Chapter 192
Chapter 192
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 192
Chapter Title: What I Thought Was Over (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Bang! Bang bang!! Bang—!!
A brutal sound like hammering metal echoed through the basement, soon followed by the low, eerie rattle of rusty chains.
Jo, breathing heavily.
He took a moment to rest, wiped down his body with a towel, and headed to the safe in one corner of the basement.
It gave off the vibe of "money's right here." And that wasn't far off.
He'd stashed some cash there as a precaution against thieves. Just enough to say, "Take this and get lost."
Shuhahaha.
Jo extracted unprocessed emotions and wrapped them around his arm.
The Black Suit was still limited to something like gloves, but the Black Armor was a different story. Thanks to his blood, sweat, and tears, he could crudely cover his entire arm, yielding visible results.
Using that Black Armor, Jo shoved aside the 265-kilogram office safe.
Zzzzzzzt...!
The heavy metal mass groaned as it slowly slid.
"Ah, damn... it leaves a mark."
Jo eyed the scrape on the floor, then the wall behind the safe.
There was a space there.
A hollow carved out, stuffed with several bags of cash like something out of a cheap play.
The difference? These were filled with real money—over 250 million Landa in total.
An unimaginable fortune in X District, but not an outrageous sum by any means.
Black Market guard gigs, hunting Kell rebels with Dave, the escapee season—he'd hustled hard. Plus, he'd made a name in the underground fights. Above all, Jo barely spent on anything but food, booze, work, and tribute. As long as no major disasters hit, the cash piled up easy.
That was impressive in itself.
Considering how X District was crawling with folks who'd gambled away everything from their hair to their toenails on hookers and cards, only to end up chopped and sold.
Jo grabbed the money pouch for this month's "tribute," slid the safe back into place, scuffed the drag marks with his shoe, and headed out. He'd need to figure out how to erase or hide those traces later.
Climbing the stairs brought a different light—and Sam tinkering with his gun in a street chair, along with Owen and the others.
"Back?"
"You're out, boss?"
"Yeah. Tribute?"
"Here."
"I grabbed some too."
As if on cue, Sam and Owen handed over their pouches.
Jo consolidated them into his own for easy carrying and said it was time to move.
The youngest, Owen, still had discipline drilled into him and shot to his feet. Sam leisurely assembled his gun before ambling up.
The fully assembled piece went inside his recently bought coat.
A military-grade item with bulletproofing from the Black Market. He'd also snagged a magic bomb, a modified sawn-off shotgun, and a submachine gun.
Seemed excessive at a glance, but when push came to shove, only his own strength was reliable.
Owen, by contrast, had just gotten iron-plated armor—no weapons beyond his iron club.
Not an issue, though. A half-assed gun might be less threatening. Pure strength-wise, no one around here—including Jo—could match him.
'Man... if Owen could wield black magic like me, he'd be unstoppable. But he's not at a level I could teach...'
A certain man flashed through Jo's mind.
A bit oddball, but top-tier in black magic and teaching.
'Nah, that's pushing it.'
"Where you headed?"
Someone called out to Jo, lost in thought. A scrappy kid from next door.
"Work. What about you kids?"
"Napping. Coming back late?"
"Who knows."
Jo pulled a few bills from his wallet as he answered. Income was good these days; this was pocket change. Money really was everything. Earning it sucked, but a fat wallet was worth it.
"Buy some food with this. Don't wander alone—tell the others to stick together."
"They're all busy."
"Tell 'em if they don't wanna get smacked, quit slacking and do what they're told. What the hell have they been up to lately?"
"I'll check."
The neighbor kid—no, Nico's little sister, the dead comrade—took the bills as she replied.
Jo ruffled her hair hard and kept walking.
Leaving his turf, the barely livable neighborhood turned into typical X District wasteland.
The kind where madmen, zealots, traffickers, mutants, or armed thugs could lunge from any alley without surprise.
And it happened sometimes.
Even with its own ecosystem, X District was just another abandoned zone by the city.
Step outside community bounds, and predators swarmed easy prey.
Jo had been hit a few times. Not since learning black magic from the boss and making a name, though.
"Hey, ain't that the champ?"
As Jo crossed central X District to the docks by Sem River, someone hailed him.
Old man Noah, a run-of-the-mill smuggler in the city.
He moonlighted as a sketchy water taxi between X and Y Districts.
"Bet big on you last match, made a killing. When you fighting again?"
