Collector and Collector

Collector and Collector.

'Blood?' The white-haired appraiser who had been staring blankly at me and my contractor suddenly started gushing a nosebleed. Had he pulled an all-nighter yesterday? The beastkin who first opened the appraisal office door for us looked equally exhausted overall. Was the Golden Nest actually a black company? If so, the only thing I could say was fighting. Hang in there until the day (of resignation) came!

"...That person looks very tired. Should we go somewhere else?"

"I think that would be best."

Feeling sorry about entrusting an appraisal to someone bleeding from the nose, we turned our steps toward the neighboring counter with the shorter line.

But then.

At that exact moment.

"Customer! Wait, please wait just a moment!"

Amid a ripple of murmurs, the sound of someone running toward us reached our ears.

"...?"

"Huh?"

"Nyang?"

Mouth stained red with blood and golden eyes burning with madness.

"...An infected?"

The sight was far too familiar. Instinctively, I pulled the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠revolver from inside my coat and swiftly leveled the muzzle at the infected (suspect)'s head.

—Click.

As the barrel aligned with the target, my dry mouth naturally recited the activation word.

"Filling."

'Charging.'

One bullet produced. Mana charge set at a moderate 100 MP. A bullet of fear materialized inside the cylinder according to my will. In the past I hadn't trusted the Injector, so I would manually open the cylinder each time to confirm the bullet had formed. Now I skipped such unnecessary steps. I, too, was a man capable of growth.

'Done.'

The moment the subtle sensation of mana leaking from my fingertips ceased, I hooked my finger around the trigger. The bullet was complete. Pulling the trigger now would deliver a suitably moderate explosion—grenade or fragmentation level—to shred that infected (suspect) into pieces.

"Kkamagung! Put that damn wand away nyang! Why are you suddenly losing it again nyang!"

Before I could, however, it seemed my back would be the one destroyed by Sion. For someone with such soft paw pads, her hands packed a surprising sting. It reminded me of my mother, whose face I could barely recall.

Ah, Mother, I have my reasons!

"Yeah, I got it, so stop hitting me."

Did she think I was a tambourine? Under Sion's relentless drumming against my back and waist—reminding me that drawing weapons inside the Golden Nest was illegal and that I would become a golden crow statue if I didn't put the Injector away immediately—I slowly lowered the muzzle in front of the trembling-eyed infected (suspect).

"You can't just shove that terrifying artifact in someone's face because they ran over with blood on their mouth nyang!"

"Isn't this level of caution basic for any adventurer?"

"This is an artifact appraisal office, not a dungeon nyang!"

I had simply prepared for any possible contingency. Sion, unaware of my reasoning, was fully occupied with giving me the side-eye. One must prepare for war to preserve peace. This peace-addled cat seemed ignorant of even that basic principle. What if the appraiser had come running to commit a suicide bombing?

I wished she would learn a thing or two from my contractor, who, the instant she heard someone running toward us, had instantly manifested a black suppression shield in one hand and slipped behind me.

This one clearly needed to spend five months or so in Terraforming.

"Um... So it's not an ambush or anything, right?"

The contractor peeked out from behind me, assessed the situation, decided it was safe, dissolved the suppression shield into shadow, and returned it to her sleeve before stepping up beside me. Sion immediately threw me under the bus.

"The master handler of an artifact appraisal office wouldn't ambush customers nyang! It's just the crow overreacting as usual nyang!"

"It wasn't an overreaction. It was the most correct response given the current situation."

"If you keep being 'correct' twice in a row, you'll end up holding formal meetings on the lowest floor of the underground prison nyang!"

"Tsk, this is why... non-survivors..."

"What do you mean, non-survivor nyang? I don't know what you're saying, but it sounds unpleasant nyang."

While Raven and Sion bickered over nothing as usual—

—Crackle.

"...Oh my. What in the world is that? The second unappraisable artifact after the crow mask...?"

Mamon could not tear his eyes away from the jet-black wand Raven had drawn from his chest.

"Master Handler! Are you okay nyang!?"

Even as Sherpa Sion came running, apologizing profusely with repeated "nyang nyang" sounds and trying to help him up while muttering about the crow.

"Mr. Mamon. No matter the circumstances, how could you run over without even wiping the blood from your mouth?"

Until Rootbeer, who had followed belatedly, used a damp towel scented with black tea to clean the blood from his lips.

"...."

