Ch.193Request Log #016 – Transformation (4)

He didn’t really think I would talk. Wise decision. I felt the same way. People who want to have a conversation don’t usually carry hammers.

It was somewhat ironic that I was prowling around Littlehold after warning the Motherwood’s troll boss not to do the same. Not too ironic, though. There was a difference between her and me.

She was a troll standing at least 8 feet tall, while I was human. If a troll had done this, they’d assume it was retaliation from a mafia branch manager, but when a human does it, the implications are obvious.

If I got information here, then I got information. If I didn’t get information and only rumors spread, that would be enticing too.

The Argonne Invincibles might have come right to their doorstep, and while they should bow their heads, they’d also want to look up and see our faces. It was obvious what choice these monsters unleashed in busy streets would make.

Still, if there was something to discover, I needed to find it. I placed the hammer with dwarf beard and blood on the bar. He swallowed once.

As he hesitated with a face that suggested he was choosing his words carefully, I told him:

“You know I’m not here to make stupid jokes or threats to get information. So let’s not have a conversation—let’s make a deal, friend.”

It took quite a long time to beat someone into submission. It was difficult from the start to push someone to the brink of death, like that lizardman who kidnapped children and sold them through so-called adoption agencies.

To make someone bow their head and spill information, it was better to show them what happened to someone else.

While hammer blows only stimulate pain, watching someone being hammered stimulates the eyes, ears, and nose. Pain prevents focus on other senses.

The bartender had probably never seen or heard someone being hit with this hammer, nor smelled the scent of blood and hair stuck to metal. Three senses are better than one. Always.

“H-how can I trust that the deal will be kept? If you’ve shown your face, then you could just…”

“But I’m not doing that. Do you want your words to become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or would you prefer your expectations to be pleasantly wrong? It’s your decision.”

Expectations are just expectations. The reality is that I’m holding a gun and hammer here but haven’t used them. Everything else is uncertain, predicted, imagined.

The dwarf bartender considered his options. I hadn’t placed a curse on him that would turn him into a monster if he spoke to others, like the boss I’d seen when taking on the Idealists’ request.

If I hadn’t taken precautions, the information this bartender had would be worthless. But even worthless information was better than nothing. The dwarf bartender took two deep breaths and said:

“I got something from that guy. I’m going to get it, but it’s not a gun. The gun is under the bar right now. Understand? I’ll put it on the bar, so don’t shoot. He was a dwarf who went around distributing books like this and proudly claimed to be a warlock, so I knew something like this would happen eventually. Just didn’t know it would be so soon…”

I nodded briefly. The bartender pulled out a shotgun from under the bar, placed it on top, and headed to the back room. The door was left open, so I could see he wasn’t running away.

The dwarf pulled a book from a drawer full of odds and ends and brought it to me. A book. I wondered if it was the same as what the stowaway had, but it was something different.

It was a book with a familiar great demon’s lion head clearly drawn on it. The content was nothing special. Just another common anti-goblin pamphlet claiming that goblins who controlled financial power were plotting war.

“Written by Lord Marbas, I see. Is this the information you’re giving me?”

Marbas was quite a great demon. About 80 percent of cars rolling on roads were made by his company. His famous saying that you could have any color as long as it was black was almost laughable.

A book of anti-goblinism written by the great demon of machines and engineering who prided himself on inventing modernity. While it had little to do with dwarves, there were plenty of people who hated goblins. There was no reason for this to be evidence.

I flipped through the 400-page excretion of hatred and opened the binding between the cover and the book. On the stiff paper used to connect the thick hardcover, there was a letter.

‘We dwarves only realized that goblins are the source of all vice and are trying to overturn Europe with their evil communist revolution after suffering their bitter betrayal, but this great demon was one step ahead of us and wrote this pioneering book with tremendous insight. Perhaps you too…’

So goblins are both capitalists with financial power and communists? Impressive. I’d find it hard enough to live as just one of those. I skimmed through the content with sarcasm.

More important than the content was the address attached at the end of the letter. It seemed the dwarf never imagined showing this book to another race or passing on the address.

Dwarves shouted about being betrayed, but generally they were the ones who did the betraying. No. More precisely, those who shouted about being betrayed often betrayed other dwarves. It was always like that.

