Chapter 16
Chapter 16
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: The Eve (2)
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Joseph's sausage factory basement.
Among those spaces, the area called the workshop was profoundly unbalanced.
It was like a luxury car parked in a slum.
Why? The workshop itself was shabby, but the tools—flasks, cauldrons, hoses, dryers, distillers, and various iron implements—were meticulously maintained, gleaming brightly.
Of course, that made sense. Low-grade disciples like Oliver polished them twice a day, morning and evening, whether there was work or not.
"Alright, it's starting to boil!"
One of the mid-grade disciples shouted in front of the large distiller.
Naturally, water was boiling beneath the distiller, with a net full of herbs right above it.
A preparatory step to infuse emotions more deeply, or so they said?
The distiller grew hotter and hotter, and small droplets of water began trickling down the long tube.
It looked scorching hot just to watch, but Oliver kept his eyes glued to it anyway, observing the product production while handling his prep work.
A mid-grade disciple's voice rang out.
"Don't spill a single drop—collect it properly. The Master specially allowed you to participate in the work, so do it right."
The prep work was simply tearing open store-bought cigarettes and dumping them into a single tub—tedious, but not particularly difficult.
Oliver pinched a white cigarette, sliced the paper with a knife—shk—and emptied the shredded tobacco inside into the tub.
Oliver handled this task without any trouble; he could even do it blindfolded.
Oliver turned his attention back to observing the mid-grade disciples' work.
Once a fair amount of distillate had collected from the tube, they carried the container to a round flask larger than a person's head and began pouring the distillate in through a hose.
At the same time, they added emotions extracted via another lid, mixing them with the distillate before applying heat to boil it again.
At that moment—thwack—Oliver clutched his head.
Oliver turned, and the mid-grade disciple who had been supervising shot him a bloodshot glare and yelled.
"Focus on your own work! Stop peeking around like a thieving rat!!"
Truth be told, it was a bit unfair. Even if Oliver had been peeking, he hadn't neglected his own task.
But the mid-grade disciple didn't care and glared daggers at Oliver while shouting again. Oliver promptly bowed his head in apology and threw himself back into his work.
This was the secret to surviving the mines and the orphanage.
However, the real problem erupted elsewhere. Several low-grade disciples, including Peter, shot dissatisfied looks at the mid-grade disciple.
As if to say, How dare you act all high and mighty when you've done no more than Oliver?
No words were spoken, but regardless, the mid-grade disciple felt a surge of rage, his face twisting in fury. How dare lowly low-grades look at a mid-grade like that...!
"What the fuck?! What the hell is that look?! Huh?!"
Peter and the other low-grades shook their heads as if it was nothing and went back to shredding cigarettes into the tub.
Brushed off with feigned ignorance, the mid-grade disciple took it as a slight and grabbed Peter by the collar. Things that wouldn't have dared meet his eyes in the past...!
The mid-grade disciple raised his fist to teach him a lesson. Then—thud—someone grabbed his arm.
"What the fu...! Who the hell... Huh? Master?"
The mid-grade disciple's eyes widened like he'd seen a lion. Joseph asked.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Ah, these guys ignored the hierarchy and came at me..."
"No way... A low-grade disciple dared to attack a mid-grade?"
At Joseph's question, Peter and the other low-grades shook their heads.
"No, Master. The mid-grade disciple just smacked Oliver, so we glanced over once."
"I see. Why did you hit Oliver?"
"Well, that's... He kept looking over there, so I told him to focus on his work."
"Hmm..."
Joseph pursed his lips to one side, lost in thought.
"Was Oliver slacking off, by any chance?"
"Ah, that's..."
"If not, just let it slide. These are the guys who willingly stepped up for the Family when trouble hit. As long as they're not slacking, peeking over shoulders is fine."
Joseph spoke with generous benevolence, like a saint.
In fact, some low-grade disciples were genuinely moved by his kindness, seemingly forgetting that Joseph himself had created this hierarchical culture.
