The Hunting Side

The game of tag had already begun.

Solomon crossed the night streets of District 8 without lowering his guard, accompanied by the eyes of the black spirit crows wheeling overhead and watching the ground below.

The rules were clear.

Until the next dawn, using the doors of Hotel Snark or leaving District 8 entirely was forbidden. If the contractors broke those rules and tried to flee, the Selene Family would truly hunt them to the ends of hell.

The three executors were on the move as well. On the surface, it was for the sake of avenging a respected elf. At the same time, their revenge was a hunt permitted only until daybreak.

Fortunately, the hotel’s room service had provided their information. The executors had rules of their own.

Executors could only act individually. At least on the surface.

That was why Solomon deliberately refused to hide. He used his own visible presence as bait—a gamble built entirely on the surveillance capabilities of the black spirit crows.

The black pupils of the crows soaring through the sky scanned the ground moment by moment, like a strategy simulation game brought to life. The maze-like tangle of streets lay spread out beneath them as clearly as the lines on a palm.

One executor, two blocks away.

Follow the outer wall of the abandoned warehouse to Solomon’s upper right—north—and a narrow back alley opened on the left. Someone was there. A breath tightening silently, like a noose being drawn.

And Solomon was looking down at that silent breath from above, through the eyes of a crow perched on a streetlamp.

They still don’t seem to have my exact location…

He could pounce right now and end it. The prey was almost too easy to take.

At the same time, Solomon considered one possibility.

Just as he had gained more “eyes and ears” through the black spirit crows, the enemy might have done the same.

When he had faced that collaborative creature from the Sewer Rat Magic Tower and the Biotech Guild in the underground waterway, the rats there had served as the underground mages’ eyes and ears. In this city the old saying—that birds hear words spoken by day and rats hear words spoken by night—was no metaphor. They really could see and hear. You could never let your guard down simply because something was an animal.

Therefore, he had to consider the possibility that the opponent had also set a trap. There was no telling where another “eye” might be watching the seemingly defenseless Solomon.

This isn’t 21st-century information warfare with goddamn drones.

Weighing every possibility made his blood run cold.

…Still, I can’t just sit here twiddling my thumbs.

There was nothing wrong with caution, but speed was an equal virtue—especially in this line of work. And the two did not necessarily conflict.

Swift, yet careful.

Stealth.

The moment Solomon moved to conceal his presence, the Nightweaver Coat writhed like a living thing. Its hem twisted and wrapped around him, as if the darkness of night itself were embracing him.

It was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an automatic minor spell that activated in response to the wearer’s movements. Nothing grandiose, but the small effects—reducing presence, lightening footsteps—shone in their own quiet way. Supportive magic at its finest.

Presence hidden, Solomon began to move. He headed for the two-block stretch where the prey waited. More precisely, he chose a route that circled around to seize the opponent’s tail from behind.

He rounded the corner of the abandoned factory and approached the executor’s rear until the figure was close enough to see clearly with his own two eyes.

Still cloaked in stealth, he closed in on the prey before him. Like a shadow sliding across the night, the distance narrowed with ridiculous ease.

Goddess of revenge or whatever… but it’s a guy.

A male elf. No surprise. It was only a formal ritual, after all.

The Selene Family executor stood right in front of him. Less than a meter away. Yet the elf never even thought to turn around, too busy chasing Solomon’s traces along the scenery ahead.

Even though the man he sought was standing directly behind him.

He hasn’t even noticed the black spirit crows. Doesn’t look like he’s commanding any familiars, either.

Nothing but clumsy prey. A fool caught in the delusion that he was the hunter.

The opponent was laughably easy. An executor of this level would be the same whether there were three or thirty.

Blade in the Darkness, deactivate.

That was why he kept his joker card hidden and did not use full power. It wouldn’t change the outcome.

The blade swung. According to the rules of this world an invisible die rolled, and the strike fell.

Ambush.

Thud!

The unseen blade raced forward. From behind. Carrying every advantage the rules of this world allowed.

Moreover, the new trait he had gained from killing Gilbert Graham pulsed at his fingertips more vividly than ever.

It was no mere push. An absurd explosive force slammed into his movement, as if something had detonated behind him.

!

He realized it at once—the true nature of that power. Not an invisible hand, but invisible dynamite.

Splat!

Blood sprayed with the strike. Even as it drenched Solomon from head to toe, the tip of his blade did not stop. Drawn by an invisible force, the knife drove deeper without end.