The dwarves who died in Littlehold ignored the words of those traitors, and the bartender here in Old Forge handed the book over to me. I took the book and put it in my pocket. Time for a home visit.

I knew he wouldn’t do it, but I asked anyway. It was better to be certain.

“Are you going to report this?”

“No, if someone died I should report it, but… you know this is an illegal bar. So, um, maybe…”

I had beaten the dwarf a bit, but he wouldn’t have died. Dwarves’ bodies were incredibly tough. There was no way he would die from that. If given proper treatment, he would recover.

“He’s not dead. Seemed like a sturdy old man—just send him to the hospital and he’ll recover on his own. You can just say there was a fight in the bar.”

The dwarf bartender sighed with relief. As long as no one died, he could dump him at a hospital and continue business tomorrow. The story of today’s detective visit would remain just that—a story.

All stories are volatile. Even my footsteps were the same. Everyone would forget. So would I. The only thing I couldn’t forget was that terrible choice in the Argonne.

I pushed through the well-made iron door of Old Forge. I’d been noisier than usual, but at least no one had died yet. Yet? Maybe at least until today.

I got in the car and unfolded the map. The dwarf’s house was, of course, inside Littlehold. He would die among the compatriots he loved so much. I grabbed the wrapped shotgun and headed to the address written in the book.

Would I need to play an unpleasant role? It wouldn’t be difficult to deceive the fanatic with a few lies. Once I got inside the house, the situation would be as good as in my hands.

It was a new building among the detached houses on the outskirts of Littlehold. The kind of solid building dwarves preferred. A fortress-like structure with solid concrete and no decorative roof, all angular.

It was modern, but a modern house isn’t necessarily a beautiful one. It looked more like a comfortable prison than a home. I passed through the garden gate and knocked on the door. It was quite late.

Still, the dwarf wasn’t asleep. I waited quietly and heard footsteps coming down the stairs. I heard him approaching the door. Since there was no peephole on the door, the dwarf asked:

“Who is it? I wasn’t expecting visitors at this late hour. If it’s a letter or package, please leave it in front of the house unless it’s urgent or requires confirmation.”

Time to deceive. Time to make him feel what it’s like to be stabbed in the back that he’s so fond of talking about.

“Ah, I bought a book about goblins with Marbas drawn on it from a used bookstore, and there was an address written at the end of the book! I’m a veteran too, so I understand. I know how bravely dwarves fought without hesitation, but to surrender without even finding honor on the battlefield… I’ve always wondered, and after seeing this book, I immediately understood the reason, so I wanted to know more about the book…”

Before I could finish, the door opened. The dwarf looked at me as if he’d found a compatriot. He smiled as if wanting to embrace me.

I stepped forward and hugged him. We were still outside the house. Despite being a dwarf, he didn’t smell of beer but of well-burned scented candles. At least middle class. He guided me into the house and asked:

“To meet someone with such thoughts in this foreign land! This is exactly why I came to America. This strong country needs to wake up! The giant must rise! When the French were tightening the noose around our necks, America mediated, and I knew who was ally and who was enemy. Ah, where did you serve? There’s no one as trustworthy as a comrade in arms.”

I closed the door with my hand. He didn’t question the sound of the door locking. I handed him the book and followed behind him as he led the way.

“I was with the 77th Division. So, where I served in the Great War…”

The dwarf pretended to know. No. He did know. This dwarf must have been in the Argonne Forest too. He would have been on the opposite side from us. His pretense of familiarity was disgusting.

“The Argonne Forest? Terrible place. I really tried to hold on with all my might, but nothing worked. But it’s strange that someone who was there doesn’t hate dwarves.”

“There’s no need to hate. Both us and the dwarves were just dogs with leashes held by higher-ups, thrown into a fighting pit. Ah, I was with the 308th Infantry Regiment.”

The dwarf spoke as if slightly confused. He must have known he was getting closer to something, but his assessment of the book… or his pretense of it, calmed his anxiety.

“That’s true too. Yes, we were all just soldier nobodies. Now we can just be people working for a better purpose. And, a regiment is too many people, isn’t it?”

I tore open the shotgun packaging. After crumpling up the packaging string and paper wrapper and throwing them away, I put my finger on the trigger guard and tapped the floor with my toe. I told him:

“But you’d recognize the Argonne Invincibles, wouldn’t you? That’s good enough.”