Mamon's golden gaze remained fixed on the hand of the demon of fear. Of course anyone would stare if someone suddenly pulled a strange metal tool from their chest, but that was not the issue here.

The smooth body, crafted not from wood but from the bizarre material of black steel, shed no reflection even under the chandelier's light. To sense such weight and intimidation—something one would expect from iron weaponry—emanating from a wand was indescribably captivating.

Unlike ordinary straight wands, a cylindrical component of unknown purpose sat at its center, while the grip curved like a scythe for comfortable handling. It was a convenient and artistic design that any wand craftsman would call revolutionary.

At the sleek wand's tip was a black opening, its interior engraved with precise spiral grooves. Likely ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to facilitate mana condensation. Or perhaps to impart spin when firing mana. Whatever the reason.

All of it was truly, genuinely, extremely.

'...Awesome.'

A single word defined the impression. A red flame of longing ignited deep in Mamon's chest.

'How thrilling would it be to place that inside my display case?'

What Mamon referred to as his display case was the enormous exhibition hall that had made Raven's party shudder and quicken their pace. It was the very place lined with golden statues and portraits of Aurion striking suspicious poses. For reference, every object bearing Aurion's face there was a security artifact he had created at Mamon's request—artifacts that turned greedy humans who dared enter a dragon's nest in search of treasure into gold. Simple yet threatening.

The problem was that their appearance was difficult to stomach with a sane mind. Female adventurers frequently collapsed with nosebleeds while simply walking past. Mamon had begged for a different design because they were repulsive, but he could not overcome Aurion's stubbornness and had been forced to house those monstrosities in the display case.

Still, their security effect was annoyingly excellent, so he continued to neglect them while suppressing his irritation. Just as a crow decorates its nest with shiny objects, Mamon would stop at nothing (within reasonable bounds) to obtain artifacts he liked and fill his own nest with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them.

Aurion had labeled Mamon's display case an artifact graveyard and asked why he devoted himself so fervently to collecting things he would never use. To which Mamon had replied:

"Because the artifacts belong there."

Artifact collecting was Mamon's sole hobby and the very reason for his existence.

His collector's sensibility had been set ablaze by that beautiful wand.

'Truly, it is desirable.'

A possessiveness far thicker and deeper than what he had felt for the crow mask awakened.

Tap.

Mamon, who had staggered to his feet with Sion's assistance, gave a small bow to those who had helped him and slowly walked forward.

Toward the demon of fear who watched him with evident interest.

.......

The artifact appraisal office, once overflowing with vitality and heat, was now wrapped in a silence so thick it felt suffocating. How could anyone dare speak aloud at this historic moment when Bastion's greatest beauty and Bastion's greatest handsome (insane) man met?

The appraisers and adventurers in the middle of their work paused and quietly observed the encounter between black and white.

Mamon stopped before Raven, placed one hand over his chest, and bowed at the waist in an old-fashioned manner. The clumsy appraiser who had been bleeding from the nose and panicking had vanished. In his place stood a white demon radiating a calm aura.

"It is an honor to meet you, O great demon of fear. If it would not be rude, might I ask for your alias?"

'Yes. This is what a real demon looks like!'

After seeing only demon-like beings who resembled fairies more than actual demons—such as Regina Gura or Croma Ira—Raven felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of a 'demon-like demon.' Look at that polite, composed, and noble bearing. Krr, it filled him with demonic energy. Madam! One bowl of honey wine, please! Of course, he wouldn't be able to drink it even if served.

"Raven. I did not receive a family name."

Raven inwardly marveled at Mamon's demonic demeanor and, refusing to be outdone, intensified his demon role-play even further than usual. A flash! Two red points ignited within the empty eye sockets of the crow mask.

'...So this is the demon of fear?'

The sharply glowing eyes seemed as though they could pierce the darkness in one's heart, sending a momentary chill down Mamon's nape.

'Still, this person strangely gives off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠no sense of rank...?'

The instant he bowed in greeting, Mamon had swiftly and secretly extended his senses, yet he detected no rank whatsoever. It was as if the being before him were not a demon at all. Yet the person standing there was undoubtedly a demon. Even now, he was quietly savoring the fear Mamon had momentarily revealed. All while concealing an expression of deep satisfaction.

'Yes, a demon should possess this kind of dignified, old-fashioned charm. Absolutely.'

Thoughts that would no doubt infuriate Croma and Regina Gura if they ever learned of them.