Frondier had not moved a single step from earlier, watching him with a relaxed face.
“Fr–Frondier! A–are you threatening me? You think you can threaten me with something like this...!”
Giotto tried to bluff, but he had no idea what this “something like this” even was.
He was, after all, a proper professor of Atlas, so he was equipped with responses and defenses for combat situations.
Dozens of spells popped into his head at once—magic suitable for dealing with spikes stabbing in from all directions or a prison that confined him.
But that was only when those spikes or that prison were something he understood.
If these black spikes and walls were something entirely unaffected by his magic—
By setting this up, Frondier had already made Giotto’s resistance clear, and Frondier would not forgive him.
And more than anything, Giotto couldn’t read Frondier’s eyes at all—what he intended to turn Giotto into.
“That’s exactly right,” Frondier said.
“W–what?”
“You asked if I’m threatening you. You’re correct. As expected of an Atlas teacher—your grasp of the situation is excellent.”
As he spoke, Frondier sat down. There was no chair behind him, but the moment he moved to sit, the black things hurried over and formed a chair for him.
How much calculation would it take to mimic something like that with magic? Giotto couldn’t even begin to guess. Frondier said,
“Mr. Giotto, which do you prefer: dying socially, or just dying? I’m willing to do either for you.”
“Y–y–you m–madman...”
“As I said, I want information. But that’s not something I intend to ‘trade’ with you for. I have a far more efficient method.”
Swiik!
“Hhk!”
In an instant, the tip of a spike reached right before Giotto’s eyes. He couldn’t react at all to its speed.
“As you yourself said, this isn’t a deal. It’s a threat.”
Frondier tilted his head. ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) Giotto’s fear, his trembling, his bulging eyes—none of it seemed to reach Frondier at all.
“You’re going to tell me everything you know. Don’t think you can hide bits and pieces and spit out the rest. If you’re harboring the shallow thought that you only need to answer the questions I ask, get rid of it now. I won’t ask you anything. You will talk—hard and fast. After I hear all of it, I’ll decide what to do with you.”
“Y–you’ll decide then?”
“If the information you give doesn’t please me, be prepared to face the consequences.”
“H–how am I supposed to know what does or doesn’t please—!”
Thud!
“Gahk! Kuhk, kuhk...!”
Giotto crumpled, struck in the abdomen by something.
What was that? He hadn’t seen it. Did these black things attack? No. They hadn’t moved. It was something very fast—or invisible.
“Mr. Giotto.”
A frigid voice descended.
“Don’t spout impertinent nonsense.”
“......!”
“You understand what I mean. I’m already exercising considerable patience.”
Giotto’s body was hauled upright. He hadn’t stood on his own. A black surge approached and forced him to his feet.
“I told you to say everything. Absolutely everything you know—without hiding a single thing—spit it all out. Then rack your brains to search and see if there’s anything you missed, find it, and pick up every last speck and pour it out. That is how you will beg me for your life.”
“Huk—hrrk—hah...!”
Giotto couldn’t breathe properly. Being held by the black things felt suffocating. This pitch-black space squeezed his throat, and Frondier’s chilly gaze pressed on his lungs.
Giotto’s lips shook. His teeth clacked together. Tack, tack. Even so, he asked,
“W–what... what are you...!”
He couldn’t stand not asking.
A stranger from far away. Skill that encompassed both magic and combat, the way he taught students, the way he had uncovered Giotto’s secret and engineered this situation, the black dust-like things, the altered look in his eyes and the timbre of his voice—
Everything screamed that Frondier was something other.
Frondier lowered his gaze a fraction.
From the Terst Empire to now, he had fielded suspicions like this more times than he could count. Each time, he had considered the proper answer.
So Frondier replied,
“I don’t really know myself.”
***
Frondier looked at Lady Achaia with a fresh, pleasant smile.
She froze for a moment at that sight, then thought,
'What about the others...?'
She flicked her eyes, just briefly, to the noblewomen around her.
They were calm. Simply reacting as if someone with business with Lady Achaia had come over to greet her.
Frondier had slipped in that naturally.
“...Yes, good afternoon,” she said, forcing herself into composure.
Frondier had been a suspect from the start, and this timing could hardly be a coincidence.
But if she confronted him here, this place would turn into a madhouse. Lady Achaia didn’t want that. She had come to expose Carla’s identity, not to ruin Makia.
Frondier likely didn’t want that either. Above all, he still lacked any direct proof to indict her with.
“We met in the faculty office last time,” he said.
