Chapter 22: Competition Isn't Fair (5)
Chapter 22: Competition Isn't Fair (5)
Translation: Godtl
Nortaris, where adventurers from all over the world flocked in search of gold.
But not all adventurers made their money through honest means.
Adventurers had strength, and gray enterprises like Polar Suns needed that strength.
"Heh heh heh, what a bunch of idiots. They can spend their whole lives choking on dungeon dust while scraping by."
Liam, the enforcer working under Brighton, was one of those types.
Originally a 2nd-Rank Alchemist, he was a talent who could have earned decent respect even if he'd taken the normal adventurer route.
But he wouldn't have made money as easily as he did now.
"You kids see this? This is how you get things done."
"As expected of you, boss."
"Tsk tsk, a grown man trembling just because he torched a little shop. Should've cut his balls off while we were at it."
"Still, the coffee that bastard gave us wasn't half bad."
This job was no different.
All they had to do was set fire to a small commercial building, threaten the shop owner, and retrieve the patent and trademark certificates.
The effort was trivial, comparable to a post-meal stroll, but the spoils were staggering.
"Whoa, to think this is all cola... I can't believe it."
"Fifty bottles of cola?!"
The patent and trademark certificates Brighton had ordered them to retrieve.
And on top of that, fifty unopened bottles of cola.
It was safe to say no noble had ever held this much cola at once.
To Liam, the wooden crates filled with cola sparkled like piles of jewels.
"Are we gonna try some cola today?"
"Are you out of your damn mind, you brainless brat?"
Liam smacked the bald guy's head with his palm.
"C'mon, you could've just said no—why you gotta keep hitting my weak spot—"
"Do you even know what this is?"
"Uh... a drink?"
"Sigh... No wonder you're stuck renting a place even with a cushy job like this. This is cola. Cola. Even filthy-rich nobles can't get their hands on a single bottle without causing a scene."
Cola was exclusively distributed in the most secretive manner from The Litchfield Hotel.
Because of that, even in the black market—where nothing was truly off-limits—it was an extremely rare commodity.
"If we put this up on the black market, how much do you think we'd get? At the very least, 100 gold coins. A hundred crowns."
"T-that much?!"
"Yeah, our luck's just turned golden. I'll take half, and you lot can split the rest fairly among yourselves."
"Boss, you're the best! So generous!"
"We're rich!!!"
Alright, now how to sell this off carefully without drawing attention...
Unlike his subordinates, who were celebrating without a care, Liam wasn't entirely at ease.
Polar Suns was a far more terrifying company than it appeared.
Though he was just a low-ranking member, Liam understood Brighton's ruthlessness better than his underlings did.
Hadn't Brighton secured one of the seven seats in the "Grey Council", which mediated disputes between Northern mafia factions?
If their embezzlement was discovered, five corpses with cola bottles stuffed in their mouths would turn up in some back alley.
To safely slip away from the North with the stolen cola, his men would have to act as unwitting decoys, recklessly selling it off.
And in that chaos, he could flee straight to the Alkand Empire...
—Clatter!
"Who's there?!"
"W-what the hell?!"
Midway through his sinister scheming, Liam abruptly drew his palette filled with alchemy catalysts at the sudden noise.
His subordinates scrambled to ready their weapons as well.
This was one of Polar Suns' lemonade production plants.
At this hour, no one should've been here.
"So it was Polar Suns after all."
Yet, between the moonlight streaming through the skylight above—
A man wearing a rabbit mask stepped into view.
"The hell is this guy?! How'd he get in?!"
"You got a death wish, barging in here?!"
Liam tensed up, scrutinizing the unexpected intruder.
Tall, lean frame, and a mask that screamed suspicious to anyone who saw it.
A refined killing intent flowed through the previously rowdy gang.
"What should we do, boss?"
If he were an alchemist, he should've had a palette—yet there was none.
If he were a knight, he should've exuded that characteristic, dignified mana field—yet there was none.
But for some reason, an inexplicable unease prickled at him.
Driven by that unease, Liam made a decision.
"Bury him."
The moment the order fell, his subordinates rushed at the rabbit-masked man in unison.
They might look clumsy, but these were Polar Suns' enforcers.
The attacks coming from all four directions each aimed for lethal pressure points.
Even if he dodged these, Liam—their main firepower—would finish him off in a clean follow-up.
A flawless coordination that would draw admiration even from veteran adventurers.
That's how it should have gone.
—THUD!
Liam blinked.
"What the...?"
The last scene Liam had registered was the seamless execution of their formation.
The rabbit-masked man in the middle should've been nothing more than prey caught in a snare.
"Guhk...!"
"Ughhh...!"
But in the time it took to blink—
Just as the rabbit-masked man's figure seemed to blur for a split second—
His subordinates were sent flying in all directions, groaning in pain.
