Chapter 103
Chapter 103
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 103
Chapter Title: New Request (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
At the old man's words, Elizabeth bowed her head and stepped out of the room.
With a click, the door shut, leaving Oliver and the old man alone in the spacious room filled with a sweet, cloying scent.
Oliver stood in place, gazing at the slouched old man.
"What are you staring at now? My slovenly posture?"
"Um... Actually, I was hoping you'd tell me about the request."
"In a hurry, eh? Probably rush even in bed, looking at you. Yeah, I can tell... Old man's panties, stop stealing peeks and go fetch some booze from over there. Hurry up."
Snap-snap. The old man imperiously flicked his fingers, pointing to a bottle on a side table.
It was a fluorescent magical liquor, surprisingly made by Murphy.
Oliver poured the magical brew into an elegant crystal glass and handed it to the old man.
The old man gulped it down and asked,
"...Pissed off? Serving a fat old fart like me?"
"No... I was taught to be kind to elders."
"Bullshit! Damn... How old are you?"
"...Twenty-two."
"And you say 'I was taught'? Bullshit! You're still sucking on Mommy's apron strings. The kind I despise."
Oliver started to say he had no mother but clamped his mouth shut.
According to the new ID Murphy gave him, he had no living parents, but he wasn't an orphan.
Minor detail, but realizing his identity as Dave Light, Oliver held his tongue.
The old man, misreading his silence, chuckled.
"Suddenly gone quiet. Did I hit a sore spot? Don't you fondle Mommy's tits at night?"
The old man mockingly wriggled his fingers.
Oliver wasn't particularly offended, but his attitude was markedly different from others, explaining why Coco called him grumpy.
More concerning, though, was the old man's emotional state.
Despite the fine room, expensive magical liquor, and costly clothes, he seemed more anxious, sad, angry, and empty than anyone Oliver had met.
His emotions boiled over almost pathologically.
When Oliver showed no reaction, the old man lost interest and began slumping further.
"Boring. Why the hell are you even here?"
"I was told there was work."
"Ha. Ha. You talk funny. Not for work, for the reward... right?"
The old man shot Oliver a sharp glance.
Sharper than the pharmacist, Kant, or Forrest—Coco's reason for calling him a city bigshot made sense.
'But his emotional state is way worse... Why? Intriguing.'
"Answer my question. Bullshit... Yes or no?"
"Yes. For the pay. Books on demons."
"You're nuts... Just say books. Skip the front. Loose lips sink ships, and with the city crawling with nuisances—not to mention holy knights—you trying to screw me over?"
"No, not at all."
"Smart thinking. I don't let anyone screw me and live. Even avenged something from when I was sixteen. Felt damn good."
The old man drank again.
His conversation jumped erratically, like a shipwreck survivor.
No, maybe he really was shipwrecked.
His emotions burned aimlessly, fiercely enough to consume himself.
"You okay?"
"Okay? Of course—why ask?"
"Dunno? Was taught to chat with folks who seem troubled?"
"Feels like talking to a seven-year-old... Hah, enough. Let's get to business. Chatting with dimwits tires me out."
"Sure."
Oliver readily agreed, clasping his quarterstaff hand with his free one.
The old man paused, then spoke.
"...First off, do you know who I am?"
"Heard you're a wealthy asset owner in R District, a bigshot in this city."
"Spot on. That's why I can afford a black mage like you and still be comfy. Coco, that she-cat, said you're making a name in T District. True?"
"Seems so."
"Seems? What's your credit like?"
"Credit?"
"Yeah, credit. Basis of business. Stake your life on missions, never betray? Guard honor like your life."
Oliver pondered.
"Dunno. I just try to keep promises. Ideally."
"Lame. Pathetic... That's all you got?"
"Sorry. But it's true. Never faced a do-or-die promise yet..."
"Can't think for yourself?"
"I think you only know when it happens."
"...Guess you don't want the pay."
"No, I do. But hate lying. I'd do it if needed, but not in this spot."
"This spot? Hah..."
The old man looked incredulous, curiosity blooming.
"Maybe that's just right."
"What do you mean?"
"The job I'm giving. Protect someone. About two weeks."
Sincere. Oliver asked,
"Who?"
"My daughter. Bastard spawn, technically. Folks trying to kill her."
"Who?"
"The wife I bought with money and her brat spawn."
"...? Not getting it."
"Really that dumb? Common in Landa... Know what makes a rich man?"
"No?"
"Not checking price tags when buying, and keeping mistresses. FYI, I'm rich. Naturally, multiple mistresses, multiple bastards. Planning to leave forty percent to one bastard girl. Now think: how'd they feel if a whore's outside kid snags forty percent of their share?"
Oliver thought.
"Uh... Not thrilled?"
"A bleeding heart here. Not thrilled? Close, but I'd say they wanna kill her. 'Cause they really do."
The old man got excited again.
His mood swings were a mess, self-destructive.
