If You're Wondering Whether It's You — It Is
Every organization is sensitive about its revenue streams, but criminal organizations especially so. That's not to say anything changes when business is booming — but the moment the income starts to dip? These are men whose profession involves necks coming off, not going bankrupt.
That was why the reasonably well-known crime syndicates and thief guilds of Tornerheim refused to tolerate competitors intruding on their money-making ventures.
So, did the smaller thief guilds just starve?
No.
They had two options.
Pledge themselves under a large thief guild's banner, or find some new means of profit that other thief guilds wouldn't bother stepping into in the first place, and scrape a living from that.
The Black Mask guild — too small to be called big, too sizeable to be called small — chose to shack up with the publishing business.
This was still virgin territory the other thief guilds hadn't touched, practically a blue ocean within Tornerheim.
The money wasn't bad, either.
Churning out cheap adventure novels and smut raked in a respectable return.
And the author who wrote the most and sold the best among those writers was the one serializing on Net Novel under the handle ArrivedFromSeonmuWorld.
Jet-black hair and dark eyes, vividly different from the people of the Wirod Dimension.
He was sniffling and sobbing as he signed the contract.
"There we go. Good job. See? Isn't this so much easier? Take your novel off Net Novel and put up an announcement. Say it's being printed by another publisher. Got it? You've got quite the following, from what I've seen."
"Yes........."
"How many copies could you sell? At least ten thousand, surely? Your novel had view counts in the millions on Net Novel. Am I wrong?"
"I don't know."
"It's possible. Hey, we need to sell as many of these as possible, so write it long. Real long. Got it?"
When the man only kept sniffling and gave no answer, the guildmaster of the Black Mask frowned hard.
"Hey, what the fuck is with that reaction? You forget we were the ones who took you in when you crossed over into the Wirod Dimension unable to even piss straight, fed you, housed you, raised you to this point? You don't even remember the debt of being saved, and now you pull this shit?"
"N-no! No, sir!"
"You could've kept on good terms with us, so why the hell did you go serializing on Net Novel and stab us in the back? Why? We're beneath you now that you've made it, is that it?"
"No! I'm sorry! Sob!"
"It'd better sell at least ten thousand copies. Otherwise, I can't promise what happens to you for betraying us. Make it as provocative as you can. Something that sells. Write it that way. Understood?"
The black-haired author could do nothing but nod his head, weeping miserably at the guildmaster's words.
The guildmaster rubbed his hands together, looking pleased, and rose from his seat.
"Throw him in the isolation room. They say writing flows best when you're in a cell."
"Understood, boss."
The guildmaster stepped out of the guild building with a happy expression on his face.
The Kingdom of Tornerheim, second to none in lawlessness, crawling with criminals and assassins. Discarded trash lying where it fell, women selling their bodies in the red-light district, con artists and pickpockets aplenty — that answer-key-familiar village of idiots was his beloved hometown.
"Hey. Weasel."
"Yes, Guildmaster."
"Dig up the identities of a few of those hotshot authors doing well on Net Novel. Track their locations off the posts they've left in the galleries and flush them out. Let's kidnap them too and have them serialize through our publishing house. That'd work, wouldn't it?"
"Haha! It most certainly would!"
"Who'd have thought we'd find an oasis like this? Judging by Net Novel's growth, milking a few of the works over there would bring in a tidy profit. Am I wrong? Who knows — maybe we could become a major publishing house that goes beyond Tornerheim and plays across the whole dimension?"
"The potential is absolutely there! Haha!"
"Good. Pick out a few of the boys and dig into this properly. There's promise in this."
Sure, the Black Magic Tower and that Elsy Bwener bastard or whatever would throw a tantrum — but so what?
Once they learned the backing was Tornerheim, the Black Magic Tower was bound to go quiet.
The cesspool of the Wirod Dimension. A gathering ground for every manner of idiot and twisted piece of human garbage.
Would mages from the Black Magic Tower really waltz into a place like that, ahem-ing while they repaired their magic circles?
