The Arena (1)
I’d been scammed. I, Flint—the man who deceived the genius engineering doctor Pistia, swayed the fanatic Lucius, and corrupted a Saintess with firearms—had been swindled. Because of some stranger’s brawl, my beautiful, precious fingers, which were meant to pull triggers and assemble weapons, were going to be chopped off? Sion, for his part, seemed to find it so hilarious that from the moment Dopang closed the door and left, he had been rolling on the floor, clutching his stomach and cackling.
If this world had a star-rating system, I would have filled out a 5,000-character review titled, "Dopang’s Fixer Office: A Malicious Scammer Not Worth Even One Star." My teeth ground together automatically, fueled by pure frustration and resentment.
"Hahaha! Even you’re stunned now that you’ve been had, aren't you? Huh? How does it feel to know your fingers are about to be sliced off after trying to play it safe and reap the benefits alone?"
"Shut up, Sion."
The water was already spilled. I didn't have time to worry about things like this. I wanted to grab my shotgun and chase down that infuriating bastard, but if he went down, my fingers were finished too. I steadied my chaotic mind, sat on the floor, and pulled out the shotgun. It was the one that had frozen solid after taking a hit from the Half-Demon’s cryogenic magic yesterday. I began to disassemble the firearm with extreme, painstaking caution.
Click, screech.
The parts, which usually meshed together smoothly, let out a horrific grinding noise. Because it had been frozen, the internal lubricant had hardened into a thick, sludge-like mess. "Please, just let the mana stone be safe. Goddess, God, Buddha. Please."
People often think engineers don't believe in gods or superstitions because they value logic and calculation. But the reality isn't quite like that. In fact, the more a field is plagued by uncertainty and the more fatal the cost of a single failure, the more sensitive people become to jinxes and rituals. Computer experts avoid touching programs right before deployment, and engineers are reluctant to tinker with equipment that’s been running fine on the day of a demonstration. We joke about the saying, "If you touch it for no reason, it’ll explode," but when the crucial moment arrives, no one dares to be the first to break that taboo.
I carefully wiped away the hardened grease and inspected the firing pin where the mana stone was embedded. Fortunately, the red mana stone was intact, with no cracks visible on the surface. With trembling fingertips, I tapped the surface of the stone to stimulate it. Hummm—. Instantly, the stone glowed faintly and emitted a weak warmth.
"Phew……."
A sigh of relief escaped me. Mana stones are maddeningly difficult to obtain. In a slum like this, it’s a rare commodity you can’t get your hands on even if you walk around with a bundle of cash. Now that I’d confirmed the mana stone was safe, it was time to check if the metal parts were okay. I carefully examined the disassembled components. Thankfully, there were no micro-cracks or serious deformations from low-temperature brittleness. The only problem—if you could call it that—was that the internal lubricant had turned into a thick paste, meaning I needed to find new oil.
"At least that’s a relief. If I just find new oil and coat it, I can fix it in no time."
I’d avoided the worst-case scenario. I brushed myself off and stood up. I had to find something to replace the lubricant. "Hey, I’m going to go find some lubricant, so get some sleep. If you tell me you lost because you were tired, I’m really going to kill you."
"How are you going to kill me? You won't even be able to fire a gun without your fingers. Are your ancestors going to pull the trigger for you? Hehehe."
"Ugh! That bastard, I swear!"
I wanted to throw my tools at him right then and there, but I held back. Regardless, my fingers would only stay safe if his body stayed safe. Leaving Sion behind, still giggling as if he were choking, I kicked the office door open and stormed out.
I wandered around, scouring the city for a long time, but the conclusion was the same: this neighborhood was truly a ruined cesspool.
"Is this for real?"
I frowned, staring down at a sticky, foul-smelling oil drum. Inside the old barrel was a murky, yellowish-black liquid sloshing around. It was beyond absurd. No matter how scarce resources were in this lawless city, how could the lubricant used by a blacksmith—a place that supposedly worked with iron—be nothing more than discarded waste oil from a restaurant’s deep fryer? The oil even looked like it had gone rancid ages ago. Salem really was in a league of its own. It was a miracle the blacksmith shop even stayed in business.
There was no other way. If you’re thirsty, you have to dig the well yourself. I grabbed a stinking, filthy black raincoat that had been tossed in a corner of an alley, threw it on, and marched confidently into the restaurant that was rumored to be the busiest in the district.
Bang—!
With the flashy gunshot I fired toward the ceiling upon entering, everyone in the restaurant turned their eyes to me. But just then, a large man who had been eating dumped a bucket of water on me without a word.
"Hey, you crazy bastard! If you’re going to get drunk in the middle of the day, go pass out quietly somewhere, don't cause a scene! You little brat……."
Ah, right. People didn't really know about guns yet. It was understandable that they’d mistake it for just something that made a loud noise. But this wasn't a firecracker; it was a means of communication. That shot was just a simple way of saying, "I'm here."
The water poured from my head and streamed down the raincoat. But the man’s voice, which had been shouting so boldly, began to falter. The water he’d dumped on me dripped off the raincoat onto the floor. Drip. Drip.
The problem was the color of the liquid. Hidden by the black fabric, I hadn't noticed, but the raincoat I’d picked up was soaked through with someone’s blood. I hadn't known. A pool of bright red blood began to form on the old wooden floor.
