Night Spirit (2)
“Night Spirit Checholla.”
The mug hit the table with a heavy thud.
The original story's heroine's exclusive spirit. Why the hell would something that precious show up for sale in this barren northern black market? And right now, when whispers of slave trading were making the rounds.
His Challenger top-laner instincts were screaming. This was it. Like an enemy top laner hunkered down under turret, advertising, 'Come dive me if you dare!' while their jungler lurked in the nearby bush.
Tap. Tap.
His thick fingers drummed the table, the sound echoing loudly.
Spirits were incredibly hard to capture. Naturally, the gear needed cost a fortune, and the spirits themselves went for absurd prices. And yet someone had snagged a Night Spirit and was peddling it in some podunk northern town?
“No fucking way.”
“Pardon? What is it?”
They weren't selling the spirit itself. Meaning it wasn't some top-tier item that let you bond with a spirit on sight.
The most likely scenario? They were hawking an object infused with a spirit.
'Or maybe they're selling the spirit's contractor along with it.'
That was the worst case. In the original story, Checholla's contractor was the heroine. If she ended up sold as a slave here? The plot would veer wildly off the rails.
The pre-story timeline was a bit fuzzy on details. Maybe his possession had already altered the flow.
'If it's the worst case, I gotta stop it myself. Either way, I need to check it out.'
The slave market was a problem he had to handle anyway. And he couldn't rule out the heroine's involvement entirely.
He didn't want to get tangled up with her, but if she got enslaved, who knew what chaos that would unleash? No way he could sit this out.
“Chirpy.”
“Yessir!”
“We're staying a month. Book us a decent-sized room and handle the luggage yourself.”
“Tweet! Thank you!”
Valerius tossed two extra silver coins and stood.
First things first: intel. Luckily, the Topsol Kill Gang had a presence here too. A quick chat with them would sort it.
He stepped out of the inn into the darkening sky, his stride unwavering.
Once he set his mind to something, he pushed forward doggedly. You couldn't just abandon lane because the matchup sucked, right?
Fillerbinker had lately become quite the hot spot for merchants.
It was already famous for graywood, but now spirit byproducts were popping up all around, drawing even more trade.
“A Night Spirit, huh? Mercs have all the luck.”
“Ah, if only I could snag one byproduct...”
“Dream on. That's why the Night Spirit got caught.”
Where high spirits appeared, lesser ones spawned in droves. Checholla's presence had birthed swarms of low-grade spirits nearby, easy pickings for mercenaries—and bait for merchants.
“Milady, please be careful.”
A sharp-featured woman disembarked from her carriage under her escort's protection. She was one such merchant.
“Tch. What a downgrade.”
She spat the words at the bustling crowds. To her—who'd gotten wind of the news first and set up a base in Fillerbinker—these latecomers looked like nothing but vultures.
“To the outpost.”
“Yes, ma'am. Shall I summon Bilroy?”
“No, straight to the outpost.”
Near Fillerbinker's slums stood a brewery. In other cities, high crime rates would deter such setups, but the North Duchy’s south was different. This was Topsol Kill Gang territory.
They supplied the gang with top-shelf booze in exchange for trade networks and perks.
“Milady! You've arrived!”
“It's been a while.”
“Please, come in!”
The manager greeted her warmly.
“Manager. Two glasses of your finest vintage.”
“Right away.”
They entered the office inside the brewery. She scanned the spotless interior, then sat at the worktable.
“Lady Sophia.”
“Yes. I'll unpack.”
Her knight bodyguard, Sophia, headed to the adjoining bedroom to unpack.
The woman lit a cigar and settled into her chair.
“H-here you are, milady.”
“Send for Bilroy immediately.”
“Got it!”
The manager hustled out. Five minutes later—after Sophia finished unpacking and poured her drink—Bilroy arrived.
“Milady!”
“Yes.”
She nodded at the burly man bowing deeply. He was honest and polite, one of her favorites.
“Sit and have a drink.”
“Ah! Thank you.”
Bilroy accepted the glass with both hands, reverently. Odd etiquette, but it felt genuine, so she let it slide.
The Topsol Kill Gang in Rozanica mostly carried that vibe.
“So, is the intel solid?”
“Yes. The 'Pitbull Merchant Company' seems to have secured it for sure.”
“Hmph. Unbelievable.”
Yanes Valbasor had started her brewery here a year ago. The reason for this remote venture? Spirits.
