and shoes I wore were being featured in magazines and setting trends.

"First, this is the Empire's site."

A Prozen official guided me through the grounds.

For the record, I had brought not only Yulian Schupel Becker, but also a carefully selected architectural design team from Lorenzo Academy and a crew of skilled workers.

"As you can see, it's an excellent location."

The World Expo grounds were divided into plots by country. Each nation had been given space in the center of Prozen's capital to build its own national pavilion.

"Show me the map."

At my words, the Prozen official looked surprised and even let out an awkward laugh.

"Here it is... Though as I'd heard, your talent for languages is truly remarkable."

With a faint smile, I unfolded the Expo map.

The Empire and the Eastern Union had claimed the best locations, while Prozen, as the host nation, naturally held a prime spot as well.

Major powers such as Balkania, Bolska, Atelik, and Hailand had also secured fairly good locations.

The Kanillan Independent State was right around the middle. Zerpha had been pushed somewhat away from the center due to its civil war, but its position was still better than those of weaker nations like Mekerel and Finnomia.

"The promise was kept, right?"

"Yes. It's a very spacious and excellent site."

The Empire and the Eastern Union faced one another across the central Essential Bridge, the heart of the Expo.

The Eastern Union was a coalition of several nations, but within the Expo grounds, they were participating as a single bloc.

"The sites are exactly the same size. Neither side is larger. Truly."

The Emperor had sulked over being assigned the same area as the Eastern Union, but the Expo organizers' diplomacy had worked.

They flattered him by saying that the Eastern Union only became the Empire's equal after combining several nations.

At any rate, that was why the Empire's participation had been confirmed so late.

The other countries had apparently begun construction months ago.

"Yes. Understood."

Sometimes, I thought the Emperor was incredibly petty.

His own whims had delayed the Empire's participation, and the rushed schedule had caused the construction effort before the regression to fail. Yet the Emperor had held everyone involved responsible and had them all beheaded.

...Would even thinking that count as treason?

"Um, if I may..."

The Prozen official asked carefully.

"What form will the Imperial pavilion take?"

Curiosity flickered in the official's eyes as the question trailed off.

"It will be the tallest."

My answer made the official tilt their head.

"The tallest...?"

"Yes. The tallest here. Perhaps."

Smiling, I nodded toward the distance.

Prozen Tower stood far away, hundreds of meters tall. Made entirely of mana stone steel framing, it was Prozen's symbol, glowing a soft blue even late at night.

"It might even be taller than Prozen Tower."

"Ah... Ha ha ha. Yes, that would be quite something."

As I walked through the site, I suddenly felt someone watching me.

The stare was intense enough that I looked back for a moment.

A woman stood among the crowd.

It was a familiar face.

Clara Magal, the leader of the Revision Society, which followed the Empire's ideals.

There was a strange light in her eyes as she stared at me from afar. The same went for the Revision Society members beside her.

Ziiiiing.

They looked like they were about to shoot beams from their eyes.

"..."

This was why I could not neglect my appearance, including fashion and cleanliness.

As I have said many times, it was an undeniable fact that my looks were one of my greatest strengths and outstanding talents.

Everything I did stood out because of this face, making me an object of admiration.

If you wanted to become someone's ideological idol and control their heart, there was no better tool than a flawless outer shell.

"Put up the fence first. High."

The national pavilion would remain strictly confidential until it was completed.

This design I had glimpsed and brought back from the future could not be leaked.

No, honestly, it would not matter even if it was leaked. Looking at the exterior alone, no one would dare imagine the essence hidden within.

"Then I'll leave the construction to you according to the plans."

"Yes, sir!"

Yulian Schupel Becker and the others immediately got to work. I left the site to the staff and turned away.

Now...

I was going to go relieve some stress.

As I always say, maintaining my mental health was one of my very important duties.

* * *

The Zerpha national pavilion.

In the middle of the construction site, where work had stopped and a layer of pale dust had settled over everything, a man was painting an oil work across a vast canvas.

He had been invited to the Expo with state support, but perhaps because of the state of his homeland, material deliveries had stopped long ago, leaving the site in complete disarray.

"..."

Every worker passing through stole a glance at his work.

He had made the place into a temporary studio and living space, pushing a roller wildly across the canvas.

It was not even brushwork.

There was something bizarre about the painter and his work, as he shoved the roller back and forth over the canvas.

"Hey, what the hell is that? I can't tell what you've painted at all."

A passing worker finally asked.

Without stopping the roller, the painter tossed out a reply.

"What else would it be? A painting."

"That's a painting? The shapes are all twisted up. It's grotesque."