A shot or two with a silenced gun in an illegal bar might be overlooked, but this was a residential area. Firing a shotgun would get me caught. Still, I wanted to kill him with a shotgun, not a pistol.

Doppelsöldner. He whispered, almost swallowing the word. Just as we hated dwarf warlock-soldiers, they hated us. The reasons for hatred weren’t different.

We were terribly similar to each other. With only one exception. At least the Argonne Invincibles didn’t actively create monsters to kill dwarves. That was the only difference.

“Is there a need to show such hatred? I’m the person you’ve been looking for. The one you wanted to find so badly that you released monsters in New York’s busy streets. That person has appeared before you. Hmm?”

“Yes, I was looking. If I just kill you alone…”

“How loyal. If it ends with you, the body remains intact? There’s no way one person did this alone. Do you think one driver is enough to transport two people who will soon become monsters by car? Do you think someone drove to Fifth Avenue, parked, opened the back door, and let the monsters out? That’s ridiculous.”

At least three people. One driver and one person each to manage the two victims who would become monsters. And judging by this loyalty from the start, the organization must be quite solid.

Interrogation would be useless. A mouth determined to stay shut couldn’t be opened by torture. I could shatter his jawbone to make him speak, but then he would say what I wanted to hear, not what he knew.

So I had to deceive him. What else did I know? Well… I knew that the warlock-soldiers from the Great War weren’t involved in this. I had monitored them myself, so I was fairly confident.

I changed direction. This time it was dwarf nationalists. The so-called “Patriot Teacher” who had tried to incite riots in Munich and was imprisoned was still in jail. Could those whose head was in prison prosper? No, absolutely not. Without a head, they would only wither away. Maybe they were making a desperate gamble to avoid that.

I had only one chance. If he discovered that I was raising the stakes while holding only cheap cards, the only outcome I could achieve here would be killing this dwarf.

“I know you’ve been driven to the edge and come this far. No, I was actually waiting for it. Did you think only you had plans to wipe us out? I’ve been waiting for you to come to this land ever since that idiot was caught.”

The dwarf was visibly flustered. I hit the mark. He slowly moved his hand to his back, perhaps trying to grab a ritual dagger. He thought he was being sneaky, but I saw everything. Still, I pretended not to notice.

“You knew party members came here?”

I picked up on the word. Party member. What party? I thought I’d heard the party name before, but I couldn’t remember clearly. I continued with what I knew.

“Yes. After that stowaway woman was caught, I thought you’d enter with proper identities instead of smuggling yourselves in. Party members would have money, and you’ve been trying to get a foothold here all along. Did we look stupid to you?”

It seemed like a perfect and evil plan on the surface, but the core was full of holes. Shadows appear larger than the actual objects. When you don’t know, you see the shadow; when you do know, you see the diminutive dwarf.

What’s the most common profession for dwarves? Right, engineers. Dwarves were unrivaled in working with metal and concrete.

Judging by this dwarf’s attitude, he was quite educated. Such people wouldn’t join organizations beneath their level. So there must be an engineer, and he must have entered the country.

“You and that engineer were too obvious. Writing letters like that in books and distributing them. Did you really think you wouldn’t be found?”

The confusion in the dwarf’s eyes grew one last time. He pulled out a ritual dagger. He looked down at his forearm and brought the blade to it.

He was trying to inscribe a ritual circle, so I stepped forward a couple of paces. Did he really think drawing a ritual circle would be faster than me pulling the shotgun trigger? Or did he think I wouldn’t fire a shotgun in this residential area? Both were wrong. But the first was more wrong.

“Y-you gloomy and damp bastards like spiders and lizards…!”

There was a better way than using the shotgun. I put down the shotgun and grabbed the dwarf’s hand holding the ritual dagger with my own. With the blade upright, I slowly moved his hand.

The dwarf tried to block his own hand with both of his. It didn’t work. I slowly brought the blade to his throat. The blade dug in. He started shouting. It would have sounded like the boy who cried wolf.

“Doppel! There’s a Doppel here! A Doppel is here! He’s trying to kill us! Everyone must run away! All of you! All…”

I twisted the blade. All warlocks would end up like this. I would gladly make it so. It was time to search the house. Time to find traces and cut out this city’s cancer.