"...Then don't leave her anything?"
"Two reasons I can't. One, my bastard girl wants the inheritance. Two, dead or not, I wanna give it."
"Why?"
"My money. Wanna spend as I please while alive... Gifting forty percent to the bastard? My 'family' will explode. Worth it just to see. So I'll pay the inheritance."
What to say? Oliver doubted he grasped it fully.
He was literally dividing wealth to torment his family, even with his bastard daughter in danger.
His prerogative, but Oliver couldn't fathom it. Confusing, unhinged.
Confirming, the old man said,
"Normally, inheritance law bars bastards from a share, but lucky us—Landa. United Kingdom but separate. Bribe the Justice Department, it's legal. Plus taxes on gifting take two weeks total. Tight schedule. Can you guard my bastard girl those two weeks? Might get real dangerous. Huh?"
"So, what'd you think after meeting him?"
Forrest asked Oliver, back from the angel's house.
He was at dinner; Oliver joined in.
"Um... Interesting guy."
"Interesting? Impressive. Edis Rock. Can't just call him 'interesting'."
Oliver paused mid-bite, eyeing Forrest.
The old man never mentioned his name.
Reading him, Forrest explained casually.
"No surprise, right? My job. Owns masses of real estate in R District, invested in Prometheus, became a bigshot—who else? Speech and manner seal it: Edis."
Clink. Clink. Oliver sliced his steak and asked,
"...Famous?"
"Obviously. You met him—personality screams fame. Self-made, drew public eye once."
"Impressive."
"Yeah, impressive. Landa's sky full of stars—opportunities—but distant. He grabbed 'em. Idol once. Forgotten now."
"Forgotten?"
"People forget. Lucky for him. They forgot how he piled wealth, remember only he's rich."
"How'd he get rich?"
"Bribed higher-ups for cheap redevelopment land, threatened holdouts with fixers or gangs. Riots? Hired mercenaries or Pinkmen to crush. Hated then, forgotten now."
"Ah..."
"Also blackmailed a capital noble house with debt, basically kidnapped their daughter into marriage. He was near fifty; she just legal. Sad tale—some bet on her suicide."
Oliver got why Edis despised his family.
They were born hating each other.
Curiosity sated, Oliver got to business.
"One thing I don't get."
"What?"
Forrest sipped wine poured by Al.
"Big asset owner, city influence, knows gangs, fixers, mercs—why hire me?"
"Can't trust anyone, probably."
"Pardon?"
"Edis's creed: 'People move by desire.' Lived it. So can't trust those he's worked with... Heard he's sickly. How'd he look?"
Oliver drifted, recalling. Forrest knew more than expected, maybe bias.
"Dave?"
"Ah... Yeah, looked bad."
Oliver recalled irregular, murky life force.
"Fixer guild says today or tomorrow. Dying man—why heed him? Better ignore corpse-talk, cozy up to heirs. Fleeting life, eternal money."
Forrest's tone was sharper today.
"...Something wrong?"
"Nah, just thinking his situation... Anyway, back to job: can't trust contacts, so gambles on unconnected you."
"Me?"
"Skilled fixer, no faction ties. Tough specs—hired via connected Elizabeth, Coco. They'll moderate firepower too. Overt backing lets them attack freely; ambiguous, not easy."
Oliver nodded. Made sense.
"Still dangerous. Forty percent fortune—not pocket change. Family'll block it desperately, no holds barred... Guy's lost it."
"Right?"
"Yeah, even if she inherits, survives? Proving his power?"
"Pardon?"
"Just speculation... Power and money can't stop death. Drugs delay aging, but humans die. You might not know, but dying ain't fun. Especially rich old folks... Rebellion against it, maybe. 'Not dead yet' defiance."
Um... Seemed right.
Edis's emotions had that edge: anxious, denying, vengeful, proving something.
"Kid tantrum to feel better. Shrewd guy once, now this... Plans?"
"What?"
"Taking the job? I say no."
"Why?"
"Pay's huge. Two weeks protection, 200 million Landa. Plus demon books—base price billions, rarer to get. Rich flaunt collections. Billion-Landa gig, rare yearly haul. Fat commission."
"Yes."
"But still no. Game's childish, emotional. Childish ends dirty, emotional's variable. Worst combo."
"Is it?"
"Yeah, Edis has fists and connections; so do they. Desperate to kill bastard girl—including you... Unimaginable fallout. I'd say dodge. Money hurts, life more."
Um... True. Forrest was sincere, worried for Oliver.
But swallowing it whole, memories flashed: horsed old man, hell's gate, unknown runes.
Forgotten sometimes, but surged back, like calling him.
Not ditching all for it, but path opened—backing off felt wrong.
Books billions base; ages to save, buyer's market unsure.
Had to grab.
Sensing it, Forrest spoke first.
"But no quitting, huh?"
Oliver sliced steak, replied,
"Yeah."