Chapter 14
Chapter 14
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: Role Assignment (2)
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A few days later, they resumed gathering materials.
However, one thing had changed: unusually, low-grade disciples were handling all the work instead of mid-grade ones.
The official reason was to boost production efficiency ahead of the looming deadline, while expanding the low-grade disciples' duties to foster responsibility and hone their skills.
But the low-grade disciples, who had been around this scene for a while, knew it was all just for show.
It was clearly a move to spare their more valuable mid-grade disciples by dumping the load on the low-grades. After all, the low-grades were a dime a dozen if replacements were needed.
Even knowing the ulterior motive, there was nothing a mere low-grade disciple could do about it.
The black mage's creed was clear: if a superior tells you to shit, you shit.
They bowed their heads, expressed gratitude for the extra tasks bestowed upon them, and had to cram on handover procedures and emotion extraction through crash training.
Ah, everyone except one. Oliver.
"It's done."
Oliver said that as he sealed the test tube containing life force.
Peter took the test tube, stowed it in his bag, then pulled out several bundles of bills from his sling bag and handed them to the man sporting gold teeth and sunglasses.
What was he called again? A loan shark? Anyway, he flashed a sleazy grin, pocketed a few bundles as a "fee," and shoved a few crumpled bills into the hand of the drained victim.
"We'll be off then."
"Yeah, yeah. Take care. Hope we cross paths again."
The loan shark waved them off. Peter, clearly uncomfortable around the guy, hurried away with Oliver in tow.
After exiting the rundown building and walking a bit, Peter sighed while scanning the list of names.
"Ha... This sucks."
"What's wrong?"
"We've been out since breakfast after grabbing a bite, wandering all day, but the workload isn't budging an inch."
It was true. Unlike the other low-grade disciples, Oliver and Peter were handling several times the load of anyone else, so it was only natural.
The reason? Oliver was the only low-grade disciple who could extract life force. He'd been exempted from emotion extraction as a result, but now he was saddled with solo life force duty.
Oliver found the work enjoyable enough, but Peter, stuck assisting, did not.
With no end in sight to the mountain of tasks, constant pressure from above to hurry, and the assault just days ago still fresh— it was downright unnerving.
Their patrol range was wide too, ramping up the risk of another attack. And above all...
Grrrrumble...
Peter checked the time upon hearing his stomach growl. 1:20 PM. They'd skipped lunch working.
Peter led Oliver out of the back alley onto the main street.
The once-bustling avenue was noticeably emptier, over half the buildings vacant with boards nailed over shattered windows everywhere.
Some things never changed, though—the hot dog stand in the square was still holding its ground.
"Hang on a sec."
Peter told Oliver that, then headed to the stand.
Moments later, he returned with a hot dog topped with mustard and relish.
"Here, eat this."
Oliver did as told and ate the hot dog. Peter filled up on his own.
No words passed between them while eating. Peter watched the silent Oliver and wondered if all geniuses were like this.
He'd joined as a temporary disciple not even ten days ago, become a formal disciple, and already surpassed veterans who'd been here for years.
But what bugged Peter most wasn't his feats—it was how impossible it was to read his inner thoughts.
Gloomy, sometimes even looking dim-witted, he seemed docile like the temporary disciples most days. Yet at odd moments, he'd turn aggressively proactive, putting everyone on edge.
Even Rasso from Andrew's line—top dog among mid-grades—had been on guard.
Peter still remembered the shocked look on his usually stone-faced expression the instant Oliver extracted life force.
Maybe assigning Oliver this job was a plot after all... to throw him to attackers for some "unexpected misfortune."
Not that it would be unusual. Black mages' law: nip any big threats to your position in the bud before they grow.
That's why Peter had been squad leader forever.
But despite those efforts, getting tangled with Oliver had put him in the crosshairs.
If—if they really meant to kill Oliver by shoving him into this gig, Peter would go down as collateral...
Yeah, collateral.
Life sure was a bitch, he thought—like a rowboat tossed helplessly by the waves.
"What's that over there?"
Oliver suddenly asked.
With an innocent, dopey look like a kid, he pointed one way. There, shabby workers in worn clothes dragged their tattered shoes in protest.
"Factory relocation is death!"
"Death!"
"Death!"
"Jobs for us!!"
"Jobs!"
"Jobs!"
The demonstrators, in their forties and fifties, looked pitiful and exhausted. Peter frowned and shook his head.
"Remember what Rasso said a few days back?"
"Which part?"
"...That the city's factories are all fleeing to Randa."
"Oh, yeah."
"They're protesting to stop it. Relocation means losing jobs."
Oliver nodded blankly, as if he got it—or maybe not.
His vibe was oddly off-putting yet inscrutable, leaving Peter uneasy.
"Not that I know much... but couldn't they just go to Randa? Find jobs there?"
Peter fell silent for a heavy moment before speaking.
