Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Showdown (1)
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"W-what are you talking about?"
A flustered voice echoed from behind the sausage factory.
It was a deserted spot, littered with trash and junk piled up everywhere, with rats scurrying about here and there.
Two men were there right now. One looked as rough as a back-alley boss, while the other boasted blond hair and handsome features.
It was Tom, the Temporary Disciple Supervisor, and Andrew, Joseph's direct disciple.
"Calm down."
Andrew said it to soothe Tom. But Tom had no intention of calming down. He was extremely agitated.
"How can I calm down?! A match? A test to become a formal disciple? Why the hell do I have to do that in the first place? It was supposed to be mine!!"
Unlike his brutish appearance, tears welled up in Tom's eyes. He must have felt that wronged. Then again, having to fight for a formal disciple spot that was already his against some rookie who'd only been there a week—it was a natural reaction.
But Andrew's response was ice-cold.
"Enough... Stop whining. It's already decided anyway. And it's the Master's call—what can you do about it?"
"B-but couldn't you have said something, Andrew?"
"You think I stayed silent? I spoke up! Even with the other high-grade disciples. I said giving special treatment to a guy who's barely been here a week doesn't make sense! But it was no use. The skills he showed last time were just too overwhelming..."
Andrew trailed off, and Tom's despair deepened.
Tom had been there too. It was supposed to be his chance to show off as the next formal disciple, but ridiculously, it turned into that rookie's stage.
He still couldn't believe it. How was that even possible? Not only extracting that much emotion, but shaping it like that... It felt like a nightmare. A truly horrific one.
Tom said in a choked voice,
"It's not fair... It's just not fair. You know how hard I've worked to become a formal disciple."
At that moment, Andrew shoved Tom against the wall.
"Get a grip! I said get a grip! Like I told you, the stage is already set! And this match is actually lucky for you. If a guy with that kind of talent showed up, you'd have been pushed out anyway!"
Tom's face grew even more aggrieved. To impress Andrew, he'd gone to extremes—stealing sausages from the factory, selling them on the streets, handing over every coin. And now, not only no help, but these words? Of course he felt wronged.
But there was nothing Tom could do. This was the world of black mages. A realm where power and hierarchy were everything. Andrew spoke again.
"Like I said, you'd have been the one pushed out. I convinced the Master with the other high-grade disciples to set up this match. You should be grateful to me."
Tom was speechless. He was the desperate one here... Seeing Tom's spirit break, Andrew nodded in satisfaction and continued.
"...I get that you're disappointed, but think of it as an opportunity."
"An opportunity?"
"Yeah, an opportunity. You saw that Oliver guy's skills, right? How talented do you think he is?"
Tom thought it over and replied,
"...He seems pretty impressive."
"Exactly. No matter how you slice it, black magic comes down to talent. Better to crush him now while you can."
"Crush him?"
"Yeah. If a guy with that much talent starts getting real training, I might be fine, but you and the others? You'll all get shoved aside. By some punk who just walked in the door a few days ago... You think you could handle that?"
Tom shook his head firmly. Coming from the streets didn't mean he had no pride or sense of rank. If anything, it made him cling to it harder.
"The Master's watching him closely right now, so we can't sabotage outright. That means we crush him fair and square."
Tom caught on and asked cautiously,
"Crush him fair and square... you mean?"
Andrew pulled two small glass vials from his pocket and handed them over. They were special vials etched with strange magic circles on the outside, and inside, black light churned dangerously.
"No matter how talented he is, all he could've learned in this short time are the basics: Hate Bullet and Black Shield. So, when you get an opening, use these. Just pop the lid, and it'll look like you made them."
"What are these?"
"My special Wrath Booms, designed to shatter a beginner's Black Shield easily. I wanted to pack stronger black magic, but that'd raise suspicions, so I compromised."
Tom gripped the vials tightly at this unexpected secret weapon.
"They say Oliver was caught in the mines, and he's got that dull side to him, so he won't handle sudden surprises well. Fake a mistake and kill him then. Or at least cripple him."
Tom ran the calculations. Ambush Oliver with Andrew's black magic during the fight—he'd panic from the sheer firepower, and a follow-up could finish it.
"Then you're the formal disciple, the troublemaker vanishes, and our peace is preserved. If it goes down like that, I'll back you all the way. Mid-grade disciple... no, even high-grade."
Tom's eyes widened. A high-grade disciple was like nobility—served by underlings, high pay, and learning the Family business. It was Tom's goal, his dream. A farewell to gutter life...! Courage and motivation surged within him.
Andrew smirked, reading Tom's emotions. People were so easy to manipulate. Especially the dumb ones.
Andrew said again,
"So make sure you take down that Oliver punk. I'll have your back for sure. Deal?"
Tom nodded, clutching the vials Andrew had given him.
The last day of May slipping into June.
This was supposed to be the day to appoint a new formal disciple.
Tom was the frontrunner, so everyone except him should've been frowning.
But a little upset threw everything off, turning the appointment day into match day.
The Tom vs. Oliver showdown.
Prize: the formal disciple spot.
It had opened up barely because one low-grade disciple died of food poisoning—no telling when another would come.
