Chapter 311
Chapter 311
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 311
Chapter Title: Fixed-Term Reconciliation (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Grrrrumble..."
In Randa's abandoned sewer.
The Bigmouth that Oliver had summoned glared at him with eyes full of distrust, contempt, and disgust, rumbling deeply.
It was still sore about the fight he'd pitted it against a new Glutton Pouch. Despite Oliver's repeated explanations that it had been a necessary measure, Bigmouth refused to let it go.
Because of that, every time Oliver gave it a job, he had to pay double the usual amount.
He felt like he'd made a mistake. If he'd known, he would've had it fight two of them instead of just one.
Oliver vowed not to repeat such a blunder as he brewed coffee with a camping coffeepot next to Bigmouth.
"...Is that your Glutton Pouch?"
The female black mage who had ambushed Oliver back in Xenon—Erzebet Unner—asked.
She was currently the leader of the surviving Bathory Family members, with Erzebet Orshoya, Erzebet Katalin, Erzebet Andrássy, and Erzebet Pál seated beside her in order.
"Yes... Bigmouth here has been helping me out since I started working as a fixer."
"Impressive. A pouch that size could probably swallow its owner."
"Everyone says that, but it hasn't happened yet. It follows me obediently, thankfully."
"Doesn't look like it from where I'm sitting."
"Ah... There've been a few misunderstandings. Coffee?"
Oliver poured coffee into six cups and offered them to Bathory's disciples.
Just minutes ago, they'd been fighting tooth and nail. The bizarre disconnect in his attitude sent a strange chill of fear through them.
As if they were facing some incomprehensible creature.
"Ah... Can you even drink coffee?"
Oliver suddenly remembered they were half-dead, walking corpses, and asked.
Bathory's disciples he'd faced at Mountain Face had all worn hoods over their half-rotted heads.
It must've been an offensive question, as Unner's eyes narrowed.
"Ah, sorry. I didn't mean to offend."
"...We need blood regularly, but that doesn't mean we can't eat food."
"Ah, I see."
Oliver's eyes lit up slightly at the trivial but intriguing fact.
The attitude of a scholar burning with curiosity, like any academic whose interest had been piqued.
"Um... So, do you use the bathroom?"
"...Are you mocking us?"
Unner's eyes flashed with shame, humiliation, and anger.
"No, no. I was just genuinely curious... I'll shut up now."
Oliver belatedly realized his mistake and apologized.
Fortunately, they let it slide.
An awkward silence hung in the air.
To apologize to them, Oliver called over Bigmouth.
"Mmph. Mmm. Mmmph. Mm-mmph."
Its mouth was shut tight, so it sounded more like muffled sobs than words, but luckily Bigmouth understood and spat out solid fuel and the coffeepot, followed by a box, a notebook, and a pen.
"Guek! Gek!!"
Thud. The box, notebook, and pen hit the ground. Unner tilted her head.
"What's that?"
Oliver started to answer but instead scribbled on the notebook with the pen and showed it to her.
[A box of fresh blood packs.]
"...Just talk normally."
"Ah, thank you. Writing's harder than I thought."
At his foolish display, Unner and the sisters looked at him with utter disbelief. As if the man wielding marvelous black magic, dark arts, and blood magic could really be this ridiculous...
"...Blood packs?"
"Yes. As a token of my apology. One whole box. Will you accept them?"
Oliver asked politely. From Unner's perspective, it wasn't a bad offer at all.
As mentioned earlier, her group's situation was dire.
No money, no safety—nothing satisfactory.
Of course, with their power and skills, they could rebuild a life of luxury, but being hunted limited their movements, and the daily blood requirement burned through cash. They couldn't relax just yet.
In such circumstances, it was an incredibly welcome gift.
But they couldn't accept it lightly.
The odd black mage before them had fought their mother, and no man in the world just handed out kindness like this.
At least, not in the lives they'd known before becoming Bathory's daughters.
"It's a very generous gift."
