Chapter 157
Chapter 157
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 157
Chapter Title: Paul Carver (2)
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With the guard's permission, the vehicle passed through the wall-like fence and entered the grounds.
Al drove skillfully along the road toward the parking lot.
It glided so smoothly, without a single jerk, that it wasn't just free of motion sickness—it felt downright cozy.
"Thanks to the law passing in Randa allowing red people to drive, I started training right away."
Forrest said as he stepped out of the car with Al's assistance.
"A law allowing them to drive...? You mean it wasn't permitted before?"
"That's right... Al, wait here."
"Yes, sir. Please come back safely."
"Don't worry. It's not about gratitude—I'm here on business. Don't wait outside; stay in the car."
"Yes, sir."
Al bowed with deep respect.
Forrest headed toward the fortress-like Interior Ministry building alongside Oliver.
"Originally, red people, black people, and Easterners were legally barred from driving."
"Why was that?"
"It's complicated. They figured driving a car is more intricate than it seems, and too dangerous for inferior races whose faculties aren't as developed."
Forrest tapped his temple as he replied.
"Is that for real?"
Oliver asked, a note of doubt in his voice.
Skin color aside, Al struck Oliver as plenty sharp.
The notes he'd given were packed with meticulous details about restaurant work, along with several amusing jokes.
"At least that's what the opposition claims. Scientific proof, they say."
"Do you believe that too, Mr. Forrest?"
"Me? Well... I'm a stuffy Kingdom sort and a materialistic Randa man myself, but I don't buy it. Al's driving speaks for itself."
Oliver nodded in agreement.
He'd ridden plenty of taxis in his time, but Al ranked among the best.
"Plenty of other reasons, too. Could be they just hate the idea of some 'inferior' race behind the wheel. Or maybe blocking competition."
"Competition?"
"In Randa, driving alone can keep you fed. Taxi drivers, truckers... To them, cheap labor that can drive too is a threat. So the folks in those jobs scream bloody murder to keep colored people off the roads."
Oliver mulled over Forrest's words. Ironic, somehow.
Back in the day, truckers had joined unions to fight crime firms for their livelihoods.
Now here they were, oppressing others. A small but fresh shock.
"But why'd it change? Why allow it now?"
"That's one of Randa's virtues. This city prizes efficiency above all. Sure, discrimination exists, but it's more flexible than the Kingdom. They passed it because it boosts the city's overall utility. There was pushback, of course, but it got smoothed over like always... That's why types like me love Randa."
Forrest spoke with genuine affection. He truly seemed to adore the place.
"Ah, here we are."
They came to a halt before a door at the end of a rigid corridor that felt devoid even of leisure.
A plain door like any other in the building bore only a single nameplate: <Paul Carver>.
Forrest knocked.
Knock-knock.
"...Come in."
A voice drifted from beyond the door alongside the echo of the knock.
Oliver and Forrest opened the door as instructed and stepped inside.
Piles of documents towered everywhere—on the desk, in carts, you name it.
The pages were crammed with tiny print, so dense it induced vertigo just to look at.
It gave an indirect sense of just how swamped the man was.
"You've arrived?"
A man half-buried in paperwork staggered to his feet.
A familiar face.
He was the one who'd shown up with exoskeleton-clad soldiers before the contaminated zone cleanup to give a briefing,
and later arrested Oliver on his way back after parting with Puppet for some questioning.
He swept back his brown hair and gulped down some lukewarm coffee. He looked utterly exhausted.
"Mm, ha... Sorry to drag busy folks like you all the way here."
The somewhat overbearing demeanor from before was gone. City official Paul Carver opened with proper courtesy.
Forrest responded with equal politeness.
"Not at all. City officials like you work tirelessly for Randa's prosperity—we understand completely. Please, speak freely."
"I appreciate the consideration. Care to sit and talk?"
Paul Carver gestured to a clean guest reception table.
Forrest nodded and took a seat. Carver then used a wired communicator to call somewhere.
"Three coffees, please... Anyone averse to coffee?"
"No."
"I can drink it."
Carver nodded and placed the order.
"Thanks again for coming. Mr. Forrest, and Mr. Dave... Not our first meeting either, Dave."
"You remember."
"Hard to forget. Knew you weren't ordinary, but didn't expect this so soon. About a year as a solver now?"
"Coming up on it, yeah."
