Ga-wol (5)

Infinity Black's core content essentially boiled down to two things.

The first was the massive RvR battlefield commonly known as the "siege scene."

A mud pit of interest wars between colossal factions. Dirty political maneuvering was a given, and beneath the surface, vicious underhanded struggles never stopped.

With fortunes on the line, the ugliness ran deep.

Field ambushes and hit jobs meant to stunt a rival's growth. Guild wars fought over hunting grounds. And in the aftermath of those wars, the bullying, the power-tripping, the whole catalog of abuses.

If you divided Infinity Black into light and dark, the siege scene belonged squarely to the dark.

The light, such as it was, lived in the ranked PvP — matches ranging from 1v1 up to about 6v6.

When people talked about eSports in Infinity Black, this was what they meant.

Unlike the open field, ranked games capped gear and stats, so it was a pure contest of skill.

Infinity ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Black had been designed as a PvP game from the ground up. The combat — that feeling of becoming a superhuman out of fantasy or martial arts fiction — lit up every nerve ending in the human body, and by now the game had grown large enough to support professional leagues in countries around the world.

As for me… I didn't really belong to either side.

Pro teams reached out from time to time, but between my physical condition and the dive-rig problem, accepting was never realistic.

I couldn't perform at my real level on anything but the dedicated rig in my room.

If I could have, I would have done it already. I'd tried more than a few dozen times.

On the siege side, I operated as a free agent — a mercenary with no fixed affiliation.

That was about money.

I need cash. A lot of it.

The scraps that fell from siege guilds were never small. The old-timers called those specialists "hit squads," with a nostalgic little smile. The cruder term was "shit-stirrers."

Field-combat specialists got corporate-level pay depending on their skill.

Which was another way of saying that was the ceiling.

Join a siege guild and you were still just a salaryman. Even with my skill earning me better treatment, the fundamental situation never changed.

The pay was worse than what I made freelancing like this.

I was a special case. My legs were a special case.

A quiet monthly paycheck was never going to fix them.

The blade punched through another heart.

The next one got lucky — I took his head clean off in a single stroke — and the one after that, who'd put up a halfway decent fight, went down just as cleanly.

The afterglow of killing Sulbbang still hadn't faded, and the adrenaline was roaring through me like a wildfire.

Tonight's target was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a rookie streamer going by BluetoothShowerhead.

He was the guildmaster of a newborn outfit called Pseudoscience, and by now even his guildmates had started showing their faces.

Same as with Sulbbang — two birds, one stone. I figured we'd be having these polite little conversations for a few more days at least.

Why he was on the list, I didn't know.

Between me and a client, the only things that ever changed hands were money and the job description. That was the rule.

On the siege scene, real cash moved, and cold capitalist logic applied.

Using the first announcement on the official homepage as the subject line was the standard protocol for a contract. The mail came anonymously, and the body listed only the target and the fee.

The attached item meant: list this on the auction house and I'll buy it — that was how payment moved.

What kind of grudge justified going this far to kill someone? I couldn't say… but my business was booming more than you'd expect.

If I had to guess, either the target was growing too fast, or they'd done something to land themselves on the wrong side of someone important.

The fact that they'd hired me specifically suggested the reason wasn't anything noble.

Well. Not my problem, was it?

Not when the gold stacking up in my warehouse looked this good.

Kill the same person enough times and you start seeing the same reactions.

Usually two or three times. Four, if they were stubborn.

At first, everyone tried to beat me alone. Pride was a hell of a thing.

When that failed, they called in friends or guildmates. And when that failed too, the next ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stage kicked in.

This time was no different.

Username: BluetoothShowerhead.

A mage in a blue robe dropped to his knees right in front of me. He even set down his weapon and threw both arms up in surrender.

"Wait, wait! Let's talk, okay? Look, I get it — it's all my fault, so can we just have a conversation? Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

The five stages of death, basically.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

He'd just cleared denial and anger, so bargaining time it was.

But I had no intention of bargaining with this mage.

That would be a breach of contract.

Not because I had some lofty professional code — just that if you broke the basics, the clients stopped calling. And this was my livelihood.

The money from contracts wasn't small, but my medical bills ran higher still. And the income wasn't stable either. There was a reason I lived in a moldy one-room flat.

Still — wandering around killing people, even in a game, was a lonely business. So when someone struck up a conversation, I didn't usually shut them down.

"Did I do something wrong? Just tell me and I'll apologize."

"Apologize? Hmm. An apology… I don't think that's necessary."

"What? Then what am I supposed to do? There has to be a reason you're doing this. Just say something. Anything."

"A kid I know got hurt by your guild. But I can't exactly give you their username, can I? So don't bother apologizing. I didn't come here looking for one."

A complete and total lie, of course.

I never heard the reasons when I took a job. How would I know?

But you needed a plausible cover story so the client didn't take heat. If there was some personal grudge involved, they could get identified.

A contract killer who murdered infinitely respawning targets. Occupational hazards unique to a very niche line of work.

Still, I never worried about getting caught in the lie.

Not once had this kind of excuse failed to land.

Like most games that allowed open-world PK, Infinity Black was designed so the strong could torment the weak. Guild wars didn't require any elaborate process, so wars broke out over the flimsiest pretexts imaginable.

Get beaten down long enough and someone eventually said something ugly. From that moment on, even the "justification" belonged to the strong. And once the strong had their justification, they only got crueler.

I'd seen more than a few cases where the terms of surrender demanded prices you couldn't write off as "just a game."

Nothing new. Just the physiology of this world.

The dark side of a game ruled solely by the logic of power.

At least among the people who lived in the siege scene, there wasn't a single clean one who hadn't screwed someone over.

If a contract on someone had reached me, the odds were nine out of ten. No — basically certain.

It's not that there are no suspects. There are so many you can't even start narrowing them down.

Sure enough, he seemed to give up on finding my imaginary little sibling.

Instead, the mage's eyes started twitching. Once toward his staff. Once, out of nowhere, flicking toward some empty patch of sky.

Probably checking a skill cooldown. Or maybe support chatter was flying through guild chat.

Either way, I didn't care. People hurt more ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠when their dirty little tricks failed. So I took the risk and pretended not to notice.

"Th-then… what about financial compensation?"

"Funny. Most people figure out what I am after I've killed them about eight times. Ever heard of me taking money from the people I kill?"

"N… no. Doesn't seem like it."

His eyes dropped to my sword.

I'd finished my read, too. That earlier glance had been a cooldown check.

Going to try it alone? Brave of him.

I shifted my blade casually to the side, as if I'd let my guard down.

That was the moment. The mage snatched up his staff like he'd been waiting for it and bellowed,

"You fucking bitch! Your little sibling and all that—"

Shhk. Unfortunately for him, my hand was faster than any spell.

Who said you had to hold a weapon in only one hand? I was an experienced assassin, and I always kept a sidearm ready.

The blade entered under his jaw, shattered bone, and carved through something inside his skull.

Poor judgment. I'd expected him to wait for better timing at least once or twice more.

Mages, I supposed — no talent for ambushes.

An ambush only worked if the other person didn't see it coming. When it was this obvious, it was harder to play along and let yourself get hit.

And as if this guy were the first one to try sucker-punching me mid-conversation.

I flicked the blood off the blade and gave him a bright, sunny smile.

"See you next time."