The Shadow Contract
“Do you really think those are fair terms right now?”
Military food supply contracts were as reliable as a golden goose laying eggs—a rock-solid market.
And with massive scalability to boot.
Anyone could see there was no downside.
“Feel free to refuse. But I wonder what Young Master Tems stands to gain if things stay as they are.”
“You insolent bastard.”
“Haha, apologies if I was rude. I only said it out of concern.”
Tems barely contained his rage and racked his brain.
Who the hell knows what they're thinking, but these guys are my only option.
And on the flip side, there's always a reason no one else touches certain jobs.
Even if we assassinate Palan, can these guys really get away with it?
No matter how confident they were in their skills, dodging the Intelligence Agency's web spread across the entire Empire was impossible.
They'd get caught and executed eventually, and today's deal would vanish with them.
“If they're willing to take on what everyone else avoids, a little compensation makes sense. I accept the offer.”
“Heh, wise choice. Shall we draw up the contract then?”
“What? You don't trust me?”
“You never know with people.”
“If the assassination fails and the contract leaks, I'll take heat too.”
“That won't happen.”
The man opened a box and pulled out a luxuriously sealed sheet of paper.
Vesinia Authenticated Contract
“Thorough preparation.”
“It might be nothing to you, Young Master, but this is life-or-death for me.”
Vesinia Authenticated Contract.
A product from Vesinia, an underworld organization with power rivaling a kingdom. They accepted and stored any dirty deal, no matter how filthy.
And if a breach was confirmed, you could hire their assassins on the cheap.
Normally, you'd get kicked out on the spot, but only an organization slippery as an eel even against the Empire could pull it off.
“Additionally, we'd appreciate placing one of our guild members in your trading company. It'll take time to train them up.”
“That much is fine.”
Not a big ask, so Tems nodded readily and stamped the contract.
“This do it?”
“Excellent choice.”
“Make sure you handle it cleanly.”
“Of course. As per the contract, Palan Oclo won't be long for this world within 60 days.”
“I'll be waiting.”
Tems extended his hand first, and the man gripped it for a brief shake.
“By the way, what was your name again?”
“Pete… no, Norvan.”
“Battalion Commander, meals for the night shift are ready too.”
“Good work. Head home now.”
Sergeant Major Colton reported the end of the supply company's daily duties and left the command room.
Guess I should head out too.
It was 7 p.m.—way past normal quitting time.
The overtime? Overloaded workload, especially lately.
Who comes up with all these contingency plans?
Kitchen destroyed? Expedition? Food shortages? And more.
At this rate, he'd end up a simulation pro, drafting plans for every scenario.
Thank god the director has supply company experience.
Without her little tips, he'd be working weekends.
This damn job. Sick of it.
He grabbed his coat, slipped it on, and stepped outside.
Hm?
Everyone else was off relaxing, but two figures were swinging swords on the parade ground in front of headquarters.
Training after hours? Impressive. Who are they?
The support battalion didn't engage in direct combat, so training was minimal.
Sticking around for voluntary drills?
Can't ignore that as an officer.
He headed down to check names and maybe give them a gift tomorrow.
Light steps closing the distance.
The distant specks sharpened into focus, slowing his pace naturally.
Why the hell is that guy here?
One of the two sparring was his little brother figure, Derek Rahila, whom he knew all too well.
“Hah!”
Clang!
Derek's sword sliced fiercely through the air.
An attack Palan couldn't block, but the opponent parried it effortlessly.
“Hah! Hiyah!”
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Derek's assaults chained endlessly.
Impressive, but the defender stole the show.
How can he look so peaceful…?
Effortlessly deflecting or blocking every strike—it went beyond awe to sheer beauty.
Okay, noted. Time to bail.
He knew exactly what happened when that spar ended.
But as he turned to bolt—damn it—Derek broke off and called out.
“Bro! Done with work?”
His bright, worldly voice rang out.
Impossible to escape those animal instincts.
“Uh… yeah, just finished. Heading home.”
“Was waiting! Glad I caught you. Let's train. Brought someone who wanted to see you.”
Does our sweet little bro not know what 'off duty' means?
Not the first time; he lacked the energy to argue.
Who's the guy?
Late twenties, early thirties maybe.
But that body.
Shoulders twice as broad as his—a monster.
“Nice to meet you. Major Garen, 1st Company Commander, 107th Battalion.”
“Sir! Supply Company Commander, Lieutenant Palan Oclo!”
The rank and name hit like lightning—instinctive salute, no hesitation.
Derek, why'd you bring a superior like he's the sky itself!
Only Special Forces units used pure numbers for battalion names.
“Heard this guy rushes to support battalion after every training, so I tagged along out of curiosity. If it's a bother…”
“N-no, sir! Why would it be? I've always admired Special Forces. Honored to meet you in person.”
“Good to hear. Train with Lieutenant Derek like usual. I'll do my own workout.”
Palan nearly clutched his neck at the major's words.
Shit, training it is.
One recent lesson: if you can't avoid it, accept fate.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Awesome! Bro, physical training first, like always?”
Derek beamed with joy.
But Palan knew.
The demon behind that smile, the grotesque evil called “physical training.”
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whish…
“Bro! Harder! Can't be tiring already!”
Torture disguised as training: repeating slashes, thrusts, blocks with wooden swords as heavy as real steel.
Rumor was it was the Rahila Count family's traditional method.
“Your sword's wobbling again! Focus, bro! Focus!”
“Urk!”
As stamina drained, his blade dulled—Derek never let it slide.
Save me.
Every swing choked his breath, muscles screaming.
Am I dying?
But Derek was a master torturer, sensing the edge perfectly.
“Break for 10.”
Thud.
His legs gave out like a signal, collapsing flat.
“Bro, besides this, you do extra workouts?”
“Hah…! Hah…! What're you talking about?”
Bed after work was life's joy—no extra exercise.
Except when pitying soldiers dragged the loner him into volleyball.
“You lasted almost five minutes longer than two days ago. Stamina doesn't jump like that.”
“I… hah…! Lasted longer?”
Time blurred in unconscious swings; never crossed his mind.
That potion maybe?
No overnight training payoff, and condition wasn't peak today.
“Yeah. Were you hiding your strength all this time?”
“No way! What would I gain?”
Suspicion meant harder training—quick denial.
“Really? Hmm.”
“Alright, stamina back—let's go!”
To dispel doubt, he grabbed the wooden sword first and stood.
More torture—no, training.
Again.
Till full dark, ending as always: spar with Derek.
Sparring drained dry—vicious family.
To master victory in extremes, he said. Palan saw it as squeezing the last drop.
That guy's quiet, though.
The Special Forces major deep in personal training.
Good—no interest in him.
Yeah, that's normal. What makes me special?
Others were the weird ones.
“Bro, ready? Come at me.”
“Right.”
Gathering nonexistent strength, he gripped tighter.
Land one hit today.
“Hah!”
Major Garen, mid-personal training on the parade ground's edge.
From afar, he looked immersed—but really, his eyes were glued to Palan Oclo.
Can humans grow like that? Insane talent.
At first: average, honestly below.
But after round one and rest, round two flipped his view.
Hiding skill? Nah, giving it all—anyone can see.
Actual growth then.
Garen, veteran of countless geniuses, had never seen this caliber.
Reason Derek comes daily: who'd resist teaching that growth?
Tagged along to scold odd hangouts—now hooked himself.
“Bro, ready? Come at me.”
“Right.”
The spar began, all strength spent.
Garen halted his training and fully turned.