Arms, legs—every limb was broken, bleeding.
Did he do this?
But he was unarmed?
He didn't even seem to be channeling mana?
How the hell—?
"This'll do."
While Liam was still reeling from the flood of questions, the rabbit-masked man leisurely picked up a sword that had clattered to the floor.
"Tail Flame—!"
Liam frantically tried to complete his spell and strike.
But just before the magic took form—
—SHINK!
The blade pierced straight through the alchemy catalyst in Liam's hand and embedded itself into a pillar behind him.
The throw was so powerful that the sword quivered in the pillar like a tuning fork, having grazed the side of Liam's head.
"Fuck me..."
He got it. He understood now.
This was executive-tier.
No—among them, a top-ranked combat specialist.
This wasn't a fight. This was a slaughter.
The rabbit-masked man, having disrupted Liam's alchemy with that throw, flicked up another sword with the tip of his foot and caught it midair.
"Ah, my shoulders are stiff—been a while since I've done this."
He twirled the blade casually as he approached Liam, frozen like a mouse before a snake, and asked:
"Oh, by the way—do you like bananas?"
"Bananas...? I don't dislike them."
"Good. You'll be eating plenty from now on."
Behind the rabbit mask, Jurgen grinned.
Liam and his men's fates were sealed.
Since they seemed capable with their bodies, they'd make fine laborers in Soltera's coca plantations.
Penelope headed straight for Polar Suns' headquarters at dawn.
"Get your CEO out here."
She was here to settle accounts with Edwin Brighton, the one who'd likely orchestrated the arson.
After being told, "The CEO has prior engagements, so without an appointment, please wait in the reception room,"
How much time had passed since then?
She'd arrived in the morning—now it was late at night. At least twelve hours of waiting.
Someone unfamiliar with this might wonder what kind of nonsense this was, but...
This was one of high society's refined methods of humiliation.
Colloquially known as "flower arranging."
There were many variations, but the core principle was simple:
Trap the guest in the reception room and leave them there indefinitely.
Even if the guest, worn down by waiting, asked, "When can I see him?" the answer would be, "Very soon."
Ask again six hours later, and the reply would be, "Truly, very soon."
In the process, the guest would be steeped in embarrassment, awkwardness, and shame.
And if they left empty-handed, they'd become the laughingstock of high society—
A simple but effective dark art.
For the uninitiated, it was a vicious tactic that could make them cough up blood in fury.
"Decorate the reception room."
"Uhehehe... As you command."
At first, when receiving Brighton's instructions, his secretary had been delighted.
He'd looked forward to seeing that pretty young lady running out in tears.
But it took less than three minutes for that expectation to be proven wrong.
"Is this all?"
"Y-yes?"
"You said you'd bring out fine liquor. I suppose this is what passes for fine liquor in your eyes?"
Who was Penelope Rosemore?
To survive in high society, she'd swallowed every manner of humiliation and indignity.
Her only thought was, 'So I'm being subjected to this again...'
Such transparent tricks couldn't even make her scoff.
"You serve me ditchwater and call this tea? You drink it. Why? Can't do it?"
"This sofa feels too hard. Change it. Right now."
"After making me wait this long, isn't it proper etiquette to at least serve a meal?"
"No, I'll generously overlook it. What can one expect from nouveau riche upstarts who've never learned proper manners?"
"Look at that face. Don't like it? What exactly will you do if I displease you?"
Without showing the slightest intimidation, Penelope mercilessly played the unreasonable customer to perfection, tormenting the secretary to death.
"This wine isn't bad. But the glass is lukewarm. Chill it again."
As she went on, she realized this might actually suit her temperament.
It was even somewhat stress-relieving.
"M-M-Miss Penelope, the CEO has requested your presence."
Far from satisfying any dark desires, the secretary—who'd likely grown five hundred new gray hairs—was finally liberated from his duties.
After the long wait, Brighton finally faced her.
"My sincerest apologies. You were still waiting? My secretary failed to inform me."
"Thanks to your excellent hospitality, I was quite comfortable."
"That's a relief. Well then, it's good we've finally met. I'm honored to have this intimate meeting with the renowned Miss Penelope of high society."
He received Penelope wearing not a suit, but a bathrobe.
This behavior, blatantly rude by any standard, was just another childish trick.
Late at night. A man and woman alone.
Either condition could spark fatal scandal for a noble lady.
He was trying to seize control from the outset.
As if that weren't enough, Brighton smirked insolently and let his eyes roam over Penelope's figure with obvious appraisal.
Penelope met his brazen insult without so much as a twitch of her eyebrow, smiling pleasantly instead.
"Edwin Brighton, I've heard much about you, but this is our first meeting. Penelope Rosemore."
