Arknights: Prime Minister of Kjerag — Chapter 32

Chapter 32: What You Love Is Your LifeYou're reading this on the wrong site. This chapter was translated by Elysian Reads and posted for free at elysianreads.com — if you're seeing it anywhere else, it was copied without permission. Read it at the source so the people who actually did the work get the credit.

“Mr. Młynar, you have a letter.”

The courier’s voice crackled through the courtyard intercom, cutting through the crisp, quiet chill of the Kazimierz morning.

A slightly rough, exhausted male voice drifted from the speaker a moment later. “So early? A letter? Give me a moment.”

The heavy front door clicked open. A blond man stepped out into the courtyard, the collar of his perpetually wrinkled leather trench coat turned up against the morning draft. He approached the wrought-iron gate, accepting the envelope through the bars.

“Thank you.”

He turned to head back inside, only to be halted by the courier’s awkward cough.

“You’re welcome, ah, Mr. Młynar. But there is postage due.”

Młynar paused. His boots ground against the pavement as he stopped, glancing down at the plain envelope in his hand, and then back up at the courier. If his memory served him right, even international mail rarely cost more than a handful of coins. Who would go out of their way to send him a physical letter, only to stick the recipient with the bill?

A deep frown creased Młynar’s brow. He flipped the envelope over, verifying it was not some elaborate corporate advertisement, before reaching into his coat for his wallet. He fished out three Kazimierz Marks—the standard rate for same-city courier delivery—and handed them over.

Carrying the overpriced mail indoors, he dropped onto the living room sofa and glanced at the wall clock. Eight o’clock. He tossed the letter onto the coffee table, dragged a hand down his face, and trudged upstairs to Maria’s bedroom door.

“Time to get up, Maria. Eat your breakfast and get ready for school.”

A long, drawn-out groan of pure agony muffled its way through the heavy wooden door, followed by a sleepy plea for five more minutes. Młynar ignored it. He stood there in silence until, after a considerable struggle, Maria’s internal systems finally booted up at a speed that barely surpassed the national average for stubborn children.

“Okay, Uncle, I’m getting up.”

Only then did Młynar descend the stairs. He moved into the kitchen, his motions practiced and mechanical. He heated up a pan of sausages and bacon, arranged them on a tray alongside freshly baked bread, and poured a glass of warm milk. By the time he carried the breakfast out to the dining table, Maria was already there, wrestling with the collar of her school uniform.

“Good morning, Uncle.”

“Hmm.” Młynar gave a curt nod. He retreated to the sofa, fully intending to pick up the morning newspaper, until his eyes landed on the envelope resting on the coffee table.

Three Marks was hardly a fortune, but the sheer audacity of a postage-due letter was enough to leave a lingering itch on an otherwise monotonous morning.

‘No sender. No return address. Just my name.’He turned the paper over in his hands.’An old acquaintance?’

A parade of familiar faces flickered through his mind, but he could not picture a single one of his former comrades pulling such a tasteless prank. Letting out a quiet sigh, he unclipped his keychain, unfolded the small, antique scissors attached to it, and sliced the envelope open.

There was no padding, no secondary seal. Just a single, thin sheet of paper bearing a short, typewritten message.

[To Młynar Nearl.]

[I have learned that you have been searching for the whereabouts of your elder brother, Schnitz Nearl, and his wife, Yolanta Nearl. I have clues regarding their disappearance, and I would be honored to share them with you. If you are interested, please meet me at McCaswell Cafe, 10 Oak Avenue, this afternoon upon receiving this letter. The secret code is: ‘What you love is your life; when are lemons sour?’]

[Your loyal fan—Kjerag Top Laner]

Młynar stared at the paper. His very first, unfiltered thought was a flat, echoing question: ‘What is this garbage?’Anyone receiving such a cryptic, disjointed message before they even had their morning coffee would feel a headache coming on. The secret code at the bottom was particularly grating. When normal people arranged clandestine meetings, they used standard phrases.’The eagle flies at midnight,’or’The chair is against the wall.’What kind of code was’when are lemons sour’?

And the signature was just as baffling. Kjerag Top Laner? Kjerag was a frozen, isolationist religious state bordering Kazimierz. What in the world was a ‘Top Laner’?

Yet, as the initial wave of sheer confusion receded, the cold, hard facts of the letter settled into his chest like lead.

They knew his secret.

Młynar had never once stopped looking for his elder brother, Schnitz Nearl, who had vanished without a trace during a classified operation. He searched not just because Schnitz was Margaret and Maria’s father, but because Młynar absolutely refused to believe that two of the brightest, most powerful rising stars in the Kazimierz military could simply evaporate into thin air.

But this obsessive hunt was his deepest secret. To the rest of the world, Młynar Nearl was a broken man who had accepted reality. He was just a humble, middle-aged, unmarried corporate drone raising his nieces, a man who spent his days getting screamed at by his boss and berated by clients over the phone until his spine bent from the weight of it all. Even the few old rivals who still kept a wary eye on him had no idea what he was truly doing in the shadows.

But this ‘Kjerag Top Laner’ knew. And they were confident enough to dangle that knowledge as bait.

What did they want?

