Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: The Eve (1)
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"Um... should I call it Cling Spider Web?"
Oliver said that as he approached the attacker bound in spider silk.
The assailant, trapped in the black spider web, was frozen mid-motion while unfurling a scroll. He couldn't even speak, as if time itself had stopped for him.
Except for one thing. His eyes.
"...Uh... uh."
The attacker stared at Oliver with eyes that looked ready to burst into tears at any moment.
Oliver checked his status indifferently once, then ignored him.
"Now... what do we do with this guy?"
Oliver turned to Peter and asked.
Peter still wore a dazed expression, a mix of fear, awe, confusion, and other tangled emotions.
He finally snapped out of it and forced his mouth open.
"W-We take him to the Master, right? Uh, something to knock him out..."
As Peter glanced around, Oliver picked up a brick lying by the roadside and smashed it straight into the assailant's head.
The spider web binding him vanished all too easily from the external impact, but fortunately, the attacker blacked out without issue.
Looking down at the fallen man, Oliver said,
"Knocked him out."
"Ah... yeah."
"...But how do we carry him?"
It was a ridiculous question, but not an unreasonable one.
The attacker was a full-grown man with a sturdy build, while Oliver was skin and bones.
"Guess we'll have to drag him together?"
Peter staggered to his feet and said.
Peter, being bigger, took the upper body, Oliver the legs—but it was too heavy for both, and they dropped him after just a short distance.
"He's heavier than he looks."
"...Hey, can you answer something?"
"Huh? What?"
"That question from earlier. Am I in danger?"
"......"
Peter fell silent again. He'd nearly died just moments ago, yet here he was, still wary of Andrew and his faction. Laughable, really.
About five seconds passed before Oliver spoke up.
"If you don't want to answer, that's fine. Sorry for asking."
"...Why'd you help me back there? When the attackers came."
This time, Oliver was the one silent.
Peter pressed on. Why had he helped?
Black mages operated on survival of the fittest. The weak or useless were discarded without a second thought. That's why only low-grade disciples had died in the previous raid.
Oliver replied,
"Um... You were the first to teach me about low-grade disciple life, and after that, you answered all my questions? So I helped you back. I owed you."
It was an answer trailed with a question mark, as if even he wasn't sure. But that made it feel all the more sincere.
His inscrutable nature left Peter even more conflicted.
"...You asked if you're in danger?"
"Yes."
"Yeah. You are."
Peter answered without hesitation.
"You know how it is with black mages—power is rank, power is justice. If a strong one shows up out of nowhere, everyone has to treat them as superior, no matter who they are. That's why the ones at the top keep a sharp eye on any talented newcomers. They could threaten their spot someday."
Oliver listened quietly, his expression and eyes utterly still.
"From that perspective, you're the biggest threat. You killed a guy who'd been here less than ten days and taken his low-grade disciple spot. And that guy was from Andrew's line."
"Line?"
"Faction. Means he's close to Andrew."
Oliver tilted his head, not fully getting it. Peter explained further.
"Sticking together has benefits. Andrew secures his position, and his underlings get a backer to protect theirs. It's been like this for a long time."
"...So, doesn't that stop other talented black mages from rising?"
"Exactly. But like I said, a brilliant black mage isn't always welcome among peers."
"But the Master..."
"The Master? What?"
Oliver started to reply, then shook his head and said never mind.
But it was odd. The Master had said his goal was to raise strong black mages, yet reality didn't match.
Peter continued,
"So be careful... No one knows if that low-grade disciple who 'made room' for you really died of food poisoning. That's all I can tell you."
Peter cut himself off, as if repaying the favor of being saved. A strange sense of satisfaction washed over him, mingled with exhaustion, for having done his part.
Nan's all I can do. But then Oliver spoke up again.
"Thank you."
"Huh?"
"Thanks for answering... It helped."
"Uh... yeah, glad to hear it."
"Shall we get back to work then?"
Peter and Oliver picked up the attacker again and dragged him along.
He was still heavy, but Peter's mind kept replaying Oliver's words. Thank you...
"It's been a while. You wouldn't come just to chat—what's up?"
"I have something to discuss."
In the basement beneath Joseph's sausage factory.
It was a warren of rooms like an ant colony, and in the most lavish reception chamber, two men conversed.
One was Joseph, king of this domain. The other was the Pharmacist, his biggest client.
Correction: not just a client, but his largest, absorbing all Joseph's products while supplying raw materials.
Even Joseph, one of the top black mages in town, tread carefully around him.
"Drink?"
"No thanks. We're both busy—straight to business."
"Straight to the point. I like it. What's the matter?"
The Pharmacist leaned forward slightly, his gold-rimmed glasses glinting sharply.
"Have you been attacked lately? During material runs."
"...How'd you know?"
The Pharmacist pulled back, confirming it.
"More guess than know. Anthony Family, Dominic Family—both hit. Oh, and me too. A truck delivery to Randa got raided and stripped."
Joseph's eyebrow arched.
