No Witnesses
Harmensales's method of absorbing mana was not always consistent.
From what Muzark had observed so far, his methods fell into two distinct categories.
The first scenario.
In Claude Regan's workshop, where they had first made contact. During the ritual referred to by the slang term 'collection,' Harmensales had 'inhaled' the mana contained within the mana stones.
The second scenario.
Muzark, who had inherited the contract, had used demons. In the three transactions they had conducted prior to today, Harmensales had 'devoured' low-tier demons, chewing them up without leaving so much as a bone fragment behind.
The difference lay in the target.
It wasn't a whim dictated by his daily mood,
but a calculated decision to consume mana as efficiently as possible.
So, what about humans?
Which category did they fall into—the former or the latter?
The definitive answer was now unfolding right before Muzark's eyes.
Ssssshh.
The dark red smoke that formed Harmensales's spiritual body expanded, rolling forward like a wave to claim the gambling den. The blood-red mist engulfed the outlaws from the front.
The effects were instantaneous.
"What the fuck... my body... cough, blegh!"
"Aaaagh...! I—I can't... breathe..."
The outlaws who had been charging forward so fiercely collapsed one by one, like puppets with their strings cut.
A profound lethargy seized their limbs. A chilling numbness spread from the tips of their fingers and toes, accompanied by dizziness and asphyxiation. Every organ in their bodies began to fail.
Then came the true horror.
"Aaaaaaaagh!"
The pores across their entire bodies dilated. Faint traces of mana leaked through the wide-open passages. Drawn by the irresistible suction, their very blood vessels were dragged along with the mana, snapping under the pressure.
The agony of having their skin torn open and their insides shredded was excruciatingly vivid. Their bloodshot eyes trembled violently before freezing entirely, leaving only vacant, lifeless pupils.
It was a sight more than enough to shatter anyone's will to fight.
"This is insane! Fall back! Get the hell back!"
The sharp survival instincts of men who had lived rough, lawless lives kicked in. The outlaws scrambled backward, desperate to put even a millimeter of distance between themselves and the approaching demon's grasp.
There was absolutely no order.
They shoved and pulled at one another, trampling anyone who fell behind. One man tripped while trying to leap over a table. The floor became a chaotic mess of scattered dice, shattered liquor bottles, and discarded weapons.
Only the few who won the frantic race reached the back door and the emergency exit.
"Open it! Hurry!"
Crash!
The door slammed open, bouncing off the corridor wall. As half a dozen men wedged themselves into the narrow exit, each screaming to get out first, one woman noticed a sudden change.
The frantic commotion behind them had suddenly died down.
The panicked screams, the heavy footsteps echoing through the enclosed underground facility, the desperate pleas of those who had tripped—all of it had abruptly vanished.
She didn't even need to look back.
"No... please..."
The blood-red mist had already risen to their chests. Within seconds, the corridor was completely swallowed, and their bodies collapsed. Hands that had been clawing toward the surface fell limp onto the cold floor.
They had been drained of every last drop of mana.
—Except for a select few exceptional beings, every living creature in existence possesses mana.
Mana had existed in the world since the dawn of time, and every species had adapted to it. Humans were the prime example, having evolved to support all of their bodily functions with mana.
It was a source of life as vital as oxygen.
Even for non-mages without a magic circuit, it was an indispensable resource. Forcing mana out of a living body caused catastrophic internal trauma, shutting down all biological functions.
Ssssshh.
The mist that had blanketed the room began to coalesce once more.
Under the flickering lights, some thirty-odd corpses lay scattered across the floor. To Harmensales, a demon—a creature of pure mana—was a perfect source of nourishment with nothing to waste. Humans, however, were not.
In the chilling silence, someone spoke.
"You crazy bastard."
There were still survivors in the wake of the slaughter. Three, excluding Muzark. Tilla spat a curse as she struggled to steady her ragged breathing and the turbulent flow of her mana.
