Semi-Coercive Imperialist

A cramped studio apartment. Clara Magal listened to Felix’s story.

“It started with hospital bills. The 5,000 Livres we urgently needed for my mother’s surgery… Last week, was it, Lorraine? When that Social Party politician got caught gambling illegally, a single chip was worth 5,000 Livres, so, well, anyway.”

He continued in a voice that sounded already worn down, laying bare his deepest wounds.

“The banks completely turned their backs on our family. Said we had no collateral and no proper employment. In the end, my father turned to loan sharks.”

A story all too common, and all the more despairing for it.

5,000 Livres. Starting from a trivial sum, the interest ballooned by ten percent every week. Unpaid interest was added back to the principal, returning as vicious compound debt.

In just a few months, the debt had grown to 50,000 Livres, and a year later, it had become an astronomical figure that strangled the life out of his family.

In the end, his mother took her own life, consumed by guilt that her treatment had brought the family to ruin, and his father, drowning in despair at having failed to protect his family, chose the same path just one week later.

“…That was exactly ten years ago. Nothing particularly special about it.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Clara gazed steadily at Felix. Felix met her eyes squarely in return. Rage and murderous intent lurked in those pupils.

“Nothing special, but more than enough reason for me to be furious at this country. I believe Prozen is broken.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. A gesture telling him to go on.

“Under the fine-sounding name of republic, an incompetent government that stands by while foreigners and parasites bleed its own citizens dry.”

Precise words, carried on a pleasant voice.

Clara quietly closed her eyes.

Was his anger the same kind as hers? She couldn’t be certain yet.

“I despise them. The Ezenheim, especially. Those cockroaches.”

He had a clear and personal cause.

…

The next day, late in the evening.

Clara Magal visited a jewelry shop in Prozen’s Malé District. She had come to exchange the Mana Stone Felix had offered as his membership fee, but.

“…50,000 Livres?”

She repeated the figure, incredulous.

“That’s right.”

The proprietor set down his monocle, the wrinkles on his face shifting. Clara’s brow furrowed.

“Even at a glance, this is worth over 200,000. Are you messing with me?”

“Then go sell it somewhere that’ll give you 200,000.”

The proprietor smirked and pushed the Mana Stone back across the counter.

“If you want a fair price, start by telling me where you got it.”

“…”

“Or go ask somewhere else. See what they’ll give you. You’ll be lucky if they don’t report you to the police.”

Clara clenched both fists inside her pocket⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌s.

“…60,000.”

“40,000.”

“What the hell, you just said 50,000 a second ago!”

“You couldn’t give me a proper answer to my question, could you.”

He flashed a crooked grin. Gold teeth glinted behind his twisted lips.

“The item has no verified provenance. That means I’m taking on a considerable risk, so that’s a 10,000 markdown.”

Should I kill this son of a bitch? Should I plant my fist right in his face?

All manner of thoughts flashed through her mind, but she barely managed to swallow her breath.

“…Give it here.”

She held out her hand instead. In the end, she walked away with 40,000 Livres in cash.

“Filthy Ezenheim bastard.”

She muttered under her breath as she left the shop.

Skin pale to the point of ghostly, a hooked nose. Above all, near these back alleys lay an Ezenheim enclave. The way they clustered together, just like cockroaches.

“What? Hey! What did you just say!”

The proprietor twisted his face into a menacing scowl and moved to come out from behind the counter, but Clara broke into a run and made it back to the university.

“…”

In front of the Crystal Society’s clubroom at Prozen National University.

[Dumbass pieces of shit]

[Get the hell out of this school]

[You fucking Imperial lapdog vermin]

[Scum like you don’t deserve to breathe]

[Spies, just fuck off already, please]

The door was plastered with graffiti laced wi⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌th every curse imaginable. Clara clenched her teeth.

“Freedom only for the things you want, is it.”

She opened the door and went inside. The members were lying on bedding spread across the floor.

For them, this cramped clubroom was home, bedroom, and homeland.

“…Ah, Chief. You’re back?”

A member rubbed his eyes and sat up.

“What the hell happened to the door? Why’d you just leave it like that?”

She jerked her chin toward the vandalized exterior door.

“…There were quite a few of them.”

The member scratched the back of his neck, glancing at her nervously.

Ugh. Clara let out a sigh. She slumped onto the sofa and sank into deep thought.

