No Need to Think Twice

Reed quickly scanned his surroundings.

It was a narrow alley flanked by tall stone walls. Even in a thriving hub like Morasil, the backstreets and side alleys remained unpaved dirt.

With a flick of Reed's hand, the ground beneath them erupted skyward.

"What the—?!"

As the startled bandits recoiled in confusion, Reed sent the soil soaring over their heads and severed the flow of mana.

Deprived of magic, the earth came crashing down. The heavier clods plummeted straight toward the cobblestones, while the finer particles caught the drafts and whipped into a blinding haze. In an instant, the cramped corridor was swallowed by an impenetrable curtain of dust—a clever tactical trick Reed had devised as his mastery over Earth Control deepened.

Blinded by the swirling veil, the bandit at the front froze in his tracks. Trembling, he called back over his shoulder to his comrade. "What kind of trick is—"

Clang!

An iron shovel shot out from the dust cloud and slammed into the side of his skull. After weeks of relentless physical labor and strength conditioning, Reed's strike packed more than enough force to shatter bone.

"You son of a bitch!"

Watching his partner crumble like a sack of grain, the second bandit went wild with fury and charged forward, clutching a wicked dagger. But Reed remained completely unfazed. He traced a calm gesture through the air.

The drifting dust suddenly condensed into tight, snaking ribbons that darted straight into the man's mouth, nostrils, and eyes.

"Guh! Ack—!"

Plunged into darkness and starved of air, the bandit instinctively opened his mouth wide to cough out the grit. Yet the desperate gasp only drew more dirt down his windpipe, plugging his throat like mortar.

Crack!

As the thrashing bandit stumbled blindly against the alley walls, the shovel descended once more. The man dropped without so much as a whimper. It was, at the very least, a swifter and far more merciful end than asphyxiation.

That takes care of the front line.

Reed turned around. As the dust settled, the remaining bandits took in the sight of their two dead comrades, visibly horrified. One of the men in the back was already shifting his weight, glancing frantically over his shoulder for an escape route.

"H-He's a mage..."

"Fuck. We're dead."

"Why the hell is a mage walking around by himself?!"

Their will to fight had evaporated completely. But the ringleader gritted his teeth, shifting his grip on his blade.

"Don't wet yourselves, you cowards! You think a blade won't pierce a mage's gut just like anyone else's?! Hwaaaah!"

Bellowing to steady his own nerves, the leader kicked off the dirt and lunged, driving his dagger straight toward Reed's midsection.

Got him!

Having taken plenty of lives before, the bandit was certain the strike was true. There was no way he could miss at this distance. Yet the instant the steel was poised to tear through flesh and scramble his entrails, the earth beneath them surged.

Skrrr-clang!

The dagger struck an impenetrable earthen barricade and glanced off with a shriek of scraping metal. In the same breath, a wave of loose soil rose and clamped around the bandit's face. Reed followed through with a solid kick to the chest, sending the choking leader flying backward, then immediately prepared for the next assault.

The others will swarm next.

Yet when Reed turned his head, all he saw were the heels of the remaining bandits sprinting for dear life. They clearly could not care less about their fallen leader.

"Hah."

Shaking his head at the absurdity, Reed pressed his palm against the ground. The soil surged upward, shaping itself into an oversized hand that clamped tightly around the ankle of a fleeing rogue.

"Gah!"

Caught off balance, the bandit stumbled and frantically kicked to free himself. Under normal circumstances, the sheer force of a struggling adult might have torn free of Earth Grasp. But Reed had already found a way to shore up that weakness.

The earthen hand petrified into stone-hard solidity in an instant, locking the man's leg in a vice grip. Combining two distinct spells yielded an entirely new level of control.

Reed wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

"Phew. Looks like one of them managed to slip away."

A wry chuckle escaped his lips. Not so long ago, he had been terrified out of his wits by Rat's back-alley syndicate in Asterritz. Now, here he was, taking on five cutthroats with daggers and feeling mild annoyance that a single one had escaped.

Reed crouched down to meet the terrified gaze of the pinned bandit, who looked up at him while violently trembling.

"Why did you follow me?" Reed asked plainly. "Are you with the Black Blade Syndicate?"

The thought had crossed his mind that perhaps assassins from Asterritz had tracked him all the way west seeking vengeance. But the bandit merely blinked in bewilderment, shaking his head with desperate vigor.

"Black... what? I-I don't know who that is! It was just... just—"

"Just?"

"You were walking with your arms wrapped around your chest like some poor brat who'd struck it rich! We only wanted to lift some coin off you... We weren't gonna kill you! I swear on my life!"

