Free Web NovelBut Karl decided not to dwell on it.
It wasn't his business to worry about.
"And then there is the last entry."
His gaze fell upon the very bottom of the file.
There was only a brief line of text, the ink newer than the rest, added later.
"Died on the second day of Frost Moon, during night combat at Kaldburg. Body never recovered."
Karl put the file down and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.
"There are no records between the Month of Blazing Sun and the Frost Moon..."
"The previous records are quite complete, from birth to the battlefield, one continuous, clean line."
He paused, then added, "To be honest, it feels off."
"Your suspicion is particularly heavy today," Sophie said.
"Occupational hazard."
"Your current occupation is running errands."
Karl ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) didn't take the bait.
"So how did you confirm he was the ghost of caldberg?" ƒrēewebnovel.com
"The conclusion is written on the last page."
Karl flipped to the last few sheets in the file. It was Sophie's own analytical report, still scribbled, but with surprisingly clear logic.
"Based on intelligence cross-verified from three independent sources—"
Sophie didn't open her eyes, as if reciting something she had written herself.
"—and the oral accounts from survivors of Victoriana after the Night of Calderburg, several pieces of information regarding the 'ghost of caldberg' can be confirmed."
She raised one finger.
"First, this person came from the Usar Punishment Camp. There is no dispute; multiple surviving Imperial soldiers confirmed in post-action reports that the mech's paint scheme and model matched the Punishment Camp's standard configuration."
A second finger went up.
"Second, the mechs of the Punishment Camp are different from the regular army. Regular army mechs are uniform in design; they all look the same."
"But the scrap heaps of the Punishment Camp are repaired and modified entirely by the pilots themselves. Every single one has distinct personal characteristics—welding marks, the model of replacement parts, the way the armor plates are pieced together, just like fingerprints."
She opened one eye and glanced at Karl.
"I had that old soldier describe a few of the 'more famous' mechs from the 404th Battalion."
"The characteristics of one of them perfectly matched the mech of the ghost of caldberg described by the survivors—the left arm was salvaged from a guardian-v, the right shoulder had a piece of armor plate welded on from an unknown source, and the chest vents were installed backward because the correct ones didn't fit."
"And the registered pilot of that mech was Pavel Ivanovich Sokolov, known in the 404th Battalion for being 'insidious.'"
Karl looked down again at the grim face in the photograph.
The son of a blacksmith from the Zalesye region.
Orphaned at thirteen, caught stealing military supplies at nineteen, thrown into the Punishment Camp at twenty, and dead at Kaldburg at twenty-one.
"Just a person like this..."
His tone carried a hint of disbelief.
"A cannon fodder from the Punishment Camp, piloting a Frankenstein mech, without any honor or chivalry—"
He searched for the right words, ultimately unable to find anything more tactful than the original description.
"—a complete bastard, actually managed to take down eleven Royal Knight mechs head-on by himself?"
"That's what the intelligence points to."
Sophie closed her eyes again, her tone returning to its usual lazy flatness.
"Whether the higher-ups believe it or how they judge it is their business. We did the job for the money; we hand over the materials and that's it."
Karl considered it and felt she was right.
He stuffed all the documents back into the file and used a thin piece of string he found on the desk to tie the opening shut.
"Fine."
He stood up, picked up the dark grey coat hanging behind the door, and put it on.
"I'm leaving now. First to 'Lady Silver Spoon,' then to the handover point."
"Remember," Sophie's voice followed him, carrying an undeniable seriousness. "Hanna made it. Caramel Hazelnut Mille-Crêpe. Today's batch."
"I remember."
"If Hanna isn't working—"
"Then don't buy it, just come straight back."
Karl replied while buttoning his coat. "You've already said it three times."
"It was clearly four times! You weren't even listening properly that last time!"
Karl didn't argue.
He tucked the file into the inner pocket of his coat, patted it to confirm it was secure, then pulled open the door and walked out.
The stairs let out a grating creak under his feet.
He pushed open the main door downstairs, and the cold wind immediately rushed in.
The twilight of Eisenburg was fading.
The last sliver of grayish-white light in the sky was being swallowed by the inky blue curtain of night, like a piece of paper slowly sinking into water from the edges.
The gas streetlamps lining the streets hadn't lit up yet, and the entire world was submerged in an ambiguous gloom between day and night.
Snow began to fall.