"It's not that simple."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Leaving home isn't easy for starters. Some manage, some don't. Plus, even if they go to Randa, things don't magically get better."
"...Could you explain more?"
Peter hesitated.
It didn't matter if he spilled or not, but the kid's curious face made it hard to refuse.
In the end, cursing his own insanity, he opened up.
"Randa's been growing for ages, but now it's exploding. The map changes daily. Like a monster devouring nearby cities, villages, fishing towns. You think the people it swallows end up happy?"
"Um... No?"
"Right. Twelve-hour shifts are baseline; eighteen isn't rare. Kids aren't spared either. Pay's peanuts by comparison, and landlords are thieves—you get squeezed dry every day just to scrape by."
"You know a lot."
"Lived there."
Peter said, though he didn't have to.
"Grew up in a small fishing village north of Randa. A fish processing plant moved in, kicked us out. Whole family chased jobs to Randa—that's when hell began."
Recalling it darkened Peter's eyes. Poverty was hell, especially Randa's brand.
"That's how you ended up following the Master?"
Peter's brow twitched—not from offense at the intrusion, but surprise. The kid could hold a real convo?
"Uh...? Yeah. Master was scouting talent... Offered Dad an offer he couldn't refuse. Handed me over. But don't get it twisted—I like it here. Way better living, real hope. Learn black magic, and someday I'll run my own gig, living large."
The last bit was a lie. He'd dreamed of going independent as a black mage once, but that was ancient history.
Blame internal rivalries.
Competition in black mage orgs was brutally cutthroat and shady, especially with Andrew's faction—the de facto number two—blocking promotions cold.
Once Peter realized that, he shelved his dreams.
Now he just prayed for peaceful days, free from food poisoning "accidents" for pissing off the wrong person.
A wave of disgust hit him—disgust at the situation, or maybe himself.
At his powerless, tossed-about existence.
"Enough. Back to work."
Peter said, shaking off the gloom.
Business resumed.
Peter and Oliver entered an apartment block, covered rent arrears for some tenants in exchange for their life force.
Next, a dingy underground loan shark office—settled debts for the borrowers, extracted life force in return.
While hustling nonstop, Oliver spoke up.
"Can I ask something?"
Peter wanted to snap no, too tiring—but Oliver still scared him, so he asked what.
The question hit like a bomb, though.
"Am I in danger?"
Peter froze in the dim alley.
"What do you...?"
"Someone warned me. Said not to stand out, lay low—it's risky... Is it true?"
"......"
Peter clamped his mouth shut. He had no clue how to respond.
What to say? Play dumb? Lie and say it's safe?
His usual dopey act suggested brushing it off, but flashes of sharpness made Peter hesitate.
What if he botched it and the kid came at him? No confidence he'd win.
Then—Oliver closed in, patience spent.
Peter panicked, hands up to calm him—but Oliver grabbed his shoulder, unbothered.
No real strength, but Peter's nerve was shot; no resistance. Dragged into the gap between a massive dumpster and jutting concrete wall.
"W-Wait..."
Ignoring him, Oliver uncapped a test tube.
Death flashed in Peter's mind. Dying pointlessly like this, swept away without a fight...
Then Oliver extracted emotion and chanted.
Black Shield x2
Deployed front and back
Black Shields unfurled front and back. Then gunshots thundered.
Boom――――――!
Boom――――――!
Heavy, battering blasts.
Time had passed, but the sound was familiar.
Common in the slums. Shotgun. A customized one, the kind gangs used in turf wars.
They meant business—attacks from both sides—but Oliver blocked it coolly. Not a blink.
"An ambush?"
"...Y-Yeah!"
Peter yelped in shock.
Instantly, Oliver compressed the rear Black Shield and hurled it.
A choked death rattle, then a thud.
Peter peeked out and spotted the balaclava-clad attacker.
Face hidden, but his panic was obvious.
Peter yelled without thinking.
"That thing's just brute force—can't fire many shots. Take him alive! Raw!"
The attacker bolted.
Aimed for the alley—but Oliver nailed the path with a Hate Bullet.
Bang―! Kwaboom――!
"Shit...!"
The attacker stumbled, flustered.
Oliver asked.
"Alive, you said?"
"Yeah! Raw!"
"Raw, huh..."
Oliver muttered, fiddling with extracted emotion from the tube.
But the attacker didn't wait—whipped out a scroll from his pocket. Yeah, a scroll.
Peter knew instinctively: teleport scroll to bail!
"Damn...!"
"Too late. See ya, bast―... Huh?"
As the attacker unfurled it, Oliver fired something a half-beat faster.
Peter's first time seeing this black magic—best described as a spider web.
A net that flew out, pinning the target immobile.
"Huh. It works."
Oliver said casually, like no big deal.
Peter gawked up at him.
"Wh-What was that...?"
"Hmm... Cling Spider Web, maybe?"