Chapter 282
Chapter 282
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 282
Chapter Title: The Man Who Once Saved the World (1)
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Even as the sham companies centered around McCluskey Security Company all shuttered their doors and those involved faced trials, Sheamus's ABC continued to thrive.
Amid those peaceful days, one article quietly rocked Randa.
According to the article, Sheamus had met with a man at a hotel—and that man was none other than the perpetrator behind the massive financial scam that had rocked the heart of the continent.
Oliver examined the three photos attached to the article.
The first showed a hulking figure well over two meters tall entering the hotel. The man had made a half-hearted attempt to conceal his features with a hat and sunglasses.
Even so, he stood out.
His massive build and bear-like paws for hands and feet drew eyes from the start.
Much like Sheamus.
He strode into the hotel with the same bold confidence his sturdy frame suggested. Beneath that photo were two others side by side: a magnified close-up of the man's profile as he entered, and a shot of the central continent's notorious financial scammer facing front-on.
Profile versus full face.
The angles differed, which made it a bit tricky, but they looked remarkably similar.
"Hmm... The facial tattoos—are they covered with makeup?"
Oliver alternated between the two photos as he asked. Carver replied.
"Yes. With that build, adding tattoos to his face would make him twice as conspicuous."
It made sense. A man that tall and broad with tattoos on his face would draw twice the stares.
"But if he's going to disguise himself, wouldn't a leather mask be more reliable?"
"Of course, that would be safer. But people aren't always that rational."
"Pardon?"
"I said people aren't always rational. Skipping the leather mask for just sunglasses and a hat? That's druid pride for you. Some find black magic items made from human skin creepy and distasteful. Especially druids."
"I... don't quite get it."
"That's natural. But if you dig into their circumstances, it starts to make sense. Hmm... Want an example? Do you know who becomes druids?"
"Not exactly, but I hear it's mostly the poor."
"Spot on. Most druids hail from families so destitute they had to sell their kids. The training is brutal, and they're shackled by endless rules in a stifling life. The power they gain doesn't outweigh the unpopularity. So when one of them lucks out, escapes Greenland, and grabs their freedom—what do you think they do?"
"No idea?"
Oliver truly had no clue. Words like "ascetic" or "harsh" didn't resonate with him much.
"They seek compensation."
"What kind?"
"All sorts. After years of poverty, they might rake in cash and live extravagantly as payback. Or after a life force-fed humility and duty, they crush others and chase pleasure. Constant endurance breeds indulgence... Coincidentally, Sheamus fits every category."
Oliver recalled the Sheamus he'd observed.
Expensive clothes, luxury rides, boastful speech, three mistresses, bottomless appetite, attacks via the anti-development committee... Yeah, it tracked.
"That's why this guy's just hiding behind sunglasses and a hat. Anything more would bruise his pride. Foolish, but understandable."
Carver tapped the photo of the man in the article once more.
It wasn't mere speculation—this came with solid backing.
"Hmm... Impressive deduction."
"Not really. The real brilliance belongs to the Moirae Academy. They hacked the World Tree of the security firm, recovered old communication logs, and traced them backward to uncover the druids' secret transmissions."
A few days prior, Albert's words finally clicked. They'd anticipated this exact scenario.
"Pinpoint the other party's location via the World Tree, confirm the date, and you can guess who's meeting Sheamus. Smuggling ships complicate it, but I doubt they'd risk that."
Carver downplayed it, but Oliver could dimly grasp the time and effort involved.
Randa saw an unimaginable volume of traffic daily.
"You must have worked hard."
"Nothing compared to your efforts. Besides, if thieves sweat for their haul, the homeowner must toil to guard his own."
"Impressive. Hmm... May I ask something?"
"Of course."
"Can this one photo really hurt Sheamus?"
Oliver asked while eyeing the paper.
It bordered on rudeness, questioning Carver's competence, but it was a fair doubt.
