Chapter 95
Chapter 95
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 95
Chapter Title: Identity Card (2)
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The office inside the tavern wasn't particularly large.
It was roughly the same size as the office in Forest Restaurant, but the disorganized interior made it feel even smaller.
It was spacious enough for two people, but would feel a bit cramped with three.
Murphy spoke as he tidied up the papers scattered messily across the desk.
"Ah, sorry. It's gotten a bit messy lately with all the work."
"No, it's fine. It certainly looks busy."
Oliver said, recalling the packed tavern.
There had been so many people it was overflowing, and quite a few had drunk magic liquor, shelling out a hefty sum per glass.
"Here you go."
Murphy pulled a brown paper envelope from the bottom drawer and handed it to Oliver.
Oliver opened the envelope and checked the contents.
Inside was Oliver's fake birth certificate and an ID in the form of a notebook.
Oliver flipped open the notebook-style ID. There was a face that subtly resembled his own, along with the name "Dave Light."
There was also personal information like birthplace and date of birth.
"This is...?"
"Your new ID. Like it?"
Oliver examined the ID and birth certificate.
"Yes. I like it."
"Glad to hear that. Worth the effort of preparing a Grade 1 ID."
"Grade 1?"
"Ah, you didn't know. Fake IDs come in grades too. Various types, but usually divided into three."
Oliver showed interest. He could glimpse people's ingenuity in such minor details.
"If it's not too much trouble, could you explain how they're divided?"
"Of course. No reason not to. Do you like your drinks, by any chance?"
"I can manage a sip."
"Perfect."
Murphy said this as he uncorked a bottle of magic liquor from one corner of the office.
It glowed with a green fluorescence, and unlike the stuff sold in the tavern, the mana concentration was quite dense.
Glug glug. Murphy held out the glass and continued.
"Fake IDs fall into three main grades: 1, 2, and 3. Grade 3 is just a toy mimicking the look of a real ID—total garbage that any cop spots with a close look. Grade 2 is made by greasing city officials' palms. Fine for everyday use, but falls apart under real scrutiny."
Oliver nodded.
"Grade 1's different. It's not fabricated—it's hijacking an existing identity."
"Existing identity?"
"Yeah. Plenty of folks are born with legit identities but squander their lives. They rack up debts they can't pay, and Crime Firm seizes their identities in lieu of the debt."
Oliver glanced at his ID.
"So this one's from someone else originally?"
"Exactly. Unless they track down and match every person by hand, no chance of getting caught. The person on the ID really existed, after all. You're basically living their life."
Oliver looked at the face printed on the ID.
"Fascinating. It looks a bit like me."
"Magic surgery for plastic surgery. Give a good excuse and some backroom cash, you can reissue the ID. Change the face and name to whatever the client wants."
Ho... Oliver reacted like he'd heard an intriguing old yarn.
"Simple method, high reliability. But scouting the right candidate, plus surgery, bribes, and cleanup costs make Grade 1 pricey."
"Yeah, I heard as much. Forest mentioned offhand it's a few hundred million... Thank you for going this far."
"No big deal. Compared to what you did for me, Black Magician. I got a huge boost last time... How's the liquor?"
"Ah, haven't tried it yet. One sec."
Oliver took a sip of the glowing green magic liquor.
It was pretty good.
"...Tasty."
Murphy looked a touch disappointed, as if the reaction fell short of expectations.
"Ah... Good. To your liking?"
"Yes, tasty."
"Relieved. It's aimed at the upper crust."
"Upper crust?"
"Yeah. Like I said before, my goal isn't bootleg swill—it's proper products. Extra costs and all, but I label the bottles, package 'em fancy, slap on classy names to build prestige."
Oliver took another sip of Murphy's magic liquor before speaking again.
"And tailor quality to the customer for max profit. This here's premium for city politicians, magicians, fat cats. Name's 'Gout de Dieu'."
"...What’s that mean?"
"Drops of God. Gallos tongue."
"Gallos?"
"Continental powerhouse down south. Fought 'em plenty. Teamed up sometimes too. Useless in a fight, but damn good at food and booze."
"Reason for the foreign name?"
"Looks high-class, doesn't it? Folks eat up exotic words they don't understand."
"Ah..."
Oliver nodded.
