Luring the Factions to Baekrokdam
Kiiiek— Kiiiek— Every time the wind rattled the red-rusted door, a grating metallic screech echoed through the air. It was a dingy bar that looked pieced together from scrap metal. Despite the endless clouds of cigarette smoke and mysterious fumes billowing from countless patrons, the pervasive stench of garbage clung stubbornly to the place. The smell of human trash.
But even in a dump like this, people lived. The rowdy residents of Junk Town drowned out their own reek today with the pungent aroma of cheap whiskey handed out by the barkeep.
“That damn bastard! I asked for gasoline, and he gives me diesel?!”
“You’re the idiot who can’t tell the difference—why the hell are you bitching at me?!”
Drunken brawlers traded punches, sparks flew, and metal shards scattered everywhere, but the others just scooped up the debris without intervening. They didn’t stop the fights.
“Fine, you punk. I’ll pour diesel right into your tank—call it even. How’s that?”
“You’re fucking insane! Who’d let you wreck their— ”
At that moment.
Ding-a-ling— The bell at the entrance chimed, and every eye in the crowd watching the fight snapped toward it. Not unusual. A man in a pristine black suit and bowler hat had just stepped into this world built of trash and made from trash.
He scanned the room once, then sat at the lounge bar where the barkeep stood, placing a small mana stone on the counter as he murmured low.
“Milk.”
“Ha, what?”
He’d strode in with such gravitas, only to order milk? The barkeep glared at him in disbelief at the unexpected request.
“This ain’t a kid’s playground—we don’t got that shit… here!”
The man tipped his bowler hat back, revealing a bald head that grinned at the barkeep.
But.
“His face… it’s gone?”
It was as if reality itself warped—a void of a face that couldn’t be recognized, evoking emptiness.
“What do you need my face for?”
The man’s voice was eerie, like a pitch-black black hole rippling with heat haze, perfectly matching that ambiguous void.
The barkeep couldn’t see his expression but knew he was smiling.
“...You a villain?”
“Does it matter? What matters is why I came here.”
Tap. Tap. The man drummed the table with his index finger as he spoke. Gradually, eyes from around the bar turned toward him.
“...So why Junk Town?”
“Got a commission.”
“A commission?”
“Someone wants Jeju’s trash cleaned up.”
“Trash cleanup? What the hell are you— ”
BAM! Like a declaration of war, the man slammed his fist on the table, sending wooden splinters flying everywhere.
“Raid! We’re under raid!!”
The barkeep shielded his face with his arm against the debris and shouted. As if on cue, the other raiders bolted out of the bar.
And…
“Eat this, you bastard!”
Like pulling a shotgun from under the table, he aimed at the man’s chest and pulled the trigger.
BOOM! The shot hit dead center with a thunderous roar.
But the man didn’t flinch, absorbing the impact without a twitch as he calmly reached into his inner pocket.
“That a shotgun?”
Shunk. Out came an old-school double-barrel shotgun.
“This is a shotgun.”
───!!
The barkeep’s body, struck point-blank, blasted through the bar wall and out into the street.
Through the hole he’d made, the man stepped out back and shrugged at the swarm of raiders encircling him.
“Ants, huh? Lose one of your own, and you all come swarming right away.”
In this lawless hellhole, bottom-barrel raiders scraped by with extreme difficulty. They’d gathered monster corpses and junk to build their own city, dubbing it Junk Town.
The rule was simple: “Trash helps trash.” If a raider was in danger, other raiders helped. That was how they survived.
“Kill him!”
A woman’s shout rang out somewhere, and thick smoke erupted from the guns they raised.
A barrage of gunfire so intense it overpowered even the dump’s stench. It raged until every magazine ran dry, then slowly tapered off.
“Huff… huff… huff.”
Exhaustion hit only after the mindless barrage. The raiders waited for the smoke to clear.
And then.
“!!”
The man emerged. Arms spread wide as if to say “bring it,” he stood unfazed amid bullets and blasts—clothes dusted with grime, but otherwise perfectly fine.
“That your welcome party? Over already?”
He tilted his head as if daring more, and the raiders hesitated, backing away.
“M-monster! He’s a monster!”
Judging their firepower useless, they decided to call Junk Town’s top forces.
“Call the Cleaners! Regular guns won’t cut it!”
His shout triggered it.
Weeeoooong— Sirens wailed across the city, and the raiders encircling the faceless man parted like the sea.
Through the gap emerged a group of five or six, all wearing scrap-metal iron masks. Spotting the man atop crushed shell casings, they clicked their tongues in annoyance.
“Damn, what’s this bullshit during siesta?”
“Why’s a prick like that come to Junk Town?”
“He’s after something.”
“Some fixer from another turf? They always dress like that.”
