The First Hunt
The territory of the Empire is broadly divided into seven regions.
They radiate outward in concentric circles, surrounding the First Region, the Purple Line, which sits at the very center. Towering, thick walls are erected between each region, preventing anyone from crossing them freely.
A strict hierarchy governs these seven regions. The further one travels from the First Region, the lower the status of the land—a division based not on mere symbolism, but on cold, hard reality.
The reason lies in the atmospheric mana concentration and its level of pollution.
The higher regions possess a denser and far purer concentration of mana compared to the lower ones. Consequently, powerful mages are much more likely to emerge in the upper echelons. It is a system defined by a clear, undeniable disparity in power.
At the absolute bottom of this hierarchy lies the Seventh Region: Redline.
Though vast in territory, most of it is barren wasteland. Due to severe mana pollution and the rampant, unchecked spawning of demons, the living space of its residents is restricted to an extreme degree.
Currently, only three cities remain in Redline.
The place where Muzark had settled was Eastred.
"On days when acid rain falls, people die by the dozens. Whether it's sunny or cloudy, those demon bastards run rampant. It's a place impossible to love, no matter how hard you try."
Yen led the way, carrying a bulky briefcase.
"If a major incident occurs, the higher-ups might send a mage down, but that's just a bare-minimum safety net. It happens maybe once a year, if we're lucky. In the end, we have to handle things on our own."
The residents of Redline were constantly struggling just to survive.
"And that 'handling things on our own' is the Security Bureau's job."
She stopped walking and gestured forward with her chin.
Muzark scanned the abandoned factory Yen was pointing at. It was even filthier than the streets, and an unidentified stench wafted from it. The desolate atmosphere made it look like a haunted house.
Click.
Yen squatted down and popped open the briefcase.
"Here. Pick whatever you like."
The briefcase was packed with various tools. None of them looked particularly impressive. Most were common household implements: hand axes, saws, claw hammers, and the like.
"You want me to beat demons to death with these?"
"Sorry if you were expecting proper swords or spears. The Security Bureau has them, but they're all low-grade trash with terrible cost-efficiency. Just think of these as disposable."
Accepting her explanation, Muzark browsed through the options.
They were all secondhand. The saw's teeth were worn down, and the hammer's grip creaked. He had no idea how he was supposed to use a screwdriver or tweezers. Were they for torture?
"I wouldn't recommend using your bare hands. Demon blood is incredibly sticky."
"I wouldn't even if you paid me."
He chose a hand axe that looked the cleanest and easiest to handle. The fact that it had a blade was a plus. The thought of bashing a monster's skull in with a hammer made him feel a surge of revulsion.
"Good luck. If it's too much, you can run away."
Of course, if he did, Muzark Bespard's reputation would hit rock bottom.
Gripping the handle of the axe, Muzark stepped into the factory. Tension hammered against his chest, but his footsteps remained cautious. He had foreseen a situation like this ever since the day he saw the basement of the Security Bureau.
He had had plenty of time to steel his resolve.
Let's do this.
Lowering his posture, he pressed himself against the wall and crept forward. Sunlight filtered in near the entrance, but ahead lay a boundary where the light could not reach. Keeping his guard up in all directions, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
His heightened senses caught a presence.
Crunch, crunch.
The sound of something chewing. The foul odor that had been lingering in the air grew thicker as he advanced. Just as his tension reached its peak, he spotted a small, shifting shadow in the corner.
Dark red flesh, distinctly non-human.
Its back was grotesquely hunched, with shoulder blades protruding through its flesh like awls. The creature sat with its back to the steel staircase on the left, entirely absorbed in its meal.
He didn't know what "food" it was tearing apart. No, he deliberately pushed the thought out of his mind to avoid thinking about it. Disgust and fear would only stiffen his muscles and freeze his thoughts.
The only thing that mattered was that the creature had not yet noticed his approach.
The positioning is tricky.
The angle made it difficult to get behind it. If he tried to climb the stairs and they creaked, he would be spotted instantly. Creeping up to bash the back of its head seemed out of the question.
