Dragon Worshippers
Even after achieving considerable success for a goblin, William still lived in North Street, Midland's most notorious crime-ridden district. When asked about it, he would sink deep into his chair and reply:
"I was born on this street, and I'll die here too. It's my roots. I don't want to abandon my kin."
And yet he never donated to or helped his fellow goblins, making him a perfectly ordinary goblin in that regard.
Roque stared at the paper cup and instant coffee in front of him, thinking it was typically goblin penny-pinching.
As he picked up the cup for a sip, the office door swung open. In bustled William, decked out in an expensive white suit, his white top hat and contrasting black cane tucked under his arm.
He chattered away as he crossed the large mahogany table to his custom oversized chair.
"Sorry, Roque. I told you to come early, then kept you waiting. My daughter threw a fit about not wanting to go to school. That crazy girl— I send her to an elite private academy, and all she does is bitch about how stuffy it is. Maybe I should just ship her off to boarding school. Oh, right— have you ever been married?"
Roque shook his head. William let out a hearty laugh.
"Wise man. Stay away from it if you can. Sometimes you just want to kick the wife and kids to the curb."
"And yet you have four wives?"
William, clambering onto his chair, widened his eyes in mock surprise.
"Four? What're you talking about? It's five now. Wedding was three months ago— didn't you know?"
"...No clue."
"Hah! Guess my staff forgot to send the invite. Gotta chew them out. They're always kissing up to councilmen and such. But the real VIP we need is right here."
Roque couldn't help but chuckle at the goblin's shameless married life and deadpan delivery. William, perched on his massive executive chair, barked a laugh in response.
"Oh, yeah— Philip says hi."
"Why not tell me himself?"
"Why? 'Cause he's scared you'll stab him."
Roque shot him a look of disbelief, and William cackled again.
"Heard you botched his last two jobs? Client issues, right? Word's spreading in the biz, and Philip's sweating it. Worried you'll show up pissed and shank him."
"...Do I look like a psycho to you?"
"To normal folks, Aura Masters are already half-mad. In an age of missiles and orbital ships, who spends a lifetime grinding swordplay with no implants? That's sane?"
Roque managed a wry smile at William's jest. Satisfied the mood had lightened, the goblin clapped his hands.
"Alright, business time. The job: hijack a moving target. Destroy it if things go south."
"Heists aren't my specialty. Those usually need a team."
"True, but the politics are messy. Our side wants a single elite operative for a clean, quick hit— no lumbering crew."
One of Roque's eyebrows twitched.
"Our side?"
"Well..."
"I'll explain the operation."
The voice answering Roque's question didn't come from William, but from one wall of the office. A panel slid open with a soft whir, revealing a large monitor. In its shadows sat a figure, faintly outlined.
Roque muttered as he eyed it.
"The client."
"Correct. You could call me the money man paying you and William. And I'm very wealthy."
Roque glanced at William, who gestured toward the screen—keep listening. As his gaze returned, the shadowed figure spoke again.
"Tomorrow, around 12:30 PM, a trailer will enter via Highway 15 from eastern Dragonland. Autopilot, escorted by heavily armed combatants. I want its cargo seized— or ensure it never reaches its destination."
"Steal or smash. What's inside worth that?"
The shadow paused, as if pondering how to answer. Then it continued smoothly.
"The world's full of fools. Slum workers defending corps, terrorists bombing for extremism, rockers screaming anti-corp just to rebel. But the most dangerous? Dragon worshippers."
It paused, giving Roque time to react. He just scratched his chin, motioning for more.
"...A century since dragons went extinct in the World War. Their palaces and fortresses reduced to atomic dust. Yet fanatics dig through the rubble, chasing that ancient power. Sometimes they find real dragon relics. Mostly junk like gold plates, but occasionally a true dragon spell."
"Dragon spells. Won't bring back dead dragons."
Roque sounded unimpressed. The shadow nodded appreciatively.
"Ancient magic, predating cyberspace. But from a race that once warred with the whole old world. Worth studying."
"So snag the relic before it hits the worshippers' lab? Or smash it if not?"
The shadow nodded again. By now, Roque had a hunch about its identity— and the job's setup.
He leaned back, tilting his head.
"Getting between corps is messy fallout."
"...Corps? Why think that?"
The casual probe confirmed it. Roque pressed on.
"Dragonland digs need Midland government permits. Illegals don't use highways. So legit excavators with permits— backed by someone huge enough for influence. Megacorp fits."
"Hm..."
"Only another megacorp gets wind of their moves. And 'our side' wants one elite? Means the other side exists too. Probably a team."
Roque smirked bitterly, the scene already clear.
