The Immortal's Alchemical Elixir (9)
The insects skittered and crunched. Black-shelled beetles fluttered their wings and crawled across the carpeted floor. Primor concealed her skin-crawling disgust behind a perfectly calm expression, quietly observing the Narmer-Nile sorcery performed by her bodyguard.
Good boy, good boy~.
Muttering in her native tongue that no one present could understand, the female thief established a link with the half-dead insects inside the mansion. The scarab brooch radiated a sun-like glow, pouring life force into the creatures. The nearly mindless bugs began moving like biological golems, obeying her every command.
The female thief smiled with satisfaction, blew gently on the brooch in her palm, and polished it against her clothes. The pure gold sheen was beautiful.
Ma'am. It's ready.
Understood. Begin immediately.
It was hardly something to postpone, and watching the bugs was genuinely unpleasant. Primor gave the order to start the investigation at once. A trace of personal motive colored the command.
I could handle the flies, but cockroaches are pushing it…
She nearly dry-heaved. Only a lifetime of practiced composure and a touch of mana kept her from embarrassing herself. Her recent reckless journey had left her in poor condition.
If Henry were still alive, I could have asked for a diagnosis.
Or perhaps she should have asked Signatio. After a brief pang of regret, Primor sat quietly and waited for the female thief’s results.
Minutes passed. She remained perfectly still so as not to disturb the woman’s concentration. The female thief sat in her peculiar cross-legged stance until her eyebrows suddenly twitched.
Found it. But this is…?
What is it?
Primor’s magician bodyguard frowned. Having never once doubted the woman’s exploration abilities, he had never seen her react this way.
I’m not certain, but… a barrier? The moment the bugs entered the annex, the link began weakening.
A barrier? Impossible. Something like that would be visible from outside.
The magician immediately rejected the idea. Missing an active barrier was simply inconceivable.
Who said anything about certainty? I’m just saying it feels like one.
The female thief grumbled with one eye half-open. The magician patted her shoulder and offered his own theory.
Is the cold interfering with the link again?
What are you on about? The annex can’t possibly be colder than outside, and you think the cold can pierce the scarab brooch’s blessing? Talk sense. If that were true, would this be the snowfields of northern Kitai?
…Is the exploration proving difficult?
When Primor asked with concern, the female thief pondered for a moment before cracking a joke.
No. There are no guards inside the annex, so it’s worth attempting. Even if I fail, I can simply try again. Actually, I think I’ve located a suitable room… huh?
Her face suddenly stiffened while she manipulated the bugs. Something so shocking it stole her breath had appeared in the sensory feed.
An insect’s vision was never as sharp as a human’s. Even with magical correction filters, what she perceived remained closer to raw sensation than clear imagery. Yet at the center of the annex, that sensation showed a pure white tree soaring all the way to the sky.
What the hell is th—
At that exact moment—
Ma’am! It’s an emergency!
Hans slammed the door open, forgetting every lesson in knightly etiquette. Lias followed behind him, her face flushed with secondhand embarrassment at his behavior. The noisy intrusion left the female thief gaping, then twisting her brown-skinned face in fury.
Hey, you son of a bitch! You just severed the link! It took me three hours to get those bugs inside the annex—do you have a death wish?!
Uh, ah, sorry about that. But it really is an emergency!
Emergency my ass!! Aaaargh!! This is so damn annoying! The mood was perfect—we were about to get something!
When Primor spoke to restore order, Hans answered in a frantic rush.
Phantom thieves! The ones famous even in Lucregens—they’re attacking the auction house right now!
—Kwaaaang!!
As if to punctuate his words, a massive explosion rattled the mansion’s windows. Primor turned in shock and lost her breath at the sight. A towering flame demon was devouring the building used for the auction.
Robin Kimblee was a thief. Not the common sort who chased money or personal glory—the kind of petty crook people called a “phantom thief.” What Robin stole was far more valuable than gold and more brilliant than any treasure.
Some called him an assassin or an indiscriminate murderer, but no matter what they said, Robin maintained a strict aesthetic about his craft. More delicate than pickpocketing, more thorough than simple burglary—the fleeting art of the moment. That was the “theft of life” Robin pursued.
So they weren’t those phantom thieves. Still, they might prove useful.
That was why a sudden surge of rage filled him at being captured for such a ridiculous reason and forced into petty theft. Being snatched while scouting for a workshop and treated like a slave, the stupid half-elf magician who cared only about money and nagged without knowing his place—nothing about this situation pleased him.
At least the half-elf hadn’t shown his face for several days, probably dead from overwork. That had eased Robin’s irritation somewhat. Even so, using an artist of the moment like himself for common burglary was an insult.
If it were only about raiding the auction house, he could have endured it. There would have been chances to display his artistry on the way to the warehouse. But what came after?
A hunting dog’s duty ended in the cooking pot once the hunt was over. And if it wasn’t even his own dog but a wild cur caught with a collar and used briefly, there was zero chance they would let it live.
The auction goods belonged to nobles who intended to buy and sell them. Evidence of stealing such items had to be thoroughly erased. Robin knew he would be part of that “evidence.”
Yet he had no intention of ending his life as that damn red-haired Elsh bastard’s hunting dog.
Diabolo, that viscount—both of them can go fuck themselves.
He had to watch for a chance to escape. Once he put enough distance between them, even if they noticed, there would be nothing they could do. Leaving Romania was regrettable, but a change of stage did not diminish an actor’s skill.