"Uh? Uh-oh……?"
"Kyaaaaaaak—!"
"W-what is that!!! It’s a murderer! Run away!"
The customers who had been peacefully eating just a moment ago kicked over their chairs and began to flee in a panic. No, I just came to get some cooking oil; what did I do so wrong? I stood there blankly, watching the chaos. The man in front of me, who had dumped the water on me, also started dripping yellow liquid from his pants, screamed, and bolted away like a shot. He must have been hit by some water himself.
I didn't have time to worry about that. I approached the kitchen very slowly. Drip. Drip. The sound of blood-mixed water with every step was annoying, but it was better than exposing my bare face. In this crazy, lawless city, who knew what would happen if I revealed my identity so carelessly?
The owner, who had been slicing meat in the kitchen, must have realized the situation late, as he was trembling in the corner of the kitchen, clutching a chef's knife. Poor guy. I hoped this incident would convince him to dig a back door or a secret passage in case a ruffian broke in again.
"W-what, what is it! If it’s money, it’s in the register over there! P-please, just go away! Spare my life!!!"
The owner was crying and making a scene with his knife, but my interest wasn't in money. Even in front of a man with a knife, I didn't blink an eye. I gestured politely and calmly, dripping red blood onto the floor, toward the direction of the hot, fresh oil left over from frying pork.
"W-what do you want!! If it’s money, I told you it’s there! Hiiiik! Don't come closer!"
As I took a step toward the oil drum, the owner waved his knife in the air and shouted as if he were having a seizure. I clicked my tongue internally, thinking he was a man who couldn't communicate, and demanded in a dry, articulate voice.
"Not money. Give me the oil."
"……What?"
"I said give me fresh, clean oil."
I pulled 1 gold coin from my pocket and held it out toward the man, who had a blank expression on his face. A gold coin offered by a ruffian who everyone thought had come to rob the entire restaurant. The chef’s jaw dropped at this absurd trade proposal that popped up in the middle of a bloody, terrifying situation. With trembling hands, he put down the knife he’d been using to slice meat and, while still stuttering, quickly packed up the pork oil for me.
"Thank you."
I carefully accepted the oil container, making sure no blood got on it, and then asked about something that had just occurred to me. "Oh, and by any chance, do you know where they sell beeswax around here?"
"B-beeswax…… they sell it at Kaylee’s Alchemy Workshop at the end of the alley. P-probably……."
"Thank you. Have a good business."
I bowed very politely, looking around the restaurant where all the customers had fled because of my entrance, leaving only flies buzzing around. It was a highly insincere well-wish to offer after completely ruining his business for the day, but since I’d paid 1 gold, wasn't I a fairly gentle customer? I left the restaurant, leaving the stunned chef behind.
After managing to get the beeswax from the alchemy workshop at the end of the alley, I returned safely to Dopang’s office.
"……Zzzzz."
When I opened the door and went in, Sion was sprawled on the floor, fast asleep. Since he could use lightning-fast speed, I thought he was an electric mouse, but it turned out he was a monster type who just slept all day. This was a bit disappointing as a partner. I clicked my tongue and set the items I’d brought down on the floor. Then, I meticulously wiped away the original grease that had hardened like sludge between the shotgun parts with a cloth.
Next, I carefully applied a special homemade lubricant, made by melting beeswax into warm pork oil at the right ratio, to every corner of the metal parts. Click, clack—. After finishing the reassembly, I pulled the charging handle. Instead of the horrific grinding noise from before, a heavy, smooth mechanical sound echoed.
"This is decent enough."
I stood up with a satisfied smile. Once maintenance was done, a field test was essential. I went straight to the alley behind the office and pulled the trigger toward the empty air.
Boom—!
It was a very smooth and seamless discharge. The smell of burnt gunpowder mixed with pork oil brushed past the tip of my nose. Along with a loud, ear-splitting report, a heavy recoil struck my shoulder. The parts lubricated with pork oil operated very smoothly without any jamming. It was decent performance for a makeshift, homemade lubricant.
And then, Dopang suddenly appeared from behind.
"Ho-ho. You handle a fascinating object."
"This is not for sale. If you attempt illegal reproduction, Lucius of the Holy See will personally come to cut your head off. Keep that in mind."
At the mention of Lucius, Dopang’s shoulders flinched. What kind of reaction was that? Was there some kind of urban legend in this world where Lucius, instead of a bogeyman, came to snatch children who misbehaved? '……Come to think of it, it’s not a legend, it’s the truth.' I nodded to myself in realization and suddenly held out my hand.
"That aside, did you bring all the identification cards, Mr. Scammer?"
"Hahaha! Calling me a scammer, that’s quite hurtful. Even so, I’m at least a person who keeps my word as much as I’ve been paid."
Dopang rummaged through her clothes and pulled out two wooden plaques. One was a cheap, shoddy nameplate that looked like it would shed sawdust, and the other was a luxurious item that clearly had a lot of effort put into it. I naturally tucked the luxurious wooden plaque into my pocket. The cheap one was obviously Sion’s share.
"When does the arena open?"
Dopang’s yellow eyes flashed as she grinned.
"Tonight."