Chapter 55
Chapter 55
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 55
Chapter Title: Puppeteer (2)
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Blue moonlight seeped through the gap in the open door, revealing the warehouse interior.
Bodies hanging from the ceiling and an operating table set up on one side.
Surgical tools and implements beside it.
Rather than a warehouse, it resembled some kind of laboratory or workshop.
The only sound was rough, heaving breaths: whoosh—whoosh—whoosh.
"You... who the hell are you?"
Oliver gazed at him.
A man surrounded by zombies crudely stitched together from rags.
Oliver instinctively realized he was the puppeteer Glyph and offered a polite greeting.
"Hello?"
"........"
Whether his greeting had been a misstep or not, the man stared at Oliver, brimming with unease and bewilderment.
Oliver observed him in turn and understood why he'd conversed through the puppet.
He was grotesquely obese, his flesh bloated like rising dough on the verge of spilling over.
Definitely not a build suited to a perilous battlefield. Well, scrawny Oliver wasn't much different.
Oliver stood silently, watching until the puppeteer spoke first. Fortunately, he did.
"You... what the hell are you?"
"...? I'm Oliver. Didn't I explain earlier?"
"...Who's your master?"
"Pardon? That too, earlier—"
"—Don't lie!"
The puppeteer bellowed, his sagging jowls quivering.
"I've never heard of anyone named Joseph in Randa. You look barely more than a kid, yet you commandeered my puppet... Who's your master?!"
Oliver fell silent.
He'd spoken nothing but the truth, yet his opponent refused to believe him. He had no idea how to convince the man.
But the silence proved effective, as Glyph muttered in confusion.
"N-no, it's not a lie."
"Yes... My master was stationed outside Randa. I only just arrived."
Glyph sweated profusely, eyes bulging with strain.
Probably probing Oliver's emotions. Oliver could tell—he did it often enough himself.
"You... what are you?"
Glyph stared Oliver down, then waddled backward unsteadily as he spoke.
Oliver had a rough idea of what he meant.
"Ah, my master says my emotions are quite faint. So..."
"—No, it's beyond that level."
"Pardon?"
Oliver echoed, but the puppeteer offered no reply.
His emotions churned into a mire of confusion, fear, and terror.
As if he'd witnessed the impossible. But it was fleeting.
Composure wormed through the turmoil, while courage and cunning smothered the fear and dread.
"...Why? Why are you hostile toward me?"
He asked.
Not from true curiosity, but to gauge Oliver's reaction.
Oliver answered. He had a question of his own.
"Well, things just turned out that way. Mind if I ask one too?"
"...Speak."
"Those puppets I saw on the way—how'd you do it?"
"You mean the corpse puppets?"
"Yes. Incredible work. They looked utterly lifelike on the surface."
Sincere praise, but Glyph looked anything but pleased—more like he'd been chilled to the bone.
Like a man facing a predator, yet amid the tension and fear gleamed a predatory opportunism.
What could he possibly want?
"...I learned it from my master."
Truth.
"Learned it?"
"Yes. From my great master, Puppet."
Glyph seemed expectant as he spoke, but Oliver's response was tepid.
"Puppet...? Puppeteer? Quite the unique name."
Glyph's emotions flared with absurdity and disbelief.
"...You don't know who Puppet is?"
"Ah... Should I?"
"Of course. Every black mage knows him! A legend of the black magic world, alive for centuries."
"Ah... Sorry. I've only been studying black magic a short while. I'm not familiar. My master... couldn't teach me properly due to some matters."
"...? How long exactly?"
"Hmm... A few months?"
Oliver counted on his fingers as he replied.
He'd guessed roughly, unable to recall precisely when Joseph had bought him.
Glyph clearly wasn't satisfied.
"Lies... Don't lie! Even a genius couldn't master my corpse puppet—a culmination of my life's knowledge...! A total novice with mere months—!"
He was livid, genuinely so.
As though he'd glimpsed something he mustn't confront.
Furious denial twisted his features.
Yet it was the unvarnished truth.
"You... a contractor?"
Contractor.
Oliver knew the term. One who bartered with demons for power.
Joseph's study had described it: strength eclipsing talent and a lifetime's toil, attained in an instant.
Like evolution transcending one's very species...
At the cost of a steep price, but the allure was such that countless black mages succumbed.
Hence their pariah status.
"Afraid not."
"Not?"
"Yes, I've met contractors, but I'm no contractor myself."
Gulp.
Glyph swallowed, eyeing his chance. He'd resolved something.
"...Want to become one?"
"Hmm... Not particularly interested in contracting, but I would like to meet a demon. Got questions."
Oliver replied, recalling the old man who'd bowed to him.
Why the greeting? And why the strange mix of alienation and familiarity?
Oliver yearned to know.
"...Questions for a demon?"
"Yes..."
"And my corpse puppets intrigue you too?"
Oliver glanced back as he answered.
"Yes... Quite fascinating."
"You're just brimming with questions, aren't you?"
"How'd you guess? I've got loads."
By now, a faint smile played on Glyph's lips. The look of a man who'd stumbled upon salvation—or a fortune.
"...Then I'll help you."
"Help?"
"Yes. I'll satisfy that curiosity. You're talented but sorely lacking in common sense... Deal? You help me, I help you."
Oliver studied Glyph. Sincerity underlay his words, ulterior motives notwithstanding—the offer to assist was real.
"Hmm... Does this involve the Black Hand?"
"Yes... The mole told you?"
"Yes... I heard it's an organization of mighty black mages. True?"
