Merchant Guild's Request (3)
Six trucks rumbled toward Cherwin. The unpaved road made for a hell of a bumpy ride, and the terrible suspension had me shifting uncomfortably. The others riding with me seemed used to it, though, looking perfectly at ease.
"Didn't get a proper intro back there. Name's Jackson." He extended a hand for a shake, his deep, resonant voice filling the space. Jackson went on to introduce his crew one by one.
"Guy at the far left's our sniper, Michael."
"Hey, boss. Michael here, one shot, one kill."
Michael flashed a cheeky grin—white blouse, black pants, and a hairstyle eerily like Jackson's. His gestures even mirrored the man's. Some kinda hero worship, maybe?
"Middle guy's the assassin, Alpano."
"......"
A nod. Fitting for an assassin—minimal words, straight to the point.
"And this here's our maknae, Jerome."
"Pleased to meet you! I'll do my best not to get in the way!"
Jerome was a tousle-haired boy of about eighteen, bowing at a perfect ninety degrees with impeccable manners. Unlike the others, he carried no weapons—just a massive bundle slung over his shoulder.
"Anyway, we're hired to handle the mafia thugs, so leave 'em to us. You take the ability users."
Jackson puffed away on his cigarette as he laid out the plan. After the quick round of intros, we caught some rest in the nonstop rumbling trucks.
Getting close now.
How long had we been rolling? The trucks finally entered Cherwin. If Brockton was a factory town, Cherwin was all about machines. Mechanical prosthetics were everywhere on the streets, and the cityscape screamed it—neon signs blazing everywhere, a far cry from Brockton's nineteenth-century vibe.
"Home sweet home after all this time."
Michael took in the sights with a nostalgic grin. Made sense now, seeing that gadgetry in his gear. Local boy.
Cherwin native—figures he'd be comfy with machine tech. That bundle's probably packed with it.
Screeech!
The trucks pulled up to a warehouse. The porters loaded up their gear with practiced efficiency, wrapping things up quick.
"Alright, back to Brockton. But we're taking a detour this time—through the city center and some small villages, not the usual route."
Jackson took charge smoothly. Planned ahead, decisive type.
"That way, they won't come charging in so easy, right?"
Jerome piped up, grasping it instantly.
"Yeah. Even lunatics wouldn't attack in broad daylight with crowds watching."
Not a bad plan. Except these guys were lunatics—that's why they hit Brockton in the first place.
"Any villages we'll pass through?"
I decided to tweak his strategy. No way we'd make it otherwise.
"Mm, we'll swing by these two spots here."
Jackson shared without hesitation. Probably no issue since I was an ability user—or maybe he just rolled with suggestions.
"Then when we hit this one, put Michael up on that rooftop."
"Mm. You think they'd attack a village? Unless they're total psychos..."
"They are total psychos."
"...Fair point. Risky, then. Alright—Alpano, you hide out near the trucks too."
"......"
Nod. Plan adjusted.
The trucks peeled out of Cherwin toward Brockton, dead quiet until the first village.
* * *
We rolled into the second stop—a tiny village about Bares-sized. Time to refuel and rest.
"Three basilisk hindquarters here."
Jackson ordered for me and Jerome. Michael and Alpano stood watch as planned.
"Silver-grade request, huh?"
Jackson sipped his water, clearly in the know on request tiers.
"Yeah, just got it recently."
"Recently? And the office already hands you a group escort gig? Must be some real skill."
He looked impressed—no snide newbie jabs like that old shopkeep. Guy knew his stuff.
"...F-food's here."
Our order arrived. Something off, though. The owner's face dripped cold sweat. I scanned the room.
Place was packed, noisy enough. Seemed normal at a glance.
Ten porters with us. That leaves about twenty others.
Closer look revealed the weirdness—all roughly same age, grouped up. Obvious where they came from.
"Looks like they came prepared this time. No wonder it was so quiet. Real psychos, alright."
Jackson sliced into his meat, clocking it too. I carved mine casually, eyes sharp.
But not for long. They started rising one by one. Straight out of a movie.
"Jerome, get ready."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Jackson's hand drifted to the shotgun on the table. Jerome eased into his bundle.
"Die, you bastards!"
"Rush 'em! Rush!"
They charged in a flash. But my weapons moved faster.
Whoosh!
Three daggers whipped out, slamming into them. Just mafia goons— no blocking my blades.
No way in hell.
