Chapter 39: The First Secret Plan (3)
Chapter 39: The First Secret Plan (3)
Translation: Godtl
Violence is frightening to anyone.
Serena, too, was afraid of violence.
But if it were just simple violence, anyone could wield it.
The violence of the outlaws Serena was facing was no different in essence from an eight-year-old child crushing a bug underfoot.
It was nothing more than a childish, utterly shallow display of force.
But what about Penelope?
Penelope had used her family's influence to make her rival, Brighton, "commit suicide."
She shamelessly absorbed the most profitable parts of the business he had run and was now poised to devour the entire enterprise.
Once the "secret plan" was complete, this battle for market share would end with Y&P Trading Company's victory.
This was the true violence of the nobility.
"So, I—I'm not afraid of the likes of you..."
After Serena's bold declaration, a cold silence fell over the room.
"Is this bitch insane...?!"
The female outlaw, her face stiff with anger, suddenly raised her hand to strike Serena's cheek—
"Stop. What do you think you're doing?"
The door of the shack creaked open, and an old man stepped inside.
Serena, who had squeezed her eyes shut, cautiously opened them again.
The moment she saw the old man's appearance, she immediately shut them once more.
Skin so deeply wrinkled it resembled the cracked bark of an ancient tree, eyes entirely black without a trace of white, a long beard, and a tattered robe.
His overall appearance was grotesque, but Serena had sharp instincts.
Even these reckless outlaws were clearly terrified of the old man.
The woman who had been about to slap Serena trembled violently, her legs shaking as if she might collapse, and bowed her head deeply.
"Did I not tell you to handle her gently and deliver her unharmed?"
"P-Priest...! I—I didn't mean to...! I've committed a sin worthy of death! Forgive me, forgive me!"
As the old man stroked his beard, it rustled and shifted unnaturally—no, not a beard.
Only then did Serena realize why his "beard" had been moving so strangely.
What hung from his chin wasn't hair but a dense, writhing mass of long-legged spiders.
Serena's Sanity: -1 Stack.
"Now, let's see... Serena Lenoir, was it? Are you hurt anywhere?"
The old man smiled kindly as he examined her.
But Serena's mind was already halfway gone.
Real spiders.
This old man has thousands of them dangling from his chin.
Please don't come any closer.
"...I see some bruises."
His expression darkened as he glared at the cowering outlaw.
"This tribute was a rare find. A sacrifice of this caliber is worth more than five of your worthless lives."
"Sh-She wouldn't talk no matter what we did...! I was just trying to scare her, I swear!"
"Useless."
The old man flicked his fingers lightly.
In an instant, a rustling sound filled the air as spiders swarmed from nowhere, engulfing the outlaw's body.
"GAAAH! AAAAAH! SAVE ME! PLEASE, SAVE ME!"
"Eek! HIIIIK!"
"Ugh... ughhh..."
Serena learned for the first time that even the movement of mere insects could create a deafening noise when there were thousands—no, tens of thousands—of them.
The outlaw, writhing and screaming on the floor, was completely covered in tiny spiders in an instant.
And in less than a few seconds, when the swarm dispersed—
Nothing remained in her place.
"..."
Serena had seen enough to understand.
A cruelty that treated human life as more disposable than bugs.
The title of "Priest."
A bizarre form of sorcery she had never witnessed before.
And the mention of "tribute."
This old man was one of the continent's most heinous enemies.
A priest of the End Cult, devoted to ruin and destruction.
A black mage who gained power by offering tribute to fallen deities.
Serena Faint 2 Stacks.
"Don't worry, child. I won't harm you in any way."
"But didn't you... didn't you just call me a Tribute earlier...?"
"I did."
"If I may be so bold... Doesn't that mean you are going to harm me?"
"What nonsense! Your fleeting flesh may perish, but He will find your soul most pleasing."
"You... seem to have a slightly different worldview than me..."
The priest bowed slightly and stroked Serena's head with a benevolent smile.
"Wait patiently. Once we carve out your brain to extract the information and prepare the Burnt Offering, you'll soon sit beside the heavenly throne and enjoy the crimson bliss of His favor."
Serena Faint 3 Stacks.
"Aah..."
She couldn't hold on any longer.
With a small gasp, Serena fainted.
From the entrance, the Labyrinth Demon Realm bustled with guards and customs officers, making it impossible to enter or leave undetected.
They thoroughly checked identities and purposes, surrounding and interrogating anyone suspicious on the spot.
Yet, in reality, even Outlaws found hidden paths to slip in and out of the Demon Realm.
For Jurgen, it wasn't particularly difficult.
"Viche."
[This way.]
The winding geography of the Labyrinth Demon Realm posed no issue.