"Thank you for saying so."
"...Why do you have so much blood on hand?"
"Is that strange?"
"Honestly, yes. Blood is used in black magic, but it's tricky to store, so no one keeps this much unless they're using it in bulk."
"Oh, sharp observation. When we talk about Lady Bathory later, mind if I answer all at once? It's your turn to answer my questions first."
Oliver asked gently.
In truth, he'd stated that as the victor, he wanted to satisfy his curiosity first, and Unner and Bathory's other disciples had agreed.
They'd lost, and he'd won.
In the black mage world, this was generous enough to be grateful for.
The man spoke.
"First, let me confirm if I have your story right... Lady Bathory came to Selland here and lost contact, leading to your family being attacked by other black mage families, correct?"
Unner nodded.
"You held them off well, but the Cannibal Chef's raid put you on the back foot?"
"...Younger sister."
"Pardon?"
"I said younger sister. Not the Cannibal Chef, but his younger sister."
"Ah... Sorry, I must've mixed it up. But that's interesting. A black mage with a younger sister."
Oliver's reaction wasn't unusual.
Siblings weren't unheard of among black mages, but they were rare.
Most came from society's underbelly with no family, and the harsh, selfish black magic world made raising siblings difficult.
A truly lonely discipline.
"Hm... Is she one of the Fingers too?"
"She thinks so, and some others do too, but no. Mother called her an arrogant bitch who gained undue power thanks to her brother."
"Ah... I see."
"At least, as far as I know."
"Hm... But she single-handedly cornered you all after you'd repelled several families, right?"
It wasn't meant as provocation, but regardless, Unner and her sisters flinched in irritation.
"I said she's not a Finger, not that she's weak. She's a black mage who's lived centuries alongside her brother... Lately, rumors say she devoured the Magician King's corpse to boost her power."
"The Magician King?"
"Yes, she's a black mage, but unlike her brother, she's obsessed with regular magic."
"Ah..."
"She's no Finger, but her power's undeniable. Rumors even say it's greater than her brother's."
"But earlier... Never mind."
Oliver almost asked if the Finger wasn't the brother after all, but dropped it.
The Black Hand organization was secretive to begin with, making reliable info scarce, with plenty of contradictions.
Just knowing the Cannibal Chef had a younger sister was harvest enough.
"You've been through a lot, anyway... So, you came to Randa to search for Lady Bathory while dodging pursuit and attacks?"
Unner nodded slowly. The latter reason weighed heavier than the former, but still.
Observing her emotions, Oliver murmured.
"Hm... Got it."
"Is that all your questions?"
Bathory's disciple Unner asked.
Honestly, Oliver had more, but he nodded for now.
He'd learned the most crucial things: their situation and reason for coming here.
To dig deeper, he needed to pause here.
"Yes."
"Then, can you answer our questions now?"
Uncharacteristically bold for a defeated black mage, Unner demanded answers.
It was the agreement, but still unusual.
To black mages, victory meant taking everything, lives included—a winner-takes-all game. Yet this man showed no such intent.
That's why she dared ask.
It felt foolish, but also uneasy.
As if they were getting drawn into this man's rules, beyond mere survival.
"Yes, go ahead."
"Do you know where our mother is?"
"Hm... I suppose I do."
"? ...Then, can you tell us where?"
"Of course. Or I could even arrange a meeting."
At the unexpected reply, Unner narrowed her eyes in suspicion and unease.
"You can arrange a meeting?"
"Yes... But I have one request."
"What?"
"Don't get mad."
"......???"
The cryptic, inexplicable plea filled them all with confusion and foreboding.
A very, very grave foreboding.
"...I'll try."
"That's enough... Bigmouth, mind helping out?"
At Oliver's request, the sulking Bigmouth, which had been sitting aside, jumped right up.
As if it knew when to sulk and when not to.
Bigmouth lumbered over, and Oliver pulled out a test tube containing Child-First.
