Chapter 39: The Tavern Trap

“Exactly!” Quidar nodded, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face. “We’ll dispatch a team to the tavern, instructing them to deliberately leak information: that Fran is currently being held captive in a certain location.”

“Then, we’ll station guards there. For every individual who attempts a rescue, we’ll simply apprehend them!”

“Well, what do you say, Station Chief, Lyon, my brother?” Quidar gestured expansively. “My plan is brilliant: it doesn’t trouble Fran with writing any lists, yet it still allows us to apprehend anti-imperial elements. The results will be exceptional. Should we… proceed with this?”

He confidently raised his pipe to his lips, drawing a deep, satisfying breath.

What he left unsaid was the full scope of his scheme. Ultimately, through interrogating the captured anti-imperial elements, they could uncover more anti-imperial organizations backing them.

This would provide an opportunity to apprehend even more individuals, potentially even revealing Fran’s true identity.

Hmm…

Even if Fran weren’t a spy, securing so many anti-imperialists would be a tremendous achievement. Surely, everyone within the Purburg station would then regard him with newfound respect?

Furthermore, even if the anti-imperialists proved utterly heartless, or simply too skeptical to fall for the rumors, he stood to lose nothing. They weren’t genuinely planning to incarcerate Fran, and Yuli herself would find it difficult to reject such a proposal, wouldn’t she?

Only…

“It will simply be a bit inconvenient for Fran, my friend,” Quidar conceded. “Once the rumors have spread, he may need to remain confined within the mansion for a few days.”

“This is to prevent his true whereabouts from being discovered, lest those individuals realize the deception. Otherwise, all our meticulous efforts would be rendered meaningless.”

Quidar turned his gaze towards Fran. A sudden, icy dread snaked down Fran’s spine. This…

The opponent’s gambit had caught Fran entirely off guard. If they truly proceeded as Quidar outlined, Fran couldn’t possibly ascertain if anyone would actually fall into the Teutonic trap in an attempt to rescue him.

Yet, he simply could not afford to take such a risk.

But… how could he possibly refuse this plan now?

It seemed… there was no way to evade it. Compiling a list was something he could actively refuse to do, but confinement was an entirely passive state, easily enforced upon him.

“‘But… I…’”

Fran frantically scrambled for an excuse. He mumbled incoherently for a considerable time, yet still failed to conjure a suitable reason. He could only lamely offer, “This… this won’t be effective, will it? Truly, very few people in the tavern would even remember me…”

“Let’s give it a try,” Lyon interjected, a slight cough escaping him. “Perhaps we truly can apprehend someone this way. Fran, rest assured, we have faith in you. You’ll merely be serving as bait, luring those anti-imperial elements into our trap.”

Lyon’s words only stoked the urgency. After a moment of thoughtful consideration, Yuli nodded in agreement.

“Hmm… even if we don’t apprehend anyone, it’s no great loss; we won’t be squandering much manpower,” Yuli mused. “Moreover, if this plan proves successful, Fran should certainly receive a share of the credit, don’t you agree?”

“Cough, cough…” Quidar cleared his throat awkwardly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. Yuli and the others, sensing his hesitation, turned their expectant gazes towards him. A beat of silence.

“Oh!” Yuli exclaimed, realizing her oversight. She nodded, then somewhat reluctantly addressed Quidar. “Of course, the primary credit will undoubtedly fall to Captain Quidar, who conceived this brilliant idea. Truly… your experience is unmatched.”

“Station Chief, you flatter me,” Quidar replied, a smug smile barely concealed. “Very well, then. I shall lead my men to the tavern to execute this plan as swiftly as possible. And, Secretary Fran, remember: under no circumstances are you to leave the mansion!”

Quidar rose to his feet, his eyes intently fixed on Fran. Fran, for his part, remained impassively seated, betraying no emotion. Beside him, Yuli chimed in, echoing Quidar’s sentiment. “Don’t worry,” she assured them, “I will personally ensure Fran is closely watched.”

Finally, Quidar departed. He summoned a team of men, waited briefly for them to assemble, and then the entire contingent set off directly for the tavern.

