Chapter 100
Chapter 100
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 100
Chapter Title: Moving (1)
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"H-Hate— Kraaaagh—!!"
Hoffman Family office.
Hilton, the black magician under exclusive contract with the Hoffman Family, let out a scream.
The moment he saw the evidence Murphy had brought, he denied it hysterically, then tried to extract emotions to attack. But Oliver struck first with Shadow Tentacle, subduing him.
A mix of Bind Shadow and Shadow Spike, it handled both capture and offense.
As proof, Oliver's shadow tentacles pierced Hilton's arms and gripped his throat, neutralizing him in an instant.
Hilton, a skilled black magician who pocketed hundreds every week at minimum, made choking sounds: "Kek—! Kek—!"
The Hoffman Family members around him, even Boss Jimmy, felt a chill at the sight.
Murphy pressed on, persuading like a wolf on the hunt.
"Take a look at this, Jimmy... Truck transport times and cargo lists found in the truck robbers' hideout. It's an inside job, and the culprit is Hilton."
Murphy added a handwritten note with attack orders.
Someone muttered it was Hilton's handwriting. Hilton, choking, denied it desperately.
"...N-No, Boss. Wh-Why would I...? Kek! D-Do that...? Ungh..."
"We interrogated the captured truck robbers. They complained there's no reason to stay with the Family anymore. Especially under a young boss—their pride won't allow it."
Murphy had just lied.
To be precise, they'd called him an incompetent brat, not just young.
But the point landed. Jimmy's face flushed red and pale with rage.
He still seemed confused but was mostly convinced.
With such solid evidence right in front of him, who wouldn't be?
"...Where's the traitor."
At Jimmy's question, Murphy signaled outside.
Arthur dragged in three truck robbers each clutched in his hands.
He dumped them on the floor. They trembled in fear—especially of Oliver.
"...Who's this prune?"
Jimmy eyed one wrinkled man like jerky.
Hilton seemed to recognize him too.
"B-Baron...! How...? Kughhh—!"
"This jerky-lookin' guy spilled it. Said Hilton's the inside man. Wanted more money."
That sealed it. Jimmy's anger bloomed as he spoke.
"...Hey, black magician."
"Yes."
"Break that bastard's limbs for me."
"Understood."
As Oliver replied, bones snapped—crunch!
"Gaaaaaaah—!!!"
Hilton, in his neat suit and beard, collapsed wailing like a baby. Everyone watched in silence.
Everyone except one—Jimmy.
He grabbed a shotgun from the corner like a club and beat the immobilized Hilton.
His wounded pride, betrayal, rage, anxiety over the onlookers—it all showed. He looked cornered emotionally.
The pressure of being a young boss must have been immense.
Thud—! Thud—! Thud—! The blows echoed for a while. When Hilton's face and the floor were stained red, Jimmy stopped.
"Huff. Huff... Lock up that bastard and these bastards. Gonna sell 'em to some lab."
At Jimmy's grim command, the Hoffman Family dragged them away.
A red trail smeared the floor. Oliver sensed his job was done.
Things had gone smoother than expected.
"...Thanks, Murphy."
Jimmy said, lighting a cigarette.
"No problem. Glad I could help."
Jimmy eyed Murphy warily.
He was grateful, but wary too.
"...Where's the hideout?"
"We've confirmed the location and planted one of our guys. Ready to guide you anytime."
"Good... The goods?"
"Yes. Not everything, but what's left unsold is there."
"Money?"
"...Secured. It's stolen goods, so not a huge amount, but enough to cut our losses."
"Good."
"One more thing."
"What?"
Murphy glanced at Oliver and Arthur.
"Jimmy, of the money we recovered, half went to the black magician and Arthur."
"What? Who said you could?"
"It's standard fixer protocol. Fixers take a cut of spoils during jobs. Otherwise, you'd pay extra to hire us for recovery too... My oversight."
As Jimmy opened his mouth to argue, Frank and the old handlers pulled him back.
They'd solved a headache for free, so a fee was fair.
Jimmy grudgingly accepted. The talks were wrapping up.
'Time to head back. There's a small loft above the warehouse. Gotta prep the move.'
Then Jimmy suddenly addressed Oliver.
"Hey."
"...Me?"
"Yeah. You look like a damn good black magician. Need a job?"
"...?"
"We got an opening. Better to work with us in T District. Join the Family? Won't shortchange you."
What to say? Bold move. Bad timing.
"Sorry, but I'll politely decline."
"...Why?"
"My current setup's fine. Don't like tying myself to organizations."
