Chapter Sixty-One: You and My Cat Are Destined (Part Two)

“How do you plan to enter Freyvans?”

In the depths of the night, a small boat docked quietly at a certain harbor—such an ordinary occurrence that it attracted no undue attention. Qiubai had safely reached the island where Freyvans was located, but now the real problem lay ahead. At present, Freyvans remained under strict siege and blockade; infiltrating that country was by no means a simple matter.

Thus, Ain’s question struck at the heart of Qiubai’s dilemma. Even a madman, twisted in mind, would not attempt a direct breakthrough against a blockade manned by thousands, if not tens of thousands, of heavily armed soldiers—that would be sheer suicide.

Qiubai’s gaze drifted to another part of the harbor, where several warships were moored. The port and the town slumbered beneath the cloak of night, and the warships, too, were silent save for faint, distant glimmers of light. Occasionally, the shadows of sailors flickered across the deck, and by observing the frequency of their patrols, one could roughly estimate the level of security on each vessel.

Since frontal assault was out of the question, Qiubai resolved to take a bolder, more proactive approach. Brute force and stealth would both end in failure, so, naturally, he sought a method that defied conventional thinking.

“I’ve thought of quite an interesting solution.”

He murmured softly, for to enter Freyvans, his first step was to board one of those warships—he needed to sneak aboard, borrow a uniform, and with the word “Justice” emblazoned upon him, his movements would be far more unrestrained.

……

By this time, it was generally believed that the quarantined Freyvans harbored no living souls, yet neighboring countries maintained vigilant quarantine and blockade over the heavily infected zone, and would continue until their psychological defenses were firmly established—until convinced that not a trace of the lead-pox remained.

Thus, entry into or exit from Freyvans was still strictly forbidden. Along the border, a specially designated isolation belt about three kilometers wide had been established, and the army guarding it was authorized to shoot on sight anyone attempting to approach, enter, or escape from Freyvans.

Of course, by now, few would risk their lives coming here. After the initial period of tension, once the Freyvans citizens’ attacks had been repelled, the task of maintaining the blockade proved less arduous than imagined.

Exaggerated panic made for the best quarantine. Even the soldiers tasked with the blockade wore full protective gear, anxious about the disease themselves.

Yet on this midnight, an uninvited guest approached from the perimeter.

“Halt! Who goes there? This is a restricted quarantine zone!”

In the darkness, who knew how many muskets had already taken aim at the approaching figure. The soldier’s shout, muffled by his gas mask, nonetheless rang clear enough for the intruder to hear.

He ignored the warning, however. Under the searching beams of lanterns, his figure was thrown into sharp relief. His white uniform stood out starkly in the night; and though the guards had orders to shoot at will, no one would dare open fire on such a uniform.

A naval officer—such an identity was surely beyond the authority of these soldiers to kill without consequence.

“It’s too bright,” the man said, raising a hand against the blinding light. Then, addressing the soldiers at the barricade, he demanded, “Who’s in charge here? Get your commanding officer—I have something to say to him.”

Young and not particularly tall, he seemed wholly unfamiliar with the concept of courtesy. His face was a mask of arrogance and impatience.

Yet such an attitude did not provoke anger in men of lesser status—rather, it suggested he was someone not to be trifled with. After all, if a man behaves so outrageously and hasn’t been killed for it, it must mean he cannot be killed.

The soldier hesitated. The request was unreasonable, but the naval uniform and the man’s arrogance left him in an awkward position.

“Naval officer? Sir, what business do you have with me?” Fortunately, the soldier was spared the decision; his superior, suffering from insomnia, happened to be awake.

A towering figure strode over from the distance. Standing across the barbed wire, the “Naval Officer” looked the commander up and down with an expression that suggested everyone owed him money. Then, producing a credential from his breast pocket, he tossed it to the officer.

“Marine code 741250, Lieutenant Commander Vladimir Ivanovich Dostoyevsky Marklov, Naval Headquarters, Special Inspector. I have a special mission that requires entry into Freyvans. Stand aside.”

As the commander examined the credential, the self-styled naval officer offered a terse explanation.

“A special mission? Sorry, we’ve received no such order.” Even as he spoke, the commander tossed the credential back. He could not tell if it was genuine or forged—he’d never seen such a document before.

“A special mission. Please, take those two words and let your unremarkable brain and faulty powers of comprehension ponder their meaning before you ask further questions, will you?” The lieutenant commander’s impatience grew. It was as if every second wasted here cost him dearly.

The World Government and the local kingdoms were two distinct administrative systems; the former, uniting the world’s might, stood above the latter. The World Government seldom interfered in local affairs, but when it did, its authority could not be gainsaid—a basic understanding between the two.

Thus, if the World Government’s Naval Headquarters issued a secret special mission, it was only natural that local authorities would not be informed, and the operative was under no obligation to explain the details.

Such external “privilege” naturally created loopholes, but no one would relinquish such power for fear of abuse.

“…Understood.”

Faced with the lieutenant commander’s steely gaze, the commander backed down; he could not risk the consequences of obstructing Naval Headquarters.

“Open the gate!”

Before privilege, the strict blockade was nothing—it was torn aside with ease.

The lieutenant commander nodded in satisfaction, then strode through the barrier… but as he passed the commander, he suddenly stopped, and with a singular lack of courtesy, reached for the man’s face.

With one hand, the lieutenant commander gripped the gas mask and yanked, tearing it off with such force that the officer staggered backward.

With a clang, the mask hit the ground and was promptly crushed underfoot.

“I forgot to mention—when speaking to others, showing your face is the most basic courtesy. Can’t you people even manage that?” Having delivered this lesson with the air of a bully, the lieutenant commander cast a contemptuous glance at the soldiers, then swaggered deeper into the night.

As if he truly were a lieutenant commander of the navy.