<19>

The Grand Duke, or rather, the damn terrorist, looked down at the new chief commander who was engulfed in helplessness. The color closest to darkness. His eyes, as black as a demon’s, laughed sinisterly.

“Let’s get back to the point. To use explosives, you need a lot of materials. I mean, who would have known to ask for so much alcohol? The knights who handed it over were too busy monitoring my ability that they didn’t even remember all the things I did when I rebelled.”

Thanks to that, the materials gathered easily. Calix had approached Clark without realizing it and was patting his shoulder. As if all this were just a joke.

Crash! With the sound of glass shattering and a scream that could tear one’s ears apart, exactly after he finished speaking. Amidst the noise, Calix chuckled wickedly like a tyrant.

“No need to explain in detail. You’ll know right away when you see it.”

“Son of a…!”

Clark finally lost his composure.

Cinaloa, like any other prison, was built with fire-resistant materials to prepare for fires. Moreover, matches or torches that could ignite the fire were managed so that prisoners couldn’t access them, so until now, Clark Hughes had never worried about fire.

Of course, there was a smoking room, but practically speaking, he didn’t think there was much he could do with the weak number of matches he could steal from there….

It was a damn terrible miscalculation.

Someone shouted that it was a fire. Calix got up from his seat with a leisurely attitude, and soon a loud explosion echoed as if something huge had burst, as if it would rupture eardrums.

Clark got up and ran up the stairs leading upstairs. Behind him, Calix Hamel lazily advised in a calm voice.

“It’s too late, you idiot.”

Thud, the sound of footsteps drowned out the urgent footsteps. Clark ran out of the visiting room as fast as he could and climbed the stairs.

And when he finally passed through the basement and came out to the ground, what he saw was literally hell.

“Ha, hahaha… Damn. Those fucking traitors….”

Laughter mixed with sighs flowed like a sound of despair.

Clark Hughes had seen people die multiple times. It wasn’t uncommon in the life of a knight, and he had even experienced fighting against the rebels of the real Grand Duke.

He had made a name for himself as an elite based solely on his skills, and he couldn’t remember how many enemies he had cut down to prove his prowess.

So Clark had confidence in himself, regardless of how gruesome the scene before him was.

At least until he faced the scene in front of him, he thought so.

The remnants of Molotov cocktails used when Calix Hamel, the traitor, attacked the palace, were rolling on the floor.

In a space filled with unburned items, flames that had risen moderately were losing their momentum and extinguishing.

…No. Was it not?

Clark noticed that the liquid pouring out was burning rather ‘stickily’ for simple oil or alcohol.

It took him tens of seconds to recall the possibility that sugar might be added to the contents and he grimaced.

Since sugar caramelizes, when it sticks to a building or an animal and catches fire, it sticks and doesn’t go out easily, making it more durable. This type of cocktail was often manufactured for a clear purpose.

“Ah… Aaahhh!!”

“Water!! Where’s the water, damn it!!”

The screams proved him right.

Molotov cocktail. It’s an improvised bomb made by filling a bottle with flammable liquid and sticking a wick in it. Considering only simple manufacturing methods and basic materials, there would be no better weapon to make and use in a confined prison than this.

However, the problem is that this is only true when it’s made ‘well’.

When the incendiary substance, hastily poured without gloves or a stand, remains on the surface of the bottle and catches fire, it burns the person holding it first.

Some incidents even resulted from lids not closing properly, causing the contents to spill onto people directly. As flames melted them down, the sight of people being engulfed by flames was shocking even for Clark, who had experienced numerous wars.

“You crazy bastard.”

He spat out a curse. In war, there were purposes and honors to uphold. But this kind of one-sided terrorism, well…

“Now, since you tortured me, you’ll agree with me, wouldn’t you? The one who started the fire isn’t me.”

Calix, who suddenly followed me, sneered with the face of a traitor. He shrugged his shoulders as if he was really sorry, while trying to understand the situation and issuing orders to the busy chief commander of the prison.

Clark didn’t even have the time to protest his attitude. He didn’t know where something might come flying from. Even if people were shooting each other right in front of him….

“Wait a moment.”

The explosion I heard earlier was clear.

Bang!

Simultaneously with his soliloquy, something of considerable volume exploded. Clark, with terror-filled eyes, turned around. He saw Calix Hamel moving his lips with a relaxed expression.

“Finish throwing them.”

He ordered.

Sequential cracks and explosions alternated somewhere in the annex of the prison. Clark only then realized that the sound was coming from a laundry cart where prisoners returning from the labor yard stacked their work clothes.

“Run.”

Trembling with fear, Clark gritted his teeth and then shouted loudly.

“To the annex now. We need to get water!!”

At his words, several bins of laundry water exploded with a roaring sound. Flames surged.

Amidst the flames, clothing pieces covered in coal dust were vaguely visible. Calix stretched his lips into a smile.

“There’s no water. Too bad.”

“Calix-!”

“We should probably check the water stations. If we want to extend the fire hydrants, we need to run fast. We need to figure out where those guys, who are burning alive over there, were trying to throw the Molotov cocktails.”

“We should have executed them on the spot during the rebellion. Damn bastards.”

“Well, your boss won’t be able to get rid of me even if he dies. They say you should repent when your beloved cries.”

It was a miscalculation. Giving you too much time was your downfall.

Calix muttered grimly. He had found the meaning of life a bit late, he said. Then he smiled again, but in a way that was eerie.

As much as it was infuriating, Clark had to admit it. He reluctantly accepted that this devilish man was playing with them.

His joking advice was probably not false, considering that Clark was still reacting quite ‘entertainingly’. As the chief commander, he had the responsibility to resolve this incident, which was undoubtedly his own fault.