"Let me see. You look a bit tired, so go rest outside for a while."
The mid-grade disciple stammered in confusion.
"Ah, no, I'm fine, Master."
"No, you look exhausted to me. Go on."
The mid-grade disciple tried to protest again but wilted like a whipped puppy at Joseph's simmering glare and slunk out.
An awkward silence settled over the workshop.
"What are you standing around for? Back to work."
Rustle. Rustle. At Joseph's words, the low-grade disciples resumed their tasks.
Judging the situation had calmed, Oliver turned back to偷 peeking at the Filterette production process. Of course, his hands never stopped moving.
"Curious?"
Joseph asked.
"Pardon?"
"Why we distill it once, then mix it with emotions in that flask over there?"
"Ah, yes... I'm curious."
"To mix the emotions better with water. That distillate is extracted by boiling the herb called 'Sol' as the base with a few others. It acts as a solvent that lets emotions infuse far better than plain water. After distilling it all, we mix it with emotions in that round flask."
Sure enough, the distillate and emotions were blending inside the flask—it looked thoroughly mixed even to Oliver's eyes.
"Once mixed, we heat it and distill again. The quantity drops, but the quality rises another level."
Oliver followed Joseph's fingertip: the flask tube swirling around, droplets of secondary distillate plinking off the end.
The massive distiller's water dwindled from a bucketful to a single cup.
"Bring it over once the tobacco's filled."
Oliver carried the tub of shredded tobacco and followed Joseph.
Deeper in, high-grade disciples were casting black magic on the twice-refined distillate.
"This is the practical final stage. It's the chemical fusion step, using black magic based on obsession to fully merge the emotions and distillate. This is where the real quality is set. According to the Pharmacist, our product's around level 1 to 2."
The words were hard to grasp, but seeing it made it clear.
The emotions, still separate in the distillate, spread thinly after the black magic processing step, fully integrating into a pale clump of emotion.
Like raw meat turned into processed meat?
Of course, the density weakened, but the quantity exploded exponentially. Joseph sprinkled the tobacco shreds Oliver brought into an oven-like mold, then poured in the finished distillate.
"Soak the tobacco thoroughly like this, age it for a few hours, then pop it in that dryer over there. And that's how Filterettes are made."
Joseph pointed to what looked like a concrete mixer dryer.
Right on cue, a batch of finished Filterettes emerged. A mid-grade disciple carefully transferred them to a workbench.
Other mid-grades waited at the bench.
They precisely weighed the shreds on scales, gently packed them into molds, pulled levers, and began filling empty filter cigarettes.
The finished cigarettes piled up like a mountain on one side, while the rest packed twenty each into empty packs.
Joseph picked up a single cigarette and said.
"This is a Filterette. Looks no different from a regular smoke. No one would know without precise analysis. They usually sell for 100,000 Randa a stick. Two million per pack. We move 50 to 100 packs a week. What do you think?"
Oliver took the Filterette Joseph handed him and held it.
Through the paper wrapper, he could see maternal love beaded like dew. Instinctively, he realized inhaling it would let him feel that emotion indirectly.
Oliver instinctively wanted it. No reason—just primal desire.
As greed flared in Oliver's eyes, Joseph snatched the Filterette back.
"Ah..."
Oliver let out an involuntary sound of regret.
"There are three types of Filterettes. Sedatives made with maternal love or love. Indirect pleasure from sexual ecstasy or drug highs. Stimulants based on rage or hatred... Fun, right?"
Oliver immediately played along.
"Yes, very interesting."
"Good. Then you could join the prep work right now?"
At Joseph's sudden question, the mid- and high-grade disciples nearby all turned to stare. Oliver answered as usual.
"Yes."
In that instant, Oliver saw it. Emotions of wariness and hatred directed at him.
Those feelings resonated, blanketing the area in heavy silence—until bang-bang, pounding on the door shattered it.
Joseph chuckled and called toward the door.
"What is it?"
"Yes, Master. Someone from the Pharmacist is here. They say they've finally figured out who attacked us."