At worst, they'd hire a handful of adventurers to search for someone — that's all, really.
And in running a thief guild, how many times had that happened before? It was one of the most predictable tactics, easy enough to brush off.
"Guildmaster."
"Yeah, what is it?"
"One of the 10 Heroes has entered Tornerheim. There's a rumor going around telling everyone to be careful, just in case."
The report came rushing in from one of the Black Mask members to the guildmaster, who had been grinning away as he painted rosy visions of the future.
"What do we have to be careful about? If it's a Hero-class, they're here because of trouble with a huge thief guild or the royal family, obviously. Not us. Never us."
Having said that, the guildmaster thought for a moment before issuing another order.
"Which of the 10 Heroes?"
"Rank nine. They call her the Disaster Thread."
"That exhibitionist lunatic who wanders around wearing nothing but a scrap of cloth?"
"Yes."
"Make it absolutely clear to the guild members. Getting tangled up with that woman means trouble, so stay the hell away from her. Understood?"
"Yes."
As the saying goes, preparedness prevents peril. Naturally, the guildmaster figured that a Hero-class being would never bother visiting a mid-sized thief guild like the Black Mask, so this much should be more than enough.
"One of the eastern thief guilds has been torn apart, sir."
"Which one?"
"Shadow Fang, sir."
"Isn't that the biggest guild in the east? Morons. Why the hell would anyone pick a fight with a Hero?!"
"And the Hero who destroyed Shadow Fang is heading down. She's coming south, sir."
"Tell the guild members to be extra careful. If we get slapped with a pointless altercation, the whole guild goes up in flames."
"Yes."
But then —
"The Sewer Rats got hit, sir! But something's strange."
"What?"
"The Disaster Thread is looking for a novelist, sir! She says she's searching for a novelist who went missing in Tornerheim!"
Something felt off.
Somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that the Hero was looking for them.
"The bastards in District 3 got wrecked, sir! She, she's getting closer and closer to our turf!"
"A novelist who was serializing on Net Novel went missing, and now she's smashing through thief guilds and crime syndicates hunting for them!"
"Th-the Hero? The Disaster Thread is looking for a Net Novel author?"
"That's what the bastard who barely escaped yesterday testified! Guildmaster, i-isn't this them looking for us?"
The guildmaster shook his head.
No.
That couldn't be it.
He wasn't the only thief guild that had made publishing its income source.
It'd be another guild.
It couldn't possibly be them.
And then, in the midst of trembling and trembling —
"The Weasel bastard isn't coming back!"
"The survivors from District 3 say she's searching for the novelist who came over from Seonmu World!"
"Guildmaster! It's us! That Hero bitch is looking for us!"
The moment that absurd truth — a Hero entering Tornerheim to rescue one novelist and tearing thief guilds apart in the process — was confirmed as reality.
"We run. Grab that black-haired bastard and go!"
The Black Mask chose to flee.
No.
There was no choice but to flee.
The 10 Heroes? They were wielders of impossible power — beings who could single-handedly orchestrate the downfall of a nation.
Not something one measly thief guild could ever hope to stand against.
***
Middle of the night.
The black-haired author, dozing off mid-draft after being locked in the isolation room, was shaken awake by the rough hands of a Black Mask member — and before he could even gather his wits, the midnight escape was already underway.
"Run faster, you scrawny piece of shit! Move!"
"M-my body's just too weak....... Gah!"
"What the fuck is with you Seonmu World people and being so goddamn weak! Don't you people fly around through the air?"
"Th-that's the masters! Someone like me who never even learned internal energy doesn't get any of tha——— Aargh!"
"Fucking useless bastard. Hey! Carry him and run!"
After getting decked for no reason, the black-haired author was thrown over a Black Mask member's back.
He had no idea what was going on, but it clearly seemed serious.
Too quiet for a rival thief guild or assassin raid.
Was the Tornerheim royal family mounting a purge?
No.
Then it should be even louder.
The other thief guilds and crime syndicates should be fleeing too.
