Chapter 80
Chapter 80
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 80
Chapter Title: 80. Preparations (2)
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The hall buzzed with murmurs.
As soon as they stepped inside the building, a crowd of people came into view.
There had to be over a hundred, at least, and they all appeared to be fixers.
Proof of that lay in how each one was armed to the teeth with weapons of every size and variety.
Some were simply packing guns, while others sported modified firearms and body armor, swords and iron coats. There were even modified humans like Murphy in the mix.
Compared to the X District gangs or Kimbel Family grunts, these folks were a whole different breed—far more eccentric.
But even in that motley crowd, certain standouts drew the eye. For instance...
"You really do have an eye for talent."
A voice cut in out of nowhere.
Oliver turned to look beside him.
There stood a pitiful-looking man with a broad forehead, a sharp chin, and a wart on his nose.
"You were eyeing that guy, right?"
The shabby man pointed bluntly at one man in particular.
It was exactly the one Oliver had been watching—whose hands were made of stone.
Not some joke or figure of speech. Literal stone, with magical power flowing intricately through every piece.
"Y-Yes... What's that on his arms?"
"Haha, first time seeing one? That's a golem prosthetic arm."
"A golem prosthetic?"
"Yep, golem prosthetic! Brand-new product from the Golem Workshop. It's shaking up the clockwork factory's prosthetic market right now! ...Whoops, got ahead of myself without even introducing. Nice to meet you. Name's Shabby. Black mage."
The self-proclaimed black mage—whose cheekiness tipped into outright audacity—flashed that signature sycophantic grin of a guy scraping by on smiles.
It was so over-the-top, you almost wondered if he was begging to be laughed at.
Oliver eyed him for a beat, then returned the greeting politely.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Shabby. I'm Dave."
"I know. That's why I came over."
"...? You know me?"
"Of course! You're that rising dark horse making waves, right? The new hope for Forest, T District's half-retiree."
Half-retiree? New hope?
Bits of info on Forest that Oliver had skimmed during past net sailing flickered through his mind.
He definitely recalled something like that. What was it again?
"...New hope? What do you mean?"
The man who'd introduced himself as Shabby let out a hollow laugh, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. It looked natural enough.
"Humble, are we? Or testing my intel? You're one of those young dark horses lighting up the scene lately, aren't you? And dark horses are prime real estate for brokers like me... Take that guy, for example."
Shabby jabbed a finger at another man.
He was off at a distance, but impossible to miss all the same.
Towering over two meters, with his hair dyed an unnatural green—and tattoos scrawled across his face to boot.
Reading Oliver's gaze, Shabby jumped in with an explanation.
"David the Druid. H District's flashiest dark horse. They call him a cultist or a wayward monk, but he insists he's just following the new Enjoyment sect of Druids."
"Enjoyment?"
"Ah, you don't know? It popped up in the middle of the old Druid sects clashing with the new ones. Super open-minded bunch—says use Druid powers to chase your desires. 'Course, that gets 'em labeled a cult."
Oliver, utterly clueless about Druids, had no choice but to nod along.
Still, it piqued his curiosity no end, pulling his focus even tighter on the man in front of him.
"You know your stuff."
The man grinned in that bootlicking way again.
"Haha... It's my one trick. Appreciate the compliment."
"What about the others?"
"Others?"
"Yeah."
Shabby paused at Oliver's question before replying.
"Plenty more dark horses around. Remember the golem-arms guy from earlier? Right over there."
"Yeah, I see him."
"Arthur, the retired soldier. Veteran with medals under his belt, they say. Lost both arms in the war, got mustered out, scraped by on a shitty pension. Then he got those golem prosthetics grafted on and reinvented himself as a fixer. Goes by Stone Fist Arthur now—big name in N District. Word is he soloed a whole gang in one night."
Oliver glanced at Arthur. A dozen or so fixers who screamed ex-military clustered around him.
He could pick them out after seeing so many at Murphy's warehouse. Then Oliver followed up.
"...So, who's B District's dark horse?"
"Oh, you knew B District was in on this?"
"Yeah. Heard B, H, N, and T Districts are all joining the cleanup. H's got the Druid, N's the retired soldier... Anything on B's big name?"
"You bet—that's him."
Shabby pointed to a lone figure huddled in a far corner.
The man was draped in a thick hooded cloak.
"B District's dark horse. Colin of the Magic Tower!"
"Of the Magic Tower? ...Not an alum?"
"Nah, he's straight-up affiliated. Still on the roster. Just stepped out temporarily to live the teachings and rack up field experience. He's on another level from riffraff like us."
Shabby laid the flattery on thick.
"Which is why I'm saying—wanna team up with him through me? I'll vouch, he'll take you."
"Huh?"
