Me, a Pacifist?
Me, a pacifist? The massive marble-domed banquet hall buzzed with chatter, packed wall-to-wall with guests clustered in lively groups. Humans mingled alongside elves, dwarves, and beastkin with animal ears and tails, all decked out not in commoner's rags but in opulent attire fit for nobility. Adorned with exquisite accessories crafted from precious metals and gems, they embodied extravagance itself—from two-carat diamond rings to ruby-and-sapphire necklaces and earrings, right down to ornate swords with priceless jewels embedded in their hilts. Some sported luxurious coats tailored from high-end monster hides or fine wool, yet none resembled typical aristocrats.
Scarred faces and branded slave marks on their hands screamed their origins. Pirate skulls and bandit tattoos marked their skin. Their rugged features and killer glares suggested they could murder without a second thought. Towering frames honed by brutal lives bulged with muscle beneath their finery—miles apart from the refined poise of noble bloodlines or royalty.
And their conversations? Far from polite salon banter.
"This shipment's a goldmine. The whole continent's starving for weapons amid the wars! Rush the next arms delivery, dwarf brothers."
"Hmph! Our smiths are dropping dead from overwork thanks to you! Time to jack up prices—split's 6:4 this round."
"Hey, hey, cut us some slack. Opening trade routes ain't easy. Central Continent's turning their navy into privateers now. Keep it 5:5, yeah?"
"That's why our pirate crew's on the ropes. Those sanctimonious pricks act all noble, then beg pirates like us when war hits. Filthy scum!"
"Hey, pointy-ears. When's the next booze run? Smuggled liquor output's dipping."
"Call the noble forest folk that again with your filthy mouth, and my arrow'll pierce your throat!"
"Hah! Time to slice off those stuck-up elf ears and nose?"
Shring—clang!
"Oho! Fight! Fight! Kill each other right here!"
"Wheee~♪ Elf versus pirate. Clear some space!~♪"
"KHAHAHAHA!"
One moment chatting amiably, the next drawing blades in duels. But the crowd treated it like bar snacks, cheering the spectacle. These were the North Continent's heavyweight crime syndicates and heteromorph reps. Such squabbles were everyday fare here in this exile continent—mere entertainment, not real conflict. A few already lay mangled, dragged out like trash. This was the Big Daddy Family's Northern Summit: a gathering of every criminal outfit and non-human leader in Big Daddy's network, convened to strategize the Central Continent's brewing mega-war and its fallout—the chaos to come.
Clang! Clang!
"Die, you bastard!"
"Filthy human scum!"
"Kill him! Kill! KILL!"
"My money's on the elf!"
"Pfft! I'm betting on the human!"
HAHAHAHAHA!
...
What the hell kind of summit is this? Total shitshow!
True to form, the venue—summit hall or banquet room, take your pick—was pandemonium, defying all expectations. Duels spraying blood everywhere, spectators wagering and whooping it up. How was this a discussion on the North's future? No different from a coliseum bloodbath.
"Boss bro. Should we kill 'em all too?"
"What do we do, bro? Tell us."
"Mira. Shera? You two absolutely can't grow up with tempers like that!"
Watching those idiots brawl and hearing the girls ask if they should jump in and start slaughtering had my head throbbing. Ten years back, when we first met, they were teary-eyed little cuties... But after that incident turned them ogre-like like Rina sis, their personalities went full savage—killing without hesitation. Seeing what they'd become brought tears to my eyes.
"Whew~ Allen. Keep a close eye on the kids and guide 'em right. No fuck-ups!"
"Got it, boss."
Thud. Thud.
"You're late, kid. Closest guy shows up last."
"We'd have gotten dragged into that mess if we'd come early. We're here now, ain't we? Big Daddy."
"Tch! Don't embarrass me. I'm your guardian, y'know—got a position to uphold."
"Me, a pacifist? I came late on purpose to avoid the brawl in the middle. Cut me some slack~♪"
"Hmph! Pacifist? You, who sic your brats on trash to slaughter 'em and peel their faces? Spare me the lame jokes, kid."
"Yeees~ Yeees~ Yeees~♪ I'll handle it juuust fiiine~♪"
I'd brushed off Big Daddy's scolding with nonchalance as he approached, having spotted my arrival while I tried claiming a quiet corner. Sure, he called himself my guardian, but ours was an alliance forged in backroom deals with Dantalian and Glashalabolras—equals, really. We drew his blood in fights; his family supplied face skins. Mutual aid.
Truth was, I had zero clue what Dantalian and Glashalabolras had schemed behind the scenes. Dantalian hadn't contacted me once since that dream warning—not even for rituals. I'd tried summoning to offer face skins, but the bastard never showed, just devoured them via the circle and vanished. Big Daddy said the same about Glashalabolras: no meetings in ten years, despite always claiming blood offerings personally before. First time for him too.
"Big Daddy. That investigation I requested—any results?"
"Kid. Swapped intel with some demon contractors like you said. Turns out, none've seen their 666 demons in ten years either."
"Figures... Not just us, huh? Ever happen centuries back?"
"Nope. Demons always answered summons. Never skipped rituals for offerings either..."
...
"But contractors with lesser demons see theirs as usual."
"So... Only the 666 have some issue?"
"Yeah. Something big's brewing beyond our sight. That's why I called you."
"...Not just Northern future bullshit, then."
"Hah! You think I'd drag a punk like you into real talks?"
A month ago, I'd asked him to probe. Results: trouble with the 666 demons. Graver than anything. We were contractors—if demons glitched, who knew the fallout? Dantalian especially, the Manbianja, was whimsically fickle. He'd loved the Central war sparkler at first contract, but could ditch me anytime. Demons don't lie or break deals directly, but proxies? Easy workaround. Borrowed knife to kill—child's play.
"So lesser demons mean..."
"Nameless ones. Lately..."
"Hey!—North Face! Long time!—That pretty face still intact?!"
"Tch. What's your deal, [Pirate King, Samuel Tempest]?"
"Curious about that mug of yours! How've you been?!"
...
Mid-chat with Big Daddy, a blue-curled middle-aged man approached. Bushy untrimmed beard, sapphire eyes evoking the sea—he dressed like a pirate captain straight from a flick, hook prosthetic on his left like Captain Hook. Samuel Tempest: another 666 contractor, bound to Rank 42 [Demon of the Sea, Vepar]. His power? Sea control. Useless on land, but waves and whirlpools at will made him invincible at sea.
He'd swept the continent's coasts from the North, amassed pirate fleets, crowned himself Pirate King.
"So, self-proclaimed Pirate King. Spit it out."
"Crunch!—Just dying to check on the bastards who trashed my flagship at the last summit!"
...
Our first meeting? Bad blood from the jump. Two years back at a Northern Summit, his lackey picked a fight; massive brawl ended with Derek smashing the prick's flagship to the seabed.