[Tips] Despite the Trialist Empire’s strict enforcement of law, the existence of criminal organizations specializing in murder and kidnapping is undeniable.

A lone man worked away at a simple, functional office desk. Beginning to gray, the mensch was the living embodiment of robust sincerity. His jaw was defined and blocky, and he’d slicked back his short, ashen hair with a bit of oil. Altogether, Baron Moritz Jan Pitt Erftstadt personified austerity in every way; that was precisely why Agrippina had entrusted him with the responsibility of leading her few loyal retainers, and an ace in the hole to make sure he could.
“Like honeybees chasing their hive,” he sighed, scribbling through the towering mountain of papers on his desk. The paperwork flowing in and out of the county was thrice—no, five times the typical amount.
Swaths of corrupt lords and magistrates were groping in the dark, trying to find any lead on the new count’s plans before she arrived in the spring. Those whose crimes were relatively light had banded together and made themselves busy trying to justify their wrongdoings as clerical errors of the state, which would be belatedly “corrected” alongside an apology for their “mistake” in exchange for survival.
Meanwhile, the worst of the lot had also banded together, threatening to go on strike if their new lord dared to run around purging them from power. At present, they were in a mad frenzy, writing to any and every noble in the area to garner further support. Their hopes rode on the idea that if they stirred up enough chaos in the opening months of the new Ubiorum’s reign, then the Emperor might step in and dismiss her. However, Baron Erftstadt had seen the reality of the situation with his own two eyes, and considered their attempt an exercise in futility.
In all likelihood, His Majesty would gleefully round up the titles of those who abandoned their posts, handing them off to the second and third sons of his most trusted supporters. Though that would set off a few years of turmoil in the region, the drawn-out changing of the guard they were planning for could be cut from a quarter of a century to five-odd years. The Emperor would welcome their strike with open arms.
None of these fools had what it took to look ahead; suckling on nothing but sweet wines did the body no good. Many cursed their forefathers for setting off on the path of treachery, to be sure, but they easily forgot that complicity was yet another marker of guilt. Seeing them squirm with no mind for remorse was comedy gold.
Knowing the virtue tied to the Erftstadt name, the damned masses had come to him hoping that his aid would be enough to deliver them from immediate harm, but he was already sick of their pleas. The baron tied up a bundle of worthless letters, massaged his temples, and let out a heavy sigh.
This was a farce. Worded at its most glamorous, it was a life-and-death contest on the stage of politics; more aptly, a swarm of small fry was floundering around, desperate to slip free from the net it was in. While he knew that he needed only to persevere until Count Ubiorum could arrive and clean house, the wretchedness on display chipped at his faith in humanity. Soaking in the fate of the once-proud Ubiorum legacy was almost enough to draw tears out of the somber gentleman.
Upon finishing his paperwork, Baron Erftstadt set out to summon a retainer so that he might ask how the welcoming preparations were going. But just as he reached for the bell on his desk, he heard the faint sound of squeaking metal.
Darting his eyes over, he noticed the window had been opened. It seemed like a breeze had caused the hinges to creak, but when had it been opened in the first place? His attendants were all thoroughly trained, and they wouldn’t dare leave a lock haphazardly open.
Wait. Wind? Instantly, the baron shot up, reaching for his dagger. But while he’d managed to draw his weapon, it was already too late.
Two dirks pierced through the back of his seat; he narrowly managed to parry the one aiming for his neck, but the other stabbed him clean in the chest. His clothes were a family heirloom, enchanted by his forefathers to be as tough as armor. Alas, it failed to save him: either the assassin’s blade was a spell-breaker, or he was just that skilled.
Oriented horizontally to weave past his ribs, the dagger dug deep into the baron’s lung. Its walls burst, flooding with blood that backfilled into his mouth. Although he felt little pain, his strength was draining at an unstoppable pace.
He broke away and tried to catch himself on his desk, but failed and collapsed onto the floor. The distance allowed him to get a look at the instrument that had pierced his lung; judging from the amount of blood dripping from it—along with the pain that accompanied every breath—he didn’t have long.
The veteran had seen this scene all too many times on the battlefield. One clean hit in the chest, and any normal person was out for good. He had five minutes, tops; most got less than that before the lights went out.
“You—ack! Hrgh! You rat... Who—gah...sent you?!”
Despite his daggered glare, he couldn’t make out the details around the assassin, still hidden in the shadows. The silent hit man simply folded his arm, wiping the blood from his weapon with the pit of his elbow.
