Muddy Hand

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Muddy Hand.

An organization born in the back alleys of Laoren more than fifty years ago. As old as it was large, it ran any number of ventures beyond those alleys — and so the power it wielded in the streets was absolute.

Turn Muddy Hand into an enemy, and you would not live. The saying had spread through the city like a curse.

Muddy Hand headquarters. A man sat there sorting through the day's reports and ledgers — a vicious scar cutting across his face, his build thick and solid.

Mod, leader of Muddy Hand.

He had once been in his prime, but age had caught up with him. He even wore expensive glasses now for his failing eyes.

The current's not bad.

He set the report down with a look of satisfaction. Nearly fifty years since they had started in the back alleys. Lately they had taken on a dangerous but enormous venture, and the business was expanding. Thanks to that, Muddy Hand was enjoying a boom unlike anything it had ever known.

"Time to throw this name away too."

They couldn't keep scraping by in the alleys forever. The name Muddy Hand — coined by a bunch of back-alley brats to mean the lowest of the low — it was time to discard that as well.

"Yeah. It's been long enough. Long enough."

He leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses. Being born in the back alleys wasn't something you could change in a single stroke. It was a swamp. You had to be relentless, vicious, use everything you had — and even then you might barely claw your way out.

And now, at last, a way out of that swamp was coming into view.

A noble who had occasionally bought the slaves Muddy Hand had been selling for years. Recently, that same noble had started sampling the new drugs Muddy Hand had brought in. What's more, he had spread those drugs among nobles of his own kind, and the stuff had become fashionable among them.

They were wastrel nobles — men who would never inherit a house or hold any real office — but they were nobles all the same. Naturally, they poured money into the drugs without a second thought. And they had begun taking an interest in Muddy Hand's other ventures as well, all because the noble who usually bought from them had been bragging about the gang like it was something to be proud of.

A wastrel noble's little rebellion. It had become something like an idol among his peers. And so, among the idle nobility, dabbling in back-alley business had become the latest fashion.

For Muddy Hand, it was like giving wings to a tiger.

Heh heh heh. Live long enough and even a chance like this comes around.

Today, a noble's retainer was scheduled to pay a personal visit. Today was the day the pipeline to the nobility would open for good.

Of course, he wasn't fond of the retainer who swaggered around like he was a noble himself. A bootlicker who just sat at a noble's side farting compliments — and he had the gall to put on airs? Every time Mod saw him, it was so absurd he nearly snorted.

Still, the man was a loyal servant of a noble. That hadn't changed. Which meant he was a guest to be treated with respect. The young slaves the man favored, his personal weapons, and his drugs were all prepared. Let him indulge his sick tastes as much as he liked. As far as Mod was concerned, all that mattered was that the man passed word along to his master and the money kept coming.

A knock came at the door, right on cue. Mod lifted his head and told them to come in.

"Boss Mod, your guest has arrived."

Finally.

"Show him in. Politely."

"Yes, sir."

Mod straightened his clothes and tidied the room as best he could. A moment later, footsteps approached.

The door swung open.

"Hey, Mod."

A fat man waddled in — expensive flesh, fattened by clinging to a noble's side. Out on the street, he wouldn't have been worth a single punch. But in this moment, he stood on the same level as a noble.

"Lord Eron. You've arrived."

"Yeah. The road here is just miserable. Honestly, I don't even want to travel the same streets as commoners."

Unbelievable. The man was a commoner himself, and he acted every inch the noble. But Mod didn't let a hint of that show on his face.

"Yes, a road entirely unsuited to someone of your standing, Lord Eron. I'll have a better carriage ready next time."

"Hmph. I was saying you ought to pave ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a new road."

"Haha, I'm sure you understand that people like us can't very well lay a new highway."

"Well, I suppose not. Fine."

Eron decided he'd swaggered enough and sat down. In the meantime, a subordinate quickly brought out fine pastries. Eron's eyes lit up the moment he saw them.

"Ohh. I gave you an earful last time, and now you've actually developed some taste."

"All thanks to you opening our ignorant eyes, my lord. People like us don't know much about things like pastries."

"Yes, yes. If you're going to entertain, this is the least you should do. And you never know, do you? My master may meet with you in person someday. Best to practice your hospitality in advance."

"Yes, yes, of course."

Meeting a noble face to face. The thought made Mod's chest pound, but he forced it down. When that day came, he would take Eron's place. He swore it.

While he was making that resolution, Eron rummaged in his coat and pulled out a piece of parchment.

"This is the quantity of drugs my master has ordered this time, along with a personal message."

Mod took the parchment at once. The moment he saw the number written on it, his mouth fell open.