One day, byproduct yields in the nearby forest had spiked dramatically. Others shrugged it off, but not Yanes.
She rushed over, assessed, and allied with the infamous Topsol Kill Gang to plant roots.
Six months later, they pinpointed Night Spirit Checholla. She inwardly cheered.
If she could tame a spirit that powerful, the investment was peanuts.
But the world wasn't so kind. Even as she prepared funds and capture gear, word dropped: the Night Spirit was caught, auction incoming.
“So it is the Night Spirit?”
“Seems so, but not the spirit itself.”
“...No way.”
“Yes. They probably caught the spirit contractor. Word is, it's a young girl.”
Yanes let out a hollow laugh at Bilroy's words.
All that investment, and it was a contractor? She wanted the spirit proper, not some user's pet.
“They're out of their minds.”
And a slave auction in the North, of all places? Slavery was touchy up here—old scandals made it so. If the North Duke caught wind, it wouldn't slide.
“You lot just sat on your hands?”
“...We couldn't help it. Things have been tough lately.”
Unlike their Rozanica stronghold, the Topsol Kill Gang in Fillerbinker was struggling—feuding with the lord, under noble pressure, unable to flex.
They'd stayed mum on the slave auction.
“More like you chose not to speak up.”
“...”
“Eh, doesn't matter to me. Just do your jobs right.”
Yanes flashed a smile—like a flawless bloom. Bilroy just swallowed hard.
Knowing their place was the gang's biggest strength.
Knock knock.
The manager burst in without permission. Rude as hell—Yanes scowled.
“S-sorry, milady! But big trouble!”
“Hm? What?”
“The gang's 'Godfather' is here!”
Yanes's eyes lit up.
The founder of Topsol Kill Gang, the pillar who built their base. The legend who'd nearly eradicated northern slavery and drugs. Silent for eight years.
“Perfect. I've been wanting to meet him.”
A straight shooter with manners, architect of the gang's code. Partnering with him would boost her northern ventures.
Yanes rose; Sophia and Bilroy followed.
“This is bad. You okay?”
“...”
Bilroy trembled, pale. Even after years out of touch, the fear lingered.
Wonder what the Godfather looks like, Yanes thought with a thrill, heading to the gang's base.
Screeech.
Entering the massive tavern, Yanes's eyes widened.
“Grrgh.”
“M-my legs!”
Groans of pain echoed everywhere.
The rowdy, wild tavern was unusually quiet now. Though blood-splattered walls made it stifling.
Her gaze flicked to the counter. A massive man loomed before the familiar bartender.
Straight-backed, white shirt straining at the seams, practical travel pants. Raw, feral aura rippled with mana around his bulk.
“...A Master!?”
Sophia—Sword Expert—drew her blade, shielding Yanes.
A foe who could kill her one-handed.
'We're screwed.'
Cold sweat trickled down Yanes's back at Sophia's whisper.
That giant—a Master? One of fewer than seventy on the continent?
“Hm?”
The giant turned at the commotion.
Neatly combed-back gray hair, piercing gray eyes. A scar slashing from eye to mouth.
Meeting those eyes, Yanes shrank. A bear of a man—not just any bear, but one forged by an ancient god, clad in thunder-wreathed armor, ripping men apart.
Just eye contact, and her body quaked for mercy.
Gulp.
Now she clocked the iconic look. Merchants buzzed about him amid the unrest.
Regret flickered, but she sized him up coolly.
Gang members had broken limbs—no deaths. He wasn't here to kill.
Topsol Kill Gang's ethos meant their Godfather wasn't a loose cannon. Rumors backed it.
Exhale. Let's roll the dice.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Shoving past Sophia, Yanes approached and claimed the seat beside him.
“Bartender. Snow Fillerbinker. Make it one.”
Shaking off tension, she ordered her usual cocktail. The bartender eyed the giant, nodded at his approval, and whipped it up.
“How's this? A Passville cigar.”
“Don't mind if I do.”
She offered her own cigar, even cutting and lighting it for him.
“So, what brings the South's war hero here?”
Whoosh.
Thick smoke billowed from the Godfather's smiling lips.
“You know me?”
“That scar, hair, eyes. Hard to miss.”
Topsol Kill Gang's Godfather—Valerius—chuckled at the trembling yet bold woman.
“Heh. Fun gal. Then you know they call that war hero a butcher who slaughtered 700—men, women, old folks, nobles—right there on the spot?”
“D-did you really kill them all?”
“What the—?”
She showed a hint of surprise there too.