Reed let the excuse slide right past his ears. Who in their right mind pulled out honed steel on a dark street without intent to kill?

Well, at least it's not the Black Blades.

The shadows of Asterritz ran deep. Any organization that held territory in those slums possessed real grit and dangerous operatives, and Reed knew their boss was no fool. A genuine hit squad would look nothing like these clumsy gutter rats.

Even as relief washed over him, a twinge of embarrassment lingered. Was I really that obvious? A poor brat who had struck it rich. There was not a single lie in that description. Realizing how transparent he had been, Reed felt his cheeks warm.

Reading the shift in his expression, the bandit prostrated himself, slamming his forehead against the dirt. "I had no idea you were a mage! I mean, Lord Mage! I'll live honestly from now on, I swear it! Please, just spare my life! I'm begging you!"

"I didn't look like a mage to you? I went out of my way to wear this robe."

"W-Well... you were walking all alone, so... Regardless, I'm sorry! Please, just let me live!"

Should I spare him?

Watching the man frantically rub his palms together in supplication, old memories from the slums of Asterritz surfaced in Reed's mind.

"I-I'm sorry, Gravekeeper! I was just starving! Please spare me! I have kids to feed at home!"

"Y-You're letting me go?! Thank you! Thank you so much! I'll never do this again!"

"Hey there, you little bastard. Remember me? Brought my big brothers along this time. Today's your funeral."

No. Softness in the slums was an invitation to an early grave. Mercy was a luxury reserved exclusively for the powerful.

Reed raised his shovel. Detecting the sudden spike in killing intent, the bandit's face twisted from begging to raw, venomous despair.

"You vicious, cold-blooded bastard! You'll rot in the deepest pit of hell! The demons will tear your soul to—gahk!"

The heavy iron spade cracked down. Reed shrugged as he pulled it back.

"Spare me the sermon, you thieving trash."

Reed searched the corpses, stripped them of every coin and scrap of value, and dug a quick, rough trench to bury them beneath the alley soil. Just like that, several pieces of useless vermin were welcomed into the earth's embrace. In time, their rotting flesh would serve as nourishment for new life.

Pulling his robe tight, Reed resumed his trek. His thoughts still lingered on the gold coins tucked against his ribs, but this time, he walked with his head held high.

In the days that followed, the lone bandit who managed to flee would whisper tales through the underbelly of the city—rumors of a terrifying mage who commanded the earth itself.

For the first time in a while, Reed paid a visit to the Imperial Western Pioneers' Union headquarters. Smith Leak greeted him warmly at his desk.

"Welcome, Reed. I've been waiting for you."

Driven by fierce personal ambition, Smith followed Reed's every move with keen interest. Reed, likewise, made a point of maintaining contact to gather intelligence, tips, and logistical advice about the frontier.

"So, how have things been treating you lately?"

"I'm settling in well, thanks to your assistance."

"Would you mind sharing the details?"

Smith had people keeping tabs on Reed's activities across the city. His question was not born of simple curiosity, but rather a deliberate test to gauge whether Reed truly warranted his continued political and personal investment.

Reed was well aware of the official's calculating nature, but he bore no resentment. In a rough frontier metropolis like Morasil, a relationship anchored in mutual profit was often far sturdier than one built on vague notions of trust. Smith wanted prestige and results; Reed needed resources, protection, and guidance.

He's a useful man to have in my corner.

Keeping on good terms with the bureaucrat was nothing but advantageous. Reed offered a concise summary of his recent labor at the Stonemasons' Union and the encounter with the Crystal Kobold deep in the caverns.

"Hmm. An Aberrant Variant..." Smith murmured, tapping his quill against the parchment. "It happens from time to time out here in the Demonic Borderlands. You were in grave danger, yet that peril doubles as a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tremendous opportunity."

"An opportunity?"

"It serves as undeniable proof that you possess genuine talent as a Combat Mage. Mages capable of keeping their wits and fighting effectively on a chaotic battlefield are exceedingly rare—especially here in the west."

Not everyone who could wield magic was suited for war. What good was conjuring a fireball the size of a cottage if panic froze your hands the moment real blood splashed across the mud? Furthermore, a vast majority of academic mages devoted their lives to esoteric theory rather than tactical violence. That explained why those alley thugs had foolishly charged Reed even after seeing him conjure earth; they likely assumed he would crumple once drawn into close-quarters melee.

It was news to Reed, but he maintained a stoic, practiced nod as though it were common knowledge.

"That makes sense."

Since Smith already assumed Reed was the cherished apprentice of some reclusive master, there was no need to shatter the illusion.