Murphy was half-serious, but it made for an entertaining tale.
Oliver sipped the magic liquor again.
Compared to Forest's brew, this had more pull—something addictive that tugged you back for more.
It suddenly occurred to him: processing it with emotions like Filterette might make it even better.
'Nah, wasteful? Just making tavern stock would burn through a ton of emotions.'
"Got a question—mind if I ask, Mr. Murphy?"
"Fire away, Black Magician."
"You mentioned Crime Firm runs real estate ops too. What's the going rate on a warehouse? Not saying I'd buy outright—renting works fine."
Oliver figured with the ID sorted, prepping a spot or two wasn't a bad idea.
Couldn't afford one yet, but ballparking prices couldn't hurt.
Murphy smiled.
"Now that's interesting."
"Pardon? What is?"
"I was just about to bring that up."
"...?"
"Black Magician, what if you could snag a warehouse? One free from prying eyes or surveillance. I just scored one dirt cheap."
"...Sounds good, but."
"Care to talk details?"
As expected, Murphy wasn't handing over the warehouse for free.
There was a quid pro quo.
"Truck trouble?"
"Yes."
"You in the trucking game too, Mr. Murphy?"
"Nah, not me. The Family above ours handles it. Hoffman Family—they do all sorts, but transport's their mainstay."
"Transport?"
"Yeah, Hoffman Transport Company. Giant rigs hauling anything anywhere: flour, booze, canned goods, clothes, fuel... Drugs, contraband, magic liquor on the sly sometimes."
Oliver nodded.
He'd shrugged it off at first, but Murphy's rundown painted them as major players.
Beyond legit hauls, they ran Crime Firm goods with cop connections for sky-high success rates.
They cornered a slice of the shadow logistics pie—but lately, big headaches.
"What kind?"
"Someone keeps hitting the trucks."
"Hitting them? Who?"
"Couldn't say for sure. This world's one wrong move from a bullet. Grudges, business beefs, politics—endless motives and suspects."
Sincere.
"Hm... Any guesses?"
"A few suspects, yeah. Board yanks Hoffman's rights if they flop... Four, five Families in line. But nothing solid. Pros with no traces—good mercs."
"So you want me to nab the hijackers?"
"Yeah. Hoffman's tried already—threw cash at top fixers. No dice, just burned money... Oh! One more thing."
"What?"
"Repeated hits have the drivers striking."
"Why? Colleagues dying in ambushes?"
"Partly. But company fudged papers, skimmed half their insurance payouts."
"Ah... Shady as hell."
"The shadiest."
"So why me?"
"Not just striking—they pulled union muscle for fixer backup. Dead serious. Could use help there too."
Oliver shook his head.
"Not really my thing."
"Pardon?"
"Don't wanna mix with civilians. Black magician and all. One slip, it's jail—or worse."
Other hang-ups too, but no need to air them.
Profit talk landed cleaner anyway.
"Ah, bad explanation on my part. Not whack the drivers—help with negotiations."
"Negotiations? Sorry, zero clue there."
"Just stand behind us. Your rep does the work. We're offering fair: 65% insurance payout."
"Doesn't sound stellar."
"Huge give. Normie firms pull this. 35%'s our cut."
Didn't vibe fully, but let it slide.
Murphy knew the city's pulse better.
"Then why won't the workers deal?"
"They would, but union puppeteers keep pumping false hope. 'Double comp!' They skim over half. Deal with us, drivers net about the same. Fixer like you adds weight—maybe flex if needed, but we'll keep it painless."
Murphy laid it out gentle, cautious even.
"Doubt I'd sway much."
Murphy sipped his magic liquor.
"...Saw you scrap with magicians. You'll do fine. Especially with that fresh rumor."
"Rumor?"
"Yeah. Black magician in T District tangled with a Puppet—and lived. City's muzzling it, but word spreads."
"...Wasn't surviving. I let it go."
"Details. Point is, you faced a Puppet and walked."
Oliver mulled it over. Good move?
Fixer cred was the goal, but this felt dicey again.
Puppet takedown leaned on Hell's Gate, artificial souls—potent crutches.
Eh, too late to fold.
"Long story short: help Hoffman Transport, warehouse is yours?"
"Yes. Buy, long lease—your call."
"Can I see it now? Wanna check it out."