Sigh, shit.
Muzark crept to the pillar closest to the demon, hid behind it, and slipped off his shoes. Then, preparing to spring forward, he hurled one of his shoes onto the staircase with all his might.
—Thud!
"Grrr!"
The demon tossed its food aside and began waddling toward the source of the noise. While its attention was completely diverted, a splashing sound echoed right behind it.
The demon whipped its head around so fast its neck nearly snapped.
But by the time it turned, the hand axe was already bearing down on it.
Thwack!
The axe blade, enveloped in a faint black haze, buried itself deep into the demon's head. He didn't stop at one strike. Muzark shoved the demon to the ground and hacked down repeatedly.
Slash! Thud!
Only when he was absolutely certain it was dead did he stop swinging.
"Haa... haaa..."
Its resistance had been pathetic.
His palms stung slightly, but he hadn't sustained a single scratch. It was almost anticlimactic, but any budding complacency vanished the moment his eyes drifted downward.
In the pool of blood lay the half-eaten corpse the demon had been chewing on.
Judging by the clothes, it was likely a homeless person. Although this was a closed-off area currently off-limits, those who could no longer live in the city due to debt or other reasons often drifted here and became vagrants.
Having lost even a place to sleep in the slums, they had met their end at the hands of a demon.
What a tragic fate.
Muzark swallowed down his rising bile and stood up. It felt like only yesterday he was swinging a pickaxe hundreds of times a day, yet his arms were trembling after just a few swings of an axe. He wasn't even sure where his shoe had flown off to.
Ah, there it is.
At least he didn't have to scavenge the corpse's shoes.
"Good work."
Yen handed him a towel as he emerged from the factory.
He returned the hand axe and wiped the blood off his body.
"How was it? Think you can handle this?"
"It wasn't as hard as I thought. Disgusting, though."
"Is that so?"
Now that he had gotten the first one out of the way, he could do better next time.
If he approached carefully, he could test their senses one by one—whether they had sharp hearing or a keen sense of smell. If there was only one opponent, he could afford to fight more aggressively.
"I gave it a solid whack, and it stopped moving."
"Just how hard did you hit it...?"
Tilting her head, Yen looked down at the hand axe. In contrast to the dripping demon blood, a faint black haze was dispersing into the air.
"Ah."
Yen smiled faintly.
Once the sun set, the streets emptied out almost completely. Despite the presence of the Security Bureau, this was a city without security cameras. A homeless person vanishing without a trace wasn't even worth gossiping about.
To keep oneself alive, one had to look out for oneself.
Thanks to that, Eastred's nights were quiet. The area around the Security Bureau's dormitory, in particular, was dead silent at night, allowing Muzark to immerse himself in private training without any distractions.
Sssss.
As he channeled his magic, black iron began to form over the back of his hand. Rather than wrapping around his hand, it was more like a plated layer. Even then, it failed to cover his entire hand, barely concealing half of it.
This had become his new daily routine.
Even if he didn't fully understand what kind of magic it was or how to utilize it, it was still a precious card in his hand. He needed to practice it whenever he had the chance.
As expected, it's not like last time.
The area of skin covered by the iron was smaller than when he had cast the magic under Yen's guidance. That first time had been abnormally successful. And when he had burned the mana stone, that was an entirely different story altogether.
Setting those exceptions aside, he had been making steady progress over the past few days.
Did I bleed the first time?
He remembered the droplets of blood turning into smoke. Could his blood be acting as a "catalyst"? Even as a layman in magic, he knew that was a common trope.
Following that train of thought, he made a small cut on his finger. As a drop of blood welled up, he channeled his magic again. The blood evaporated, slowly transforming into black smoke.
...It doesn't make a noticeable difference.
The iron plating expanded by barely the width of a fingernail. It was so minor he could have easily dismissed it as an illusion. Then again, it was foolish to expect a dramatic change from just a few drops of blood.
Understanding the efficiency of the catalyst would be useful, but...