It pierced vital points, pried apart bone joints, tore muscle fibers, and sought the internal organs.

The blade sank without limit. Like it was being sucked into a black hole, deeper and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠deeper still.

It was strange.

The countless organs inside the person—no, the elf’s body—felt as clear to him as if he were a veteran surgeon.

Below the shoulder blade from behind, slightly right of the spine.

The elf’s heart throbbed at that exact spot. So Solomon’s Ghostwhale Bone Blade dug toward it with relentless depth.

The embedded Ghostwhale bone blade reached the heart. The sensation of it carving in was unmistakable—like compressed air in a slaughterhouse air gun exploding and driving the bolt home.

Unlike with Gilbert. That man’s absurdly swollen, armor-like body had refused to let any ambush from behind slip beneath its physical barrier.

The elf executor before him was different.

At the end of the strike, Solomon’s blade tip reached its destination. The heart. After that, there was no easily noticeable resistance.

The heart fell silent.

Splat!

When he yanked the embedded blade free, another fountain of blood erupted. The elf’s body collapsed along with the gushing spray. Instant death. Absolute termination.

One executor down.

Solomon did not relax. Separate from searching the dead elf, he kept thorough watch over the surroundings through the eyes of the flying black spirit crows.

Yet the remaining two executors were nowhere to be seen. Not nearby, and not in any of the eyes of the flock he had released to monitor the skies above all of District 8. The fact nagged at him strangely.

How could they avoid detection by the black spirit ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crows that flew overhead like drones?

By the time that warning rang out, Solomon was already moving. And as he moved, he understood.

They used that bastard as bait…!

There had been two executors from the very beginning.

Moreover, one of them had planned to target Solomon from the start by using the executor he had just killed as bait. Hiding their own presence, tailing their colleague’s movements.

All without being caught by the eyes of the black spirit crows Solomon commanded.

It had even been individual action. Because it was simply using the other as a disposable lure.

Only now did he realize. These people were mafia. Kinship honor, whatever—they were criminals at heart. In the criminal world, honor and such were nothing but empty formalities.

That was the true substance behind the “formality” they clung to so desperately.

Ratatatat!

The moment he realized, the sound of movement chasing after his belatedly moving body rang out.

“What the…!”

It was not the sound of an automatic crossbow. It rang short and fast, like someone hammering on a typewriter.

It did not stop at mere sound. Moreover, it was not the crossbow noise Solomon was familiar with in this world.

Gunfire?!

Bullets.

‘, !’

Before the voice in his head could finish, Solomon’s body collapsed like an empty husk right where he stood.

Even as it fell, countless holes riddled him like a honeycomb. Most of the wounds had been taken by the shadow mimic in his place.

Yet he had not avoided them all. Several shots had landed.

Who would’ve thought I’d live long enough to get ventilated by gunfire.

He instantly swapped positions with a shadow on the roof of the abandoned factory and leaned against a duct.

“Cough!”

Blood poured from his mouth.

At first glance the bullets that had torn his coat and pierced his flesh were unmistakable. Four or five hits, perhaps.

No. Not bullets.

‘…….’

They were not bullets. The small blazing lumps of flame lost power inside Solomon’s body and vanished.

Slaughtering spirits, shredding them, and firing the fragments… Just listening to it made his head spin.

But there was no time to be stunned.

I just burned two spells.

Shadow Mimic and Shadow Swap—a combo spell for instant repositioning—had consumed two of the four Level 1 spells he could use per day.

To refill spell slots he needed expensive mana-recovery potions or sufficient rest and deep sleep. Neither was an option right now. He had no potions, and falling asleep here might mean never waking up again.

Two Level 1 spells left. One Level 2 spell.

There were still two executors remaining. And one of them was right here.

Moreover, that executor had never been spotted by the black spirit crows monitoring the area from the start. How?

They noticed the black spirit crows from the beginning.

Only one answer made sense. They had avoided detection because they knew.

At the very least, they possessed the skill to target blind spots outside the crows’ sight and remain undetected.

Solomon scanned the area again and reduced the number of black spirit crows.

On the rooftop of the abandoned factory where cold night wind blew, the executor would not stop. That was precisely why Solomon had chosen this place. Not to flee, but to set the stage for a fight on his own terms.

The opponent had already landed an effective blow through a surprise attack and would not retreat easily.

So he had deliberately picked a rooftop open on all sides yet filled with facilities that offered plenty of places to hide.

