The Bone Whistle
They made the prisoners pull the cart. Even so, it took a full day to reach the 3rd layer.
Layers 1 through 3 were still crawling with explorers. They took one look at Allen's group and the sorry-looking prisoners being dragged along, then minded their own business.
"What's that?"
"Looks like they got into a scrap. Ignore 'em and keep an eye on the manhole."
It was like staring at trees in the forest—either too familiar to be interesting, or not worth wasting calories on paying attention.
Once they'd fully exited the labyrinth, the vanguard scooped up Karkda and headed for the emergency clinic, while Allen and Dennis handled the prisoners and bodies, paying a visit to the garrison.
"Crimes inside the labyrinth aren't our jurisdiction... Don't give me that look—head to the police station. It's right across from the fortress; just a short walk."
Whistle (1)
Allen and Dennis headed for the police station next to the fortress.
Given its location, the station building resembled a castle. High walls topped with automated turrets added to the intimidating vibe.
A cop on guard at the main entrance blocked their path and asked their business.
"What brings you here?"
"We're reporting a dispute that broke out in the labyrinth."
"I'll contact the violent crimes unit. Mind waiting over there?"
The cop pointed to an open lot with a sign reading 'Maze Explorer Waiting Area'.
Dennis shoved the cart and prisoners into the lot and plopped down on a long bench.
"Haa. Finally, some breathing room. Quit gawking and sit down already."
"That cop didn't even blink at the bodies."
"Maze City cops have a rep for being tough. And working right next to the labyrinth? No surprise there. This lot's designed for exactly this kind of thing."
Allen nodded. It had struck him as odd that they hadn't been arrested at the gate despite hauling a pile of corpses.
Besides, they couldn't just waltz inside with bodies before filing the report.
The atmosphere inside the station matched the outside—stiff and stern, filled with an air of rigid discipline. None of the cops milling about looked like a pushover.
As they caught their breath on the bench, a shaggy detective emerged from the station, another cop in tow.
The furry detective wrinkled his nose at the cart full of bodies and the blood-caked prisoners.
Unlike beastkin with animal bodies grafted onto human frames, he was a lycan—a species that looked like upright animals.
The detective was a cute otter lycan, so even with a scowl like the other cops, he didn't seem threatening. He flashed his badge carelessly at Dennis.
"That's me. Any other witnesses?"
"One guy's in critical condition at the hospital."
"Alright, let's take a look."
Not wanting to seem soft, the otter detective pulled the grimmest face he could muster and yanked the cloth off the cart.
He slipped on latex gloves and examined faces and wounds. True to form for a Maze City cop, he had nerves of steel, handling the corpses like logs.
"Flame magic or a bomb... Cooked 'em like steaks. You lot, over here."
The prisoners ignored the otter's beckoning finger—either playing dumb or too drained from the fight and lack of food.
The detective let out a heavy sigh and yanked the rope binding them. Three prisoners stumbled forward at once. Even looking cute, he had the baseline strength lycans were famous for.
He dragged them over one by one, scanning their faces with a barcode-reader-looking device and rubbing it over their chests where mana hearts would be. His artificial eye blinked blue.
"Not even in the database. Figures—they're bottom-feeders trying to make a name in this city. Ended up drifting into the labyrinth. Sheesh."
The otter shook his head and smacked the prisoners' palms. It was as if he already knew who the perps were without a proper investigation.
One prisoner reeled from the slap and snarled.
"You crazy? Can a cop just hit people like that? Ack!"
"What'd you say?"
"We have rights too—if cops go beating on—ugh!"
"Speak properly. Can't understand you growling like an animal. And get this straight: you don't have rights."
"...I meant, is it okay to hit without evidence?"
Once the prisoner switched to polite speech, the otter's violence finally stopped.
"Need evidence? It's obvious. Two unregistered, one from Roman Company. Shady combo right there. Hey, you—over here."
"You called, sir?"
A young cop—probably a rookie—came hustling over at the otter's summons.
"Cuff these and toss 'em in holding. Fridge the bodies on the cart—nice and preserved."
"Yes, sir."
Once the subordinate was gone, the otter dragged over an empty cart and perched on it. He tapped his left forearm; the skin parted, projecting a square screen in front of him.
"No need to go inside. Let's wrap this up here. Walk me through the details?"
Dennis laid out the incident step by step. He didn't know exact times, but the sequence was clear enough.
The otter just listened. With his brain expansion implant, it all inputted straight to the screen—no tedious typing.
"Alright, let's ID the dead party members. Names?"
"Celine and Otto..."
"Son of a..."
"Why the sudden swearing? I held it together through all that shit down there, and now the cops are screwing around."
Stress boiling over, Dennis's face turned fierce. Allen kept his usual blank expression and held him back.
