I Need to Make Money (3)
Of course, in this city, the treatment of guild-affiliated adventurers and regular mercenaries is worlds apart from the start. If adventurers are proper professionals, mercenaries are treated like day laborers scraping by. Even if they're both crawling into the same labyrinth, the way they're handled is night and day. To put it more simply, it's like the difference in how people look at solo queue players versus free rank players.
Adventurers risk their lives grinding for clears, but mercenaries have this reputation for hanging back, sucking up the easy scraps, and getting tossed aside without mercy if things go south. The moment it gets even a little dangerous, they ditch the client and run, or even stab them in the back—it's rampant. So naturally, clients prefer adventurers, and the good quests all flock to the guild.
Now, here's the question. If regular mercenaries get that kind of treatment, what about the ones from that filthy underground dive I just left? At that point, they're not even treated like people. The underbelly of the underbelly. In gaming terms, it's like those anonymous accounts hiding in Discord sniper chats, cherry-picking the most toxic bullshit. Blatant terms of service violations—you get reported and banned if you're caught! Gotta stay hidden.
Luckily, my efforts were pretty successful. I'd wrapped the robe strings tight around my body without a single gap, mixed mana into my voice to distort it, and switched from my usual polite speech to rough street slang. I even subtly went up on my tiptoes with every step to hide my height. They all probably thought I was just some scrawny guy.
"Perfect."
I reached up to adjust the mask, making sure it wouldn't slip. The quest site was coming up soon.
Smoothly, I pulled the crumpled parchment I'd gotten from that woman out of my pocket and unfolded it again. Destination: the abandoned warehouse district on the outskirts of the eastern slums. The smugglers' hideout where they snatch up street orphans and powerless beggars to sell as slaves. The worst of the worst, who treat human lives cheaper than flies and torture anyone who resists just for kicks. Perfect snacks for Dusty.
A derelict warehouse with faint light leaking out. I counted the heads of the guys clustered at the entrance, smoking amiably in groups of twos and threes.
One, two, three...
Total of five.
Thud, thud. I stepped forward through the darkness, slowly and deliberately. Straight toward the front gate of the warehouse—bold as brass.
"...What the hell's this guy?"
The men's eyes snapped to me all at once as they puffed out smoke.
"Hey. Private property. Get lost while I'm asking nice..."
"Wait a sec. Look at that freak's face. What the hell is that?"
The pitch-black robe, and atop it, a Hahoe mask grinning like it might split wide open. Their faces turned ugly at the sight of this obvious lunatic intruder.
The moment all five gazes locked on me, I didn't answer. Instead, I thrust out my left arm toward them. The bandages had come off long ago.
Slither—
Darkness swallowed them whole up close. The already dim surroundings plunged into an abyss where you couldn't see an inch ahead.
"Wh-what the hell! What's going on all of a sudden?!"
"Fuck, I can't see shit...!"
The men yanked swords from their belts. With my distorted voice, I commanded Dusty.
"Bind them."
Rustle-rustle-rustle—!
"Eek!"
"S-something on my legs—argh!"
Chains. Crude geometric shapes woven together snaked around their ankles and wrists in an instant.
"What the fuck is this?!"
"Let go!"
Their flailing swords dropped limply to the ground. The five burly men dangled in midair, thrashing helplessly. Hostility to confusion to panic—a seamless sequence flowing like water. The key is tying up their limbs so they can't move. Can't have them slashing at each other in fear like last time in the alley.
"What the fuck is this?! Argh!"
"Boss! Booooss!"
Table's set perfectly. But starting with the eyeballs is amateur hour. For max cost-efficiency, I need to milk as many screams as possible from this setup.
Flick. I opened one eye in midair. Just one. Too many and they might foam at the mouth and pass out, so only enough terror they can handle.
A single gleaming eye in the darkness. That blood-red pupil rolled lazily, savoring each of the five dangling men in turn.
"Gasp!"
"An e-eye...!"
"Fuck! Let me loose! Let go!"