After all, even after the McCluskey-centered network crumbled, ABC's funds held steady. No puppet CEOs cracked under interrogation to sell out Sheamus—not a single one.
A man with that control wouldn't buckle from one article and snapshot.
"You're right. This alone won't do it."
"...Alone?"
"Yes... But I can't say more right now. No offense to you, Dave, but these matters are best kept close-mouthed. I hope you understand."
"Ah, sure, no choice then... So you came just to explain the situation?"
"Partly, yes. Hiring top talent on absurd terms demands at least a briefing on the lay of the land. And the advance payment, of course."
Oliver wondered what that meant—until he saw.
Carver pulled a file marked P-J from his bag and handed it to Oliver.
"This is...?"
"The advance you requested. Pater Church is insular, so digging into holy knight assignments took time. My apologies."
"No, not at all... I'm grateful you went to the trouble."
Oliver opened the file as he replied.
Inside were Joanna's photo and personal details.
"Hmm... Mr. Carver?"
"Yes, Dave?"
"Where's First Step?"
"A colonial city in the New Continent."
First Step.
Carver described it as the United Kingdom's colonial city on the New Continent.
True to its name, the first settlement there. Once a key outpost for New Continent expeditions and the hub of the slave trade,
now, post-abolition, it served as a vital military base and magic stone supplier.
'All thanks to Prometheus Company. They miraculously discovered a magic stone vein. Rumors swirled that the last one was drying up, then boom—another miracle vein.'
Carver gave a quick rundown on First Step.
The administrative heart binding the United Kingdom's New Continent holdings, a prime military hub, and key source of the indispensable resource: magic stones.
Oliver wondered what Joanna did there. Carver had some answers.
'A holy knight's duties there roughly involve protecting priests to spread Pater faith among natives, and purging black magicians.'
'Black magicians in the New Continent too?'
'Oh, absolutely. In some ways, they're even more zealous.'
Carver explained that certain New Continent natives were deeply immersed in black magic, using it to ambush kingdom forces.
Thus, holy knights collaborated with the army for periodic purges.
Quite intriguing.
First Step on the New Continent... Might be worth a visit someday.
'But first, wrap up the current job safely. Things are progressing nicely.'
Oliver mused while eyeing two newspapers.
The first featured an interview with Sheamus.
He'd appeared often in papers since founding ABC, but this one's slant differed.
No ads for himself or ABC—instead, he denied meeting the central continent scammer.
Via a friendly outlet, he joked that even if he had, it'd be at the six-star hotel he owned.
It sounded plausible enough; negative buzz around ABC had indeed died down after.
But it backfired spectacularly.
The moment Sheamus issued his denial, Carver countered with another piece.
Beneath the sensational headline, a photo captured Sheamus meeting the scammer in a hotel room.
The image alone branded him a liar.
The effective denial amplified the backlash; unease among ABC's myriad investors swelled.
Perfectly timed, the shot shattered the trust Sheamus had so painstakingly built.
"And this isn't the end."
In the restaurant office, Forrest broached the topic while reading the article.
"Not the end?"
"Right. It's stung Sheamus hardest so far, but not fatal enough to finish him. Folks are rattled now, but keep paying those investment returns, and it'll blow over."
"Is that so?"
Oliver asked, not quite grasping it. The situation looked plenty suspicious to him.
"Logically, yes. But humans don't live by logic alone."
"...? Funny, Carver said something similar."
"City officials deal with crowds and trends... Hmm, mind a touchy question?"
"Pardon? Ah, sure. Go ahead."
"How much in savings do you have?"
"Savings?"
"Yeah, your account balance... At least eight figures, right?"
Oliver nodded.
He'd long-term leased a place in middle-class L District, upgraded his research workspace, splurged a bit more on food and clothes—but his earnings still left him flush.
His current living expenses were covered by Magic Tower pay alone.
Just two or three years ago, a mine worker; now living Randa's cushy middle-class life.
"Impressive. Truly. At your age, handling eight figures isn't easy... Most die without seeing that much."