He had a duty to carve the name of the great thief Robin Kimblee into the history of mankind.
Kill them!! You damn petty thief bastards!!
Aaaaaaaaagh!!
—Fwoooosh!
Robin slipped into the building’s shadows, avoiding the flames and the rabble wrecking the auction house. The fools fighting at the front were mere bait. Checking the warehouse location with the magic item on his wrist, he ran deeper inside, avoiding the taller structures.
—Squish!
Glurk…!
He silenced any interfering guards he passed by adding a new hole to their throats. He would have loved to turn their corpses into art, but if he survived there would be other opportunities. Right now, he had to steal in order to live.
…This is the place!
Robin kicked aside the grass where the magic item pointed. The hidden warehouse entrance appeared—an iron plate set into the ground. Eager to escape, he hooked his fingers around the handle.
—Fwoooooosh!!
In that instant, Robin sensed something razor-sharp flying toward the back of his head and twisted away. Ice shards rained down like arrows, embedding exactly where he had stood.
Clicking his tongue, Robin glared at the auction house building that rose like a clock tower.
The flying champion of ancient tales makes his entrance.
A stranger in a black cloak landed on the spire, fabric fluttering. Some magical power prevented Robin from seeing the masked man’s exact features. But when two women landed on the clock tower behind him, Robin let out a laugh.
Heh. So you’re those petty thieves?
The eye mask, the cloak that shifted like wings—it matched the description perfectly. Yet even after Robin addressed them, the man in front ignored him and simply gestured to the others.
It’s inside. Go on ahead.
Yessir, yessir.
Be careful. It would be troublesome if you died.
Stop with the useless worry and just do your job perfectly.
Robin ground his teeth, eyes blazing. To chat so casually in front of him—there were limits to arrogance. The sneer on his face instantly transformed into pure rage as he remembered the hardships he had suffered because of these idiots.
With a theatrical flourish, Robin spread his arms. The man in the black cloak was an unknown opponent, but that alone was no reason to be cautious. At best, the man was third-rate, associating with petty thieves. There was nothing to fear.
—Thud!!
Robin drew a long iron skewer and leaped. Like a flying squirrel, he bounded off the wall protrusions, climbing rapidly toward the phantom thieves.
At that moment, the man in pitch-black clothing pointed a finger at him. The motion was so fast it resembled a white hawk slicing through the night sky. Extreme cold energy compressed at the tip of his extended index finger. In a voice full of dignity, the man roared.
—Ratatatatatata!!
Guhhhhhhhhhhhhhh?!
The ice shards slammed into Robin’s chest. Having already seen blood and flesh on the skewer in Robin’s hand, the man showed no mercy. Robin crashed to the ground with a penetrating wound centered on his solar plexus.
Ah, this familiar sensation. It’s been four years.
Hoo— The man in black clothing fluttered his cloak and blew on his L-shaped index finger. An icy vapor far colder than winter air flowed from the tip. The technique used mana to form a barrel and compressed ice shards into bullets. In truth, its performance wasn’t high enough to warrant frequent use. He had simply felt like enjoying the sensation of becoming a master gunman again after a long time.
Ice bullets from a gas-powered gun would naturally have low lethality.
It was essentially boosted by mana; at best it was like slightly stronger, larger BB pellets. When he clicked his tongue and landed, Robin was writhing on the ground, clutching his shredded chest.
Kuh, hack…!! Phantom thieves aren’t supposed to attack…!!
Who said that? Your master tell you that?
The man descended easily from the tall tower and approached Robin with a casual stride. Despite the playful movements, his footsteps were perfectly stable. Only then did Robin realize his opponent was an absurdly skilled expert. At the very least, he was no match.
With purple lips, Robin abandoned his pride and prostrated himself.
W-wait! I beg you! Spare me! If you spare me, I have something worth the value of my life!!
Your life doesn’t seem all that valuable. But go on, speak.
With trembling hands, Robin pulled a cylinder from his pocket. It was a hollow tube resembling a bamboo container.
Th-this is an item enchanted with spatial magic. With this, you could store every item from that auction house.
…Spatial magic?
The masked man’s expression darkened.
That’s not the kind of thing you casually mention. Giving something like that to a moron like you, and you handing it over however you please—doesn’t that sound like complete bullshit?
It’s true, I swear!
Even Robin only half-believed it. Spatial magic was something the mages’ guild could barely achieve by imposing strict conditions on specific items. The idea that this tiny tube could hold dozens of stolen treasures regardless of type was hard to swallow. But admitting doubt would get him killed on the spot.
If you don’t believe me, you can check it yours—gah, gahgahgahgah—gahhhk…!!
Robin, who had staked his life on the offer, suddenly stammered as an agonizing heat boiled up inside his chest.
Urk! Gahgahgahk! Gahgahgahgah!!
His shredded chest throbbed violently, spraying blood. The veins from his neck to his jaw turned pitch black. Black blood gushed from every hole in his body.
Norde, who had been listening with suspicion, frowned.
The fuck? At least give a trigger warning, damn.
—Pop!
Like a water-filled leather balloon bursting, Robin sprayed black blood and died on the spot. The magic item he held shattered in unison.
—Splat.
Robin’s corpse, ribs blooming like grotesque flowers from his chest, collapsed into a pool of black blood.
…Well damn. They really don’t leave any loose ends.
Watching the corpse, Norde let out a dry chuckle. Yet there was not the slightest trace of humor in his quietly murmuring expression.