Like following a compass, Jurgen dashed unhesitatingly in the direction Viche indicated.
"This must be the place."
The hard, dry stone passage of the fifth floor ended abruptly, replaced by heavy, damp air that stabbed at his lungs.
Beyond it lay a sight that barely qualified as a "Reward Room."
The vast cavern, large enough to fit dozens of stadiums, was entirely submerged in a massive swamp.
Gaunt, skeletal mangroves stood like bones in rows, their twisted roots grotesquely entangled in the black, murky waters.
The only light came from scattered, eerie blue-glowing fungal colonies.
If Serena had been taken this far, the culprit was obvious.
An Outlaw who had staked their claim in a part of the Demon Realm untouched by other adventurers.
"Just as I thought—Outlaws are involved."
He had suspected as much when Viche guided him here, but it seemed Rex had Outlaws under his command.
In that case, Rex wasn't just a competitor's lackey.
He was an enemy of the kingdom.
In other words, someone who needed to be eliminated.
"Viche, scan the area."
[48 individuals.]
"Any high-threat targets?"
[Five 3rd-Rank Knights.] [One 4th-Rank Knight.] [One 5th-Rank Alchemist.]
Forty-eight.
And, true to Outlaws who had established themselves on the fifth floor, several troublesome targets were among them.
The weaker ones were likely at least 2nd Rank.
"Any anomalies?"
[One priest.]
And a Black Mage priest with combat prowess rivaling 6th Rank...
"Good work."
But it made no difference.
It just gave him one more solid reason to deal with Rex.
[I'm tired...]
Viche, exhausted from the pursuit, swayed weakly.
"Viche, just a little longer. I'll let you rest soon."
[Okay!]
Jurgen stroked Viche's head before his figure dissolved into the darkness.
.
.
.
The Jet Black Group's hideout was a haphazard sprawl of wooden planks built atop the mangrove roots.
They connected their makeshift bases with bridges, each guarded by sentries on patrol.
At least these Outlaws, being criminals, had the sense to prepare for external threats.
"Yaaawn..."
Frank, the 5th-Rank Alchemist and Outlaw, stretched lazily before tossing stones into the swamp with a flick of his wrist.
Watching the bubbles rise with a putrid stench, he felt an inexplicable tightness in his chest.
"Why did my life turn out like this..."
Frank was a skilled alchemist, but his personality left much to be desired.
In his pursuit of quick riches, he had ambushed fellow adventurers from behind and plundered their belongings.
The profits had been substantial, but eventually, his trail was uncovered, and a bounty was placed on his head—forcing him to join the Jet Black Group.
Though he had narrowly escaped with his life, he was now reduced to hiding in this wretched den of scum, surrounded by filth.
As if these criminal bastards were playing at being soldiers, they even had him standing guard in this ridiculous farce of a security shift.
"Tch, who the hell would even crawl all the way to this godforsaken shithole?"
Frank grumbled, lamenting his miserable fate—completely unaware.
Unaware of the intruder silently diving through the thick, murky depths of the swamp.
Unaware that the intruder would suddenly lunge forward and loop a wire around his neck.
"Ghk—!"
Like a noose tightening around a duck's neck, Frank's body was yanked into the swamp in an instant.
Resistance was futile.
An overwhelming force, as if he had been caught in factory machinery, dragged him down into the depths.
"...!!!...!!!"
He couldn't see anything.
His throat burned.
Foul swamp water gushed into his nostrils, and his mouth, which should have been screaming, was instead filled with mud.
He thrashed his limbs desperately, but all he managed was to flail helplessly in the leaden weight of the mire.
'My palette... my palette...!'
If only he had his palette, he could fight back.
If he could just pull out an alchemy catalyst from it...
If he could use his unique code to—
Crunch.
As Frank desperately groped at his waist, a thunderous sound exploded in his ears—and then, his consciousness snapped like a thread.
It was the sound of his cervical spine twisting and shattering.
Frank's lifeless body, now devoid of the palette at his waist, sank endlessly into the depths of the swamp.
A fittingly pitiful end for a wretched villain.
The Labyrinth Demon Realm was an ideal place for outlaws to hide.
A single floor spanned an area larger than Nortaris, and if all its layers were combined, it would surpass even the entire northern territory.
But just because it was easy to hide didn't mean living there was comfortable.
The Jet Black Group's hideout, tucked away in a remote corner of the 5th floor, was as crude as it got.
It was the life of savages, completely cut off from societal infrastructure.
Their only pleasures were drowning in alcohol or gathering to gamble.
Today, too, the outlaw Harlock was idly shuffling cards when the sudden commotion made him scowl.
"Ghk—! Kheuurk—!"
