Chapter 17
Chapter 17
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Storm (1)
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Sunset had just fallen.
A massive six-wheeled truck barreled down one of Wineham's roads.
This truck, which hauled goods back and forth between Randa and Wineham, was enormous and rugged. On top of that, its cargo bay could be modified for convenience, turning it into either a cargo hauler or a personnel transport.
In fact, as if to prove the point right then and there, Oliver and several low-grade disciples were riding inside it.
"You've probably already heard the explanation, but I'll go over it one more time! The enemies we're heading out to fight are magicians!!"
In the truck's cargo bay, the man standing at the front declared.
The man was Employee A, one of the Pharmacist's underlings. A T-series submachine gun was slung over his shoulder.
The low-grade disciples—who'd been abruptly dragged along without a clue—jumped in shock at the sudden announcement.
Fight? Against magicians of all things?
Employee A glanced at their reactions and spoke up.
"Oh, damn... You guys haven't heard anything?"
One of the low-grade disciples piped up.
"Fight? What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said. There are guys who attacked all of us—you included—right? Bums from Randa, and a few magicians mixed in among them."
"No way... Why the hell would magicians come here? Aren't they all loaded?"
"Yeah... S-something's off. This is bad."
"How do they just drag us out with no warning..."
"Lord have mercy..."
The low-grade disciples began muttering uneasily, one after another. Sure, it was pathetic for black magicians to act like this, but most of them were just 16 to 19 years old—it was somewhat forgivable.
Besides, they only knew how to cast black magic in theory; they sorely lacked real combat experience.
But Employee A had zero patience for that. He bellowed.
"Shut the hell up! I was gonna cut you some slack 'cause you're black magicians, but you're mumbling like morons? It's already been squared away with your boss! Want to live? Then fight alongside us! Got it?!"
They all clammed up, cowed into submission.
All except one: Oliver, who quietly raised his hand.
"...What?"
"What exactly is a magician?"
Employee A scowled, then his expression slackened into utter disbelief, like he'd spotted a total fool. He even shot the other disciples a look that screamed, What's this guy's deal?
They all shrugged. Employee A sighed and answered.
"Magicians are the ones who cast actual magic. Not black magic—real, original magic... Fuck, why am I even explaining this?"
Original? Actual magic? Oliver opened his mouth to probe further, but another low-grade disciple cut in.
"But are they really magicians? I mean, why would magicians show up here to mess with us?"
"Beats me. I'm just passing on what I heard. Point is, enemy's got magicians, so we're bringing you along."
Oliver still had no clue what a magician even was, but he could plainly see the fear gripping his comrades.
Employee A paused mid-sentence, grabbed a wooden crate from the front corner, and popped the lid.
Pistols and knives gleamed inside.
"Boss said you punks lack firepower, so he rushed some weapons for you. Grab one each."
They took them in order from the front. A bit of shoving broke out as they vied for the meaner-looking guns.
Oliver watched the scene impassively, as if it didn't concern him, then quietly asked Peter beside him. (Peter, for the record, was wound tight as a spring.)
"What do you mean by 'original' and 'real magic' for magicians?"
Peter stared at Oliver like he'd lost his mind. Fair enough—in a do-or-die spot like this, who asks that?
"...Exactly what it sounds like. Black magic's just a cheap imitation of real magic."
Whoa... Oliver blinked in surprise.
Black magic seemed plenty powerful and elegant to him, yet it was mere imitation magic? He hungered for more details.
"Tell me more."
"...You're actually curious about that right now? We're about to fight! We could all die! You scared of dying or what?"
"No, dying terrifies me."
He meant it. Oliver dreaded death—and pain—just as much as anyone.
But his curiosity about black magic... and emotions... burned even brighter. Like a moth hurling itself into the flame.
Peter gaped at him in horror.
"You're... something else."
"Thanks... I think? So, the answer?"
Right then—the truck lurched to a halt.
Shouts from outside urged them to hurry and dismount. Oliver and Peter had no choice but to stand and climb down.
As he descended, Peter called back.
"If I make it out alive, I'll tell you everything."
"Mm... Okay."
They piled out of the truck to see mid-grade and high-grade disciples disembarking from others.
Maybe it was Andrew among them, but they looked far more composed than the low-grades.
Besides them stood twenty gangsters toting shotguns, assault rifles, and baseball bats—plus a cluster of unfamiliar black magicians.
Peter whispered to Oliver that they were the Anthony Family and Dominic Family.
"Other families?"
"Yeah. Wineham's got three total, not counting ours. Anthony Family over there—they're manipulation specialists. Dominic Family on that side, diseases."
Oliver eyed the trench-coated man and the one in leather work clothes.
"Manipulation and diseases?"
"Oh, you haven't learned yet? Manipulation controls people, animals, even corpses. Diseases amp up or weaken bodies. That's the gist."
