Chapter Twenty-Three: Nothing Happened Today

By the time Koman reached the Eiffel Tower, a significant crowd had already gathered. This sight filled Sharma Singh with a deepening sense of dread.

"What are you doing? I came here to cooperate with the investigation!" Sharma Singh struggled as he was dragged down, his gaze darting away from the prepared cross. Even though he was not a Christian, as a member of the South Asian elite, he had vaguely heard of the fate associated with such a position.

"Keep him quiet," Koman ordered with disdain, calmly putting on a mask. As soon as the words left his lips, four or five young comrades-in-arms rushed forward, raining punches and kicks upon Sharma Singh.

Alain finally understood why Koman had erected the cross. He shook his head helplessly, scanned the curious Parisian onlookers, and ordered someone to fetch adhesive tape to gag the prisoner.

Playing the role of a stern judge for the first time, Koman still retained a desire for perfection. While waiting for the victim to arrive for identification, he set up a pot and began boiling tea-marinated eggs. The eggs, freshly boiled, certainly lacked flavor, but that didn't matter; they were merely meant to fill a stomach, and one couldn't expect too much.

The suspect, naturally, was denied such treatment. He could only watch as the Frenchmen, who were about to inflict brutality upon him, sat on stools and chatted while eating their tea eggs.

"News from the Italian front: the 1st Armored Division and the 4th, 6th, and 7th Infantry Divisions have received orders to withdraw from Italy and prepare for a landing in Marseille," Alain said, working quickly. He devoured a tea egg in a few bites, hissing as if the heat had burned his mouth.

Upon hearing this, Koman considered the possibility of launching an offensive from northwestern Italy. On his way here, he had stopped in Sardinia and spoken with General Dragon about the prospect of annexing that French-speaking region. In a place with a settled population of about one hundred thousand, one only needed to spread a few rumors of retaliation. Once the Italian-speaking population fled, only the French speakers would remain, and the territory would naturally fall into their hands.

The Saar region would not be so easy. With over a million inhabitants, they would have to focus on letting the war spill over onto the civilians, creating a refugee wave to drive the locals out. To achieve this, he needed full command authority over the Saar sector—to fight and displace the population simultaneously, and with speed.

Alain was quite cautious. Given the conservative atmosphere in the Middle East, such cases required sensitivity toward the victim. When they brought her in, he provided her with a Lorraine Cross mask to cover her face. Koman recognized the accuser by her eyes.

The details of the case were unnecessary to recount. He knew they were acquaintances; otherwise, she wouldn't have known the perpetrator’s unit and name. It was simply a case of a man from the "great, colorful nation" possessing the inherent, upper-class self-confidence that led him to mistake the victim's friendliness for romantic interest. Having years of experience in the realm of online keyboard warfare, Koman understood this well. It fit the stereotype perfectly—give these men an inch, and they take a mile, especially those from the upper crust.

Technically, the case was somewhat murky, and by no means did it warrant a death sentence. But then again, Koman had no intention of killing this Indian elite. As long as Sharma Singh could endure for seven days, he would be released if he were still alive.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," Koman said, not even bothering to remember the victim’s name, his benevolence suddenly overflowing. "Just confirm: is this the man? No need for the details."

Seeing the victim nod, Koman turned and commanded, "Tie him up. Secure him to the nails." He paused, then added, "Miss, you may return to work. This is no place for you. Leave the rest to me."

"Thank you," the victim said, expressing her sincere gratitude amidst the suspect's struggling wails. "I don't know how to express my appreciation for such a quick result."

"It is because I am kind," Koman said, shamelessly praising himself. Even behind his mask, it seemed he could make others see his radiant, beaming smile. "Treat this as a nightmare and go home, Miss."

"This is a lynching! I will appeal to your superiors! Mmph—" Alain, preferring a quiet environment and finding no need for a cheering section, directly sealed the prisoner's mouth with tape, and the scene fell silent.

As the noise vanished, only the loyal citizens of Paris remained to sing praises. Law and order had finally arrived in the loyal city of Paris. It is only when one is at the mercy of others, like fish on a cutting board, that one realizes the insignificance of individual power.

Koman stepped forward and drew his Damascus steel dagger. Do not misunderstand; he merely wanted to cut away the excess hemp rope, a testament to his enduring virtue of thrift.

The hammer fell. Blood streamed from Sharma Singh's palms; the veins in his neck bulged, and his cheeks puffed out like a pufferfish, the excruciating pain in his hands jolting his brain.

Koman leaned down slightly and whispered to the nailed prisoner in broken English, "I am the lord of all I survey. You brought this dead end upon yourself... Do not think your base commander can pull you from my hands. I will write your death certificate myself and have it delivered."

In truth, Sharma Singh's position was quite convenient. Since the Normandy landings, a large number of colonial troops had entered mainland France, and friction between these soldiers and the local residents was inevitable. Making an example of this fellow from India was quite appropriate.

Since they were all French-speaking, it was difficult to be heavy-handed with colonial troops from the very beginning. But by using this "Jewel of the British Empire" as a warning, he could strike fear into the hearts of colonial soldiers who lacked proper reverence. No matter their faith or skin color, they must not make mistakes in such matters. Of course, this was limited to French territory; once in Germany, he would no longer concern himself with such things. He remained the Koman who worked tirelessly to protect the interests of French soldiers.

The cross was raised. Blood continued to drip from the prisoner's nailed palms. Koman did not leave immediately, but instead bowed his head in pious prayer. "Lord, forgive him, for he knows not what he does."

"Forgive him," the dozen comrades beside Koman echoed with devout expressions, joining him in prayer. "And when You strike in anger, may You cast him into a furnace as hot as molten lava."

Returning to the Judicial Purification Committee, Koman did not open his work diary until the end of the day. He prepared to write, but in the end, he only made a brief summary: "Nothing to report today."

In the German capital of Berlin, within a high-end apartment in Dahlem, Himmler returned home exhausted. His wife, Margarete, came to greet him, only to see the anxiety in his eyes. She froze for a moment and asked softly, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Himmler forced a smile. He was unwilling to share the deteriorating situation with his wife; it was not a topic she needed to concern herself with.

"Papa is home!" Following the clear, youthful voice of a girl, Gudrun Himmler appeared. Her presence brought a flash of brightness to the room, and the heavy gloom seemed to dissipate along with her arrival.