Grumbling, they leveled heavy weapons from their backs—flamethrowers and such—and bellowed.
“Hey! Who the fuck are you?!”
“We’ll roast you alive.”
The man clapped as if he’d been waiting, welcoming the Cleaners.
“Finally. Junk Town’s real muscle—the Cleaners.”
He began to move slowly. The Cleaners tensed, ready for battle.
But he had no intent to fight—just walked.
Their heads tracked him warily with each step.
Until he reached the largest motorcycle in the pile.
Mounted it.
“Thanks for clearing the way, idiots.”
“What?”
And sped off into the city, past the Cleaners.
At prime fight time, he just bailed. The Cleaners stared blankly, utterly unprepared.
The first woman to snap out of it yelled in panic.
“What’re you morons doing?! Chase him!”
They finally reacted, pursuing the man—who even throttled back his speed as if mocking them.
Fury twisted their faces.
But seeing his direction, their expressions hardened.
“...That’s toward the power plant, right?”
“Power plant? That’s where we just were!”
“No way… he pulled this shit to lure us out?”
Sure enough, he rocketed toward what Junk Town called the power plant.
“Damn it! I said someone should’ve stayed back!”
“You’re the one who whined about being bored and tagged along, dumbass!”
That place held the core component making Junk Town possible.
“Shit! Fuck! Hurry back!”
“If the plant gets hit, we’re all dead!! Run!”
Convinced of his target, the Cleaners picked up speed.
They rounded the corner to the plant entrance—guards sprawled unconscious, doors wide open.
“Son of a…! How’d he crack the passcode?!”
The hallway bore thick skid marks from the bike. Some doors ajar, others reeking of gunpowder.
Clear signs of a brute-force breakthrough amid total chaos.
The Cleaners rushed inside.
But.
“...Damn it.”
“How the hell did he know about this…”
As their worst fears confirmed.
The power plant’s core—supposed to be in the central chamber, the Thunder God’s Stone—was gone.
In its place, a crumpled paper wad.
The woman who entered slowly, unfolded it, and her body began to tremble.
[Baekrokdam]
The man hoped the raiders would head to Baekrokdam.
“Junk Town’s done. Guess it’s time to head back?”
All I’d done was poke their panic buttons a few times and run. Nothing major.
“The tangerine farm guys were dicier…”
I’d turned most of the farm to rubble with a Tommy gun silenced by a mana muffler, only for mounted Awakener farmers to chase me down with sickles and hoes. Nearly got caught.
But I’d successfully stirred Jeju’s four major factions. Profit, if anything.
Especially with the loot I scored.
◈ A stone imbued with the power of the thunder god. Emits powerful currents on its own and boosts spirit affinity.
◈ From the oldest ghost tangerine trees, it bears one fruit every ten years. Permanently boosts aura and mana recovery speed upon consumption.
Come get these at Baekrokdam, I’d said. The others would head there too.
Imagining the chaos, I chuckled on the way back to the cathedral, where the bishop and Yoon Kwang-su stared at me like I was nuts.
“Just now, pigeons from the tangerine farm and raiders. Asking if we got hit too. What the hell have you been up to?”
I’d said I’d go lure them to Baekrokdam. Been gone six hours. Apparently, they’d messaged the cathedral too.
“Nothing much? Same as what I did here.”
“Same as…?”
I showed her the Thunder God’s Stone and Golden Tangerine in front of her baffled face.
“Gotta steal something this good to make ’em come for sure, right?”
“...You’re insane. M-Mr. Hitman. You really stole these? Solo?”
“Easier than I thought.”
With their patrol routes, terrain, security codes all known? Piece of cake. Weirder if I couldn’t steal them.
“If we don’t message back, they’ll know we’re behind it. We need to say we got hit too…”
“Same here. The apprentice’s pigeon said similar messages hit them.”
“We play victim too. Bishop, say you lost Ascalon. Workshop master, your aura manual got taken. That’ll fool ’em.”
The one who claims Baekrokdam gets all four treasures.
“...But will they really come? Even if you stole these and left traces, they might smell a trap.”
“If you lost Ascalon and read ‘come to Baekrokdam,’ could you stay away?”
“...Trap or not, I’d go.”
“Exactly. That’s why I took only treasures they have to chase. Nothing less would move them.”
I turned, gazing at distant Baekrokdam.
The monsters en route there? Others would handle them now. We’d just slip in and take Pafnir’s head.
“Workshop master. Told Cheongyacha Workshop to bring full forces to the cathedral by tomorrow?”
“Delivered loud and clear.”
“Good. Everyone, rest up. Tomorrow’s the real raid.”
The massive raid to hunt the dragon—mandatory participation—was nearly upon us.