To conduct a proper experiment, he would have to wound himself like he did in the mine. Back then, Yen had pressed down hard on his sliced palm, causing a significant amount of blood to flow.
Doing that now would only hinder his daily activities tomorrow.
Forget it. My hand just healed. I'll just practice normally.
Muzark picked up a pen.
Without fail, a black haze wrapped around the pen. It was a phenomenon he had witnessed multiple times by now. It seemed to transfer naturally, even without his conscious intent.
What on earth is this?
He hadn't asked Yen. Not only had she claimed she didn't know, but he also had no desire to show her the details. Cryptofetica was his trump card.
He felt indebted to Yen. There was no denying that he was receiving her help in many ways. However, he also had to consider the possibility of betrayal, just like with Number 14 and Number 19 back in the mine.
Gratitude and trust were two entirely different things.
If I had to guess...
He recalled his battle with Claude Regan.
Excluding the moment Harmensales was summoned, that was the first time he had ever witnessed magic. A black veil had manifested in midair, and shadows had writhed like living creatures.
At the time, he had lunged forward with the sole intent of surviving, but there was no doubt that it was a supernatural phenomenon. Claude Regan, third-rate though he might have been, was undeniably a mage.
And yet, I easily defeated him... No.
He corrected the thought that had crossed his mind.
I killed him.
"Sole intent of surviving," "defeated"—they were all just euphemisms. It was strange how, despite feeling no real guilt, his subconscious still sought ways to absolve himself.
He had to look at the essence of his actions without turning away.
Anyway, I killed him much more easily than expected.
Aside from the initial ambush, he had shattered the mage's defenses in a brutally straightforward head-on assault.
Looking back now, it should have been logically impossible.
Was magic not as impressive as it seemed? Hardly.
If magic were truly insignificant, the power structure of the mine could never have been maintained. Claude Regan must have possessed the power to suppress dozens of laborers all by himself.
It was impossible to explain without assuming that Muzark's own magic had played a role in some way. And if that was the case, his thoughts naturally flowed in one direction.
Does it pierce magic, or something like that?
He muttered to himself, letting out a dry chuckle.
Weeks after his arrival in this world, Muzark had gained a vague understanding of a "mage's" standing within the Empire. Simply put, mages were the privileged class of the Empire.
Mages led the Empire, and mages sustained it. Crimes committed against non-mages were easily swept under the rug. The stronger the mage, the greater the power they wielded.
If an anti-magic power existed in a society ruled by mages...
It would be a dangerous element capable of completely overturning the entire system.
No way. Surely not.
He wanted no part in wielding such a ticking time bomb.
The Eastred Security Bureau headquarters.
"I heard you had Harmensales snatched right out of your hands."
As they walked down the hallway, Yen sighed and turned around.
"What absurd nonsense. I never had him to begin with."
"If it weren't for the rookie, you might have contracted with him. Isn't it basically the same thing?"
"Spit it out. Are you looking for a fight, or did you just throw your common sense out the window?"
"Did I say something wrong? Why so defensive? Ah, unless...?"
Yen clicked her tongue openly at the man's sly, mocking response.
"Fine, I admit it. I overreacted. I'll get out of your way, so keep moving, Lahar."
Yen twisted her lips and resumed her brisk pace. Every time she ran into Lahar, a surge of violent impulse welled up inside her. Just now, she had been sorely tempted to slap him across the face.
Just ignore him. Ignore him.
She tried to pass him by, treating him like a pile of filth on the street.
"No matter how much you want Harmensales, don't go killing him."
Lahar spoke, his voice still dripping with a playful, mocking tone.
"It'd be a waste if a mage died. Mages are precious assets in Redline, so we have to cherish them, don't you think?"
Yen didn't bother to answer his rhetorical question. As she quickened her pace with a cold expression, a certain scene flashed through her mind.
Claude Regan, beaten to death by a mere pickaxe.
And the dark mana lingering on the hand axe right after the battle with the demon.
A mage, huh...
She had never heard of or seen such magic in her entire life.