"Cut the crap. Name your price—"
"Hold on, Jimmy."
Murphy intervened with a whisper.
Whatever he said, his silver tongue cooled Jimmy's boiling temper.
"...Fine. Hope we stay on good terms."
"Yes."
Oliver replied offhandedly.
The tension eased, talks ended. Oliver, Murphy, and Arthur stepped out.
Truly over now. Murphy told them,
"Thanks for the help, both of you. Especially Dave. I braced for injuries, but it went easy."
True. Oliver dismantled traps, Black Dart swept the area, then the corpse doll handled the rest.
But Oliver downplayed it.
"No, Arthur made negotiations smooth. Good chance to test the corpse doll too."
"Eh, me too. Nice side cash, no complaints. Covers my new golem arm costs."
The robbers' stash was hefty. Golem prosthetics must cost a fortune.
Made sense—even to Oliver, the intricate design screamed expense.
'Constant mana sustain, user sync, raw power... Wanna study this field sometime. Bookstore got anything?'
"Black magician, I'll finalize paperwork and pay up clean within three days."
"Thanks."
"I'll head out. Tomorrow's busy. Ride you home?"
As Oliver started to reply, Arthur clapped his shoulder.
"Mind if I chat with him privately... Got personal business."
Murphy glanced at Arthur, then backed off.
"Sure. See you next time, black magician."
Murphy tactfully left.
Just Oliver and Arthur now. Arthur paused, then pulled a small business card from his pocket.
"What's this?"
Oliver eyed it. Bold letters: Labor Union. Below, clasped hands of workers. "Unite" slogan stood out.
"Group I'm half-employed with. Helps exploited workers in the city—a bit."
"Pay?"
"A pittance... Gotta eat. Need work, drop by. You won't lack jobs, but no rule says stick with Forest."
"Hm... I'll think about it."
"Good enough... Advice from one fixer to another?"
"Sure."
"That corpse doll... Picked it from a contaminated zone? A puppet corpse doll?"
"Dunno... Just lying around. Failed experiment maybe?"
Suspicion flickered in Arthur's eyes. But he didn't press.
"Whatever. Not my business. Just don't overuse it in daylight or crowds. Human corpses draw scrutiny. Corpse dolls especially breed misunderstandings... Use sparingly."
Genuine advice. Oliver thanked him.
"Appreciate it."
"No biggie. Saved my ass once, extra cash too. People are nice to the capable. Figured I'd cash in on goodwill."
"Is that so?"
"Damn right. See ya."
"Whew... Shame. Truly."
The innkeeper where Oliver stayed said.
"You paid on time, not too weird... Well, weird, but decent."
"Thanks for saying so."
Oliver replied, move prepped—which was just one bag.
"Serious. Saved up fierce in my youth to buy this place, say what I want. Rossburn'll miss ya. Rossburn! Dave's leaving!"
Soon, Rossburn shuffled out, face a mix of disappointment, sadness, regret.
The street-smart boy hid his grief, but clearly bummed Oliver was going.
Incomprehensible.
Oliver had just helped a bit when asked, taught basic reading, writing, math. Yet the kid still clung.
Marie crossed his mind.
"Uh... G-Go well, teacher."
"......"
Oliver scratched his cheek.
Normally: bye, gone. But... what would Kant do?
"...Yeah, thanks... I'll drop by sometimes."
Life returned to Rossburn's eyes.
"Food's good here."
"Oh? You say that now?"
"I'll say more. Can't cook anyway... So see ya then, Rossburn."
A smile bloomed on tear-brimmed Rossburn.
"Ah... Y-Yes!"
With that, Oliver left the inn, waved off by the owner and Rossburn, heading to his new warehouse digs.
Felt right.
For Child black magic practice, corpse doll drills, warehouse was ideal.
"You're here."
Murphy greeted at the door, handing over a folder.
Formal lease inside.
"Owning outright risks exposure, so long-term rental. Formalities: deposit, rent listed—but ignore 'em. Wanted to skip paperwork, but I got risks too. Understand?"
"No, it's proper."
True.
Oliver's black magic experiments needed cover. Murphy's name on title could bite later.
This courtesy was plenty.
Oliver skimmed like water, signed: Dave Light.
"Nice handwriting. Aristocratic."
"Aristocrat?"
"Yeah, they obsess over looks—hours on penmanship. No shade, it's genuinely elegant. Practice?"
"Nah, always wrote like this."
Murphy's eyes narrowed briefly.
"Huh... Well, congrats. Warehouse is yours now."
"Thanks. Feels like a big win."
Oliver eyed the warehouse.
Loved it.