“By the way, Chief, can we trust that guy?”

“Not sure yet. For now… let’s keep watching a little longer.”

Clara pulled a wad of bills from inside her jacket. The member’s eyes lit up.

“And let’s use this to find a new office first. This clubroom is far too small for the scale of our cause.”

* * *

──Exploring Prozen, Day 4.

Before my Regression, the events had unfolded as follows.

1. Yursled Prime Minister Bernard arrives at Prozen’s First Harbor aboard a warship.

2. Minister Marceau greets him, and together they board a vehicle heading toward the capital’s parliament.

3. On Comer Boulevard, packed with the escort procession and cheering crowds, an assassin attempts a bombing.

4. However, the explosion fails, and the perpetrator draws a pistol to open fire but is shot dead on the spot.

For that reason, I visited Comer Boulevard without missing a single day.

They say the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime, and the reverse holds just as true.

Before carrying out the deed, the perpetrator has no choice but to visit the site in advance, calculating every variable for the perfect scenario.

“Please show up tomorrow.”

I don’t have time.

No, it isn’t just me. Every living, breathing human on this continent is in the same position.

The Ezenheim are not human, and the countdown to annihilation is already ticking.

…

──Exploring Prozen, Day 5.

Today, as usual, I wandered the boulevard near the site.

I ate a sandwich, had Prozen-style cuisine at a restaurant, fed the pigeons, gave some spare change to beggars, and then, in that moment.

Thump─

My heart pulsed unpleasantly.

Thump─

I turned my gaze and stared somewhere.

Thump─

On a bench in the park, a man sat. A lean figure in a gray coat. Shifting his eyes around with feigned indifference as he surveyed his surroundings, and, most suspiciously, reading yesterday’s newspaper. Presumably receiving instructions…

Thump─

My heart reacted to him.

Memories from the past surfaced in my mind.

[ Attempted Assassination on Prozen Defense Minister and Yursled Prime Minister ]

[ The perpetrator, killed at the scene, was identified as Thomas, an Empire-born radical… ]

[ …Prozen Prime Minister demands formal explanation from the Empire. ]

Thomas.

A photograph rendered in black-and-white ink.

That face overlapped with the face of the Ezenheim sitting over there now.

“…Ha.”

A hollow chuckle leaked out. The gaps in that attempted assassination from before my Regression reassembled themselves. Perfectly pieced together.

They never intended for the assassination to succeed in the first place.

“…”

It was never an assassination from the start. It was an operation designed to fail.

I reviewed the events that would unfold.

The assassin throws a bomb at the vehicle carrying the Prozen minister and the Yursled prime minister. But the assassination fails, the perpetrator is killed at the scene, and the corpse is mangled beyond any hope of autopsy. Yet circumstantial evidence pointing to the Empire as the mastermind is discovered one piece after another.

As a result, the leadership of both Yursled and Prozen accelerates their military alliance against the Empire.

“Now it all makes sense.”

Just then, the assassin rose from his seat.

I tailed him. The sun hung high overhead. Moving along the boulevard crowded with citizens, he arrived at a certain neighborhood.

Thump─ Thump─ Thump─

My heart churned in turmoil. It wasn’t one. It wasn’t two. It wasn’t three, either.

Here, a multitude of Ezenheim had nested.

I looked at the signpost.

[Malé District]

I’d heard of it. The Ezenheim enclave.

“…”

In silence, I stared at it, then quietly turned away.

The plan had changed.

From “help the assassination succeed”,

to “I carry out the assassination myself”.

* * *

Late at night, in a laboratory at Prozen National University.

Professor Jean Pierre was grading quiz papers one by one. It was an uncommon habit among professors, perhaps bordering on eccentricity, but he believed that true insight ultimately springs from the raw, unfiltered thoughts of all those living through an era.

In the writings that held his students’ thoughts, he would often discern the currents of a generation.

“…Hmm.”

At this moment, a single answer sheet had rested in his hands for quite some time.

[ …The foundation of imperialism is Philosophocracy. The belief that only the most superior and perfect philosopher can rightfully govern the masses… ]

An anonymous sheet with no name written on it. The argument itself was rather intriguing.

Sentences that seemed to pierce the essence of the Empire, yet carried a conviction that leaned too heavily on the Empire’s “figures”.

Probably left the name off precisely because of the content.

Knock, knock-

The sound of knocking shattered the quiet of the laboratory.