"Sacrificing humans to a fucking demon? This is a first-class magic crime! It's a crime dozens of times worse than stabbing a child in the street! If anyone finds out about this, you're—"
"I don't know if you've ever heard the saying,"
Muzark took a step forward.
"It's only an assassination if there are no witnesses."
"Wh-what? Assassination?"
"I have no intention of letting a single one of you leave here alive."
He shifted his gaze to stare at the man.
The man who was currently staggering, his magic circuit completely scrambled.
"Ugh... you son of a bitch..."
Lahar.
"So, you were a mage after all."
The mere fact that he had survived the demon's feast proved he possessed a magic circuit. Judging by how badly he was struggling to keep his footing, however, his skills seemed inferior to Tilla's.
He was certainly a cunning bastard. If he had at least mastered Shield, he could have used it as a trump card. His usual habit of acting envious of mages had likely been a complete bluff.
Was Muzark disappointed? Not in the slightest.
"Actually, this is perfect."
Muzark's right hand was enveloped in iron armor.
"I wanted to beat you to death with my own two hands anyway."
The moment the words left his mouth, he lunged forward. The distance was roughly twenty meters. Even with the debris littering the floor, it was a gap he could close in the blink of an eye.
Lahar shrieked in panic.
"Don't let him get close! Stop him, damn it!"
"Stop barking orders, you piece of shit. Eric, cover me."
"Understood."
The two mages hired as bodyguards, Tilla and Eric, split up and fanned out to either side.
Creeeeak!
The round table Eric grabbed crumpled and flattened under his touch. Expanding its surface area as much as possible, he hurled the wooden slab—which could no longer be called a table—with all his might.
It was a crude form of transmutation magic that Yen would have scoffed at.
Instead of dodging, Muzark caught it with a single hand. The Shield active over his body absorbed the impact effortlessly. But just as he tossed the wooden slab aside to resume his charge—
Whoosh!
A sudden wave of heat surged from his right.
A stream of fire erupted from Tilla's index finger. A thin, elongated whip of flame danced and swayed, following the precise movements of her hand.
A whip of flame, wielded with absolute freedom.
In the Empire, this would be dismissed as a low-tier mage's parlor trick, but this was Redline. In a slum city like this, it was a devastating spell. Tilla had used it to burn five mages to ash in the past.
Furthermore, the objects Eric transmuted and hurled restricted his movements. Unable to break straight through, Muzark found himself gradually forced into a corner.
"Ahaha! No intention of letting us leave alive? You're all talk, boy!"
Tilla and Eric were overwhelmingly dominating the fight.
Lahar, who had been looking for a chance to slip away, let out a sneer.
"Dumbass. I told you to be satisfied with being the head of a rat."
Those two mages were the ones truly worthy of being called 'heads of rats.' They knew their place and never looked up at trees they could never climb. Sewer rats perfectly content with crawling in the gutters.
Muzark's potential might have been brilliant, but he had picked the wrong opponents.
A freshly sprouted bud stood no chance against seasoned veterans.
...Or so Lahar thought, right before his reality shattered.
"Huh?"
Lahar, who had been watching the fight with smug detachment, gasped in shock. Tilla was even more bewildered. What was happening defied all magical common sense.
"N-no way. Did he just... catch it?"
The whip of flame she had been wielding so confidently was now gripped firmly in Muzark's bare hand. The moment he squeezed his fist, pssssh! The channeled mana dispersed, and the spell shattered into harmless sparks.
Before she could cast her next spell, black threads erupted from Muzark's hand. Tilla jerked her head back to dodge, but the threads curved mid-air and wrapped tightly around her neck.
Muzark yanked the bundle of threads like a rope in a tug-of-war.
Thud!
"Ugh!"
The crude, incomplete Chain snapped under the strain, but the momentum slammed Tilla's head face-first into a table. Even as she gasped for air, her vision blurring from a severe concussion, she was plagued by utter disbelief.
'How did he break my magic?'
