Chapter 94
Chapter 94
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 94
Chapter Title: ID Card (1)
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Yoanna's unexpected gift.
Oliver gladly accepted it.
He liked books, of course, but she was giving it with some expectation or hope in mind. He wanted to know what her intentions were behind this kindness.
Maybe he could ask her after reading the gift.
With that in mind, Oliver dove into the Pater Scripture that Yoanna had given him.
Aside from mealtimes, teaching Forrest numbers and letters, reading the corpse doll books scavenged from the puppets, self-studying code language, and conducting personal black magic experiments, he read the Pater Scripture day and night.
In the end, he realized the book was profoundly bizarre.
The basic structure of the Pater Scripture went like this.
It described stories of figures from the scripture, inserting key dialogues or passages at important moments, then providing interpretations that offered guidelines on how people should live.
The problem was that, to Oliver, these interpretations were quite vague.
The stories themselves weren't bad.
However, stories and passages could be interpreted differently by each person, yet the Pater Scripture pushed subjective interpretations, insisting that this was the way to do it.
Books were meant to impart knowledge and broaden one's thinking. In that sense, the Pater Scripture failed to fulfill a book's true purpose.
Beyond that, it was full of contradictions, inconsistencies, and actions that undermined its own claims, which made understanding it all the more time-consuming.
Still, since it was a gift from Yoanna, Oliver took a break to recover while reading it.
Forrest didn't object. He just said he'd scout some decent jobs in the meantime.
What a truly kind man.
Time passed slowly like that, and surprisingly, the city provided substantial compensation to those who participated in the contaminated zone cleanup—including the deceased.
Forrest explained it was the result of persistent negotiations by the broker guild with the city.
Originally, compensation would have gone only to the dead, paid out in a flat amount.
But due to the city's sloppy handling and the brokers' greater-than-expected losses, the city yielded a step.
Voluntary solvers got three times the amount listed in their contracts.
For those forcibly conscripted by the city, it was tiered based on their past missions and earnings.
And this applied not just to the dead, but to Oliver as well.
"With that in mind, here's thirty million Randa."
Oliver stared at the three hundred bills made up of hundred-thousand-Randa notes.
"……Do they usually pay out this much?"
"Absolutely not. The city has a big budget, sure, but it doesn't splash it around. If anything, they squeeze you dry if you seem easy prey. No wonder there's that saying about Randa's worst black-hearted corporation being the city itself."
Forrest spoke fluidly.
It went beyond eloquence; you could feel his genuine disdain for Randa.
He continued.
"……But that's also its flaw and its strength. When you prove helpful, they invest big."
"Invest?"
"Yeah, invest. Take the compensation you just got—it's way more than what other solvers received."
"Is it?"
"Yeah. A solver who survived against the puppets? That means they want to keep a good relationship with you. The payout's basically a signal."
"I'm grateful, but it feels a bit burdensome too."
"Spot on. Not a great thing. It means they'll use you if the chance arises. Of course, you could turn it into an opportunity to climb under some big shot and rise higher, but I figure that's not your style."
It was true.
Oliver did aim to build ties with big shots, but not to serve under them.
For one, belonging to an organization or someone meant prioritizing their jobs, even ones you hated.
It didn't suit his temperament at all.
"Just in case—any way to turn it down?"
"Turn it down?"
"Yeah, it's a little heavy. I'm not flush right now, but I have enough money to get by."
Forrest pushed the stack of bills toward Oliver.
"Nah, just take it. The city hates people refusing their goodwill, regardless of what you want."
"That's unfair."
"Of course it is. This is Randa. What have you even learned about this city?"
In the end, Oliver followed Forrest's advice and stuffed the money into his glutton pouch.
Well, if worst came to worst, he could always ditch his current identity, so it was fine.
'……Still, I'd rather save that as a absolute last resort. I've built up too much so far.'
Oliver thought of his solver career, Forrest, Murphy, the old bookstore man, Yoanna, and others.
As the glutton pouch sweetly swallowed the high-denomination bundle, Forrest brought over a few file folders and set them in front of Oliver.
"Feeling rested enough?"
Oliver glanced at the folders as he replied.
"Not quite yet."
Inside the folders were commission details—named requests for Oliver specifically.
As Forrest had said, the terms were generous: starting at five million Randa, with some up to a hundred million.
The jobs varied wildly.
One wanted a glass factory in U District destroyed; another, a terror hit on V District's smuggling market; yet another, killing unaffiliated gangs in X District.
"These jobs seem more aggressive than what I've done before."