****

Upon arriving at the tavern, Quidar kicked open its heavy wooden doors. Once more, the Teutonic soldiers stormed inside with an arrogant swagger, a dark, oppressive mass that resembled a swarm of locusts descending upon the land.

This time, Quidar wasted no words. He simply bellowed directly at the sparse clientele within the tavern.

“Nobody move!” he roared. “Place all your belongings on the tables! Search them!”

The tavern owner, observing Quidar’s repeated intrusion, felt an undeniable surge of pressure. If the previous visit had been a mere coincidence or a routine inspection, then this time…

The owner instinctively understood: his establishment was unequivocally being targeted.

He remained uncertain of the exact reason for this scrutiny. Regardless, the tavern had undoubtedly become a perilous place.

He keenly observed the conversations between Quidar and the Teutonic soldiers. Possessing some knowledge of the Teutonic language, he endeavored to glean any useful information from the chatter between Quidar and his subordinates.

Following a cursory search, the Teutonic soldiers once again found nothing of interest. However, their true objective for this visit lay elsewhere, so their search lacked any real diligence.

After a considerable pause, a soldier, adhering to the pre-arranged script, hurried over. He snapped to attention, saluted crisply, and delivered his report to Quidar.

“Report!” he declared. “No suspicious persons have been discovered!”

“Damn it!” Quidar exclaimed, stomping his foot in feigned frustration. Hands on his hips, he scowled, muttering loudly in Teutonic, “Blast it all! I refuse to believe that with Fran captured, every place he frequented is suddenly filled with law-abiding citizens!”

Fran?

The image of the fair-haired, refined young man immediately materialized in the owner’s mind. Fran? How could *he* have been arrested?

The owner had vague knowledge of Fran, understanding that he shared an ambiguous connection with a Teutonic soldier girl. But this… how could he have been suddenly apprehended?

Quidar did not elaborate further. Instead, he simply paced in tight circles, projecting an image of profound annoyance.

The Teutonic soldiers, arrayed in a neat line, stood there awkwardly, silently observing their superior officer’s agitated pacing.

Suddenly, two of the soldiers began to slacken, whispering conspiratorially to each other. The tavern owner immediately sharpened his focus, straining to catch their words.

“Hey, what do you reckon is happening?” one soldier murmured. “Why is our captain so furious?”

“Hmph, it’s nothing but that spy sent by the anti-imperial organization!” the other soldier scoffed softly. “Fran, I think his name was… a Francian fellow, who had a rather ambiguous relationship with Station Chief Yuli. I’d always harbored suspicions, and now, he’s accidentally exposed himself as an undercover agent! He’s already been apprehended and is currently imprisoned at the Army Security Department!”

“Eh? What does that have to do with us?”

“Tsk, that Fran is incredibly stubborn; he simply refuses to confess,” the first soldier continued. “There’s a traitor within the station, and Captain Quidar is desperate to apprehend a few individuals to present to the higher-ups. They’ve subjected Fran to all manner of severe torture, yet he still won’t yield. Tsk, tsk, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s beaten to death within the next couple of days!”

“Is that so?” the second soldier’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “I saw the Army Security Department building; there are hardly any guards, and the place looks utterly dilapidated!”

“It’s a secret outpost, of course, not meant to be large,” the first soldier explained. “Hey, keep your voice down! Shhh—”

The two soldiers’ hushed conversation was abruptly cut short by a furious glare from Quidar. Feigning intense vexation, Quidar deliberately smashed a glass of wine against the floor, then turned and strode out, leading his entire contingent in a dramatic exit.

Only the tavern owner, who had pieced together the general meaning, and a bewildered group of customers remained, sitting stunned in their places.

Outside the tavern, and a considerable distance away, a few of Quidar’s subordinates, privy to the overarching scheme, turned to him and inquired.

“Boss,” one asked tentatively, “do you truly believe anyone will understand us speaking like that in Teutonic?”

“Heh,” Quidar chuckled. “Those with keen ears will naturally comprehend our words. Moreover, speaking in Teutonic lends an air of authenticity, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed, Captain,” another subordinate agreed, “your wisdom is unparalleled!”

****

Within the tavern, however, a palpable unease had already taken root.