Młynar carefully folded the letter along its original creases and slipped it back into the envelope. He sat in silence for a long moment, the gears turning behind his tired eyes, before he looked up at Maria. She was currently nursing her glass of warm milk, taking agonizingly slow sips.

“Maria,” Młynar said, his voice perfectly level. “I have some matters to attend to this afternoon. I might not be able to pick you up. Head straight home by yourself after class.”

Maria paused, peering over the rim of her glass with a slight pout. “Are you working overtime again?”and support the real translator.Read at elysianreads.com This is a stolen translation. You're reading this on the wrong site. This chapter was translated by Elysian Reads and posted for free at elysianreads.com — if you're seeing it anywhere else, it was copied without permission. Read it at the source so the people who actually did the work get the credit.

Młynar hesitated for a fraction of a second. “It is related to a project I have been working on.”

Accustomed to her uncle’s grueling corporate schedule, Maria did not press the issue. “Okay. Can you bring me an HFC meal when you come back?”

Młynar frowned. His immediate instinct was to lecture her about the detriments of high-calorie, deep-fried fast food, but looking at her hopeful expression, the words died in his throat. “Fine.”

Instantly, Maria chugged the rest of her milk—a task that usually took her twenty minutes—and flashed a brilliant smile. She cheered quietly, grabbing her school backpack and slinging it over her shoulders.

“You’re still walking me there this morning, right?”

“Yes.” Młynar nodded, sliding the envelope into his worn leather briefcase.

‘I will take the afternoon off. I do not have many vacation days left. I can only hope whoever wrote this letter does not waste my time.’

This afternoon. 10 Oak Avenue. McCaswell Cafe.

Platinum sat alone at a small, street-facing table inside the cafe, her gaze drifting through the pristine glass window to watch the bustling Kazimierz street traffic. Beneath the table, a thick white bandage was wrapped securely around her thigh, hidden from view.

Her attire was striking, making her stand out sharply against the warm, Leithanian-style decor of the establishment. Pedestrians walking past the window frequently found their eyes drawn to the beautiful, silver-haired young woman who carried a faint, almost sickly pallor.

Fortunately, Kazimierz was not the conservative, cloistered nation of Kjerag. The social atmosphere here was aggressively modern and open. While her outfit was certainly bold, it was not entirely scandalous. It drew lingering looks, but no one was going to call the authorities over it.

Platinum, of course, had zero interest in the passing crowds. She held a ceramic coffee cup between her hands, letting the fading warmth seep into her palms, while she spoke softly into the hidden earpiece tucked beneath her hair.

“Mr. Ernst, will Młynar really show up? He is a major figure from the Nearl family, you know.”

Her voice carried a trace of genuine doubt. If the Prime Minister of Kjerag still felt like a distant, untouchable foreign dignitary to her, then the Nearl family was a living legend right here in her backyard. They were the apex of Kazimierz prestige.

Sure, the family had fallen on hard economic times recently, but everyone in the city knew the truth. When your ancestors were written into the national history textbooks, it did not matter if you were broke for three generations. You still lived in a massive villa with a sprawling courtyard. Even the iron fences guarding the Nearl estate carried more nobility than the entire block of a commoner’s rental district.

Would a man with that kind of bloodline really lower himself to meet her?

Through the earpiece, Ernst’s voice filtered in, smooth, relaxed, and dripping with absolute certainty. “He will come.”

Ernst was not placing his faith in his own luck. He was placing it in Młynar’s obsession.

A ruthless, driven man who would burn through three years of meager corporate savings and sacrifice every single day of his annual leave just to chase ghosts… that kind of man would never ignore a direct lead.

That was exactly why Ernst had instructed the courier to make the letter postage due.

Nothing burned a message into a man’s memory quite like forcing him to pay for it out of his own pocket.

“Relax, Platinum. Just wait a little longer,” Ernst murmured, his tone soothing.

Before his voice even faded from the earpiece, Platinum drew in a sharp, quiet breath.

“He is here.”

Outside the cafe, a tall, imposing figure draped in a wrinkled leather trench coat pushed open the heavy glass door. The bell chimed softly.

Młynar stepped inside. His sharp, tired eyes immediately swept the interior of the cafe, cataloging every patron, every exit, and every shadow. Once he confirmed there were no familiar faces or obvious threats, he withdrew his piercing gaze.

A waiter approached, offering a polite smile. Młynar looked directly at him.

“What you love is your life.”

The waiter blinked, then gave a knowing nod, gesturing for Młynar to follow. He led the weary knight straight to the window table where Platinum was seated.

The silver-haired assassin tilted her head slightly. She forced down the spike of adrenaline caused by Ernst’s flawless prediction, straightened her posture, and looked the legendary Młynar Nearl in the eye.

In the most deadpan, solemn tone she could possibly muster, she delivered the counter-sign.

“When are lemons sour?”

[Rhodes’s Note: “Top Laner” is a reference to the top lane position in MOBA games like League of Legends, an inside joke by the transmigrated protagonist Ernst. “HFC” is the Arknights universe’s equivalent of KFC or similar high-calorie fast food chains.]You're reading this on the wrong site. This chapter was translated by Elysian Reads and posted for free at elysianreads.com — if you're seeing it anywhere else, it was copied without permission. Read it at the source so the people who actually did the work get the credit.