"It's the name. Didn't see the badge earlier?"
"Oh? Sorry, I was distracted..."
Otto the otter detective scratched his head and flashed his badge again. It matched the dead male mage's name—spelling and all.
Otto, who'd accidentally become a dead man on paper, bowed his head slightly in apology.
"Sorry about that. Hearing my own name pop up like that set me off. Your other teammates took the injured to the clinic? You two are free to go."
Allen had figured they'd at least get held overnight for the killing, but they were cut loose easier than expected.
As they left the station, Dennis shot Allen a knowing look.
"We're Breaker affiliates. They keep tight tabs, even if not direct."
Allen shrugged. Breaker status helped, but death was just too routine now—especially for Maze City cops.
"They won't just let it slide, though. Check it out."
"Surveillance flight golems."
On the tree Dennis pointed to perched two sparrow-like golems. The cameras in their eyes tracked Allen relentlessly.
"Heard you get booted if you rack up a record. That won't happen to us, right?"
"Self-defense ain't a crime. Quit worrying."
"Good to hear. Breaker always this strict on personnel?"
"Marshall's policy. First thing he did after taking over was purge the explorers. Ditched the troublemakers and the lazy ones. Made us the most trusted, top-tier company in the guild."
Dennis spoke with passion, but his face looked hollow. The dead were probably haunting his thoughts.
Allen peered into his eyes. The pupils kept jittering. The pain would linger there until time blurred the memories and emotions.
Knowing that all too well, Allen kept the conversation going.
"What's next for you? I'm planning to tinker, research, study—same old."
"Same here. Show up if the cops call, keep tabs on Karkda."
"Hope his mana heart's intact."
"Tail's replaceable. Mana heart? Not so much."
Artificial ones existed, but for an aspiring true mage like Karkda, magitechwear was best avoided.
Weak willpower didn't bond well, halving spell power.
Magitech engineers faced the same issue. Poor mental imagery when engraving runes meant weak output.
Allen's [Flame] rune from the Nobak Clinic days was a lighter; now it was a campfire.
Mention of Karkda reminded Dennis—he pulled a whistle from his pocket like he'd just remembered.
"Speaking of, let's hit the appraiser. If it summons labyrinth guardians, it's gotta be an Oparts."
"An Oparts?"
"Yeah. High appraisal value for sure—cover Karkda's bills."
Allen eyed the white whistle. Dennis was hyped on the Oparts idea.
But unlike the bird soul stone he'd instinctively pegged as Oparts, this felt like junk magitech tossed in the gutter.
That soul stone's golden glow was beautiful. Unlike stark white star letters—shimmering golden dust...
Still, no point raining on Dennis's parade. The Breaker appraiser would judge for real.
"Sell the whistle and loot, split four ways—decent haul. Not enough for Celine and Otto's families, but some comfort."
Dennis's shoulders slumped on those last words. Even "comfort" sounded uncertain.
Allen steered the talk elsewhere to snap him out of it. By the time they reached the Breaker district, they were chatting idly.
Inside the appraisal office, they met an elf appraiser—a veteran of over 50 years.
The room brimmed with aged wooden furniture. The elderly elf slurped steaming tea, then took the whistle.
"Let's see..."
His artificial eye popped out like a folding telescope. Gloved hands steadied it at the corner while the other spun the whistle before the lens.
Silence filled the room. After a long inspection, the elf fixed his good left eye on Allen and Dennis.
"Know what the whistle's made of?"
"No clue."
"Bone. Human bone. Not an Oparts—I've checked. Faint traces, but no mana flow now."
"Please look closer. The worm who had it blew it, and a labyrinth guardian appeared."
"Oparts pulse with mana essence energy—I'd sense it. Wait, a guardian appeared?"
The elf reappraised. Ten minutes later, he tapped the telescopic eye back into place.
"Still no special structure or formula..."
"Damaged by the guardian's beam?"
"Eye lasers? Er, old habits... Too intact for a direct hit. Looks like it burned out summoning the guardian—lost all its power."
Dennis insisted it hadn't been plain white originally, but the appraiser didn't budge.
Under that scam-artist glare, Dennis and Allen beat a hasty retreat. Outside, they ducked into the building's shadow for shade.
"It was covered in black gunk before—not like this. One-use? But if not Oparts, someone on the surface made it. Right? Human bone?"
"Human bone means black magic lineage? Who?"
"Shamanism comes to mind, but black magic feels right."
Unlike mana-based magic, black magic used humans as ingredients—body, emotions, soul, the works.
Didn't mean mages skipped human experiments; perspective made it all the same.
Big hopes, big letdown. Deflated spirits showed in slumped shoulders.
"Gotta get good value from the loot at least."
Dennis began to say,