He turned his head. Somewhere, someone was still clumsily throwing poorly made Molotov cocktails.

A liquid with dye or oil added burns much longer than simple alcohol. In fact, the roughly thrown Molotov cocktails were rising vigorously without losing their size.

And this newly appointed chief commander was the only one who remembered a facility made entirely of combustible materials.

“It’s unbelievable.”

The stable! At the end was a roughly made prisoner transport carriage.

“I told you, pay attention to your directions.”

He sensed it. This cunning prisoner wasn’t just thinking about escaping alone. Clark clenched his teeth, dredging up memories and ordered to fetch water, thinking about how many prisoners might escape in this situation. When his conscience reached that point, he realized one thing.

“…From the beginning?”

He barely managed to utter a trembling voice.

The carriage used for transport was also used for prisoners injured in the labor yard. And the place they must pass through to approach there from the labor yard was the temporary residence of the supervisors.

“You mistook the person. But who would have thought he would bring something like that there?”

Calix laughed. Clark fell silent with a dismayed expression. The terrorist in front of him chuckled without a care. From the mocking laughter mixed with madness, the smell of fire emanated.

Clark despaired.

“Yeah, they say don’t be too generous with rewards because they’re soon to die.”

Calix muttered as if he were singing, with only a faint smile as if he were trying to be kind.

“Seriously, you can’t be that naive. Just because it’s called a Molotov doesn’t mean it has a wick. Didn’t you even think there might be bombs that explode when you open the lid?”

Stupid bastard. The prisoner I wrongly pointed out must have already escaped. Blame the idiot who opened the flask first and died.

Well, it doesn’t matter since I didn’t kill him myself anyway.

He chuckled contentedly. The lack of morality didn’t suit his face, but it produced a bright smile.

“What’s the reason?”

No more screams were heard. Flames were already engulfing the corpses, with tongues flickering over the liquid that hadn’t yet completely burned.

Shivering with horror, Clark asked. Calix didn’t respond. He simply muttered that about thirty must have gone out by now.

And when they arrived at the stable in question, the carnage peaked.

The carriage transporting prisoners, the horses pulling it, and the stable where they were tied were all on fire. In the distance, guards shouted while carrying water.

Only now did everyone properly grasp the situation.

There were no longer any ‘living’ prisoners there.

Clark looked up at the sky. Calix was walking towards the entrance with leisurely steps.

Was it like this during the rebellion too? How many died back then because of Molotov cocktails?

‘Come to think of it.’

The crown prince, why didn’t he execute the author? The Grand Duke is still going strong.

He closed his eyes, wishing this was all just a nightmare and delusion. Calix’s chilling voice faintly echoed with mockery.

“Tell the crown prince. I can repeat this anytime.”

Calix blinked slowly as he left the prison. His eyes, clouded with obsession, shook for a moment, then he muttered a name in a very small voice.

Margaret Eilish.

He repeated it several times, then looked up. Putting out the fire should be enough for now.

Because there’s a Melody Well.

“The price must be paid for letting them go.”

The prisoners who were already out cheered at his words. Guild members of Glacius and associates of the rebels scattered as if they had designated tasks to collect the items they wanted to take.

After confirming that some of them were rushing to extinguish the fire with civilians and knights, Calix lowered his eyes with a look of completion.

Clark didn’t properly survey the area as he was busy looking at the demon.

Among the busy people trying to extinguish the fire, there was someone carrying something, heading towards Alcatraz.

The prison’s guard tower sounded. Knights would soon gather more.

Clark pondered Calix’s words. “I can repeat this anytime.” It was clear what that meant.

He drew his sword.

That day, on a sunny Monday before the Grand Duke’s execution ceremony, five attempted escapees from Sinaloa, who had gone out for labor, died, and a total of thirty-nine, including the former Grand Duke, escaped.

When Calix Hamell first started planning the escape, there were a few things he didn’t tell his comrades. One of them was about the ‘sacrifices’ that would occur on the day of the plan.

Calix was a criminal and a nobleman adept at schemes and collusion. He didn’t bother to consider the morality of my conclusion, nor was he merciful. Therefore, he casually accepted the deaths of his nominal comrades.

There were a total of five casualties at the time. They all perished in an accident caused by a Molotov cocktail. Since Calix had already designated the personnel to carry out the plan from the time they started making Molotovs, this improvised bombing was a foregone conclusion from before the victims were chosen.

Well, it wasn’t him who specified the exact number, it was Glacius.

But that was all. Calix readily admitted that he was still a criminal who had crossed the line, regardless of his role in such matters, and then chuckled.

What’s there to know? Even if he didn’t explicitly mention it in front of Margaret, wasn’t it obvious that she considered him evil? He was imprisoned here for the crime of rebellion, wasn’t he just stupid not to realize that?

‘Yet, such compassion, there’s no saint quite like her.’

He thought so with a conscience.

In any case, the series of tragedies Calix didn’t anticipate were quickly being forgotten as if they were unbelievable. Perhaps it was fortunate. The problem was that since they were already escaped felons, not members of an underground organization that had died, it was possible.

“That’s why they’re criminals.”

The ones who died in the terrorist attack using Molotov cocktails were those who served as Calix’s and Glacius’s communication network. The guild, true to its reputation, was ruthless, and the failures who had been utilized at Calix’s suggestion were never collected again. Their handling was perfect and clean, even without a head like Tailor.

The most important thing when making Molotov cocktails is to ensure that the ignition material doesn’t leak out. He recalled the recent events, pondering over how the ignition material had remained sticky on the surface of the bottle.