***
"What the hell is discipline coming to?"
"Tell me about it. Did you all see? The Master personally explaining the work to that punk? Fuck."
"Lucky bastard just did a little something..."
"He even asked if he could try it himself? Took me seven years just to set foot in the workshop."
"Yeah, this is unfair."
In a dim corner of the basement where few people came, high-grade disciples and some mids vented their frustrations.
They were the ones receiving the most benefits in Joseph's Family right now, yet ironically, they complained about unfairness and equity.
...Well, maybe not so strange. Oliver's growth was undeniably threatening, even if achieved through merit and legitimate means.
Less than ten days in, he'd become a low-grade disciple—and they were even discussing mid-grade.
But their true gripe wasn't equity. It was that their positions were at risk.
The black magician culture—pursuing power and building hierarchy on it—had ironically twisted into killing talented low-grades ASAP to protect one's spot. And now Oliver directly threatened them.
No one admitted it, but everyone knew: Oliver's talent was unmatched.
They were barely holding him down with rank differences for now, but if left unchecked, rank alone wouldn't suffice—and getting pushed out would be inevitable.
One by one, their eyes turned to Andrew.
Joseph's direct disciple, the Family's number two, their de facto leader.
One of Andrew's fellow high-grades cautiously asked.
"We just gonna let it slide? If this continues, all our efforts go to waste."
Andrew thought silently before speaking.
"...We can't rush it."
"But—"
"The Master's watching that guy right now. One sloppy move and if we're caught, we're the ones who die. We're still weaker than the Master."
"Then?"
"Wait for the right moment. Things are busy now, so if we bide our time, a perfect, unquestionable opportunity will come. You know I'm lucky."
No one contradicted him. Andrew was lucky.
Talented as a black magician, he'd risen to direct disciple easily as skilled high-grades fled the Family one after another. Plus, he had his signature cunning and meticulousness.
Andrew spoke with conviction.
"Be patient and wait. The time will come."
As if on cue, a mid-grade disciple rushed in to tell Andrew the Master was calling.
Andrew stood, straightened his clothes, and headed to Joseph. Before leaving, he reassured his faction once more.
"Wait. The chance will definitely come."
Andrew navigated the ant-tunnel corridors to Joseph's room.
He knocked—knock knock—heard "come in," and entered. Joseph, just finishing a talk with the Pharmacist's envoy, greeted him.
"You're here."
"Yes, Master... You called? What is it?"
"The Pharmacist identified who attacked us. Well, more precisely, the ones trying to take over this whole district."
"Who is this fearless bastard?"
"Wizards, apparently."
"...Pardon?"
Andrew asked again, doubting his ears.
"Wizards. From the Magic Tower, no less. Teaming up with some Randa thugs to come here."
"Wizards here...? Is that even possible? Aren't they already thriving in Randa? And the Magic Tower at that."
"I don't fully believe it either, but considering the expensive scrolls they're using and the Pharmacist's info, we have to go with it for now. I hear even wizards are facing fierce competition these days..."
"Then...?"
"If they're real wizards, this is more serious than we thought. Proper wizards are like walking heavy artillery. The Pharmacist's crew probably can't handle it alone."
"So we're helping the Pharmacist?"
"Yeah. They're our enemy anyway, so better to cooperate and uproot them before other flies swarm. The Anthony and Dominic Families are pitching in too."
Andrew nodded as if he understood. Things were escalating more than expected.
"Then... I should lead the support?"
"Probably. Any complaints?"
"No, none. It's what I wanted."
Andrew lied convincingly.
"Glad you're on board. I'll assign plenty of manpower as compensation. I'll cover the labor shortage. Two fellow high-grade disciples, four mids, six lows. That should keep you safe."
Lightning flashed in Andrew's mind. Yes—the opportunity had arrived already.
"Master, could I make one small request?"
"What?"
"Can I pick the support team myself?"
Andrew said it, thinking of Oliver. He really was lucky.