The baron knew from the killer’s cool demeanor that stalling for time would do him no favors. He was a straitlaced military man who’d survived a pit of corruption and depravity despite his well-known commitment to righteousness. Not a moment went by where he wasn’t ready for an attempt on his life, and he kept loyal counterspies in his employ. Recent goings-on had caused him to tighten up security around his room; that this assassin was here, and that no one had come to his aid already, were proof enough that their lives had been taken before his own.
In short, his enemies had overpowered him, plain and simple.
Having sheathed his blade, the assassin drew closer, callously grabbing the baron by the hair and pulling out a few gray strands. He tossed the sample into a small vial produced from his pocket and waited a few seconds for a reaction before downing the contents.
“Ugh!” The killer winced and grabbed his own face. In the next moment, he removed his head coverings to unveil the exact features of one Baron Erftstadt.
“Oh... So that’s—hngh—what you’re after...”
The baron had heard of this. Some inventor at the College had developed a disguise so perfect that it allowed one to assume another’s identity. The technology posed such a threat to the order of the Empire that knowledge of its existence was off-limits, let alone its manufacture.
Which meant whomever this lowlife worked for had the connections to procure forbidden goods of the highest degree.
Baron Erftstadt knew that, at this rate, the county was in danger; as much as it pained him to do so, he pulled out his trump card. He never wanted to do this—having his own lord at his beck and call was a tremendous slight on the honest man’s dignity. But he feigned clutching his chest in pain for the greater good, reaching into his inner pocket to snap a talisman.
“What did you just do?”
The crack of a thin wooden plate made hardly any noise, but the intruder took note. Being confronted by his own face and voice was a disturbing feeling, but the baron exercised his underused facial muscles to twist his lips into a smirk.
“My liege treats her subjects well.”
A dull snap rang out.
The assassin didn’t understand. He had come prepared with layer upon layer of arcane protection, and yet, for whatever reason, his head had been plucked off his shoulders without any chance to react. The remnants of his mystic preparation strung his consciousness along, but a head without a body could do little more than look around for the culprit and mouth soundless words upon finding them.
Ah, but he had no need to search: his killer made herself known. She hoisted what was left of him up by the hair, and oh-so-kindly brought him up to eye level.
“What a peculiar guest you’re entertaining, Baron Erftstadt. I take it this isn’t your twin coming to visit?”
The woman who’d picked him up was a methuselah in common travel wear. Her deep-brown eyes peered at him dubiously from behind a pair of glasses. Realizing that the mission was forfeit, the wetworker pulled out the final trick up his sleeve—though he hadn’t expected to use it, he showed no hesitation when the moment came.
“Eek!”
Crying out in a surprisingly human way, the methuselah tossed the severed head away. Black smoke was billowing from the neck, mouth, and ears; bubbling blood oozed from every pore, melting the structure of the skull.
“Tch. So the brain came with a failsafe.”
In his final moments, the assassin had activated a kill switch to eliminate any chance of an opsec leak. He’d had a mana stone surgically implanted inside his head as an unstoppable last resort, ready to boil his brain and deprive psychosorcerers of the secrets he took to the grave. Since the brain was one of the origins of internal mana, it was nigh impossible for an outside force to jam the activation in time. The device was the ultimate show of loyalty for those whose wills were iron enough to proactively kill themselves to atone for their mistakes.
“What a waste,” the methuselah sighed. “I suppose I shall count my blessings that I managed to save a loyal vassal. Are you... Well, I suppose I can see that you aren’t all right, now are you, Baron?”
“You have... Grgh, m-my—my sincerest... Blagh!”
“No need to push yourself. Losing someone as dependable as you would have been a far greater pain in my side. Oh, dear, wait a moment. This is a rather deep wound—and the blade had some sort of hex, as well. I won’t be able to fix this myself. Ah well, I’ll have to take you to the College to see an iatrurge.”
Before donning her travel gear and assuming her current identity, the methuselah had been known as Agrippina; the very same Agrippina who had rewarded Baron Erftstadt’s dutiful report with a protective charm.
It was a simple thing: break it, and the creator would know. The new count had handed it to her loyal vassal with strict orders to let her know if his life was in danger, and with a promise to find some way of sorting him out so long as his head remained intact.
Though the man’s lung had collapsed and his heart was a minute from failing, that was but a hiccup to be solved for the most experienced magia. All she had to do now was keep him alive, and her privileges as count palatine would see to the College accommodating him with its finest healers. He’d be back to full health in two weeks, if that.
Placing a hand on his chest, Agrippina had just begun her emergency treatment when epiphany struck.
“Say, Baron. How would you like being ‘gravely injured’ for half a year while enjoying a nice vacation with your family?”