"Oh, to think a lady of House Rosemore would know this humble merchant's name."
"Of course. A petty trader who got lucky with money and forgot his place. How could I not know you?"
At Penelope's sweetly delivered venom, Brighton's lips twitched.
Well now?
Normally, after being made to wait half a day and subjected to open insults, anyone would be flying into a rage.
Yet here she was, delivering sharp barbs with perfect composure.
Guess blood will tell after all?
But Brighton wasn't particularly cowed either.
Though his opponent was a Rosemore lady, Brighton had his own confidence.
He had money, and friends bought with money.
Most crucially, he had Clarice backing him.
A few emotional attacks from a lady who'd only just returned to society?
"Hahaha! Sharp tongue you've got there. It's late, so let's get to the point."
"Indeed."
"What grand words required making me wait sixteen hours in your reception room? Ah, but if it's about cola, you're always welcome."
"It's not that."
Penelope cut straight to the chase.
"It was you, wasn't it?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
"My business partner's shop burned down. Seems someone tried dirty tricks to steal the cola patent and trademark..."
"Oh my, I've spent my entire life upholding honesty and trust as virtues. Baseless accusations are quite troubling, young lady."
"Honesty and trust? That's enough to make a stray dog laugh."
Brighton, who had initially bristled at the beginning, had now regained his composure.
When she'd come on so strong, he'd wondered if she actually had something.
But unlike Clarice, she was just another spoiled noble brat after all.
"If you have no other business, I believe we can conclude here."
"Does speaking with me privately make you uncomfortable?"
"Fundamentally, I'm a businessman. I don't waste time with people who bring nothing to the table."
Her series of arrogant words and actions were just shallow tricks to provoke him emotionally and fish for information.
In other words, it meant she had neither evidence nor any real leverage.
"Let me educate you on one thing. In this business, emotional outbursts alone don't get you anywhere. Next time, come with either justification or evidence—preferably both."
"What excellent advice. Very well. Then I'll get straight to my point."
Brighton, who had regained his composure and was smiling cheerfully, suddenly felt an inexplicable chill.
The source of this chill was Penelope's icy smile.
A coldness reminiscent of the ruthless Clarice was etched across her elegant features.
"I came here to deliver a warning."
"A warning?"
"I don't care if you play your usual dirty tricks—that's what you people always do anyway."
"I've been more than tolerant so far. If you want to play noble games—"
"I understand why you'd look down on me. By your standards, I must have always been someone who brought nothing to the table. But you see..."
Her speech pattern abruptly shifted to informal at the end.
"Try touching my people again."
Yet it didn't sound awkward at all.
Rather, the natural intimidation in her voice pressed uncomfortably against Brighton, a seasoned veteran.
"Then you'll learn exactly how far someone with nothing left to lose can go."
After Penelope left following her warning,
"Ugh..."
Brighton fell deep into thought.
He was a self-made man in his own right.
Starting from the bottom, he'd willingly dirtied his hands to reach this position.
For someone like him to feel pressured by some greenhorn was absurd.
But.
"What makes her so confident?"
Penelope Rosemore.
Second daughter of the Rosemore Count Family.
Though expelled from high society by Clarice, she'd made a comeback through the cola business.
Did she have another card up her sleeve?
Common sense said no.
The sword she wielded could never reach Brighton.
Didn't she even say herself that she had "nothing left to lose"?
Yet despite knowing this logically, the sheer audacity that made it impossible to dismiss as mere bluffing left Brighton feeling inexplicably unsettled.
Could she really have nothing?
Had she been secretly building her position through cola all this time without his knowledge?
Had she formed an alliance with another organization?
"That's one hell of a brat."
"Tell me—did I miss something?"
"Impossible. We did thorough background checks, didn't we? It's obviously just bluster."
"What about the possibility she figured out our connection to Clarice?"
"None whatsoever."
"Well, if she had, she would've made something of it."
"Don't worry too much. While we've been keeping that girl occupied, the strike team should be bringing the patent and trademark certificates soon, right?"
The lawyer remained unperturbed.
And truth be told, he was right.
That's exactly why Brighton had been stalling Penelope with empty talk to buy time.
Finally, Brighton relaxed.
"See? Without cola, she's nothing but empty posturing."
But the news that reached Brighton and the lawyer as they waited for the certificates...
was something far beyond their expectations.
"Boss! There's been a fire at the lemonade production plant!"
"What? How bad is it?"
"Total loss! Complete destruction! Even the support beams burned down!"
"What about the strike team—any contact with them?"
"Th-that's just it... The operatives who were supposed to bring the certificates... th-they've all gone silent!"
At his secretary's frantic report, Brighton glared at the lawyer.
"You said there was nothing to worry about."
"Me? What?"
Brighton's fist smashed into the lawyer's nose.