Fine, tentative flakes, as if the sky was hesitating whether to truly start snowing.
They landed on Karl's shoulders and the brim of his hat, melting instantly, leaving only a slight, cool dampness.
A bit cold.
Karl tightened the collar of his coat and quickened his pace.
St. Sophia Academy was in the east of the city. It wasn't too far from here, but taking the main road required a detour.
He habitually chose the shortcut through the residential area—a series of narrow alleys linked together that could save nearly ten minutes of walking time.
As he walked, he thought about things.
Not work matters.
Or rather, not entirely.
He was thinking about Sophie.
They had been partners for almost two years.
Two years ago, Karl was just a poor student auditing classes at the Eisenburg Imperial Naval School, earning meager living expenses by copying documents for others.
By chance, someone introduced him to work as a runner for a "woman in the information business."
That was the first time he met Sophie Lantz.
She looked the same then—slumped in a chair, feet propped on the desk, a piece of paper covering her face.
He thought she was dead.
He almost called the police.
He later learned that this woman, who seemed to be perpetually checked out, held half of Eisenburg's secrets in her head.
Her intelligence network covered every corner from the military to the black market. She could investigate all the information about a person from birth up to what they ate for dinner the previous night within three days. Her memory for numbers and details was inhumanly good.
She was just lazy.
Appallingly lazy.
But Karl stayed.
At first, it was because of the money—Sophie's pay was significantly higher than copying documents.
Later, it was out of habit—he had grown accustomed to this rhythm of finding order within chaos.
And later still...
Karl's steps slowed slightly.
And later still, it became hard to explain.
He didn't particularly like this line of work.
Although the pay was decent, the job was not safe.
The life of an information broker seemed glamorous, but in reality, it was like walking on thin ice.
You never knew which piece of information in your hand might anger someone you shouldn't provoke, nor did you know which morning you might wake up to find yourself caught in a vortex far beyond your capabilities.
If it weren't for Sophie, he would never have stayed in this line of work for so long.
But the four words, "because of Sophie," were themselves a question he dared not ponder too deeply.
He sighed, and the white mist he exhaled dissipated in the cold air.
Forever out of reach.
The alley grew narrower, and the buildings on both sides looked older.
This area was Eisenburg's old town, mostly inhabited by retired soldiers and low-income working families.
The plaster on the walls was peeling and mottled. Clotheslines occasionally spanned the alley overhead, hung with garments frozen stiff.
Karl turned into the second-to-last alley.
This alley was narrower and darker than the previous ones.
The buildings on both sides nearly touched, leaving only a strip of hazy grey sky overhead.
The ground was uneven flagstone, covered with a thin layer of dirty snow.
The alley was very quiet.
Only the sound of his own footsteps echoed between the walls.
Then he saw the person.
In the middle of the alley, close to the wall, a figure was huddled on the ground.
The person was leaning against the wall, legs drawn up, head bowed. A worn, grey beret was pulled down low, almost obscuring the entire face.
They were wrapped in a tattered overcoat whose original color was indistinguishable, the collar and cuffs frayed.
A pair of rough hands rested on their knees, knuckles thick, with black grime embedded in the nail beds.
A beggar.
Although Eisenburg was a major military hub and its public order was better than most cities, you could occasionally see people like this in the old town alleys.
Veterans who couldn't find work after being discharged, refugees who flocked to the city from the countryside and found nothing, or perhaps just drunks who had spent their last copper coin.
Karl didn't stop walking.
He habitually reached into his pocket, pulled out a copper coin, and tossed it casually as he passed the person.
The coin drew a brief arc in the air before landing on the flagstones in front of the beggar with a crisp clink.
"Go find some work," Karl said without looking back, his steps not faltering in the slightest.
As his gaze swept over the huddled figure, a thought flashed through his mind—
Something felt wrong?
About that person.
Although the old overcoat was filthy, it couldn't hide the outline underneath.
That person's shoulders were too broad, the lines of their arms too distinct. There was a kind of... tension hidden within the curled-up posture.
Like a spring.
A compressed spring.
Karl's steps slowed by half a beat.
A notion began to form in his mind—a vague warning signal that hadn't yet coalesced into a complete thought.
His right hand instinctively reached inside his coat, his fingertips brushing the edge of the file.
Then, he felt the wind at the back of his neck.
It was the airflow created by an object slicing through the air at high speed!