That's why Tom's face was taut with tension. He knew how heavy that prize weighed. His opponent, Oliver, just wore his usual blank expression. As if he had no clue about the huge privilege at stake!
I stepped into the arena and looked around. About thirty temporary disciples, twenty low-grade ones, a dozen mid-grade, and five high-grade disciples.
The high- and mid-grade disciples treated this fate-deciding match for Tom like mere entertainment, smirking away. But what grated more were the eyes of my fellow temporary disciples.
Their gazes gleamed coldly with malicious anticipation. Tom's downfall, plain and simple.
Tom seethed inwardly. Downfall? Who's falling?! These parasites who could only mock others' misery!
He fiddled with the two glass vials in his pocket. Andrew's secret weapons.
Used right, he could end a week-old newbie like Oliver in seconds. Maybe even more.
He might even catch the Master's eye for extra lessons. Then low-grade, mid-, even high-grade... A true black mage, goodbye to the gutters forever.
Yes. Street thug Tom becoming a true black mage.
With that thought steeling him, Tom strode into the arena, brimming with courage and drive. Oliver followed.
"No need for fancy words, right? Prove your worth with strength. Match start!"
At Joseph's word, Tom extracted emotion from his issued test tube and fired a Hate Bullet right away.
Oliver had learned the basics—he barely blocked with a small Black Shield.
'As expected! No matter the talent, mastering black magic in this short time is impossible! I can win! I can win!'
Tom shouted inwardly, extracting more emotion and firing another Hate Bullet.
A basic basic, but efficient and powerful. Oliver struggled just to block, no counterattack in sight.
Tom kept up the pressure, unleashing Hate Bullets nonstop. Black projectiles tore through the air; Oliver blocked each with a small Black Shield.
Amid the onslaught, a voice echoed in his head.
'Stop! You've used too much emotion already—ease up!'
Tom halted. It was Andrew's voice in his mind—telepathy, for emergencies.
Following the advice, he paused and checked his test tube. Shockingly, only a third of the emotion remained, just as Andrew said.
Made sense after that barrage. But the real surprise was Oliver.
After that fierce assault, he wasn't even scratched. No agitation on his face, and his test tube emotion was nearly full.
Then it hit Tom. He wasn't desperate to block—he was just blocking casually. Treating Tom like a plaything, like a thug toying with a weak kid.
Rage twisted in Tom's gut. To be looked down on like this.
He subtly drew a vial from his pocket and shouted,
"Let's see you block this! Wrath Boom!"
He hurled a fist-sized black orb at Oliver. Oliver flung up a Black Shield in panic, but it was pointless.
The moment the wrath bomb hit, an explosion engulfed a man's size, shaking the basement.
Those near Oliver got knocked back, screams and gasps erupting everywhere.
"Did you see that?! How's a laborer using Wrath Boom?!"
"How'd he even learn it?"
"That's mid-grade level stuff!"
Tom smirked, lip curling.
He'd etched himself into their minds. The Master would have to notice him now. Ha! Look at that talent punk now... Huh?
Mid-celebration, Tom froze. As smoke cleared, Oliver stood there leisurely.
"Whoa... How'd you do that?"
The punk blabbered. No fear, no shock—just delight?
What the hell? This was Andrew's handmade spell—how was he fine?
Thump! Thump! Thump! Heart pounding, Tom felt a strange dread. Something he should never feel.
'Right, something's wrong. How's a fresh punk blocking Andrew's attack...'
Blind to his crumbling perception, Tom yanked out his last Wrath Boom, popped it, and threw. Oliver spotted it and shot a Hate Bullet, detonating it mid-air.
Another roar swept the area. Difference: Tom got caught in it, flung backward.
"Wha? Wh-what?"
Seeing Oliver unscathed behind a Black Shield, Tom babbled dumbly.
What was that? What was he even fighting? Doubts and fear flooded his mind.
He was supposed to promote to formal disciple today—real meals, not slop; black magic lessons, not factory work... What the hell was this?
"You okay?"
Oliver approached. All Tom could do was scream "Eek!" and glance around desperately. Someone help!
But no one did. Just mocking stares and cold, contemptuous eyes—the kind he'd gotten his whole street life.
Rage boiled. At the world, at this sudden obstacle.
Tom tried to fuel a counterattack with it—then the devil spoke.
"Oh, good. You're fine."
The devil reached out, casually extracting Tom's rage.
"..."
Tom could only watch helplessly as Oliver lost interest and processed the extracted wrath.
"This Wrath Boom..."
Tom's instincts screamed: Run! But his body wouldn't move. What the hell was that thing?!
Oliver refined the Wrath Boom again. Compressed the fist-sized bomb, layered a Hate Bullet on top. Aimed at Tom.
"...Not gonna defend?"
As he spoke, Tom—contradictorily—prayed to god while raising a Black Shield. Just this once, save me!
Praying thus, the devil intoned,
"Wrath Bullet."
The launched wrath projectile flew straight, piercing the Black Shield. It impaled Tom without mercy, then detonated inside.
BOOM――――!
An explosion dwarfing Tom's own drenched the basement in impossible red rain.
As everyone sat stunned, someone murmured softly,
"Winner: Oliver."