"Gueeeek!!"
Bigmouth vomited up the Corpse Doll—Bathory.
Oliver uncapped the test tube and inserted First into the Corpse Doll—Bathory—bringing it to life.
"Here's Lady Bathory—"
As Oliver turned to speak, Bathory's disciple Unner lunged at him with rage-filled claws, her body moving before her head could catch up.
Fortunately, the First inside Bathory was faster.
Whoosh—Bang!!
The First inhabiting the Corpse Doll—Bathory—moved deftly to block Unner.
Exactly as Oliver wanted: not excessive, just right.
Thanks to that, the Corpse Doll—Bathory—and Unner only clashed bodily without escalating into a full fight.
The other disciples, unable to process the sight, hesitated to act.
No wonder—they were seeing the one they called Mother turned into some fixer's Corpse Doll. Shocking, infuriating.
But Oliver still wanted to talk with them, so he moved to the next step.
"What are you doing! Kill that bastard right—"
Oliver immediately manipulated the blood he'd placed nearby, binding them once more in blood webs.
This was why they hadn't attacked during his vulnerable moments preparing coffee or chatting.
They were mosquitoes trapped in spider silk again.
"...Everyone, calm down—"
"Kyahahahahaha!!! You fucking bastard! You shit!! I'll kill you!!! I'll skin you alive, gouge your eyes, rip out your guts!! Kyahahaha!"
The calm, rational Unner spewed curses like a different person entirely.
Fury and grief enough to devour her reason.
Her facial muscles and tendons bulged grotesquely, her fangs growing beast-like.
Just like the other Bathory disciples he'd met at Mountain Face.
"...Fascinating."
After minutes of listening to her tirade, Oliver remarked casually.
"I never had a mother, so I wouldn't know, but you all really see her as your mother, don't you?"
Oliver said, gazing at Bathory's last five disciples, who wept without tears.
Unner, having vented once, replied.
"...She gave us a second life. She's our mother!!"
Oliver could roughly grasp it.
The disciples were all half-dead wrecks; Bathory's past line about making them follow her as mother; combined with memories from his master Joseph—it was likely true she'd helped them.
And on that grace, she'd cultivated their belief and loyalty as daughters.
'Sharing her own essence—was that part of it too?'
Even so, Bathory didn't see her disciples as more than useful tools, like any black mage.
When Oliver and Willes had slaughtered them, her grief was more regret over lost tools.
He considered telling them but held back for now.
Something nagged at him.
Instead, he tried calming them.
"Hm... For my part, I suggested to Lady Bathory that we not fight and part peacefully. I proposed reconciliation several times mid-battle. But she refused."
"So what? You're saying it couldn't be helped...?!!"
"Honestly, yes. Then or now, I don't want to die... Can't you understand? I only harmed Lady Bathory to survive."
He'd killed their mother, yet begged understanding. A scene that would make back-alley thugs cross themselves. But Oliver was sincere.
He wanted more talk with them. And to avoid killing if possible.
"Why not kill us too? You killed our mother?!"
"I keep saying, I hold no grudge against Lady Bathory... Well, a bit, but I didn't target her from the start. And I have none against you all."
"I've got plenty!!"
Their words and emotions refused to mesh.
Unner felt suffocating frustration and rage, like her head and chest might burst.
"Hm... Still, can't you try understanding? You came to Randa not just for Lady Bathory, but to protect your remaining comrades, right?"
Oliver said, piercing their feelings.
Unner felt responsible for the other four: Orshoya, Katalin, Andrássy, and Pál.
And conversely, they trusted and believed in Unner.
Unner couldn't deny he'd seen true.
She cared for her comrades' safety as much as revenge.
Bathory calling them daughters might be a ploy, but regardless, they saw each other as real sisters.
A intriguing dynamic.
"...What do you want from us?"
"Help you settle in Randa, and in exchange, reconcile with me for a while...? At least a year."
Oliver made an utterly absurd proposal.