"You ventured into the frontier to carry out tasks assigned by your master, did you not?" Smith asked. "Surely you don't intend to spend your entire life dressing stone for the union."

"...I suppose not."

"Once the rumors of this aberrant variant circulate, many parties will seek to hire your services. If you permit it, I could filter through the requests and present only the most lucrative and reliable offers to you. Naturally, the final choice would remain entirely yours."

Reed pondered the proposal for a moment before nodding.

Even a simple stroll through Morasil carried the risk of an ambush. If the city streets were this hazardous, the untamed wilds beyond the perimeter walls would be exponentially worse. Survival required overwhelming strength, and expanding his magic meant gathering more offerings for Ur.

Smith will screen out the garbage assignments.

In exchange, the bureaucrat would pocket fees and cement his standing by acting as an exclusive broker. It was an arrangement where both sides walked away winners.

"Very well. My schedule is a bit tight at the moment, but if the terms and pay are fair, I have no reason to refuse."

"Haha! I assure you, you won't be disappointed." Smith took off his spectacles, polished them with a broad grin, and poured fresh black tea into Reed's cup. "That reminds me—there's something I've wanted to bring up for quite some time. Have you considered taking on personal guards?"

"Guards?"

"No matter how mighty a mage may be, none can survive a dagger thrust from their blind spot. That's why practitioners of the craft almost invariably travel with two or three personal escorts."

The logic applied to anyone of status in the empire. High nobles, wealthy merchants, and influential officials never ventured outside unescorted. Surrounding oneself with a retinue was as much an overt display of rank and authority as it was a practical precaution.

Now that he mentions it, those bandits only assumed I was an easy mark because I was wandering the streets alone.

Even the finest enchanted robe meant nothing if its wearer looked like an unprotected vagrant.

"Combat mages typically hire mercenaries or purchase slave soldiers," Smith continued. "Mercenaries, however, demand recurring wages, and the trustworthy ones charge exorbitant rates."

"Hmm. My purse isn't particularly heavy right now..."

"Then a slave soldier would suit your circumstances far better. Provide them with basic rations, and they will gladly serve as your shield."

"..."

Reed's brow furrowed. It was not merely the modern sensibilities of his previous life speaking; the harsh realities of the slums had worn away much of that delicate naivety long ago. Rather, the word 'slave' dragged up bitter memories from his youth in South Korea—years spent performing backbreaking manual labor for callous relatives who treated him like unpaid property.

And now, he was being urged to own one himself.

Noticing the sudden stiffness in Reed's expression, Smith quickly added, "Imperial law strictly prohibits the illicit trade of human lives, outside of captured prisoners of war, convicted felons, or individuals who voluntarily sell their own contracts. Our administration in Morasil enforces these edicts with an iron fist. The barbaric ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠practices you might imagine rarely occur within our jurisdiction. But if the matter troubles your conscience, I can direct you to a reputable broker I know personally."

Reed suppressed a cynical smirk. Laws were noble on paper, but reality never followed the letter of the code. Even in the twenty-first century, people slipped through systemic cracks every single day; a frontier boomtown on the fringes of the empire was bound to harbor unspeakable horrors beneath its veneer of order.

Still, an establishment vetted by Smith was bound to be relatively clean.

"The atmosphere throughout the borderlands has grown tense of late," Smith warned, lowering his voice. "Cultists and demon worshippers have become increasingly active. I urge you to consider this seriously."

"..."

Reed weighed his options carefully. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have declined outright. The prospect of owning a person felt distasteful, and every coin mattered. Yet having narrowly survived an aberrant beast and a street ambush on the very same day, his perspective had shifted.

The frontier doesn't care about my ideals. I need an insurance policy.

He finally gave a slow nod. "Very well. Introduce me to someone reliable."

Reed boarded a carriage arranged by Smith and rode directly toward the Southern Commercial District. Glancing out the window, he watched the vibrant evening rush of Morasil unfold. Even after dusk, the avenues teemed with life.

Tavern keepers swept their front stoops in preparation for the dinner crowd, while exhausted laborers gathered in small clusters to wash away the day's sweat with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cheap ale. Grimy beastkin with scabbards strapped to their hips lingered outside weapon shops, peering through display windows while dwarf merchants glared back fiercely, guarding against pickpockets. Down the center of the avenue, a disciplined file of bleached skeletons marched in unison, led by a sharply dressed necromancer stepping briskly ahead.

No matter how many times I see that, I'll never get used to it.

A chaotic melting pot of diverse cultures, species, and eccentric traditions—this was the Western Demon Realm. Much of it defied modern common sense, but Reed resolved to accept it as local custom. That included the existence of a legally sanctioned slave market operating openly in the city's merchant quarter.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Mage!"

