Chapter 47
Chapter 47
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 47
Chapter Title: Cant (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
There had been a minor scuffle with the Mole gang, but daily life hadn't changed much.
To scrape by day after day, they rose early each morning and roamed the streets. Even as the weather turned chilly, Oliver and his fellow beggars headed to different districts every day to gather trash.
"Everyone here?"
"""Yes."""
The beggars, sweating and reeking, answered in unison.
"Then dump it!"
A flood of trash poured out from the roughly a dozen sacks.
There were old pots, broken furniture, worn clothes, bent utensils, and the like—all things that could be reused here.
But the most important among them was the paper waste.
To be precise, it was the cut or torn scraps of paper.
The beggars who had collected the trash squatted down and began sorting the paper scraps, taking care not to mix them with trash from other places.
Once sorted, they brought them to the old man crouched in the corner and the middle-aged beggar wearing glasses.
"This is from the restaurant up front."
"Ah..."
"This from the gang hideout in the back."
"Put it there..."
"And this from the factory dumpster."
"..."
White and yellowed paper scraps piled up like mountains in an instant, but the old man and the glasses-wearing beggar merely nodded wearily each time, letting out deflated sighs.
They looked utterly exhausted, yet they never stopped the painstaking work of piecing the papers together.
Oliver had once asked why they did it. The answer: to create profitable trash.
By reconstructing documents from rival shops or factories, they could spy on what schemes they were up to or where better clients might be.
Prices ranged from a few hundred thousand Randa on average, sometimes up to millions. It was more of a side gig, but a crucial source of income.
Late curiosity struck Oliver.
"Why are only those guys doing that work? Shouldn't we help?"
"Huh? Help how? Can you even read?"
"...Ah. Right."
Oliver conceded.
It made perfect sense. He'd only recently learned to read himself.
The fact that Marie and the others around him could read was impressive enough.
A new question arose.
"But how do they know how to read?"
"You sure ask a lot of pointless questions. But since you don't slack off, I'll tell you... The previous boss, the priest, taught them."
"The priest?"
"Yeah. Thanks to that, we're the only ones doing this work. Competition has driven prices down lately, but it's still why we don't starve."
"...If they learned from the previous boss priest, that means they've been here quite a while, right?"
"Pretty much. Longer than Cant, even. They know this scene inside out."
"Hm..."
Then a shout rang out.
"What are you all whispering about? Hurry up and gather the useless trash!"
At that, the beggars who had been slacking off sprang back into action.
They set the usable trash in the corner of their shelter and stuffed the rest back into the sacks to haul outside.
Then they dumped it back into the bins they'd collected it from—marking one job done.
It was simple labor, grueling and stomach-turning, but it guaranteed some rest afterward. Oliver usually took the chance to catch his breath and recover his strength.
But today was no ordinary day.
"Um..."
"Yeah?"
Oliver approached the group piecing together papers and spoke up.
They looked at him with eyes full of fatigue and irritation.
"...What? We're busy."
"Could I help out a bit?"
They all stopped what they were doing and stared up at him in unison.
Blank expressions all around, but Oliver caught on and spoke first.
"I can read. I learned."
Silence fell.
Their eyes gleamed with confusion, annoyance, suspicion, wariness—and the glasses-wearing one spoke.
"You can read?"
"Yes, I learned a while back."
"Then why haven't you mentioned it till now?"
"No one asked?"
"...Quite the excuse. So why bring it up suddenly?"
"I have something I want to ask, but it felt weird to just ask outright... I learned that if you want a favor, you give something first."
"Well taught. But I doubt you'd be much help. Reading alone doesn't cut it... See."
The glasses guy held up a tiny torn scrap, no bigger than a finger joint, with two small letters on it.
"Reading's basic. You have to analyze the tear shapes like a puzzle, infer missing letters from sentences and words. Reading alone won't help."
"Shape, context, shape, context... Got it."
"...?"
The glasses guy stared at Oliver with a mix of disbelief and irritation.
"Fine... You're persistent. Try piecing that pile over there. But if you mess up, expect a slap. We're busy enough without you stirring things up."
"Yes, sir."
Oliver replied crisply and headed to the stack of paper scraps.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of pieces, all meticulously torn.
Everyone watched his sudden move. It was eye-catching, for sure.
Oliver ignored them, focusing solely on the task at hand.