"Megacorp proxy three-way. Defenders, thieves, and us sneaking in. Maybe more."
"Just three. Trailer side, raiders, and us."
"Plenty chaotic."
The shadow neither denied nor emphasized its corp ties, flowing on naturally.
"We're leaning destruction over theft. Hence minimal manpower."
"Dragon spell seems worth coveting."
"Over a century old. Obsolete."
Roque's lip curled.
"But hate rivals having it?"
The shadow leaned forward, mouth emerging from shadow.
"By the way, pay's generous. I'm a very rich client. So? Should I shop elsewhere?"
It never named the corp. Roque eyed it a moment, drained his cold coffee with a clunk, and stood.
"Nah. I'll take it."
The brief flashback ended as another modded truck split in half.
Roque twitched the wheel, dodging the tumbling wreckage. The lizardman's blade had slain its driver; now blood, flesh, crumpled panels, and bolts sprayed everywhere. No survivors likely.
His rearview glance shifted to the trailer roof. There, a lizardman wielding a twin-bladed sword roared at a silver-gray-haired mercenary with a black-and-white cybernetic arm.
The lizardman's truck-slicing fury suggested he'd overwhelm her soon— but it wasn't that one-sided.
"Kieee—!"
"Shut your trap, you lizard fuck!"
Blades flashed toward the woman. She dodged with uncanny agility, spotting a gap in his guard from protecting head and gut. She jammed her pistol into his white underbelly and unloaded.
Spot on— the lizardman recoiled, clutching his stomach. Surviving mod trucks then hosed suppressive fire, covering her. Dragging it out might expose more flaws.
"Won't last long."
But Roque saw doom. No time for standoffs— Midland's core loomed, traffic swerving from the gunfire. His own clock was ticking.
He slammed gears and floored it. Black Knight's engine growled, surging forward.
Exchanges flew between lizardman and mercenary as the car closed in. But he couldn't match her speed; she couldn't pierce his hide.
"You fucking—!"
Roque heard her shout— grunt or scream?— and tapped the Black Knight's terminal. Beeps confirmed; he released wheel and pedal. The car held pace flawlessly.
Window down, cool wind rushed in. He slipped out smoothly, landing on the roof.
The fighters had swapped positions amid the frenzy. She now saw Black Knight glued to the trailer— and Roque atop it.
"Climbing up here?"
Next instant, he vaulted— seven, eight meters— landing silent as a feather on the trailer's edge.
Reptilian senses tingling? The lizardman whipped around from the mercenary, yellow slit pupils locking on Roque. Jaws gaped in a guttural screech.
"Kieee—!"
"You use a blade too, huh."
Roque rose slowly. A gray blade shimmered into existence in his right hand. The mercenary's eyes widened.
"This is insane... Lizardman, Black Knight, now an Aura Master... Retro day special?"
The gray blade registered in the lizardman's eyes too. His roar cut off. He turned fully from the woman, facing Roque— trusting his armored back, or deeming Roque deadlier.
Serious now, the lizardman leveled his twin-blade. Mystic runes glowed on its flats; the edges ignited yellow. Similar to Roque's gray blade, but off.
Roque's lip quirked.
"Dragon spell, is it?"
The lizardman just growled low, blade steady. Only this matters: blades drawn. Roque nodded silent accord.
On Midland's elevated highway, the massive trailer thundered past traffic. Atop it, dragon-blooded warrior and void seeker faced off, blades poised.
The silver-gray mercenary behind swallowed hard, then snapped to. No time to gawk. She reached for her radio to bark at her dazed team—
Aura Master and lizardman lunged.
Instinct kicked in; she maxed her electronic eyes and augmented goggles. Frames spiked to hundreds; the world crawled. Dust hung suspended.
Yet the swordsmen moved at full tilt in the slo-mo haze.
Aura Blade and twin-blade clashed for throats in a blaze. Sparks flew; collisions chained before the first faded.
Her optics caught a starburst wall between them— glittering points.
As the first spark died, gray blade pierced the stellar barrier, grazing the lizardman's right shoulder.
"Grraaah—!"
Time resumed with his scream. Eye strain hit her like a hammer; she winced.
Blinking, she saw: lizardman reeling, right shoulder severed; Aura Master casually flicking his blade clean. The severed arm clutched the twin-blade, lodged in the trailer side.
Roque eyed the weapon. Runes dimmed on its serrated edge— endured an Aura Blade once or twice, enough to cleave tanks. Impressive, but no match for his skill.
Blade refocused on the lizardman. The beast's yellow eyes, savage against mercs, now quivered.
Roque smirked as before.
"Step aside. Or grab another blade."
No need to add: if you wanna die.