"Impressive for that line of work... Where'd you train?"
Forrest cut in.
"Sorry, Carver, but if it's alright, could we get to business first? I just opened a restaurant..."
Far from annoyed at the interruption, Paul Carver's lips twitched upward.
"Quite right. Then I'll be direct: do you know the current situation?"
Forrest and Oliver nodded.
"The prison was raided and destroyed by those brutal rebels."
"Embarrassingly true. Willeth—an ex-Magic Tower professor, no less—proved no pushover. Still, it's a disgrace. Our incompetence has innocent citizens losing sleep."
Oliver's eyebrow arched slightly.
Those words rang sincere.
It contrasted sharply with the intimidating air he'd shown during the contaminated zone cleanup or the hostility toward the holy knights.
Intriguing. The man genuinely cared for the citizens.
"We're aware. Which is why our brokers' guild is cooperating."
"Every city official is grateful for that."
"Which begs the question: amid all this chaos, the city has a separate commission? Something more urgent than catching the escapees?"
"Fair point. Nothing trumps putting out a fire in your own house. But sometimes you handle side matters anyway. Like dragging yourself to work even if your home's ablaze."
"What's the job?"
"It's—"
-Creak.
Paul Carver paused as the door opened smoothly.
A young woman in her twenties entered with a tray of coffee.
She gave a slight smile as she served Oliver, Forrest, and Carver.
"Call if you need anything."
"Thanks."
"No trouble at all."
As the woman left, silence settled over Carver's office.
He took a sip of the steaming coffee and spoke.
"Drink up. It's quite good. Workload's spiked, so I splurged on some decent beans."
Forrest sipped as bidden.
"...It really is. Where'd you get it? Tempted to stock it at my restaurant."
"Ah, right—you run one in T District... Forrest Restaurant?"
"Appreciate you knowing."
"No big deal... So, guess the retail price per bag? They say a top restaurateur can nail ingredient costs on sight. You know?"
The question came out of nowhere, but Forrest didn't flinch. He stroked his chin.
"Hmm... Retail? Around 51,000 Randa?"
"Spot on, almost. 52,000, actually."
O... Oliver was impressed. Off by just 1,000—that was as good as exact.
"But outside Randa, it's 41,000."
"Huge gap."
Oliver spoke up abruptly from where he'd been listening quietly.
All eyes turned to him. He asked,
"Any reason why?"
"...Yes. Randa's an autonomous city, so imports get hit with extra tariffs. Called 'city customs,' but it's really an autonomy tax. Prices here run 15 to 20 percent higher baseline."
"We bicker with the central council over it every year."
Forrest said, sipping his coffee.
The United Kingdom seemed to levy massive taxes on Randa.
Oliver didn't pay taxes himself, so he wasn't well versed.
Forrest spoke up.
"But is this relevant to the job?"
"Not directly. Indirectly, though. Do you know where Willeth—the one behind this mess—is?"
"No clue."
"Took us time to pin it down, but he's confirmed out of Randa."
"Figures. Natural choice."
"Exactly. After that stunt, sticking around would be suicide. If he'd stayed, we'd have unleashed the city guard to nab him."
Oliver read the anger in Paul Carver's tone.
"But it's odd."
"What is?"
"Might sound funny coming from the victim, but this is a first. Overt hostility against the city."
'...???'
Oliver tilted his head, confused.
Thankfully, Paul Carver explained patiently.
"Randa harbors countless fugitives. We nab some now and then. But there's a tacit understanding between us."
"The city conducts moderate searches, and the fugitives cause no harm to the city."
"Precisely. Sounds absurd, but it works in Randa. The city has to function as a free haven within limits, and fugitives—whatever their deal—don't want to burn bridges with their hideout. An old pact born of aligned interests."
"Makes it sound strange now. Willeth and his rebels used Randa when it suited them. Why pull something like this...? Is rescuing a prison mate worth torching their safe brush?"
Carver's eyes sharpened as he laced his fingers together.
"You're quick on the uptake. He freed many, but one stands out as his top priority. That one is—"
"—Magic Hacker Hewitt?"
Oliver interjected without thinking.
Once more, Carver and Forrest's gazes fixed on him.
Paul Carver, the city official, showed more than surprise—genuine interest.
"Yes, exactly."
Carver pulled a coffee bag from his drawer and plunked it on the desk.
"And he just might help you cut the coffee price."