“Oh my, yes. We did. I behaved quite rudely then,” she answered, as if embarrassed.
Of course, that had been an act—but it had also been a warning.
The power Frondier had used then. He had told Liri and Arald that he didn’t know what it was, but Lady Achaia knew its nature clearly.
A demon’s power. Frondier had used it. Meaning Frondier was definitely a demon.
Which meant he was originally connected to Carla, and either in league with her or above her.
'...But that power gives me a dangerous feeling.'
The reason Lady Achaia knew a demon’s power was simple: she had experienced it.
But Frondier’s was different. Not in kind so much as in grade.
No matter how strong the power she had suffered in the past, she had never thought she would die from it.
But the power Frondier had emitted was clearly thin and faint as a hair.
And yet she knew at once:
If that power were exerted even slightly stronger, every ordinary person here would die.
'Frondier came straight to me in this crowd. As much as I suspect Carla, he suspects me.'
How had he known?
The answer was immediate. Arald and Liri. They must have been on Frondier’s side after all.
'...Good thing I prepared, just in case.'
But there was no need to worry. She smiled, confident.
She felt inside her clothes and took out a small sticker-like item. It wasn’t particularly secret—most people knew of it.
Without letting anyone see, she lightly affixed it to Frondier’s clothing.
[Frondier, you’re a demon, aren’t you?]
It was a device that helped with televoice—silent transmission of speech.
Televoice normally required a fairly advanced magical formula. The sticker assisted with that. By tagging the target, it precisely designated the recipient, allowing much of the calculation to be omitted. Of course, some understanding of televoice was still necessary; if one knew nothing, sticking the sticker on would do no good.
Frondier looked at her for a moment.
As expected, she knew about demonic power, and therefore deemed him a demon.
Frondier smiled.
[Yes.]
A short answer—and then the very next words followed.
[I am the real demon.]
***
After becoming certain of Carla’s identity, Frondier first met with Arald and Riri.
They were posing as Pielot’s parents, so they were easy to find.
After moving to a place where no one would see, Frondier said,
“It’s a waste.”
“What is?” Riri asked.
“Carla. It’d be a waste to just leave her be.”
At that, Riri’s eyes narrowed at once.
“So you like her that much, huh? Carla? She really does have the looks to dazzle men, doesn’t she? That it?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Oh please. With men, if she’s pretty, then—”
“Riri, it’s strange you of all people are nitpicking whether Carla’s looks are the kind that dazzle men.”
“...Huh?”
Riri fell briefly silent, trying to parse what he meant.
While she worked it through, Frondier continued,
“What I mean by ‘waste’ is her knowledge.”
“You’re saying Carla has knowledge you need, Lord Frondier?” Arald asked.
Frondier nodded.
Carla was almost certainly Medusa.
A name that would be utterly unknown in this world—but in the previous world, all too famous and familiar.
'If Carla really is Medusa, she’ll know about Atena and Poseidon.'
Of course, this world didn’t follow his former world’s myths to the letter. But judging from Carla’s reactions, she was definitely connected to the two.
Especially Poseidon—Frondier, who had received a side quest from him, needed information about him more than anything.
It would be even better if he could learn a weakness.
'The problem is, I’m the only one who knows this kind of thing.'
Frondier glanced at Arald and Riri.
Carla possessed knowledge Frondier needed. That much was certain. But it would be impossible to persuade these two of that—unless he brought up the previous world.
So he needed to produce a new rationale for why Carla had to become an ally—
“In that case, we should make Carla our ally,” Arald said right there.
“...Uh, huh?”
“Isn’t that what you were implying, sir?”
“...Well. Yes, it was.”
Arald, who would follow Frondier’s intent without even asking for a reason. Frondier then looked to Riri.
“What, do you want help drafting the plan?” she asked, tilting her head. She’d missed the point too.
“...Neither of you is asking, huh. Why I need Carla.”
Riri said, “I mean, you must have your reasons. Assuming you’re not just bewitched.”
Arald added, “If we tried to ask for your reasons every time you saved or helped someone, Lord Frondier, there would be no end to it.”
“...Right.”
Frondier answered a bit sheepishly at Arald’s words.
Simple as they were, there was surely more feeling behind them than he’d just said. Not asking—that was one form of trust.
“But how will you handle it? If we try to help too openly, it’ll only make us look suspicious,” Arald asked.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Frondier replied.
“Lady Achaia already suspects I’m Carla’s mastermind anyway.”
Then we’ll proceed exactly as she suspects.
