Chapter 4
Chapter 4
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Temporary Disciple (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Oliver had spent the night wide awake.
Ever since leaving the inn, he'd passed several sleepless nights like this. Even with the exhaustion building from days of travel, sleep wouldn't come easily.
But it wasn't due to any physical ailment or worries—quite the opposite, in fact.
Back at the orphanage and the mines, every day blurred into the next, with survival as his only concern, letting him sleep soundly anytime. Now, though, each day brimmed with excitement, making it impossible to drift off.
He replayed it in his mind several times a day—no, dozens, hundreds of times.
The moment he'd extracted the charging employee's emotions and fired off a Hate Bullet. That mystical yet familiar sensation felt like sprouting wings and soaring through the skies.
Every time he recalled it, Oliver relived the thrill and afterglow he'd felt then.
Yet regret gnawed at him too. If only he'd focused a bit more, he could have extracted the emotions faster, in greater quantities.
If he'd reined in his joy and paid closer attention, he might have fired not one, but several shots at once.
No—before that, he could have gone beyond mere imitation to something more advanced, a true black magic spell!
Oliver chewed over each regretful detail. To soothe them even slightly, he ran mental simulations in his head.
Extracting emotions faster and more abundantly, firing more Hate Bullets, boosting speed, accuracy, and power. Eventually, he even twisted them into unique variations that hardly qualified as simple Hate Bullets anymore.
Though it was all just imagination, it didn't matter. Oliver was confident he could apply it to reality right away.
If not for the words of his master, Joseph, he would have extracted his own emotions and experimented immediately.
"From now on, don't practice black magic without my permission."
"Why...?"
"Shaping emotions is fine since no one else can see it. But proper black magic is visible to all. We're almost at our destination. If people spot you using it by chance, it'll be a headache... More importantly, using your own emotions for black magic is amateur hour."
"Why is that?"
"A true black mage uses others' emotions, not their own. Emotions are a finite resource. Burn through them recklessly, and your soul empties out. Save your own for true emergencies."
"Then, can I extract and practice with others' emotions when I meet them?"
"Hmm... No. Extracting emotions and practicing black magic—only with my permission. You said you'd obey me at the inn, right? Then obey without question. Do that, and I'll teach you."
Because of that, Oliver could only practice black magic in his mind. Frustrating, but unavoidable.
Joseph demanded obedience, so to receive his teachings, Oliver had to comply—at least on the surface.
Before long, the dark sky shifted to gray, then gradually to blue. The sun rose again, and Joseph stirred accordingly.
"Ughhh... Outdoor sleeping always sucks. Huh? You're up already? No, you didn't sleep at all."
Joseph eyed Oliver's pale face and darkened circles. As usual, he headed to a nearby stream to wash his face, then rinsed his mouth with mouthwash.
Gurgle, gurgle—Ptui!
After spitting out the thick, phlegm-like cleanser, Joseph spoke.
"You normally don't sleep? Or are you skipping it on purpose? If you get tired midway, don't expect a piggyback ride."
Oliver glanced at Joseph cautiously before replying.
"I'm sorry, Master... We're almost there, so I was too excited to sleep."
It wasn't entirely a lie. Oliver was eager to reach the place where he could learn black magic. It was one of the first real thrills in his life, too intense to contain.
Seemingly pleased by the enthusiasm, Joseph replied in a softer tone.
"Well, I get it. The others were all the same."
"Others?"
"What, you think you're the only talented kid I've met in my life? There've been others like you."
Oliver saw Joseph's light. It twisted subtly—half truth, half lie.
"Not all talented, of course... Anyway, there've been several besides you. You know how it works from the orphanage, right?"
"...I'll behave myself."
"Good. You're the new baby of the family, so act like it. Especially here—hierarchy matters. By Family custom, newcomers start at the bottom."
Oliver nodded. No different from the orphanage or mines.
The weak or newbies got the worst jobs and slept in the crappiest spots. To escape that, you needed more strength than the others or buddies with it.
Until now, staying quiet had kept Oliver out of it, but now...? That's when Joseph warned him.
"What did I say last time?"
"...Obey you, Master, and follow the Family rules."
"Exactly. Want to learn? Follow my rules. Rules are order."
Oliver nodded. Soon after, they had a light breakfast of bread and hit the road again.
As they neared the destination, trees thinned out, replaced by the artificial scents of a city. Moments later, a small town came into view below the hill.