Oliver nodded eagerly. New knowledge, even here—delightful.
He itched to approach them and grill them on manipulation and diseases firsthand.
But Andrew was deep in talk with them, so no dice.
He couldn't make out the words, but it looked deadly serious.
Murmurs drifted from one side.
"They have to be magicians, right? Why else would all three families show?"
"Pharmacist's side probably called for backup?"
"Dunno..."
"I just hope it's not some suicide gig."
Everyone was spooked. Then Andrew wrapped up and strode over.
He uncorked a test tube and cast black magic over the whole group.
Slender threads of black light slipped into everyone's mouths and ears.
"Wh-what's...?"
"Relax. It's just insurance—for relaying urgent messages if shit hits the fan. Use it to reach me."
"""Ooh..."""
A few gasped in awe. Made sense—Joseph's direct disciple, the Family's number two.
Andrew got to the point.
"You heard on the ride over, but we're off to fight. Those attackers from the other day."
One low-grade disciple timidly raised a hand.
"S-so... magicians for real?"
Andrew paused. Tension spiked.
"...Yeah."
"Aah..."
Fear leaked out in whispers. Then Andrew barked firmly.
"Don't pussy out! Pharmacist says magicians, sure—but only three, and they're magic tower rejects. Nothing to fear. Rest are Randa street trash and local third-raters... We've got triple their numbers, three black magic Families united. No way we lose."
Andrew's cocky assurance eased the low-grades' faces. He hammered it home.
"Anthony Family's rats already scouted the hideout. Troop count, traps—everything's mapped. Victory's locked. You lot just follow orders and cover fire."
"Follow orders? Wait—Andrew, sir, you're not coming?"
"Not ditching—taking a different route."
Andrew sketched a crude map in the air with black light: the shuttered factory district's layout.
"This factory's their hole. You go with them, hit the front gate, draw eyes."
"And you?"
"Me and these guys hit the back gate, flank 'em. Classic pincer. Mages'll hang back watching—so we strike first. All guns blazing, they drop like flies."
In other words: Andrew was drawing the nasty magicians.
The low-grades feigned nonchalance, but their faces lit up.
Andrew handling mages? Survival odds just skyrocketed.
Andrew saw right through them.
"Feeling better?"
"Y-yeah."
"Can't send you solo. Here's backup—treat his word as mine."
Andrew thumbed a nearby high-grade disciple. The group chorused.
"""Yes!"""
As the high-grade led the low-grades off, Andrew clamped Oliver's shoulder.
"You're with me."
"Huh?"
Peter blurted.
"Why? You got a high-grade—we trade one back. This one's the most useful anyway. Issue?"
Peter shut up. Sound logic... plus those eyes were terrifying.
Andrew eyed Oliver.
"Don't wanna?"
"...No, sir. Orders are orders."
"Good... You lot—head there. Advance a bit, we'll follow. Move out."
Front-gate squad totaled about thirty. Armed mostly with guns, blades, clubs.
Not powerhouse firepower on paper, but they had tricks.
Case in point: Anthony Family's prep.
They dragged in three scrawny mutts from god-knows-where, extracted emotions from test tubes, and laid black magic on them.
The starving wrecks that had been wheezing for days now snarled with fury—yet obeyed their handlers like perfect attack dogs.
Andrew, observing from afar, muttered like he knew the playbook.
"Fighting Spirit amps up the target's aggression. Obedience enforces submission—mind control lite. Turn whiners into weapons... I'd have gone Object Hate, but no target's locked, so yeah."
Everyone nodded like they got it. Oliver included. Moments later, even juicier spectacle unfolded.
A Dominic Family caster in leather work clothes layered more black magic atop Anthony's dogs.
The dogs convulsed, ballooning grotesquely.
Like rising dough at first—then fur sloughed off, exposing raw-red flesh that ballooned at warp speed.
Not flesh—muscles and bones erupting, shredding skin.
Expansion halted; what emerged were hulking dog-things. The casters smirked, pleased with the results.
Oliver watched, utterly engrossed.
Black magic wasn't just projectiles—it could sculpt like this. Mind-blowing.
The stacking for massive synergy? Fascinating.
Only downside: side effects wrecked the subject. Such a waste—surely improvable. Why stop there?
Front-gate squad waved: time to breach.
Andrew nodded, back-gate infil primed.
Krrruuurrr... Kyaaang!
Krrruung! Kyang! Kyang!
Quuuuaaaarrruuuung!
They slunk along the alley toward the factory's front gate.
Moments later—zzzap-crackle! A blue flash lit the night, followed by screams, then gunfire erupting in sequence.
Andrew spectated briefly, then stepped off casual-like.
"Alright. Meat shields took the bait—our turn to roll."