"Shape, context, shape, context..."
Muttering to himself, he began laying out the scraps on the ground one by one.
Then, as instructed, he poured all his attention into shapes and context.
"..."
After a long silence, Oliver finally got to work.
He picked out a few laid-out pieces, set them aside, and started assembling at a visibly rapid pace.
Over half done in one go. He scanned the context, pulled more pieces, and kept going.
"Oh..."
"What the..."
"..."
"Impossible..."
Onlookers murmured in awe one by one.
No wonder—a job that took days or weeks per sheet, done by a newbie in a flash.
Soon, Oliver completed a full document. The glasses guy remarked,
"...Fast."
"You taught me the trick."
Casual as if it were obvious.
So out of place, no one knew how to react.
Awkward silence settled, broken by the glasses guy.
"Well... Good enough. We have plenty to do. Can you help more?"
"Of course... But could I ask one thing in return?"
"What?"
His eyes sharpened, as if peering into Oliver's soul.
"I almost got beat up by some beggars the other day."
"Heard about it. Cant helped, right...?"
"Yes. But who exactly is Mole?"
"Why do you care?"
"His name keeps coming up around here, and I almost got thrashed because of it? Figure I should know."
Everyone stared at Oliver silently, eyes full of wariness.
Why? It was a perfectly natural curiosity.
Probably because his interest felt more like a predator eyeing an ant out of idle curiosity than fear.
Oliver, oblivious, faced the inexplicable hush.
Finally, the glasses guy spoke slowly.
"...Mole settled around here two years back."
"Ah..."
"Rumors say he's a fixer, ex-soldier, gang background."
"That's why everyone's saying he's dangerous?"
"Nah, not until a year ago. He was rough, but not that bad. Then the last few months, he changed overnight."
"How so, exactly?"
"No idea where the money came from, but he suddenly recruited some tough beggars, absorbed the locals one by one... Even eyeing other beggar territories."
"Vicious bastard..."
Someone muttered low.
"He squeezes taxes and fees from the places he crushes by force. Uses that cash to hire more muscle... Pure rumors, but some dangerous ones lately."
"Dangerous rumors?"
"Yeah, like kidnapping fellow beggars to sell. As slaves or guinea pigs or whatever."
"Oh, I heard that too. Even talk of deals with black mages?"
Someone chimed in, but the glasses guy dismissed it.
"No, that's nonsense. Way too far-fetched... Why would a black mage come here?"
"Really?"
"Yeah..."
"..."
Black mages could contact beggars anytime if needed, but Oliver stayed quiet, observing.
The glasses guy added,
"And black mages are no good. Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"Why? They're insanely dangerous."
"Are they?"
"Hell yes. They use people as ingredients, mate with demons if needed—that's black mages for you. Total monsters..."
Oliver thought of Yoanna for a moment. She'd said something similar.
Was she right?
Maybe. Thinking of Joseph, Andrew, Dominic—it didn't sound entirely off.
"But why are you interested in that stuff?"
"Ah... Just curious."
Awkward silence again. Then someone spoke up.
"Anyway, what happens next?"
Oliver and the glasses guy turned.
"What?"
"You know? Mole's expanding like crazy lately. Not just small beggar crews—even the big ones... Honestly, they barely qualify as beggars anymore."
Anxiety rippled through the group, like a forgotten worry resurfacing.
"True."
"Heard Botti say even the old dog went over."
"That geezer?"
"Blocked the pass, demanded tolls. Join or else."
"Yeah, I heard."
"Maybe joining them ain't so bad?"
"What're you saying?"
"I mean, they're swallowing up all of W District. Why fight? Cant's got a rep—they'd treat him well."
"Yeah... Might improve our luck too."
Murmurs swelled, opinions and emotions flashing everywhere.
Some wanted to ride the wave for an easier life, others felt uneasy, and some were content to follow Cant's lead.
Amid the clamor, a silent old man working away spoke up.
"Don't be silly. Think Cant would team up with Mole for comfort? If it were that easy, he'd have left ages ago."
Silence fell. It was agreement, a trust in Cant's character.
"...Any connection to the previous priest?"
Sudden question—eyes turned to Oliver.
"Why ask that?"
"Curious?"
"Why curious?"
A voice from behind.
Turning, there stood Cant, quarterstaff in hand.
Oliver looked at him.
"Ah, hello?"