Merchant Guild's Request (Part 2)

I wanted to properly check the shield's options.

Basic defense from the shield, plus the Reflection option had solid utility. And the strength boost too. No doubt ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠about it—this was a great find.

'Rare grade means it'll guzzle mana, though...'

'No need to shop around more.'

After leaving the store, I glanced at the other shops, but Weapon Detection showed nothing worthwhile. Prices were steep too. I needed better gear ASAP, but the timing wasn't right—not with stock so low everywhere. Better to recover the gear from those bastards first, then decide.

A crowd had gathered in front of the Merchant Guild building. Brockton shopkeepers, all here because the trucks were heading out today with the quest performer.

"As you all know, we pooled our money for this quest. Lucky for us, a solid performer's shown up. He's agreed to ride along with the transport trucks and retrieve our goods today."

"What a relief."

"Finally, some proper stock incoming? We've got no merchandise to sell even when customers show up..."

"He's got abilities—let's trust him!"

The merchants had been losing sleep over their mounting losses. News of an able-bodied quest taker brought sighs of relief.

"Key point, though: we can't cancel on him last-minute. You know how picky performers are, especially the powered ones. Don't piss him off."

The chairman hammered it home. Solving this would make anything else bearable.

"Who'd complain? If he brings our stuff back safe, I'd kowtow!"

"Damn right! Without him, who knows when we'd restock!"

The guild members chimed in—including the old man who'd tried scamming me. "Anyone who upsets him answers to me! Haha!"

He reflected on his recent hardships. No stock meant no sales, and yesterday's mark had slipped away.

'Dumb kid never caught on, even thanked me. Damn, what a waste.'

Regrettable, but restocks were imminent. Then—

"Hey, there he is!"

A silver-haired man approached from afar. The old man's eyes bulged.

'...Why's that punk from yesterday here?'

A crowd in front of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Merchant Guild—yesterday's shopkeepers, no doubt.

"Welcome! Hahaha!"

The guild president greeted me first, arms wide, booming laugh.

"Everyone, this is the quest performer who agreed to help, like we discussed. Say hi."

"Please take care of us."

"Even the guards won't lift a finger—please, just get it there safe..."

"Wipe those bastards out while you're at it! Haha!"

The merchants seemed upbeat, expectant. Amid them, one face was stiff: the old shield seller.

"Nice to meet you."

I pushed through, offering a handshake. He froze like a startled rabbit, speechless.

"Huh? You two know each other?"

Jeston approached. The old man stayed petrified.

"Ah, bought something from his shop yesterday."

"What? Why didn't you tell me? I'd have hooked you up! Haha!"

"Nah, he was real accommodating—offered a shield for just 800,000 babel. Didn't have the cash, though."

"...800,000 babel? From his shop?"

Jeston's face darkened, glaring at the old man. 800,000 babel for a shield? Absurdly low—he'd know.

"Hey, 800,000? You got gear like that?"

"W-well, Chairman..."

"We're already short on stock, and I track everyone's inventory. No way your place has anything that cheap."

"I-I..."

The old man floundered, then dropped to his knees, prostrating.

"S-sorry! I didn't know who you were—huge mistake!"

He groveled toward me. I feigned ignorance, but Jeston looked grave.

"You tried scamming him...?"

"N-no, Chairman! Hear me out...!"

"Hah..."

Jeston rubbed his temple, head down—pure frustration etched on his face.

"Your stunt nearly screwed every merchant here. To him, of all people?"

"P-please! Help me out—begging you!"

The old man clutched my pant leg. No mercy from me—enemies get double payback.

Before I could shake him off, someone booted him away.

Thud!

"Gahhh!"

"Should just kill scam artists like this. That okay, Chairman?"

The intruder: a middle-aged man, black hair side-swept, bushy beard, long leather coat over bandoliers. Shotgun slung on his shoulder—modified, triple-barreled, thick gauge.

'...Jackson?'

"No need for that. But he's out of the guild. Exclude his gear from today's shipment."

"Wha—no, Chairman! I messed up! Without the guild, how do I restock?!"

"Count yourself lucky."

The man blew smoke in the old man's face and returned to his spot. Youngsters dragged the old man off—his shop gone for trying to con me. Fair price, I'd say.

'Mercenaries, huh?'

Three more waited where he'd come from. Quest squads varied by type; non-powered ones usually teamed up.

"Ah, those are the truck guards. They know the job inside out—good help."

With Jeston's intro, we boarded the trucks. Off to Cherwin to reclaim the stockpiled gear.

Angela got word from the chairman: quest underway.

"That guy's pretty solid, right?"

"Who do you mean?"

"Who else? Silver-hair."

"Ah, seemed that way."

Jena stacked chairs, tidying up.

"Nail this, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and we dig deeper. Might help with our ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stuff."

"......"

Angela swigged whiskey, muttering. Jena heard.

"Time to let it go. For your sake..."

"What? Forget? How could I forget that?"

"......"

Jena knew better than to push. That wound ran too deep for Angela.

Ding!

A man entered.

"Closed. Out."

Angela waved him off, glass in one hand.

"...This the request office?"

He ignored her, chin on hand like her.

"You the boss?"

"Out, I said."

"Not a thug? Whatever, not here for a quest—don't freak. One question."

Leaned in close, unfazed. Cocky, like he had backup.

"Any silver-haired, red-eyed punk come by?"

"......"

She clocked it—Damian. But he was her official quest taker now. Client info stayed secret.

"Silver hair, red eyes? Not my type."

"Not your type? You take performers to bed or what?"

"You're not my type either. Scram."

Angela stood, backing from the bar. His breath reeked up close.

He wasn't budging.

"Tch, your face says you know something. Spill nice, or else. Not alone here—know who we are, you'd shit yourself."

"......"

He sneered. Flashed his black jacket: emblem of a man with club and shield. Orion.

Corporate guild muscle. Angela's eyes widened.

"Now you get it? And that attitude? Know what happens next?"

Emboldened, he raised his voice.

Esperro had guilds, bankrolled by corps. Elites only.

Wrong guess, though—not the guild that shocked her.

"...You from Orion?"

"Yeah, see the—"

Whoooosh.

His breath caught. He knew that aura—killer intent. But this was monstrous.

Mouth shut.

"One more time. Orion?"

Angela's eyes gleamed mad. Just her gaze felt like being shredded.

Gulp.

He backed up instinctively. Stay, and he'd die.

"Y-you..."

"Jena, lock the door."

"Yes."

Click!

Angela rounded the bar. Step by step. Gooseflesh everywhere. He retreated.

"Orion's what I hate most—hate beyond hate. And you waltz in demanding my performer's info?"

"Y-yeah! That punk was here—gack!"

Whoosh!

Instantly, she was in his face. Purple dagger grazed his throat.

Fast. Precise.

Slash! Spurt!

"G-guhk!"

Blood fountained. He gurgled, collapsing.

Thud!

Angela ignored him, ordering Jena.

"Jena, more Orion scum outside? Check. And grab whoever's after my performer."

"Understood."

Jena grabbed her longsword, slipped out.

"Fucking Orion... who the hell they think they are?"

Angela's rage erupted.