Blood Demon in the Lawless City
Rina, another demon contractor, glared at the man she'd just brought down. He looked to be in his early thirties, sporting a scruffy mountain man's beard and a red (+) cross mark branded on his forehead. An unknown mana swirled in his left hand like a tiny storm, glowing with a crimson light.
What the hell is that mana? I rifled through the memories of Ostis, the White Tower Lord, and that mage, but I've never seen anything like it. And it's not even proper mana—feels all wrong.
It wasn't so much red mana as thick, sticky red paint. Or blood? The way that crimson liquid writhed in his grip like it was alive was grotesque and ominous.
"Ooooh! It's Brother Randel!"
"Boss! Those shitty Central Continent bastards—wipe 'em out!"
"Let's kill 'em all like the monsters they are!"
"Yeah! Slaughter every last one!"
They start the shit, then act like heroes defending the city's peace. What a load of hypocritical bullshit.
Classic "rules for thee but not for me." The crowd cheered him on, and the man spread his arms wide like a showman magician, striking an exaggerated pose to bask in their adoration.
Fine, whatever—but wasn't this city basically a lawless hellhole? From afar, it looked like a metropolis on par with the Colorado County, but now that we were inside and taking a closer look, it was even bigger. No polished marble roads or anything fancy, but the basic plumbing was there, plenty of towering buildings rivaling the walls, and a huge floating population.
That said, every local looked like a straight-up thug. Some had slave brands from the Central Continent stamped on their faces or backs, others even the (X) mark for heinous criminals. Probably refugees—slaves and crooks who'd fled other continents and swelled the city's ranks.
We had slave brands on our backs too... but they vanished when we turned into monsters, so no biggie.
"Hey, you old fart! You look like a mage. Hand over everything you got, get on your knees, and beg. Then scram from the city!"
"Heh, kids these days got some yellow-bellied nerve. Time to teach you some manners."
"Ha! You know how many mages like you I've planted in graves? Think you've got two lives or something? No one defies me in this city and lives!"
Whoooosh!
"Shield"
Hummm—
Fwoooosh!
BOOM!
This bastard just cast a chantless attack spell strong enough to rattle a shield from a White Tower Magido?!
Mages in this world are ranked in five stages. First, the bottom rung: Sorcerer. Means anyone who can cast basic spells—also the apprentice status in the towers.
Second: Magician. Official mages who can sling combat spells like the Fireball we know from games and novels.
Third: Mage. They handle advanced spells. With tower or noble backing, it's a lifelong grind to reach this level, and most stall out here. Combat specialists are called War Mages—one reason is their spells can swing entire battlefields once war scales up.
Fourth: Archmage. Elite territory for the truly gifted—one in a hundred mages, tops. Mages themselves are one in a thousand normals with mana sensitivity, so yeah. From here, they're tower core members: instructors, private libraries, research funds from Magus Civitas. Also called Magidos—basically mage nobility.
Last: Lord. The pinnacle. Tower heads, Magus Civitas elders. Their magic is on another plane—vast power wielded freely.
The face skin I was wearing? From one of those White Tower Magidos who could cast Solarian, condensing sunlight into a laser over paladin heads. And this guy in his thirties shakes that shield chantless?
He was way stronger than I thought.
"Oho? This old geezer blocks my attack like it's nothing? Not bad."
"Heh heh, you've got real talent, kid. Which tower you from?"
"Ha! Why tell you? You're dead anyway!"
Fwoosh!
"Die, old man!"
"Solarian"
Shreeee—
With his shout, that blood-like liquid condensed in his hand again, forming a spear that hurtled at me. I blocked it while channeling the light spell from before, Solarian, as thin as possible into a single point—like an orbital strike crashing down on his head.
BOOM!
ROOOAR!
"GRAAAAAH!!"
"Heh, kid—how about surrendering nicely? Gotta burn off that last arm to knock some sense into you?"
"Shut uuuup!!"
The pinpoint solar heat superheated his arm to ash in seconds—no trace left. He writhed in agony watching it vanish, but his glare burned hotter, like a soldier defying death itself.
"Brother Randel!"
"R-Run, boss!"
"That mage is stronger!"
"Shut up, you fucks! I swore I'd never run from Central Continent scum again!!"
"Tsk tsk tsk. Don't care about your sob story, but quit dragging us into your mess. You said it yourself—kneel, beg, leave the city, and you're forgiven? I can be generous."
"I'll kill you, old man! Before my true power!"
"Enough, you fool."
"Gah! B-Boss?!"
Huh? Boss?
"Uwaaaah!!"
"Help!"
Rumble rumble—
What the—?
A deep baritone cut off Randel's final rage, echoing from the alley. Nearby onlookers screamed and bolted. Even death-defying Randel shook like a mouse before a cat at the sight of the man.
Blond hair, golden eyes—a forties-ish middle-aged guy in a crisp black suit under a long overcoat. Sharp hawk-like gaze softened by a stylish monocle, slicked-back blond hair. Total silver fox.
Damn, this guy's straight out of a movie. Who the hell is he?
Outfit screamed ahead-of-its-time, Hollywood-handsome with killer fashion—like a mafia don.
Wait—Randel called him boss. Actual mafia boss?
"I told you to size up your foes. You gonna make me lose face after I put you there? Pathetic."
"S-Sorry, boss!"
"Quit flailing and come here. We'll fix that arm."
"Yes, sir!"
Fix the arm?
I'd vaporized it clean. High priest? Sacred healing could regrow limbs, but that's archbishop-tier. No way in this godforsaken continent.
Yet the middle-aged man reached toward the stump. What unfolded was impossible.
That same red liquid gushed from his hand like a flood, slithering into the wound. Not just liquid—reeking of iron. Blood. Enough to kill a normal man from blood loss, coiling like living snakes into Randel.
Then Randel groaned, collapsed, convulsing. And the real freakshow began.
Crack! Splurt!
"Wha—?!"
Bone sprouted from the shoulder first, forming a skeleton—then flesh crawled over it, shaping an arm. No holy light, no miracle glow. Pure grotesque regeneration.
One possibility left.
"You! Demon contractor?!"
"Hm? Sharp eye for an old mage. I'm contracted to the Blood Demon, Glashalabolras. Name's Brad Big. Family calls me Big Daddy."
Holy shit! Rank 25 of the 666 demons?! This guy's a heavyweight!
The brawl we'd stumbled into on the North Continent had drawn out another demon contractor.