It was Shoebill, the notorious liar, stumbling across the bridge in a frantic rush.
"Shoebill? The hell are you doing here instead of standing guard?"
Harlock stood up, grabbing a club.
If this bastard was trying to slack off with another one of his bullshit excuses, he was ready to crack his skull open.
"I-Intruder... cough, cough! There's an intruder!"
"Here we go again. Not falling for it, dumbass."
"This time it's real, damn it! That bastard—he fucking force-fed me something weird!!!"
At first, Harlock thought it was another joke, but the sheer panic in Shoebill's expression gave him pause.
"An intruder? What the hell did he feed you?"
"Are you a fucking idiot? Why would you eat something from a stranger?"
"I didn't eat it, he shoved it down my throat!"
"What was it?"
"I don't know! Fuck, just call everyone! That bastard isn't normal!"
Just as the other outlaws, sensing something amiss, began to gather—
Harlock, standing slightly apart, was the only one who saw it clearly.
Flash.
Light erupted from Shoebill's mouth, nose, ears—even his eye sockets.
"Wha—what the hell is thiiiiis?!"
—Thud!
A dull explosion followed Shoebill's scream.
The 'Blasting' that had been 'delayed'—
Before anyone could react, the fragments of Shoebill, now turned into a human grenade, rained down upon the other outlaws.
Those caught near the blast were instantly killed by the flying shrapnel.
Those outside the lethal radius screamed as they suffered injuries both major and minor.
"Gaaah! My eyes! My eyes!!"
"What the hell? What the hell just happened?!"
As the survivors panicked and scattered—
Swish
Swish
Silvery flashes cut through the thick darkness without a sound.
A deadly, precise barrage—enhanced by Tracking, Precision Aim, and Pursuit—struck vital points with lethal efficiency.
With each streak of light, another corpse hit the ground.
They ran, they charged, they tried to hide or block—but they died all the same.
Even well-trained regular troops would be helpless against such an ambush.
For a ragtag band of thugs whose only virtue was cruelty and brutality, an organized counterattack was beyond hope.
"You fucking bastard!"
The sole remaining survivor, Harlock, brandished his club.
Though he too had been caught in the blast, he was a 4th-Rank Knight.
A 4th Rank's body was tough enough to deflect blades with bare skin.
Clang!
Harlock's eyes bulged as he reflexively batted away the sharp metal shard flying toward him.
"Cheap tricks... coward!"
His opponent was skilled in sniping.
Running would only leave his back open to attack.
Decision made, Harlock channeled mana into his body and charged toward the source of the gunfire.
"There you are!"
In the swamp-like murk, a man stood motionless, two fingers extended forward, his face utterly blank.
There was no camaraderie here.
Only a male beast with wounded pride, baring his fangs like a kicked dog.
"I'll smash your skull—"
His opponent was an alchemist.
And not just any alchemist—one specialized in long-range combat.
The strength drained from Harlock's body mid-lunge.
A delayed sensation—something foreign in his nasal cavity, then a creeping numbness spreading through his limbs.
The taste of metal coated his tongue. His lungs burned as if tearing apart.
He couldn't move a single finger, no matter how hard he tried.
Only now did he notice the unnatural haze surrounding the man.
"Y-you... cowardly... bastard..."
Poison.
By the time he realized it, Harlock was already face-down on the filthy wooden planks.
"You're the last one."
Desperately, Harlock rolled his eyes upward.
This man turned enemies into living bombs. He shot metal shards into those who couldn't resist.
Yet his expression remained as indifferent as someone plucking weeds from a garden.
His eyes were clear—devoid of emotion, devoid of guilt.
No, more than that—
"Th-the others...?"
There had been eight in this hideout, including Shoebill.
And in these swamps, the Jet Black Group had six more bases.
Today wasn't even a designated "hunt" day—there should've been dozens more comrades scattered around.
One of them was even a 5th-Rank Alchemist who had mastered a Unique Code.
And yet... had all the other hideouts been wiped out too?
The bases weren't exactly close—how could it have happened without any commotion?
Was that even possible?
The man stepped closer, silent, pressing two fingers against Harlock's temple.
Instinctively, he knew death was imminent.
Why?
Suddenly, a drunken barroom legend flickered through his mind—one he'd scoffed at over beer.
Like all urban myths, it was a mess of nonsense.
A tale about a Britannia special forces unit that buried the kingdom's enemies.
That the fall of every once-great criminal organization was their doing—utterly absurd, not a shred of credibility.
The name of that unit was probably...
"S-Se... Secret... Burial Squad..."
Why, of all things, did that stupid story surface now, in what might be his final moments?
Was it because his life had been just that meaningless?
"Safe travels."
Those were Harlock's last thoughts.