"Yes... Far grander, but close enough. They hold sway over a pillar of the underworld. Living legends flock there. Boundless resources, forbidden lore. Officially join and—"
"Is Puppet—your master—part of it?"
"Yes! Now you're getting it! But show respect—use 'nim' when you mention him."
"Ah, yes... One thing doesn't add up."
"What?"
"If your master's already in, why are you trying to join fresh?"
Glyph flinched.
A raw nerve struck, he shouted in fluster.
"Th-that's my master's teaching... Yes, to prove my worth... A test!"
Lie. Oliver saw right through him.
But he let it slide.
Not worth belaboring. He pivoted instead.
"That Black Hand sounds impressive."
"It is."
"Joining must be no small feat then?"
"...What're you driving at?"
"Ah, nothing—just, did you demand beggars from the mole for entry? Like the ones down here?"
Oliver gestured to the warehouse floor.
Beneath teemed emotions thick with terror and dread.
Glyph's face darkened viciously.
"Yes. So what...? A black mage actually cares about that?"
Cares... Oliver rubbed his temple, lost in thought.
Hmm. Do I?
Oliver reflected on leaving Wineham.
He'd tabled it amid his curiosity about Kant.
Why had he left Wineham?
To quench his thirst for knowledge.
Beautiful emotions. Black magic. Demons.
Running an organization left little room for such pursuits.
"No..."
Oliver murmured.
That was the crux, but a separate spark had kindled it.
A casual remark. Yet the pivotal words that propelled him from Wineham.
A woman's voice resonated in his mind.
'Don't linger in this darkness—step into the world. Meet people, learn to live as one.'
"Ah..."
Like an itch perfectly scratched, Oliver sighed in realization.
And in that journey, he'd met Kant.
A man who'd aided him purely, without agenda.
Simply because Oliver had witnessed it—no hidden designs. Repaying aid he'd once received.
He'd shielded beggars too, staking his life.
His emotions weren't untouched by temptation or frustration, yet he'd upheld his resolve unwaveringly.
Not the blinding radiance of pure light, but that gentle glow was... somehow...
"—Answer me!"
The sudden roar snapped Oliver back.
The puppeteer glared furiously.
"Answer! Does a black mage give a damn about that trash?!"
"Hmm... One, yes."
"...What?"
"Hard to put into words, but... remarkable. Enduring to safeguard one's will... It's rather beautiful."
"Beautiful?"
"Yes. The emotion... You get it, as a black mage?"
"...No clue what you're on about."
"Ah, shame."
"...One more time. Cooperate, and I'll help you claim that knowledge. Black Hand unlocks the organization's lore and tutelage, connections to the Black Market."
"Hmm... Black Hand, Black Market. Sorry, but does that mean handing over beggars like the mole?"
"Yes—the toll for entry. Profitable trade. Street vermin for vast power and wisdom."
"Hmm..."
Oliver pondered anew.
Demons, black magic, beautiful light. Endless curiosities, paths unknown.
This man spoke truth.
His aid in exchange for Oliver's would surely pave the way.
First step: the beggars.
A trifling cost. Irrefutable.
Plentiful but feeble; Oliver could round them up effortlessly. Yet it felt...
"Kinda off."
"What?"
"Just... off. I want the knowledge, but still."
"...You grasp how idiotic this is?"
"Yes. Doesn't sit right though. I owe him, and those beggars aren't so bad."
"Ditching this golden chance over that? Black Hand—the dream of every black mage!"
"Too bad. Can't be helped. But..."
"That petty reason led me to you—isn't that entertaining enough? Venturing out, mingling... such delights await."
"Is that so... Then rot!"
Enraged Puppeteer Orders Attack!
Enraged, the puppeteer commanded his remaining zombies to attack.
Oliver locked Targeting on their heads and unleashed Hate Bullet.
Hate Bullet
Zombies destroyed effortlessly—no enhancements like the corpse puppet.
Unlike the prior corpse puppet, these zombies crumbled helplessly, bereft of added functions.
Meat Shield
Barrier formed from shattered zombies.
Bone Spear
Spears forged from bones.
The puppeteer erected a shield from the wreckage and conjured bone spears.
But Oliver's barrage of Hate Bullets rendered his retaliation utterly futile.
"...Gah!"
At last, the corpse barrier shattered. A gut shot sent him sprawling, and he blurted desperately.
"Th-this damn...! F-fine... I'll go. Leaving now..."
"I know that's a lie."
Oliver approached.
"Urk... If I die, the buyer of my goods will come for revenge—"
"—Another lie. You don't even convince yourself."
Glyph's face contorted in horror.
Sheer humiliation, as if flayed alive.
Oliver knelt on one knee before him and asked politely.
"Black Hand entry. Your master Puppet's 'test'—all lies. Why lie?"
Glyph's visage warped to its breaking point.
Fear, shame, despair—nothing else. Gasping, he breathed his last.
Steeped in terror and mortification.
"Hmm..."
Oliver groaned at the corpse.
He'd hoped for a glimpse of beautiful light.
Yet at the end, fear eclipsed will. Why?
Regret lingering faintly, Oliver focused his gaze.
There—the secret passage mechanism, like Joseph's factory.
He approached, emotions in hand against the wall.
Black Light
Wriggled across the wall—secret passage opens.
Black Light slithered several times. The passage yawned open.
Descending the stairs revealed a bed, table, books, a safe, assorted black magic tools—and people in iron cages.
Oliver regarded them.
"Need any help?"