Shrrrk! Shrrrk!
Jackson jumped in, blasting the guy gunning for Jerome's back.
"Head down."
"Yes!"
Boom! Boom! Splatter!
Shotgun shells shredded three at once. Wide spread—what kinda mods made that power?
Mods done right.
Non-ability users wouldn't stand a chance. Even ability users might not.
"Jerome."
"Yes!"
He slapped a machine on the floor. Petal-like lid bloomed open, projecting a barrier bubble.
"Over here, quick!"
He herded the porters inside, shielding them.
Boom! Boom-boom!
Jackson's shotgun roared nonstop—no reloads, just endless fire. Insane power, insane rate. Drawback: close range only.
Thirty shots, easy, no sweat.
Inside cleared in seconds. Floor slick with blood, bartender trembling under the bar.
"Sorry for the mess."
Jackson paid up and headed out.
Crack!
Sniper fire echoed. Battle raging outside, as expected. Michael, perched atop the eatery, picked off targets—flames spitting from his barrel, bodies tumbling off roofs.
"Boss! These guys are nuts! Ability bro—how'd you know?!"
Michael crammed meat into his mouth.
"Where's Alpano?"
He pointed across the alley. A glint in the pitch black—then screams leaking out.
Alpano emerged, face pale, drenched in red. Nodded: done.
"There! Kill 'em all!"
"Raaagh!"
They didn't quit easy. More poured out, swarming from both sides.
"Jerome, set?"
"Yes! Ready!"
"Good. Fire."
As I'd suggested earlier. Jerome manned the massive ballista on the truck.
Thung! Thung-thung!
Splat! Splat!
Arm-thick bolts impaled multiples at a go. Serious firepower.
...This squad's no joke.
Breathing in sync, everyone nailing their roles. Jackson's leadership?
"Boss! Too many!"
Ballista couldn't handle the horde. They'd taken the village.
"Hmph, as crazy as they say. Everyone, prep to bounce. Folks here are at risk."
Jackson eyed the terrified kids inside, face darkening. Same for me—hated seeing that fear. Reminded me of my little brother, lost in the accident.
"Everyone on the trucks. I'll buy time."
Best way to help: lure 'em out fast.
Swoosh.
Weapons summoned.
Shadow Strike
Ziiing!
Shraaa!
"Gaaah!"
"Gurk!"
Weapons hit heavy—arms severed, guts perforated. But not enough for the whole pack.
Layered on
Void Rift
, multiplying rifts.
Ten's my limit for now.
Wanted more, but mana conservation—side effects, and no ability user yet.
"Holy shit...!"
"Ability users live up to the hype... One hit, that many?!"
"......!"
"Whoa, bro looked badass, but this badass?!"
Squad muttering. Where's that ability user, though? Should've shown by now.
"Hey! Everyone loaded!"
Jackson signaled go. I hopped on.
Vroom!
Trucks tore off. Enemies not in sight—yet.
"Psychos. Came loaded for bear. Whew..."
Jackson exhaled smoke from the cargo bed. But he flicked the cig, grabbing his shotgun.
"Incoming."
First up: motorcycles. Dust cloud behind—probably their trucks. How many? No clue.
"Why go this hard?"
Michael puzzled. Not just gear theft.
Building their own turf needs cash. Sell the gear, big bucks.
Anyway, end these lunatics. Boosts my request grade.
"Michael, ready up."
He flipped down his goggles—one-eyed scope for aiming.
Crack!
Steady even on the bounce. Motorcycles dropped, chaining wrecks. Pro marksman.
Every shot calculated. Ability user? He'd be a monster.
"Hm?"
Flash!
Darkness lit like a spotlight—then a lightning bolt grazed our truck.
Lightning?
There he was. Electric ability user.
Crackle! Boom!
Bolt hit the lead enemy truck—exploded on impact. Their convoy slowed dodging debris.
No pushover.
That's the guy.
Gray raincoat, fedora low. Body crackling, staff in hand.
Read his weapon's memory—find enemy positions.
Bad spot, but I grinned. Legendary gear incoming?
Vroom-vroom!
They ramped up, guns blazing nonstop.
Ping-ping-ping.
"Damn. Trucks won't hold."
"Boss! Bullet hell—can't snipe!"
Squad hunkered. No counterfire possible.
But I'd planned for this.
Swoosh.
Rare-grade shield behind the truck. The one with [Reflection].