It was a refreshing afternoon.
A clear sky and a pleasant breeze.
I looked down at the lunchbox resting on my knee.
Unlike usual, it wasn't a sandwich. I took a sip of the stew from the bottle and grimaced.
"Ah, bitter...!"
The hot liquid touched the freshly healed inner wall of my mouth, sending a stinging pain surging through.
On the other hand, my cheeks had hurt like hell when they were slapped, but after a few hours, the swelling had gone down without leaving a visible trace.
Is this what they call a torture technique?
I let out a chuckle and stared straight ahead.
Fifty meters away.
On a crude gallows, five corpses hung like slabs of meat.
The fat one in the center was drenched in blood, dangling limply.
"Emil Hoffmann..."
He had been executed in the end.
It was a foregone conclusion from the moment he drew Ossel's ire.
Even if I'd confessed, it would've been the same. No, I probably would've ended up hanging right there next to him.
Fortunately, after enduring an intense overnight interrogation, I'd been released. The other performers uninvolved in the incident had been let go too.
I pulled the newspaper someone had left on the bench a bit closer.
📰 The Bellett Daily"A Play Slandering the Leader Performed!" Underneath the massive headline, Assistant Clerk Hoffmann's stern face took up half the front page.
Compared to the striking photo, the article itself was pretty thin.
It mentioned that Hoffmann was a 7th Grade Assistant Clerk who'd tampered with the script of his regular play.
That was the only fact. Everything else was inflammatory warnings.
"Emil Hoffmann has viciously tried to frame his subordinate civil servant time and again."
A hollow laugh escaped me.
I had no idea if Ossel had really bought my story. Either way, it was just shocking—and repulsive—how easily they could wipe someone out like that.
"What a crazy world."
I set the newspaper aside and took another sip of stew.
"Buy flowers! Pretty ones here! Roses, lilies, freesias—we've got it all!"
"Oppa, come with me!"
"Weather's nice—wanna circle that pond over there?"
"Tommy, I told you not to run so fast—you'll get hurt!"
The sounds filling the square drifted over like a song.
This place was always teeming with people.
Families out for a stroll. Lovers on dates. Flower girls and gentlemen chasing down carriages.
Damn lively. Damn beautiful.
"Urp—hic! Cough! Cough! Cough!"
Suddenly my stomach lurched, and the mouthful of stew I'd taken came spilling back out. A coughing fit hit me like something was lodged in my throat.
"Huff! Cough! Cough! Damn it...!"
I hacked away painfully for a good while before clenching my fist and slamming it down on the bench armrest.
"Why... why the hell does this country run like this...!"
Anger boiled up inside me.
Suffocating. Lonely. Terrifying.
It all sucked: being the only one who gave a damn about the fresh corpses strung up on the gallows every day, constantly glancing around like I was in a blizzard, having to attack others just to stay alive.
I could handle looking after myself, but staying sane in this mad world? Not a chance.
I staggered toward the gallows.
The breeze felt oddly chilling despite being so crisp and pleasant.
'Dog of a bastard, but whatever. Rest in peace—or better yet, get reborn in a normal country.'
I wasn't Buddhist. Didn't believe in an afterlife. But since I'd ended up in this bizarre place, a little something like that seemed fitting.
Footsteps made me open my eyes. A boy about five or six years old had come right up to my feet.
His face was scrunched up tight, panting as he fought back tears. His wind-tousled hair and round eyes were adorably pitiful.
Soon, fat teardrops rolled down his flushed cheeks.
"Ugh... waaah..."
He was trying his hardest not to make noise, but he failed. He bit his little lip and threw his arms around the dangling corpse's leg, hugging it tight.
A bruised, swollen, broken foot.
It was Hoffmann.
"Hic! Waa..."
I just watched in silence.
Clack-clack went some heels, and a pale-faced woman appeared, yanking the boy away.
"Don't cry. What would your father think seeing you like this? Cut it out."
Her voice pretended at cool composure but trembled like she was barely holding back sobs.
I backed away without thinking and turned tail. My legs felt heavy, like someone had grabbed my ankle.
'He had a family.'
A vicious prick like that having a normal-looking family? I'd figured if he had one, they'd be little demons.
Some surge of injustice welled up, and I hurried out of the square.
The bell signaling the end of lunchtime rang out.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Lucas was the 'people person' type.
As a salesman, he had a ton of connections—but unlike my own shallow, hectic interactions, he genuinely got along with everyone at the office.
His brazen, extroverted vibe might've earned him labels like 'frivolous' or 'annoying.'
But now, Lucas—no, me—was on the receiving end of the cold shoulder. Not full-on isolation, but close.
Ever since Hoffmann's execution, the office atmosphere had frozen solid.
Couldn't blame them. Even staff with no ties to the play had been hauled in for questioning by Ossel. Resenting me, the root cause? Natural.
Even after I'd gone around apologizing that morning.
"Enjoy your lunch?"
"Yeah."
Heading back to my spot in the records room, I ran into a coworker in the hall. I tugged my sore cheek into a smile and greeted him, but all I got was a lifeless reply.
He flashed an awkward, uncomfortable grin—like I was a burden—and hurried past. A faint glint of contempt flickered in his eyes.
'No helping it.'
Not really disappointing.
I'd seen it coming. The beaming smile was just me mimicking Lucas—not sincere at all.
'If anything, it's a relief.'