"No, whoa—don't get the wrong idea. Contaminated zone's no joke. Might not know it, but it's not just zombies and mutants in there. Raiders lie in wait for honest workers like us. Eyeing city-issued gear or organs... Makes sense to stick together, right?"
Oliver fixed Shabby with a steady gaze.
His tells were tougher to read than most, but faintly—intentions, slyness seeped through.
He flashed another empty smile.
"Haha... Don't give a no-account black mage the death stare. I'm for real. Druid's already linking up with the mage over there. Efficient, safe. You in?"
"...Mind if I ask something first?"
"Ask?"
"Yeah. How'd you swing working with folks like that, Mr. Shabby?"
"Oho... Cutting question. Sounds shady, I know, but I got the inside track on that place. The contaminated zone."
"......"
"I've done this cleanup run more than ten times. Know it inside out—safe routes, rest spots. Even zombie hives. Traded that intel for a spot on their team. Join up. Way easier, way more efficient."
Oliver put on a show of mulling it over.
"Hmm... Sorry. I appreciate it, but teaming with strangers on a job? Not my thing."
"Haha, what's the hang-up? Just strong folks pooling talents. I look shady to you? Alright, fine—I got motives. Build ties with T District's dark horse. No brag, but you won't regret friending me. Might suck at fighting, but I know this game cold."
"Sorry. Taught me to think long and hard before partnering with strangers."
"Quit yapping like some brat."
A third voice barged in.
The B District mage had closed the distance without a sound.
Mana hummed from his body—purer, vaster than any mage from Murphy's gigs.
The air thickened. The fixers locked in their subtle pissing contest earlier edged back from the brewing tension.
Ignoring it all, the Magic Tower mage bored holes into Oliver.
"Hey, fake mage... You think you're hot shit?"
"Pardon?"
"Nah, just—fake like you gets a shot at running with a real deal and turns it down? Don't know your place."
The mage meant every word. That bottomless confidence, same as the others Oliver had crossed.
"No, I don't think less of you. Just doing what I was taught."
"That right?"
The mage leaned in close, eyes locking.
Pale blue-gray irises stared down—if he could, he'd squash Oliver flat right there.
Mana laced his voice as he spoke.
"One question. You really drop four Magic Tower grads?"
All eyes swiveled to Oliver.
"Hmm... Not sure. Mission stuff—can't just spill freely."
"I can make you spill..."
That's when the mana surged. A fight about to pop off here? Then—
Thud. Thud. Weary footsteps.
"Aigoo... Y'all got pep today."
A steady voice, nothing like the fixers' grit.
Oliver turned. A city official in a suit, escorting a soldier decked in exoskeleton gloves, strode in.
Exhaustion poured off him as he mounted the bare podium and opened with ultimate world-weariness.
"Alright, let's make this quick, fixer folks."
The official's entrance gave the mage pause; he retreated to his spot.
Black mage Shabby chuckled vacuously and trailed after, drawing jealous glares, envious looks, outright disgust from onlookers.
The brown-nosing black mage pairing with the mage clearly stuck in their craw.
Murmurs picked back up.
The official plodded through his spiel regardless.
Annoyance dripped from every word and gesture, but he covered the workload, pay, and accident comp in full, by the book.
"...That's the lot. Questions?"
Like they'd rehearsed, fixers stayed mum.
They knew the drill—wait out the red tape.
Some bored stiff, others nursing tension or fear.
No takers, so the official moved to step down.
Then a hand shot up.
Fixer with a massive facial scar—face as nasty as his vibe.
"...Yeah?"
"Me? Name's Chip, H District."
Chip. Murmurs rippled.
Wary glances here and there. Ears caught nicknames amid the buzz.
Demolition Chip. Raider Chip.
He smirked, reveling in it.
"Heard folks hole up in the contaminated zone. What if we clip 'em mid-zombie sweep? Your policy, official?"
Less question, more probe.
Official's face screamed boredom as he answered.
"One thing clear: No one's living in the contaminated zone. Officially... City's got it locked down tight."
"......"
"So focus on cleanup. No residents, no casualties."
"......"
"But say someone does get hurt? Closed zone—investigation's a bitch. You're not even officially there, makes it worse. Watch your asses in there. City's payout's cheap even if you croak... More?"
Silence answered.
Official turned to the soldiers, tone flat.
"Roster check, then unofficial contracts. Signatures."
"Roger."
Soldiers nodded, smoothly corralling fixer signatures.
Most fixers queued up like pros—regulars only, by the look.
Oliver slotted in smartly, signed the paper, grabbed the city-issue magic bag, and plunged into the contaminated zone.
Inside stretched F District's end-times mirror—a wasteland version of the ruins glimpsed en route.
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