The Pharmacist looked like a mild-mannered gentleman, but in truth, he was as ruthless as Joseph or any other black mage.
Front: upstanding pharmacist. Back: the city's overlord monopolizing black mage trade.
No one in town could oppose him.
And his truck got hit? Only one conclusion.
"Out-of-towners crawling in?"
"Likely. Randa's booming, so the losers of its dog-eat-dog scene are spilling into the burbs."
"Ha!"
Joseph laughed. Not content with stealing scraps—they were shitting in his yard too.
"Who are they? Regular thugs? Black mages?"
"No idea. Just here to brief you so no misunderstandings between families."
Joseph nodded.
He was the one who'd mediated when black mages nearly wiped each other out fighting over this town. Still, he'd felt oddly beholden to the Pharmacist ever since.
"Thanks for the heads-up. I'll scout fast and ID them. If I need help, can I call on you?"
"Of course... They're our mutual enemy. If we find traces, I'll let you know."
A knock echoed.
Knock-knock.
"What? I'm with a guest—unless it's urgent, talk later."
A flustered voice from beyond the door.
"S-Sorry, Master. But we have to report this."
The Pharmacist signaled it was fine, so Joseph asked,
"What?"
"Uh... Oliver caught him."
"...What?"
"Oliver captured the guy who attacked us."
"......"
"......"
Joseph and the Pharmacist locked eyes in silence.
Oliver and Peter had dragged the unconscious attacker together.
They couldn't lift him, so they each grabbed a leg, leaving his back scraped raw.
"Huff— huff— huff—"
Panting and wiping sweat, Oliver and Peter rested near the main gate. Soon, temporary disciples, low-grades, mid-grades, even high-grades gathered around.
"Whoa, no way..."
"They really caught him?"
"That's what they're saying."
But as Joseph emerged with the Pharmacist, the kids scattered like flies.
"You caught the bastard who attacked us?"
"Ah... yes, Master."
Peter stood, exhausted from the haul, and answered. The Pharmacist, following behind, marveled.
"Well, damn—they actually nabbed him. Thought it was a mix-up, but no... Impressive disciples. Who did it?"
Peter glanced at Oliver. The Pharmacist caught on and burst out laughing.
"Kuhahaha... Kuhahahaha! This kid again? Saw him recently—new recruit?"
"Yes."
"You brought a gem. Knew he was special from the life force extraction, but this? How old? 13? 14? And he stacks up against kids from other families. They'll be jealous."
"Thanks."
Joseph's expression soured despite his words. The Pharmacist pressed on undeterred.
"This the attacker?"
"Yes. He tried fleeing with some scroll—we bashed him."
"What?!"
Everyone, Joseph included, was stunned.
Scrolls were pricey mage-crafted items.
Especially teleport ones—tricky and expensive.
Quality ones ran hundreds base, thousands or millions for range/safety. Black market fakes? Still dozens to hundreds.
The listening Pharmacist chimed in.
"Hm, scroll, eh... Joseph, mind if I take him?"
"Why?"
"A punk fleeing with an expensive scroll? Suspicious as hell. As a pillar of this community, I want to find out who's stirring trouble. Allow me—I'll make him spill everything in a week, and compensate generously."
Joseph pondered, then nodded.
The Pharmacist never lied like that. Plus, he was swamped—no time for interrogations.
Permission granted, the Pharmacist grinned, ordering his guards to load the body into the car.
He bid farewell again, but paused to nod lightly at Oliver.
"Truly impressive work, young man."
The factory fell silent like after a storm. Joseph broke it.
"Oliver."
"Yes, Master."
"How'd you catch him? Even your seniors couldn't tail him... Though a scroll makes sense."
"Peter helped."
Joseph's brow furrowed.
Peter helped? Fishy, but no point prying. Merit earned.
"Fine... Big achievement regardless."
No one disagreed. They'd nabbed what mid-grades missed.
"Merit deserves reward. Saved me some neck work. Hm... Unusual, but how about mid-grade disciple?"
Mid- and high-grades gaped.
Disciple slots were fixed—breaking for one newbie?
But no objections.
Joseph set the rules. Oppose and risk his ire.
Just as Oliver seemed set for mid-grade leap, he refused.
"No, it's fine, Master."
All eyes on him.
"Why?"
With his usual blank look, Oliver said,
"Um... I just want to learn black magic. Current spot's plenty. No need. More lessons would be great. And... ah!"
"What?"
"One real request—can I watch product making? Any chores, we'll handle the grunt work."
"...Low-grades in production?"
"Ah... I can do it alone."
Joseph chuckled. What a clown.
He pondered, then spoke slowly.
"Fine. Schedule's tight—extra hands won't hurt."
"““What?!!!”””
The mid- and high-grades behind him exclaimed.
Joseph turned. "Problem?" They shut up.
He eyed Oliver again.
"More lessons for low-grades, and production duty. Now rest."
Joseph left. Oliver bowed.
"Thank you, Master."