Drugs had grades according to their potency, and the price climbed wildly depending on that grade. The amount on this parchment was enough to buy every last scrap of the highest-grade product Mod carried.

"Y-you're saying he's really buying this... this much?"

"Our master has a great many acquaintances. He said he's throwing a rather grand party this time."

A party where they'd indulge every luxury imaginable, no doubt. The phrase pools of wine and forests of meat sprang to mind unbidden.

"I'll say this in advance. The quality of the drugs—"

"Yes. I'll prepare everything at the highest grade."

"Good. And my master's friends will be sending their own retainers shortly as well."

Mod fought to keep his grin from stretching ear to ear. Fortune just kept rolling in without end.

"Ah, and I've been getting restless again lately."

Eron gave him a meaningful look, a greasy smile spreading across his fleshy face. Mod was already in such high spirits that even that smile felt warm and familiar.

"Yes, of course. Everything's already prepared."

"Hahahaha! That's my Mod. Shall we stretch our legs for the first time in a while?"

Eron rose from his seat, his face alight with excitement. The sofa where he'd been sitting was crushed deep by his enormous weight, but even that looked good to Mod.

After Eron left, Mod gazed at the parchment and grinned from ear to ear. This much money, and new connections on top of it. So this was what it felt like when life finally bloomed.

Dreaming of the day Muddy Hand would be completely transformed, he tucked the parchment away with care.

Creeeeak—

The closed door suddenly groaned open. Mod slowly lifted his head.

For some reason, the darkness in the hallway beyond seemed deeper than usual today. He tilted his head, puzzled — and then he saw a figure in the corridor. Someone walking quietly out of the dark.

A nameless unease began to seethe, low and slow, in the pit of Mod's stomach.

A man stood there. A man with an iron helmet pulled down over his head, standing as if he had simply appeared. The helmet was the kind you could find anywhere — just an ordinary iron mask, nothing special about it. And yet a strange dread seeped from behind that iron mask.

Mod was a man who had survived every trial the back alleys could throw at him. His instincts sounded the alarm.

"...Don't recognize you. Who are you?"

Muddy Hand headquarters was packed with subordinates from the back alleys. Every last one of them was someone who could hold their own in those streets. None of them were sloppy. They were loud bastards who would have reported to him first if anything had happened. And yet not a single report had come up — and this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠man had simply appeared.

Something was clearly wrong.

The man in the iron mask regarded Mod in silence, then stepped inside.

Creeeeak— Thud!

Something collapsed just inside the door. Mod's eyes went to it. The subordinate who had escorted Eron in earlier was lying there, his eyes somehow empty — as if his life had been snuffed out in a single instant.

"Was that you?"

Mod's gaze changed in a flash. This man had killed his subordinate without a sound. If he'd made it this far, the others were probably in the same state. As leader of Muddy Hand, that was something he could not tolerate.

Before he knew it, Mod's hand had closed around the self-defense sword he always kept beneath the drawer. The man had no weapon except a single gauntlet. That only made Mod more wary — but he had no intention of losing.

"Mod of Muddy Hand."

At last, the man in the iron helmet spoke. He regarded Mod quietly from behind the iron.

Mod's face went blank for a moment at the question. Then he swallowed a hollow laugh and flexed the muscles in his arm.

"You barge in here out of nowhere and that's the garbage you start spouting?"

In the same breath, Mod ripped the sword from beneath the drawer and swung it hard. The drawer split in two as his blade came screaming toward the man — a monstrous amount of force, matching his bulk.

"If I said I felt guilty, would you believe me and just walk away?!"

CLAAAAANG!

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠iron-helmeted man's gauntlet met Mod's sword. Mod flinched at the force that came through the metal. There was far more strength in it than the man's frame suggested.

This bastard's no pushover. Where the hell did he crawl out of?

Mod recovered his sword at once, the question still on his face. The man in the iron helmet clenched his gauntlet and drew his rear foot back.

"No."

His fist came flying. Throwing a punch at a sword, gauntlet or not, was insane. So Mod didn't meet the fist. He swung his sword instead, figuring he'd take one hit from a gauntleted fist and drive the blade home.

He had no idea how wrong that was.

Just before the sword connected, the man twisted his body with uncanny precision and stepped in even closer. He slipped past Mod's blade by a hair's breadth, like an acrobat, and drove his fist into Mod's chest.

Just one punch. The impact would be heavy, but he'd endure it and finish the swing. That was what he thought — until the strength vanished from both his legs, from his entire body, and he began to collapse.

"Huh?"

The question spilled from his lips. But it didn't last long. His consciousness vanished before he could even scream.

Thud—

Mod, leader of Muddy Hand. A ruthless man who had spent his entire life doing whatever it took to escape the back alleys.

This was the moment he met a death so hollow it barely deserved the name.