"I know."
"Knowing with your head and feeling it here are different."
Forrest touched his chest.
"Poverty's scarier than you think. No joke—it dumbs you down, drags you low, makes you petty. Daily survival crushes dignity."
Oliver could relate, somewhat.
He'd seen it aplenty at the orphanage and mines. Even he wasn't immune.
He'd wolfed his oatmeal alone, ignoring the starving kid beside him. Hunger won.
"Most city laborers grind away their youth and health yet can't scrape ten million Randa. And that won't sustain their broken bodies in old age... Tragic, isn't it? Lifelong toil, yet can't care for yourself."
"Sounds sad."
"Now imagine dangling ten million Randa before them, promising a million monthly. Think they'll analyze logically? Easier said than done."
Oh... Oliver got it.
The fog cleared; the elusive pieces sharpened.
Like following Joseph despite barely knowing him— no other path.
"So if we stop here, it'll flare up then fizzle. Desperate folks only pull back after getting burned."
"Understood... You seem to know your stuff."
"Think I was born owning a place like this?"
"Pardon? Ah... I see."
Oliver caught on late. Forrest was a rags-to-riches type too.
"Speaking of, great work on that photo."
"Which?"
"This one. Perfectly captured. Even if Moirae pinned the who and when, nailing it in this megacity and snapping the shot? No small feat. Wonder how."
Forrest's words sparked Oliver's curiosity too.
Snapping photos wasn't simple. Hotel rooms stretched even the World Tree's limits.
"Hmm... I'll ask Carver later. Now I'm curious."
"Think he'll tell?"
"If not, oh well."
"Hoo... Who?"
In a six-star hotel suite.
Sheamus sprawled in an armchair, a chilled towel draped over his face.
"The Poor Brothers, sir."
His subordinate Duugan answered cautiously.
"Poor... Fuck, what?"
"Poor Brothers, boss."
"Stupid name. Poor bastards having brothers... What do they do?"
"Massive beggar gang. Centered in W District, they gather intel. By rummaging trash, mostly."
Sheamus burst out laughing. Being tripped up by trash-rifling trash was absurd.
He yanked off the towel, glaring at Duugan with fury-laced eyes.
Not at him—the rotten situation.
"How'd trash-rifling trash snap hotel pics? Entrance should've blocked 'em."
"They plant members as bar or hotel staff. Low-quality intel, but vast reach. That's how they caught Craig."
"Fucking hell."
Sheamus spat with utter sincerity.
Of all places, bit by beggar scum...
His plan to scale up for a massive score had turned into a dagger stabbing back.
Should've just rolled with what he had.
Things were urgent now.
"...How soon can we prep and bail?"
"Already pulling out over this?"
"We can muddle through. But my gut says no."
Gut. Vague, personal—yet Duugan held his tongue. Sheamus's instincts outclassed others.
"Hmm... Minimum a week. Ideally two."
"Fine. Take two. I'll soothe the marks. Prep meanwhile."
"Yes, sir..."
"You look gutted."
Sheamus eyed Duugan's expression. He was.
Two trillion eight hundred billion Randa in months—yet dust it now...
A bit more time, and per Sheamus, four or fivefold, maybe tenfold.
"Same here. Hurts like hell. But don't dwell. Two trillion's huge, we've got the playbook—hide a few years, strike smarter, longer-term."
Duugan admired it. Despite the unforeseen snag derailing things, Sheamus eyed farther horizons.
"Plus, we've secured Eve—priceless, unbuyaable. Limits now, but infinite potential. Gives us edge over other druids. So no regrets. Regret breeds attachment; attachment botches jobs."
"Noted."
"Good. Secure investments... Quietly round up gangs we connect with but owe nothing. Need decoys to draw eyes when we bolt."
"Yes."
"Gotta handle the anti-development committee myself... Oh, and dig on those guys."
"Who?"
"The Poor Brothers. If they're on me, they might be watching our crew too. Hate flies buzzing my turf."