Chapter 222
Chapter 222
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 222
Chapter Title: Encounter (1)
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"...That concludes the briefing."
In the dimly lit meat processing plant, Forrest spoke as he switched off the socket.
The socket was an item commissioned from Heimdall, containing footage of Jo and his group's exploits.
Footage of just three people raiding a warehouse and crushing over eighty gang members, to be exact.
"......."
"......."
"......."
"......."
The twenty-three people seated at the long table opposite Forrest all fell silent.
They were directors of Crime Firm—or their proxies—the most influential figures in Landa's underworld.
An ordinary person would be too tense to speak properly just from being in this room.
But Forrest faced them with calm confidence, backed by his experience and achievements.
After all, he'd resolved a problem even Crime Firm found thorny—using just three black magicians.
These hardened underworld veterans didn't react easily, but Forrest instinctively sensed their satisfaction.
He knew better than anyone: when a deal pleased them, they kept a poker face to hide it; when it didn't, they tore it apart mercilessly.
So Forrest held his silence first, letting the negotiation play out on their terms.
Moments later, one man raised his hand. A man with a large nose and large ears—the director of W District.
On the surface, he ran a legitimate meat processing business and laundry operation, but his real trade was money laundering. Rumors also swirled that he'd recently invested in gambling.
"Mind if I ask a question?"
"Please, go ahead."
"Why just three? Ah, no denying it's impressive. Taking down an entire gang with only three... But can those three really represent a Fighter Crew of over three hundred?"
It was a fair question. For all anyone knew, those three might be the standouts, with the rest being nobodies.
Such dirty dealings were par for the course in the underworld, making it a perfectly valid point.
"Thank you for the question. An excellent one, truly."
Forrest smoothly stroked the client's ego. This was a service business, after all.
But a very special one. He immediately countered with sharp precision.
"That said, a few corrections are in order. First, Fighter Crew has 288 members, not over three hundred. They topped three hundred back when they had cooks, but that number dropped amid the chaos."
A few people chuckled.
"Second, regarding why only three were dispatched: it wasn't some ulterior motive. Three was simply the most appropriate number for that dangerous spot."
"Appropriate? Three?"
Another director spoke up.
A woman with sharp eyes, a red suit, and short hair.
"Yes, exactly. Crime Firm needs people who solve problems efficiently—not thugs who swarm in and smash everything, right? So we sent just three. Saves on costs, easier to maneuver, and draws less unwanted attention."
Reasonable talk. Whenever possible, handling issues with minimal manpower was the cleanest approach.
"I have a question too... So you're saying the Fighter Crew's average skill matches those three in the video?"
"No. Those are the new Fighter Crew executives—top-tier talent. We only have thirty-six like them, including those three."
"Down to the single digits... Quite precise."
"Just doing my utmost as the one handling the job. How could I manage without knowing the headcount and details?"
A few directors showed faint glimmers of admiration and satisfaction.
"So you know every Fighter Crew member?"
"Yes. Numbers, specialties, abilities, personalities—all detailed."
Forrest wasn't bluffing; it was fact.
Every time Oliver trained Fighter Crew, Forrest visited alongside, gathering personal data and building minimal ties as broker and fixer.
Not easy, but his patience and effort made it possible.
"Good. Back to the point, then. Mr. Forrest... What about the rest? The 252 Fighter Crew not in that top tier?"
"They're not ready for solo missions. But form proper teams, and they can match executive power."
"Proof?"
A squat, ill-tempered-looking man asked.
"Apologies, none right now. You want real-combat validation, and this is all we've got. Time was too tight for more."
The ill-tempered man seemed ready to snap, but a relatively young man intervened to calm him.
He was R District's director, Godric Goodheart—son of Gordon Goodheart.
Crime Firm's young blood, inheriting the organization and seat from his father.
Of course, "young blood" aside, his stern face—like his father's—and prematurely aged eyes made him look less than youthful... Anyway, he spoke.
"No need to be so harsh... He delivered results on a tight schedule, didn't he? We can hash out issues if they arise later."
With a fellow director's support, the grumbling voices quieted instantly.
It had been more posturing than genuine concern from the start.
As the mood settled, the final question came.
Surprisingly, from R District's Godric Goodheart.
"Landa's history is long if you call it long, short if short. But Crime Firm and X District's organization have rarely collaborated seriously. Trust is the weak link—snaps under the slightest pressure."
Cold fact.
"Can you fully trust them? If things go south, you'll take the biggest hit as the broker, Mr. Forrest."
A statement that could pass as threat or concern. Forrest replied, fear absent from his face.
"On that front, I'd love to say rest easy—but someone else can speak better... Mind helping out?"
Forrest called to someone. Oliver, quietly observing from a corner.
The directors, proxies, and guards murmured at his entrance.
This reaction now defined Oliver's status in Landa.
He'd taken down the cannibal cook's disciple solo, subjugated Fighter Crew, and boldly negotiated with Crime Firm.
Rumors even said Kimbel Family—rapidly expanding via magic brew business—owed much to this fixer.
The air's unrest was only natural.
"Greetings, directors. Name's Dave. Pleasure to meet you."
Oliver stepped to Forrest's spot and bowed calmly.
The young fixer was quite polite, yet the directors sensed something off.