[Tips] There are hushed whispers that speak of an arcane disguise so powerful that it can allow anyone to turn into anyone else—that not only does it change one’s appearance and voice, but it can even trick mystic barriers. But any time a magus is questioned on its existence, they laugh the matter off; whether yes or no, they lack the liberty to answer in definite terms.

When the madam came out of nowhere and declared that we were changing course, I nearly spat out my morning porridge.
It was the day after the gruesome attempt on her life, and just when I thought she was done settling matters—with every bit of authority vested in her, mind you—she’d vanished. I’d borrowed a room at a new inn to wait for her, and the first thing she said upon returning already threw me for a loop. Sure, I was well aware she was this sort of person, but I was really starting to get sick of it; the tastes of my past world had come to include being bossed around by gorgeous folks as part of its fetishistic canon, but this monster in human skin was a touch too broken inside to count.
“I thought we were going to visit Baron Erftstadt,” I said. “Weren’t we going to base our operations at his estate?”
“We were, but my plans have changed. Off we go to the Liplar viscounty.”
“Uh...huh.”
I’d heard of that name. It had shown up over and over on the letters I’d been tasked with, and my impression of the viscount was that he was the spitting image of a sycophant. He inquired about Lady Agrippina’s mood at every turn and sent great piles of silver and gems to her estate at the capital, but every time, the madam sent them back twofold.
We’d turned away all his offerings and kept correspondence to the bare minimum high society would let us get away with; he didn’t seem all that important from my perspective. The Liplar business was primarily in ironwork and mining, which wasn’t much to note. Combined with how relatively low the man’s title was, the viscounty seemed much too humble to serve as Count Ubiorum’s new destination.
But while we hadn’t paid him much mind until now—frankly, we’d actively pushed him away—heading his way on the morning after an assassination scare had to point to something more sinister.
From the madam’s perspective, Baron Erftstadt was a gentleman who wouldn’t think to betray her in a million years. We certainly weren’t changing course to avoid the mastermind of last night’s plot; thus, the reasonable conclusion was to think she wanted to jump into the lion’s jaws of her own accord and split its mouth open from the inside out.
I’d just suffered through a bloodbath last night—did she have to insist on inciting more violence? Sure, I’d trained up specifically to fight, but my strength was supposed to help me shine in heroic liberty, not fanatic servitude.
More to the point, who did this witch think I was? I wasn’t her personal knight, though you wouldn’t know it from how she treated me. While I’ll admit that I was the perfect frontline pawn for a magus like her, I was supposed to be a little indentured servant boy. Not that I’d ever pull the “Pwease, I’m just a weak widdle servant!” card, though, since she’d probably just laugh at me.
“Changing our destination is well and good, but what about our itinerary? Castor and Polydeukes are still worked up from yesterday’s attack, and I’d like to give them another day to calm down.”
“That’s fine. We may proceed as we had before. In fact, the Liplar viscounty is on the edge of Ubiorum territory, so we ought to arrive sooner than first anticipated.”
If you say so.
I knew all too well that trying to read my boss’s intentions was a fool’s errand; I didn’t have the brains to deal in backroom political games. A fundamental tenet of TRPGs was that specialists were better than generalists: if my build revolved around fights and chores, then I’d leave the bluffing and diplomacy to another PC.
Shutting off my brain and trusting her plans only worked because I was absolutely confident that she wouldn’t lose under any circumstances, but that wasn’t such a bad thing. It’s not like I could get away now, anyway. The clever thing to do was to take the path of least resistance until the current stopped pushing me around.
“Mm, at any rate, I have matters to settle in the capital, so I shall take a day’s leave. Feel free to do whatever you’d like.”
“I’m the central figure in last night’s chaos. I’ll be a pariah wherever I go.”
“Then why not lend a hand with the innkeepers’ funeral? If you’re as troubled as you seem, then I won’t mind you getting a bit involved.”
Man, I can feel my heart shriveling up. Not only was I stuck living out on the road, but I’d brought bloodshed with me.
I wanted to see Elisa, Mika, and Miss Celia again—to share trivial small talk, to play ehrengarde, to eat supper, and to go to the baths.
And the urge to see my family and Margit swelled ever greater.
One year, I told myself. One more year. But boy, is this gonna be a long one.
I wanna go home...

[Tips] When the last member of a common household passes away without any inheritors, the larger community they reside in usually reclaims the property. In these cases, the local magistrate will temporarily administer the affairs until more distant relatives can be contacted; if none exist, then the land is auctioned off to the highest bidder.