Then who were these people running from?
Before long, the answer appeared before his eyes.
"Keep moving, keep movi——— Oh. Holy shit. Sweet gods."
The thing visible to every Black Mask member running through Tornerheim's back alleys.
A woman, nearly naked, draped in nothing but a single scrap of cloth.
Her enormous chest and cinched waist were on full display, but there was nothing remotely sexy about her, nothing that stirred desire.
No man alive could feel lust looking at a body suspended in midair with thousands of hairs driven into the walls and the ground itself.
"Found you!"
A chilling grin, and out burst one refreshingly cheerful line.
The guild members, terrified out of their wits, scattered in every direction — but the hairs were faster.
It was the moment the origin of the name Disaster Thread made itself unmistakably clear.
The hairs flew in at speeds invisible to the eye, piercing the guild members' vitals in an instant, and the men stiffened and dropped like cut puppets, unable to do anything at all.
Whether they were dead or alive, there was no telling.
Only two people remained standing unharmed.
The guildmaster, who had barely survived by blocking the incoming hairs with the subordinate beside him as a shield before bolting.
And the black-haired author.
Just the two of them.
The guildmaster pressed a dagger to the black-haired author's throat.
"Come any closer, you fucking bitch!"
The guildmaster — who had always been the very face of terror — was on the verge of tears.
"W-why are you doing this to us? What did we ever do to you! Why, why would Hero-class come after little old us?! Huh? Shit! Don't come closer! Come near and I'll kill him, I swear I'll———"
"Go ahead."
The Hero answered with a giggle, almost playfully.
"Let's see a contest, then — your hand quicker, or my hair? And I'll tell you right now, I'd bet good money my hair punches a hole through your skull long before your blade gets halfway through our author's epidermis."
Suspended aloft by her own hair, the Hero slowly drifted toward the two of them.
At that horrifying spectacle and the overwhelming presence that radiated naturally from her, the strength drained from the black-haired author's legs.
Watching him crumple to the ground, the guildmaster didn't even look back — he sprinted off like a madman and vanished somewhere into the night.
The Hero didn't chase him.
"Don't worry too much. I know all about how things work in Tornerheim. You see those guilds I blew apart? That guild that just ran away is going to be held responsible for them. That bastard can forget ever living a happy life in Tornerheim again."
Muttering this with lazy ease, the navy-haired Hero approached the black-haired author and helped him up.
"Your Soul Net handle is ArrivedFromSeonmuWorld, right?"
"Yes? Yes......... how did you—"
"Elsy sent me. I heard you might be in Tornerheim and figured it was worth checking. And here you are. Are you alright, Author?"
Stroking the back of his neck where the dagger had been pressed only moments before, the black-haired author nodded.
"Fortunately, nothing seriously injured. Th-thank you."
"Don't thank me. Thank Elsy — she's the one who asked me to come. Now, let's go. Your novel. You're still willing to sign with the Black Magic Tower, yes?"
At those words, the black-haired author nodded quietly.
The navy-haired Hero — Iomene — broke into a wide grin at the sight.
"Give it your best shot. There are a lot of writers trying that these days, from what I hear. Hope it works out for you. I'll escort you as far as the Black Magic Tower branch nearby. You'd never survive the Tornerheim night streets on your own."
"Thank you."
Winding her hair around the dazed black-haired author, Iomene shot off at high speed, leaping from rooftop to rooftop.
"By the way, this work of yours — what's so great about it? For Elsy to actually ask me a favor, it can't be your average novel."
"I just....... got lucky, I suppose."
"What's it called? What's it about? Sounds like something I ought to read myself."
The black-haired author let out an empty laugh.
Was this reality, or a dream born from suffering too long in that isolation room? He couldn't tell — and as he wondered, he described the plot of the novel that had dropped him into hell and then pulled him back out of it.
"Scent of Ink. It's a novel about a warrior who once walked the demonic path in the Seonmu World crossing over into the Wirod Dimension and going on his adventures there."