"Not fighting. Gramps."
"Aw, why? One bout and you'd rake it in!"
"I rake it in fine without."
Jo proved it by tossing Old Noah a fat stack.
Fare plus "shut up" money. The sharp gramps clammed up and ferried Jo's crew across.
Sem River lived up to its name in this massive city—insanely wide, a real slog.
The filthy brown water, mixed with animal waste, turned your stomach every crossing.
Explained why kids near here were born mutated.
Reason for shelling out for Noah's boat: safety.
One capsize and you'd lose everything you owned. Better pay up for reliable transport than risk it for pennies.
"Here we are. When you coming back?"
They'd reached Y District. Gramps didn't offer waits, but Jo didn't quibble.
Even smugglers—safer than most—got hit here sometimes. No full complacency in Y District.
Garbage heaps and worse shacks nearby crawled with mutants and desperate thugs watching.
Jo conferred with Sam and said,
"Six PM first. If no-show, then ten PM. Extra for night run."
Noah nodded quick. X District ran on Landa; terms met, anything went.
Confirming Noah's safe departure to X, Jo, Sam, and Owen hit a restaurant deeper in Y.
Never got used to it, no matter how often.
A madman opening a restaurant in near-lawless Y? Scarier: business boomed.
"Yo... check it. Gun shop owner, zombie weapons dealer, mutant tamer—all here?"
Sam whispered. Prime Crime Firm clients.
Custom guns, zombies, even live mutants trained and modded—sold in Landa and beyond.
"What brings you here?"
A restaurant staffer with an X scar on his face blocked Jo.
Fancy uniform clashed hard, adding a freakish vibe.
"Scouting the boss ordered last time?"
"That, and tribute."
Jo flashed the thick pouch.
Not mandatory, but to join Fighter Crew and learn black magic? Pay up. Or run errands well, build rep, boost the crew's name.
Scarface said,
"Hand cash to me, report missions to me. I'll tell the boss."
"What bullshit. Since when you over me?"
Jo and Scarface bristled, trading barbs.
Fighter Crew was flat-structured; hot-tempered members clashed if ranks felt equal.
Boss didn't mind... sometimes egged it on.
They stared silently till Scarface sighed and spoke.
"Misunderstanding. Boss is meeting someone—no one's getting in."
First time for this; Jo frowned. Guy wasn't lying.
"Who?"
"Dunno. Glanced a foreigner."
"Foreigner?"
"Yeah. Looked Galros."
***
Oliver clocked out from the mage tower as usual.
Nothing special about "clocking out."
Just hold the post, read books, leave when time's up. No harassment from Kevin.
Access to the Mage Tower-Elemental School library, pay on top? Felt almost guilty.
Barely "worked": cleaned staff room day one, explained a girl's schedule.
Explanation? Just "ask the prof, no details yet."
Told Kevin; got a lukewarm reaction.
"Eh, reasons, I guess."
Oliver muttered, shoving mage tower woes aside.
First legit job, grateful for the entry—wanted to hustle. But priorities: his own stuff first.
Duties done, no point wasting time on mysteries. Focus on his goals.
Like the demon book.
Enduring eye and head pain, he'd read piecemeal—now fully studied.
Structure: three parts.
Overview of demons.
Detailed breakdown (one or two pages).
Final: unknown words, no pattern.
Better than nothing, but slim pickings.
72 demon lords, plus Demon King, old man on horse.
Suddenly thought: like Merlin finding Aidri's journal secret, maybe hidden here?
Tried infusing bought emotions, mana.
Zip.
Post-shift, concluded no tricks—then a doubt hit. Testing now.
Oliver sat in the basement, focusing his eyes.
Weakening normal sight for black mage's emotion-piercing vision.
Nothing.
Didn't quit. Pushed harder, flipping pages.
Eyes hurt, headache brewed. Persisted.
Might be futile, but go all out before bailing.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
Soon, pure dark vision—emotions only—locked on the book.
Awkward, tiring after so long.
Burden grew per page.
Black magic sight? More exhausting.
Throb throb. Needle pricks in eyes—then a tiny shift...
The comm device pierced his ear with signals.
Oliver reflexively relaxed his eyes, glancing at the Forest exclusive communicator.
Momentum shattered.
"...Lord Forest? Yes, it's me. Now? ...No, no. Busy, but it's fine now. ...Pardon? Yes. Understood. I'll head over shortly. Yes."