Now I just had to play the part of the gloomy young clerk: unjustly dragged off, betrayed and bereaved by a close superior, shunned by everyone around.
Good thing my actual mood was depressed enough—no acting required.
"..."
I sank into the dim concrete room, lost in thought.
'What now?'
One crisis cleared, at least.
Dirty method, sure.
'It's only been about ten days since I landed in this insane world.'
I cooled my head and reviewed everything I'd done so far.
"Huff...!"
It hit like a punch to the chest—a suffocating wave of regret.
'I killed someone to save my own skin.'
Good or evil aside, that was plain fact.
I'd committed proxy murder.
Unthinkable back in modern Korea.
I had a premonition I'd never go back to those days as an ordinary salesman.
I hung my head and buried my face in my hands. Bushy, fluffy hair brushed my fingertips.
Even this tiny detail felt off from the old me.
'Right. I'm Lucas Redan now. Time to adapt to this world.'
I'd known it intellectually all along, but now I slowly, carefully let it sink into my heart.
My tear-stinging, crumpled eyes twitched.
I knew what I had to do.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
After work, I headed to the little tavern Lucas often hit up. Ordered a black beer with sugar and quietly sorted my thoughts for a while.
'This world—no, Schupaven—makes it way too easy to pin crimes on others. No clue why Ossel let me go, but one wrong move and it'd have been me.
Especially in a civil service outfit. Makes it worse? Definitely. They cherry-pick fanatics loyal to Leader Krüger, so of course it's a nest of lunatics.
Hoffmann was extreme, but the others? Plenty likely to snitch too. The organization encourages it.'
In Lucas's memories, the chief paraded the top employee in the hall every month and tore into the 'disloyal' ones.
Brainwashing. Pitting people against each other.
Bottom line, only one conclusion.
'Stick around here, and who knows when I'll get framed and purged next. It'll only get riskier. I've already got one strike.'
Nobody tolerates someone suspicious hanging around.
Even if they don't doubt me, even if they buy Hoffmann's guilt—doesn't matter.
Tried a sincere apology this morning, but all I got were guarded smiles masking contempt.
They won't abide anything harming the organization. Classic rigid, indoctrinated bureaucrats.
Sure, I could invest time, build bonds, ease the suspicion. But why bother?
'Even then, one new incident and we're back to square one. Way cheaper to just bail.'
Hole up in some remote mountain the war hasn't touched. Better, right?
Only one thing I need for that.
'Money.'
Yeah. Money's the issue.
I drained the now-lukewarm beer.
"Fuu...!"
Sweet and tasty, but the carbonation stung my mouth wounds, making me wince without thinking.
Half a glass in, and my face was burning red. Head spinning, heart pounding hard.
Oh right. This guy couldn't hold his liquor.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The brown-haired young man flung open the tavern door in a hurry.
The hot summer night air rushed inside, making heads turn—but they quickly lost interest in the ordinary, disheveled guy.
The young man—Daniel Hartmann—fiddled with the pistol hidden in his thin coat, caught his breath, then suddenly lit up.
He'd spotted someone.
"Hey, Lucas!"
"Ueeer..."
Lucas, true to form as the lightweight who loved his booze, was drunk as usual—flopping around like an octopus.
"How'd you get this plastered again? It's late—let's head home."
Supporting the scrawny guy who could barely stand, Daniel stepped out of the tavern.
Good thing the street was empty.
'Must've imagined the footsteps behind me.'
He let out a silent sigh of relief and passed the avenue beside the square on the way to the boarding house.
Lucas suddenly lifted his head toward the square, then dropped it again. Daniel glanced over too. It was too far to make out clearly, but the gallows stood smack in the middle.
He struck up casual chatter with the drunkard.
"What got you drinking like this?"
"Sorry..."
Lucas mumbled.
"Sorry? For what?"
"For... making you carry me."
"Hahaha, what's with the meekness today? Your shameless side's your charm, y'know."
Trailing the idle joke as he dragged the drunk along, Daniel suddenly froze mid-step—a thought flashing through his mind.
'Hold on. Why is he so meek?'
Lucas had been through a lot lately. Bingeing to blow off steam? Fair enough.
But something felt off.
Daniel recalled the blowup from the day before last.
He'd gone to the theater at Lucas's invite, with Mrs. Schmidt in tow, and witnessed Colonel Ossel throwing a fit.
Lucas had been hauled off but came back fine, said nothing about it—so Daniel only pieced it together from the next day's paper.
Hoffmann had doctored the script to frame Lucas.
If true, Lucas should've been livid.
"That bastard Emil Hoffmann! I'll rip him apart!! How dare he target me! How dare he target the Leader!!!"
Eyes rolled back, ranting and raving. That's what he should've done.
Definitely. That's the Lucas Daniel knew.
But no. He'd just apologized for the trouble.
'Trauma changed him?'
It nagged at him hard.
At the boarding house, Daniel hauled Lucas up to their room and dumped him on the bed.
Gazing down at the mess, he scanned the room.
'Did Lucas really get framed?'
His hand darted slyly around like a pickpocket's—bookshelf, drawers, the works.
'Lucas worshipped the Leader like a god. If someone—even his boss—suggested tweaking that famous quote, he'd have gone rabid dog on them.'
Clack!
As he absentmindedly opened the bedside table drawer, a hand suddenly seized his wrist.
"...What are you doing?"
Lucas had propped himself up halfway, glaring at him with sharp, gleaming eyes.