Pablo Suarez Sovakin was one of Zerpha's most famous painters back home. To the workers, though, his painting looked like a wall a child had vandalized in a tantrum.

"Did you come here after looking at my son's scribbles?"

Even at the mocking sneer, the painter simply stared at the canvas.

"Go do your work. Don't talk to me."

"Can't do it even if we wanted to. The materials aren't coming, so we're just sitting around."

"Then get out!"

Tsk.

The workers shot him dirty looks and passed on.

Silence settled over the space again, broken only by the sound of the roller scraping across the canvas.

Then, at some point.

Thud. Thud.

Someone approached.

Had he heard it?

Probably not. The painter's ears were closed to the outside world as he buried himself in the canvas.

Still, a single clear, solemn voice gently knocked on that closed door.

"May I ask the title of the work?"

This was not a spectator's curiosity.

Faced with a polite question that showed respect for an artist, Pablo answered before he even realized it.

"...Guernica."

The event that had made him settle on the subject was the Zeronica Mine incident.

The mine that had once been a symbol of Zerpha had collapsed under Imperial artillery fire, and prisoners had been executed amid the ruins.

Whether it was accurate or not.

Whether it had been exaggerated or not.

The mine had collapsed, and the prisoners had been executed. That was a fact.

Pablo was reconstructing that history according to his own will.

The man murmured quietly.

"...So that's what it became."

A strange mutter.

Pablo did not answer and simply continued working.

The presence behind him did not disappear.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how many times the roller crossed the canvas, that presence remained like a shadow on the wall.

"But why are you working here instead of in your atelier?"

Pablo let out a small laugh and painted over a distorted shape at the corner of the canvas.

"Maybe it's because my country isn't strong enough."

The other person fell silent for a moment.

But they did not leave.

They continued watching him.

"...Are you still there?"

"Yes."

A sudden irritation rose in him.

Critics, patrons, even painters, everyone who had stood before his paintings lately had only glanced around awkwardly and walked away.

So this time, Pablo asked first. It was half a test.

"Can you see it?"

"Yes. I can."

The answer came without the slightest pause.

"That's what shelling does to shapes. The sound comes first. Then the walls fold like paper, and the outlines of people bend. The absence of color is the same. Dust erases every color."

The man continued in an even voice.

"You painted only what happened."

Something strange brushed Pablo's fingertips.

For the first time, he felt as if he had met a real viewer. Still, he tried not to show it and moved the roller again.

The nameless man's eyes quietly followed its path.

"...Everything from that day comes back to me. Clearly."

Pablo listened as he pushed the roller across the enormous background.

"It will remain like this, as a record."

A faint smile rose at the painter's lips.

"You talk as if you were there."

The man fell silent for a moment.

Wheeeee...

Then, just as a cold wind swept through the corridor.

"Because I was the one who did it."

Pablo did not understand those words.

No, more accurately, they scattered past his ears. His mind, engrossed in the canvas, dismissed them as exaggeration, and his hand painted the next stroke.

That was all.

The man's shadow stretched long along the sun's path, then vanished without a sound.

How much time passed like that?

By the time the deep dusk covered the entire Zerpha national pavilion.

"Pablo! Pablo!"

The manager came running in, out of breath, and grabbed Pablo by the shoulder.

"...What is it now, you lunatic? Do you want to die?!"

Pablo snapped and swung his roller, but the manager shouted with a face that looked close to fainting.

"Who did you just meet? What on earth did you say to that person?"

"...What are you talking about? Who?"

"No, you! Don't tell me you don't know who you just met?!"

A trembling smile spread over the manager's lips. Fear and joy were mixed together in that expression.

"Just now?"

The person he had just met...

No, had he actually met anyone?

Pablo searched through that memory, which felt half like a dream because he had been so absorbed in his work.

"Who was it?"

The manager swallowed and spoke the name.

"Maximilian."

"...?"

Pablo frowned.

He tilted his head, assembling that vaguely familiar name he had once read in a newspaper.

"What... Who?"

"Ah, come on! Maximilian, Maximilian von Ebenholtz!"

"..."

"That man says he'll support your atelier and our entire Expo project, Pablo! No conditions at all!"

The manager kept babbling on about something, but every word had already scattered like noise.

The strength left Pablo's hand.

The roller he had not let go of for more than ten hours fell to the floor with a thud.

Maximilian.

A knight of the Empire.

Pablo slowly turned his head and looked at the canvas.

The collapsed mine shaft. The open mouths. The bent outlines. The figures of prisoners being beheaded.

Inside his ears, a man's voice repeated like a broken radio.

"Because I was the one who did it."

Footnotes:

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