Excellent. No fainting, just raw screams ringing out. Tenor to baritone—a colorful, high-quality symphony echoing through the alley.
This is the pinnacle of table-setting expertise from Iris Omakase, 15 years in business.
So, what does our picky gourmet Dusty rate it? Michelin score?
—Vrrr...
What?! Out of 10, only 3?!
A lukewarm vibration from my left arm. The red eye in midair narrowed, then flicked away like it lost interest.
Classic picky eater move when the ingredients' color doesn't appeal. Even starving, it won't touch this? Too bland, huh. Not pure terror—refined, artificial screams in a controlled setup lack punch.
Damn. First humiliation in 15 years.
"No choice, then."
MSG dump. Ten more eyes popped open.
Pop, pop. Air bursting in the dark, red gleams blooming in a chain. One eye became eleven in a flash.
They moved independently, scanning the men's bodies. Licking gazes. A sickening sensation squeezing every inch.
"H-heek! Hiiiik!"
"Uwaaaaa!"
The men's voices thinned out. Higher-pitched, dragged from deep in their lungs.
This is solid enough for my portfolio.
"Uwaaagh...! ......!"
"Mmph...! .........!"
Gulp— Finally, gourmet Dusty takes a spoonful of screams.
I watched its eyes like a chef awaiting the judge's verdict. Score?
Vrrr— DusMichelin 6/10! Edible, but not tasty.
Self-esteem bruised over this?
Sssss— Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Thicker darkness billows out, with rustling sounds. Restaurant ambiance is as crucial as the food. Interior sets quality, background music defines identity. When it all syncs, the dish gains character.
"GyaAAAAAHHH—!!" Throat-shredding high note. 8.6.
"Ughhh! Urp! Uuughhh!" Tongue-biting, fear-choked groans. 8.8.
"GyaAACK! Gekkk!" Pure primal howl as sanity snaps. Slight crack in baritone, tone deduction. 9.1!
Dusty slurped them greedily.
Vrrrrm!! Satisfying vibration up my arm at last. My Hahoe mask nodded in the dark.
"That'll do."
Appetizers end here. Maxed value, time for the main course.
"......! .........!"
".........!"
Screams fading into darkness. With mana-distorted voice, I murmured quietly.
"Now, eat up."
Shhhk!
At the harvest signal, chains climbed their bodies. Destination: the highest, wettest spot, eyes soaked in tears.
"............!!!"
".........!!......"
Fresh blood and final death rattles melted into the black. Squishy sounds, bodies convulsed briefly, then heads lolled in unison.
Didn't kill them. Even if I'm numb to this stuff, slaughtering too much might mess with my sleep. Not that eating eyes alive is saintly, but better than dead. Win-win—they keep breathing, slums stay safe from kidnappings.
The airborne eyes finally closed. Chains released, bodies thudded to the ground.
I lightly stepped over the eyeless, foaming unconscious men. Not done yet.
Uncrumpled the quest parchment. Target: ledger somewhere inside. Need that.
Shoved it in my pocket, kicked the warehouse's iron door hard.
Bang—!
"........."
Didn't budge. I politely grabbed the handle and turned.
Creeeak— Opened smooth. It pulled open.
Stepped boldly inside. But the moment the door swung wide, a scene utterly unlike my expectations unfolded.
"...?"
Click. Shing—
Easily thirty or more smugglers. They'd barricaded with wagons and crates in a perfect semicircle encirclement.
Front line: thick wooden shields and long spears. Rear: crossbows with taut strings.
And at the center rear, a young woman who looked like the leader.
My gaze went to her fingertips. Massive fireballs blazing in both hands, aimed right at me.
...A mage?
Her mana-weaving skill put her at the tail end of 2nd stage Structure at least. Not some amateur mimicking phenomena. Combat-applicable.
Pretty out of place for slum thug boss.
Smugglers with a mage? Weird.
The moment I tilted my head in confusion—
"Fire!"
Her sharp command rang out.
Pew—! Ping! Ping! Fwoooosh—!
Dozens of bolts and fireballs rained down on me at once.