He was certain the opponent would come. There was no reason to ignore wounded prey trying to escape.

Creak.

The sound came soon after. The rooftop access door opening. The executor had walked leisurely up the factory corridor to reach this place.

On two feet, politely, without any parkour nonsense.

“Hmm. Where’s that sound coming from?”

The silhouette spoke calmly. A fedora pressed low over the eyes, a dark brown coat. A finger already resting on the trigger of the Alvheim Typewriter, ready to aim at any moment.

‘.’

Therefore Solomon activated a spell of his own and steeled himself.

“The sound of a wounded little rat trembling in fear.”

A voice brimming with the confidence and leisure of overwhelming superiority.

I just hear a dog barking.

Solomon did not answer. The provocation was blatant. No reason to respond.

Responding would be tantamount to suicide.

“With all that leisure, were you just watching your friend get holes drilled into the back of his head?”

Nevertheless, Solomon answered. Perhaps his rough mouth had toughened his head as well? No.

“─”

The voice did not come from his own mouth. It came through the beak of the black crow he commanded.

“Isn’t that simply the food chain?”

The elf executor sneered in reply.

“When the weak kill one another, the predator above knows how to wait.”

Ratatatat!

Aiming at the black spirit crow that had landed behind him, the elf pulled the trigger of the Alvheim Typewriter.

Before the crow could even take flight, blazing spirit fragments scattered like bullets. No sign of overheating or depletion no matter how many it fired.

At that moment several more black spirit crows flew in, rushing the elf executor like a living bird strike.

No longer for surveillance or scouting—dark spirit sorcery aimed purely at slaughter.

Far different from ordinary birds charging. These were dark projectiles carrying power comparable to a Level 2 attack spell.

Large monitors and speakers could become lethal weapons in their own right.

“An inferior species resorting to cheap tricks…!”

The elf executor snorted and slammed his hand against the rooftop floor with all his strength. The slate cracked with a splitting sound, and something sharp like spear tips surged upward between the fissures.

Tree roots!

Exactly as it sounded. Tree roots that should not exist on a rooftop surged upward in reverse, snatching and piercing every rushing black spirit crow without exception. Earth magic that perfectly symbolized the elves.

Bang!

At that instant Solomon swiftly changed position and pulled the trigger. A single crossbow bolt flew between the rising roots—from the elf’s blind spot. A surprise attack from the Nightfall automatic crossbow.

The sound of a bolt cutting through air. Noise pollution the elf’s ears could not ignore even if they wanted to.

“To think you would attempt a surprise snipe against an elf.”

The executor sneered, easily avoiding both the black spirit crows’ strike and the crossbow bolt.

“The name of Hotel Snark really has fallen to the groun—”

Finger on the trigger of the Alvheim Typewriter, turning his head toward the bolt that had come from behind.

But the sneer did not last long.

“Cough…!”

The sound of air leaking rang out. It did not come from the executor holding the typewriter. It came from slightly behind him.

Behind the duct at the edge of the rooftop. The person hiding at the very end of that barely visible gap.

“Who said I’d give it to you?”

“What…!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll drill you into a pretty star shape soon enough.”

—Because from the very beginning that crossbow bolt had not been aimed at the dark elf in front.

It was like drinking the soup before anyone offered you the rice cakes with arrows in them.

What two could do, three could do as well. Solomon had at least that much learning ability.

Just like the executor in front, the final executor had been watching the fight between the other two while using one of them as bait. He was the owner of the leaking-air sound now echoing across the roof.

Click!

Solomon’s shooting did not stop there. One more to the head, one to the chest, to finish it cleanly.

“Why do all you elves do the exact same shit?”

Even the one who had believed himself a predator had, in the end, been nothing but bait for the higher predator lurking behind.

The back of the back of the head.

So from the beginning Solomon had aimed for that side first—the one who believed without doubt that he was the apex predator in this place.

Paradoxically, the very conviction that he was the hunter had bred the carelessness that he could not possibly be hunted.

“What was that about the food chain again?”

“…!”

Solomon sneered.

Even in the fatal situation where his position had been pinpointed by that strike and his form revealed, he paid it no mind.

“Still, one thing is crystal clear.”

The one being targeted had not realized until the very end. The fact that Solomon had noticed his existence from the beginning.

The elf before him need not even be mentioned. He had realized neither Solomon’s true intent nor the presence of the hidden elf.

“You’re dead now.”