The slave trader, Raphal, proved to be a jovial, grandfatherly man. Far from the bloated, sinister slaver Reed had envisioned, Raphal possessed a trim frame and deep laughter lines around his eyes that suggested a lifetime of easy smiles.

"According to Mister Smith's letter of introduction, you are in the market for an escort. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Then you have come to the finest establishment in the province. My stock is quite exceptional."

With an air of supreme confidence, Raphal led Reed into the depths of the compound. Instead of damp dungeons or iron cages, the interior opened into a comfortable reception hall furnished with plush couches. Several individuals were lounging casually, playing cards, or napping peacefully.

To Reed's astonishment, these were the slaves. His preconceived notions of iron shackles and heavy chains were shattered completely.

"Pardon me, but... is it safe to leave them wandering about like this? Aren't you worried they'll run?"

"Hm? Ah, goodness, no! The people resting here are all voluntary contractors who came of their own accord to sell their labor. Why would they run away?"

"So you don't engage in kidnapping or forced subjugation?"

"Hahaha!" Raphal let out a booming laugh, thoroughly amused by the question. "Lord Mage, do you know what my business motto is?"

"...What is it?"

"'Only the finest merchandise!' Tell me, have you observed the necromancers parading their undead thralls through the city streets?"

Reed nodded. He had seen one just moments ago.

"The very day I first laid eyes on those shambling skeletons, I realized the era of cheap manual labor was finished. Brutish traffickers who kidnap commoners and beat them with whips must now compete against mindless corpses that require neither food nor rest."

Harsh manual industries, such as cotton fields and sugar cane plantations, were constantly starved for bodies. In the past, enslaved captives filled that demand; now, the dead were rapidly supplanting them.

"There is no undercutting a necromancer in a price war. What choice did I have? I had to adapt and pivot toward a luxury clientele. I scout talented candidates, hone their abilities, and teach them specialized trades—valuable skills that rotting corpses could never hope to replicate."

"I see what you mean by 'the finest merchandise.'"

"Indeed! My ambition is that one day, when people hear the name Raphal, they will proclaim with absolute confidence: 'A slave from Raphal is a slave you can trust!'"

The concept of branding slaves like artisan goods sounded bizarre, but the logic behind his enterprise was remarkably sound.

"Ah, look at me rambling on and wasting your precious time!" Raphal chuckled self-deprecatingly.

"Not at all. It was an intriguing perspective."

"You are too kind. Now then, shall we discuss your budget and criteria?"

Reed stated the maximum amount of coin he was willing to spend. That single figure instantly disqualified a vast majority of the roster; Raphal's skilled retainers commanded steep prices.

"Hmm. Taking your budget into account, the candidates best suited for you are... right through here. Follow me."

Raphal opened a door at the far end of the hall, revealing a spacious private chamber occupied by two figures.

One was a stunning fox beastkin, and the other was a lizardman with light brown scales. Raphal gestured proudly toward the woman first.

"This is Nadja! Haha, breathtaking, is she not? But you must not let her beauty lower your guard. Her mastery of dual daggers is second to none. Furthermore, her beastkin heritage grants her exceptional sensory perception, making her an ideal scout against sudden ambushes. On top of that, she manages domestic chores flawlessly and is an exquisite cook!"

Nadja was undeniably striking. With fair, luminous skin and wide, innocent eyes, she radiated a delicate, almost fragile aura. Yet beneath her loose garments, the curves of her figure were astonishingly lush.

As her gaze met Reed's, she bashfully lowered her head, a rosy flush blooming across her cheeks. Behind her, a bushy fox tail swished gently from side to side, signaling that she was far from displeased with her prospective master.

Raphal beamed with paternal satisfaction, then turned his hand toward the lizardman standing in the corner.

"And this is Shaka. Er... he is quite proficient with a spear."

Bzzzz!

A fat fly buzzed past. With a dull, vacant expression, the lizardman flicked out a long, whip-like tongue, snagged the insect mid-air, and swallowed it whole in a fraction ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of a second.

"...As you can observe, his reflexes are quite sharp. And he possesses a healthy appetite."

"I see."

"Quite so."

Evidently, that concluded the list of Shaka's virtues.

Taking in Reed's deadpan expression, Raphal broke into an understanding, conspiratorial grin.

"It seems you have already made your choice."

"Yes."

"Indeed! There is truly no need to think twice about this one. Nadja is... ahem, even an old man like myself can see that... ehehehe."

"Hahaha."

"Gwahahaha!"

"I'll take Shaka."

"...Eh?"