"That's Wineham."
His master, Joseph, said. Oliver's eyes widened at the town's decent size—not the people milling about, but the torrent of passionate emotions pouring from them.
"Not huge, but not tiny either. What do you think?"
"...It feels lively."
Oliver answered, watching the lights churn with irritation, anger, resentment.
"Yeah, maybe. With the big factories propping up the town moving to Landa, emotions are bound to flare. Not in a good way, though."
Oliver didn't grasp it all, but he understood the factories' departure fueled those raging lights.
Joseph started walking again. Oliver followed, and soon they reached a rundown factory on the city's outskirts.
The building leaned to one side, its sign a grinning pig and sausage.
"This place...?"
"Officially, a small, shabby sausage factory. Unofficially, our Family's base."
Joseph entered, and Oliver trailed behind.
Just past the entrance, the factory interior appeared: slightly spoiled meat chunks, massive grinders, carts hauling ground meat, and young workers toiling there.
Young, but older than Oliver—mid-to-late teens into early twenties.
They dropped their work the moment Joseph appeared, bowing low.
"Master, you're here?"
"Welcome, Master."
"Good day, Master."
They reeked of spoiled meat and sour sweat, but oblivious or not, they fawned to impress. Joseph, accustomed to it, shoved Oliver's back lightly and spoke.
"This is the new kid I brought. Family from today on—teach him the ropes."
The kids' faces lit up with smiles, like they'd gained a new little brother. At least on the surface.
"""Yes, Master."""
With that, Joseph coldly abandoned Oliver and left.
Oliver couldn't make sense of it, suddenly left alone... Wait, correction—not alone. Workers surrounded him, glaring fiercely.
Like angry dogs, they scowled.
"...What? Didn't get the memo? Get ready to work!"
And so Oliver's new life began.
Clang! Cling! Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting!
Each morning began with the racket of a dented frying pan being banged.
To the painful metallic clamor, kids sleeping on damp mattresses stirred one by one. Slack off, and the supervisor kids barked threats.
"What're you doing? No slacking—up, now!"
Knowing fists and kicks followed shouts, they scrambled up. Oliver rose first among them.
A week since arriving, he'd adapted quickly. Adaptation was his talent, after all.
Mornings: exit the "dorm" warehouse, sweep the factory simply. Then bread and soup for breakfast.
Stale, hard bread from ages ago, but heaven compared to the mines' watery gruel. Post-meal, work began.
Just turning daily meat deliveries into sausages—honestly, not tough.
The spoiled meat stench was nasty, but Oliver's dulled senses barely registered it. Versus backbreaking mine labor in total darkness, this was a breeze.
Workload varied but stayed light overall—no complaints there.
The real strain was mental.
He'd expected black magic lessons here, but Joseph had just dumped him and vanished.
Oliver wanted answers but held back, drawing from orphanage and mine experience, plus Joseph's obedience kink. He endured silently.
Work was fine, but when would the black magic start? If stuck here sausage-making forever without it, Oliver doubted he'd cope with the disappointment.
That's when it happened.
Slap!
A burning pain exploded across Oliver's face amid his worries, sending him sprawling backward. Vision steadying, he saw a man.
A burly, fierce young man—he stomped Oliver's chest.
"You damn punk... Did you move all the meat?!"
The man was a supervisor over the workers.
"All... moved it."
Oliver mumbled through the pain. Dissatisfied, the supervisor stomped again.
"Slow-ass punk... Hey, train this idiot properly! Even if I'm leaving soon, I can't stand a dimwit like this in my turf. Damn punk's got no excuse..."
The other workers and fellow supervisors nodded at his rant. They were gauging the stomper's mood.
Emboldened, the supervisor yanked Oliver up by the collar.
"Listen up, moron. Want to survive here as a worker? Smarten up. Faking dumb won't save you. Cross me once, and you're grinder fodder. Got it?!"
Oliver nodded as always. Submit humbly to rage. The supervisor's face twisted further in contempt.
"Hmph! Retard... Punishment: you clean up the whole back today!"
Oliver nodded again. Released at last—then another supervisor intervened.
A woman with pale skin and oddly short purple hair.
"Hey, can't just dump your work on others sloppily. Cleaning's your team's job today."
All eyes turned. The beater scowled; she crossed her arms defiantly. Tension peaked, breaths held—Oliver's mind fixed on one thing.
So when the hell am I learning black magic?