It was one thing for her flame whip to be extinguished so easily, but what about her Shield?
Had her Shield really been bypassed by such a pathetic piece of dark magic?
"Don't fuck with me! Do you have any idea who I am?!"
Venom flared in Tilla's dark purple eyes. She forced mana into her unstable circuit, heating it to its limits. Even if she had to suffer the backlash for a week, she was determined to tear this bastard apart.
But the moment she lifted her head with a murderous glare—
"Who are you, exactly?"
Muzark was already standing right in front of her, looking down.
Crack!
His gauntlet slammed down, crushing Tilla's neck. It was a brutal, merciless strike. Her jaw slackened as her lifeless body slumped forward, face burying back into the table.
"Tilla!"
Eric shrieked and began throwing everything within reach. Muzark didn't bother dodging. Swatting the debris aside, he reached down and picked up a heavy iron spanner rolling on the floor.
The fundamental rule of a magic battle:
If you cannot pierce your opponent's Shield, you have no hope of victory.
"You useless pieces of shit! Aaaagh!"
The moment Tilla fell, black threads wrapped around Lahar's ankle as he tried to bolt. Tripping, Lahar scrambled onto his back and pointed his pistol at the approaching Muzark.
"D-don't come any closer! Get the fuck away from me!"
Bang! Bang!
Acrid gunpowder smoke filled the air with each shot. Not a single bullet found its mark. The closer Muzark got, the more violently Lahar's hands shook.
"Keep shooting."
"Why the fuck did a monster like you have to show up?!"
"I said, keep shooting."
He pulled the trigger again, and again, and again, until—
Click.
Out of ammo, the pistol slipped from Lahar's trembling fingers. Panting heavily, he stared up at Muzark. The cold, piercing blue eyes looking down at him held none of the naive innocence they once had.
They were the ruthless, calculating eyes of a true mage.
Only then did Lahar truly realize he was going to die.
"Ha... haha. Damn it..."
Crunch!
The spanner, shrouded in a dark haze, was painted red. Lahar never managed to cast anything resembling magic before his breath left him.
As a mage, he had been worse than third-rate.
"Haa..."
Muzark tossed the spanner aside and took a deep breath. His head had been throbbing for a while now. The lingering shock of the terror attack had left him physically and mentally drained.
Just as he was about to turn back, a gunshot rang out.
"What the..."
The other mage—whose name Muzark didn't even know, the one who had kept throwing things at him—was slumped against the wall. He had put a bullet through his own skull.
It was a bizarre end, but it saved him the trouble.
He would have hunted him down and killed him anyway.
"...This feels disgusting."
His hands were trembling.
He clenched his fists tight and released them, forcing the tremors to stop. The metallic stench of blood hung heavy in the air. The soles of his boots were sticky with something he didn't care to identify.
He surveyed the now-silent gambling den. The place was a total wreck.
Flames were licking at the walls, sending thick smoke billowing toward the ceiling. Overturned and shattered tables lay in heaps. Debris that had once been wooden chairs and tables was scattered everywhere in bizarre, unrecognizable shapes.
And then there were the corpses, their eyes rolled back in death.
He etched the carnage he had wrought deep into his memory. Even if he were to commit far worse slaughters in the future, he would never forget this day. It was both a solemn reflection and a vow.
Just as he had declared, there were no witnesses left.
Yet, he had only achieved half of his goal.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
Amidst the landscape of death stood Harmensales.
The demon had swept away the non-mages on Muzark's behalf, but that was a separate matter from their agreement. Now that he had devoured his fill of mana, it was Harmensales's turn to pay the price.
The glowing yellow eyes stared directly at Muzark, just as they always did. Today, that gaze felt particularly grating—as if the demon already knew exactly what he was going to ask, yet was prompting him anyway.
There was no reason to beat around the bush.
"Tell me how to save Yen."
Even if Yen had already given up on herself,
Muzark had absolutely no intention of giving up on her.