Not the courtesy of an ambitious profiteer or a coward motivated by fear.
Respect shown to Crime Firm directors usually stemmed from profit or fear.
But this young fixer sought neither. Just his usual demeanor—same as with any client.
Though vague, the directors who sensed it eyed the young black magician with curiosity, bafflement, irritation—varied emotions.
A black magician showing respect sans profit or fear? Intriguing, no?
"You're Dave?"
"Yes."
"Heard from Gordon: if Fighter Crew breaks the deal, you'll handle and kill them yourself. That for real?"
All eyes sharpened. To detect lies or bravado. Oliver answered curtly.
"Yes. If they break the promise."
"You alone, killing 288 people?"
"Yes. If they break the promise."
Mechanical reply. Yet precisely because of it, they knew he meant it.
Not mind-reading like black magicians, but underworld-honed instincts confirmed it.
Unbelievable. Declaring 288 deaths so calmly.
Crime Firm dealt in murder as business, but this was another level.
Reading the weird shift in mood, Oliver added by way of excuse.
"If they break the promise, they die... If not, no issue, right?"
"Hm... Not picking a fight, but: they've all trained under you, gotten stronger—will get more so. Still confident you can take them?"
A young proxy prodded deliberately to test him—not picking a fight, just curious.
But the young black magician didn't bristle. He gave an even more shocking answer.
"Hm... Fair point. So I've prepared a few methods."
"Methods?"
"Yes. Better safe than sorry."
The air grew heavy.
"Care to elaborate?"
"Hm... Could disperse disease-weakening black magic over X District. Or kill others one by one, process into corpse puppets to make up the numbers."
Silence. Instinct screamed those gruesome methods were no bluff.
Chilling mood again. Oliver spoke once more.
"So Fighter Crew won't break their deal with Crime Firm... Of course, I trust the directors will honor theirs too. Any other questions?"
None.
Thankfully, the contract between Crime Firm and Fighter Crew went through without a hitch.
Fighter Crew was now free from conflict risks with Crime Firm—and gained stable employment to boot.
"Do I really have to keep teaching them black magic?"
Oliver asked Forrest, riding in his car.
He glanced over the documents before replying.
"No. You've taught them enough to satisfy Crime Firm—no need for more... Is it because of what that director said?"
Oliver nodded.
After signing, one director approached Oliver, offering high pay to continue teaching Fighter Crew black magic.
With no ready answer, Oliver had said he'd think it over.
"Don't sweat it. Less about wanting you to teach them, more about tying you down."
"Me?"
"Yeah. Creates a link—makes handing you jobs easier later."
"Ah... I see."
Oliver replied nonchalantly. But Forrest caught a subtle shift in his mood and spoke up abruptly.
"You're strong."
"Pardon?"
"You're strong. Among fixers I've dealt with... Even setting my middling career aside, you're a powerhouse in Landa now. Might even represent Landa before long."
"Thanks for the praise, but isn't that overkill?"
"Not at all. You survived puppets, beat the cannibal cook's disciples, subjugated Fighter Crew solo, negotiated with Crime Firm—as a mere fixer. Impressive, even if hindsight. You don't seem to care, though."
True. Oliver felt no pride or superiority over his deeds.
Just jobs done.
"But drop that attitude soon. Not saying get arrogant. Just recognize your value and position—act and think accordingly. Else, no matter your skill, you'll get used up."
"Won't you help me, Mr. Forrest?"
Oliver said, drawing from experience. Forrest had handled compensation—and safety—satisfactorily, beyond mere money.
But Forrest's response differed.
"Grateful for the trust, but not a great mindset."
"Pardon?"
"A broker's credit is his fortune—but can be sold for bigger gains. Brokers aren't immutable systems; just merchants... Even upholding credit, incompetence can cause losses. Don't rely too much on anyone. In Landa, only trust yourself."
Surprisingly sincere. In the past, similar advice served his interests; now, genuine concern for Oliver dominated.
Frankly, as a broker, it wasn't smart advice.
Told him not to trust even himself too much. Counter to profit.
Yet he said it, worried for Oliver.
It reminded him of Shamus's words.
Don't trust Forrest too much.
"Ah, right. Take this."
Forrest suddenly handed over a box from beside him.
"What's this?"
"Payment for retrieving Pinkman's auction items. The book and magic item you claimed. Judging by your reaction, you'd forgotten."
"Ah, yeah..."
"Would've worked for free if I hadn't mentioned it."
"Sorry. I'll be more careful from now on."
"Count on it... Check the goods."
Oliver paused mid-reach to inspect. Forrest noticed.
"What? Problem?"
"No, not a problem—just one thing I want to ask."
"What're you curious about?"
"It's about that time with Shau—huh?"
Oliver trailed off, sensing something ahead and looking forward.
A contradictory presence: alien yet familiar.
Soon, the car's headlights illuminated it.
Driver Al startled, yanking the wheel.
"What the—?!"
A man wrapped head to toe in bandages, wielding a massive iron-plate greatsword.
He stood firm even as the car barreled toward him.
"No way...?"
It was. As collision loomed, the bandaged man swung his greatsword—sending the car flying with an unreal roar.
"Oh. That surprised me."
Oliver murmured softly.