"The higher the pay, the more blatant the demands. But not all are like that."
Indeed.
Besides destruction and assassination, there were bodyguard and security gigs. The standout was guarding an auction house in L District and its items.
The auction items included a king's mummy from the colonies, a golden crown, a jade throne, and such—intriguing, but nothing that grabbed him right now.
No, forget appealing; he wasn't in the mood for work at all.
Money was nice, but it was just a tool in the end.
Oliver wanted to repair and modify the corpse doll from the contaminated zone cleanup sooner rather than later.
If he pulled it off, it could go beyond satisfying his curiosity and become a real asset for solver work. The issue was it wasn't as simple as it sounded.
Experiments required a safe, isolated space from the outside world, at minimum.
But that wasn't something he could acquire in his current situation.
'Hmm…… Disappointing, but maybe push experiments back, take jobs, save up? Warehouses don't come cheap. Or negotiate for one as payment?'
Oliver mulled over warehouse plans when a spark hit him.
To buy a warehouse, he needed not just money, but an ID card—and Murphy had once offered to arrange one.
Murphy from the Kimbel Family.
"Mr. Forrest."
"What?"
"Any word from Murphy?"
Forrest's eyes widened slightly.
"Impressive. How'd you know? He contacted me this morning—said he has something to tell you. Was gonna let you know once you were done talking."
For real.
Oliver asked what Murphy wanted; Forrest replied.
"Said he's prepared the payment from before. Told you to drop by his shop when convenient."
T District 43, night street adjacent to the factory zone.
Oliver visited the spot.
Nearby worker dorms meant crowds here, most clustering into street pubs or mysterious shops with red roofs.
Sporadic screams from women, curses, fights—it was all new and fascinating to Oliver, who'd never been to a place like this.
Emotions overflowing, you could say.
He could probably extract them here without harming targets.
'Maybe think about it seriously? Hide the extraction process, and it'd be easy to stockpile emotions. Save money too.'
Not a bad idea.
Worth pondering.
But Oliver shelved it for now and headed to the meeting spot.
Via Forrest, Murphy had informed him the ID card was ready as requested.
Apologetically, he asked Oliver to come to the shop in person.
Business was busy these days, he said politely, and with the ID as a nice bonus, Oliver accepted without complaint.
He was curious about the Kimbel Family's shop anyway.
"This the place?"
Oliver eyed the downhill stairs between red-brick buildings.
Not too deep, but at the bottom was a small door with a steady stream of people entering.
Forrest had called it the Kimbel Family's secret speakeasy—not very secret, really.
'Bribe the district cops, and most things stay "secret."'
Forrest's words echoed.
Oliver watched the shop a moment, then blended into the crowd.
Straight shot, easy to follow.
Clunk, clunk. Down the stairs, through the side door, into the basement shop.
Unlike the exterior, the interior was surprisingly lavish.
Not Blue Moon luxury like Joseph favored, but top-tier for T District.
Brick walls, but dust-free; real tables and chairs; behind the ordering counter, shelves of colorful liquors.
Among them, fluorescent-glowing ones faintly infused with mana—magic brews, no doubt.
"One Palm Essel for me."
"Right away, sir."
"Ipe Veggie for me. Whole bottle."
"Sorry, no whole bottles."
"Damn it……! Fine, one glass then!"
"Five Shuk Piaques. For me and my friends here."
Skilled bartenders poured magic brews for the rush of orders.
Customers handed over bills happily, drank, looking utterly content.
"Fascinating."
"What's fascinating, sir?"
Oliver turned toward the voice.
There stood Murphy, stone-cold gaze, hair swept to one side.
Crisp suit, gold watch on wrist, gleaming shoes.
He looked far more prosperous than last time.
Oliver answered.
"The labels on the bottles. Strictly moonshine, but how do they have labels?"
"Custom order. Product matters, but packaging too—like a woman's makeup. Elevates the class."
Murphy spoke with ambition and conviction.
Persuasive; Oliver saw why Forrest watched him closely.
"Impressive."
"Thank you. I want to sell a product, not peddle swill…… Anyway, thanks for coming. Sorry to call you after the contaminated zone ordeal. I'd have loved to deliver it personally—please understand."
Oh, rumors spread fast. Word of the zone already?
"No worries. Can I get it now?"
"The ID's in the shop office. Could you follow me? I'd like to chat a bit too…… if you don't mind."
More cautious than last time.
Some agenda, but not malicious.
Oliver agreed and followed him to the speakeasy's back office.
He had questions too.
'Crime Firm has a real estate arm—can buy a warehouse there, maybe?'