“Who is it.”

“──Jean!”

The man who entered was Louis Marceau, the Prozen Defense Minister. Jean Pierre’s eyes went wide.

“Minister. What brings you here?”

“There’s an important matter coming up soon… But it seems you’re quite busy with work and teaching?”

Minister Marceau glanced at Jean Pierre’s desk. Quiz papers were stacked in a mountain.

“Tsk tsk, you’re still doing those trivial things yourself? Why don’t you have your teaching assistants handle it by now?”

“I learn from my students through these papers as well.”

Jean Pierre answered plainly. Minister Louis Marceau strode over and peered at the desk.

“Hmm.”

He skimmed the nameless answer sheet Jean Pierre had been holding, then scoffed.

“What a garbage answer. Pro-Empire drivel like this, why haven’t you torn it up already?”

“Prozen is a free repu⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌blic. The word ‘subversive’ doesn’t suit it, Minister.”

“…There you go again. This is a serious social problem these days, a real problem. More and more young people in Prozen are starting to idolize the Empire. Fools, the lot of them. It wasn’t like that in our day.”

Jean Pierre stared intently at Louis Marceau in silence.

He was a handsome politician. A man of firm conviction, with the ability to b⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌ack it up.

His flaw, if anything, was that he was too consumed by a single purpose.

“How are the negotiations with Yursled progressing?”

“We’re on the verge of a very significant outcome.”

Minister Marceau’s eyes blazed with determination.

“The ‘Grand Imperial Encirclement’ will be set in motion soon. I’d really like you to come to the parliament and deliver a keynote address, just once.”

That was why he had come to see Jean Pierre. The military alliance to be forged with Yursled, the eastern nation. It was an undertaking Marceau had been planning from the very moment he became minister.

“Have you resolved the issue of defense taxes?”

“…Not you too, with the tax sermon?”

“It is absolutely essential.”

Louis Marceau, even he was shackled by the party’s ideology.

Raising taxes indiscriminately was not the right approach. Reducing taxes in certain areas and allocating that portion to defense might well prove more beneficial.

But doing so would go against the party, so he could not. He could only pile on new taxes.

“Frankly, Minister, your course of action worries me.”

Jean Pierre voiced his concern in a weighty tone.

“Nothing to worry about.”

Louis Marceau laughed heartily and shook his head.

“I’ve already prepared the perfect ‘picture’, you see.”

Jean Pierre’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

“Picture?”

“Yes. This weekend, I’d suggest you stay away from Comer Boulevard. It could be dangerous.”

He added with a meaningful smile,

“To write history, to serve a righteous purpose, sometimes a compelling narrative is needed.”

Jean Pierre silently chewed over those dangerous words. Louis Marceau placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Jean. I will stop those Imperial bastards with my own hands, no matter what it takes.”

“…”

In Jean Pierre’s eyes, Minister Marceau was a man who bore responsibility. A man worthy of that responsibility, and one who would rise to meet it.

Marceau pointed at the exam paper on the desk and urged,

“And tear up that answer sheet full of nonsense already. It’s not even worth a zero.”

He was indeed a man of vigor.

A man like a racehorse, possessing both raw ferocity and relentless drive.

“…Safe travels, Minister.”

“Right. I’ll see you soon. Oh, and next time, I hope it’s at parliament. Ha ha ha.”

If only he survived long enough, he was a man fully capable of changing the world. A vessel that could stand against the Empire’s might.

And yet…

Jean Pierre watched his back as he strode energetically out of the laboratory, then picked up the answer sheet Marceau had told him to tear up.

[ I also believe it is fortunate for Zerpha that their leader is someone as pliable as Alonso. ]

If Crown Prince Alonso was a man who bent flexibly and yielded before the Empire’s power, then Minister Louis Marceau was a man of iron who would break before he ever bent. He stood at the opposite pole from Alonso.

[ A leader swollen with pride and ego would instead be broken by the Empire… ]

A politician who fit precisely within that passage.

A vague yet ominous premonition crept up Jean Pierre’s spine, but he shook his head, forcing the unease away.

“…This is Prozen.”

The E⁠⁠⁠‌‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠‌‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠‌⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‌‌‌⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠‌⁠⁠‌‌‌⁠⁠⁠‌mpire is still far from us, and here in Prozen, freedom and reason live and breathe.

He murmured softly, as if to comfort himself.