The Reclusive Veteran's Bargain
"...if you blab about it."
Francois spread his hand wide near his temple, as if a bomb were about to explode.
"If you drop my name, they'll let you know. They might even demand a tuition fee, but I trust you can handle that much."
"I'm already grateful just for letting me go. I never expected you'd help me this much."
Allen wasn't asking for the moon. It had just been a dangerous fight, and he'd done his part.
He'd thought it was a promise spat out by Kiwi to save face after her pride got bruised. Since his expectations had been low, the joy was all the greater. If anything, he felt like he now owed her one.
"Facing danger together is basic protocol, isn't it?"
"These days, there are plenty of idiots who can't even manage the basics. In that regard, you're top-notch. Of course, my pride is worth just as much."
Long after Allen had left, Omar sat in the seat across from Francois at the table, mumbling as he chewed.
"Why'd you call him? For the mana training method? Or to groom him as a successor? That policy changed too, didn't it?"
Francois explained the situation: the black mage slave collector's appearance, the intentional overflow that had unleashed a horde of monsters. And how, thanks to Allen, they'd survived the overflow without a single casualty.
Omar's eyebrow twitched.
"You're really introducing him for that reason? You could've just ignored him. You're something else~."
"One of the objectives of the tutorial is to ensure everyone returns safely. If I'd failed the mission properly, it would've cracked my pride."
"Oh, really?"
"Mock me all you want; it won't change my mind."
"I wasn't trying to pick a fight, so let's drop it. Without your pride, you'd be a corpse. But why didn't you tell him?"
"Tell him what?"
"That old man's lost his marbles. You didn't know?"
"When? More importantly, I need to contact him now..."
"Too late. Look."
Omar, holding Francois back, pointed to the clock on the wall. 2 p.m. Five hours since Allen had left.
"By the time difference, he's probably already there and sized up the situation. Bet he's cursing up a storm right now."
"Hm..."
*
Allen entered a tall, massive apartment building. A musty, damp smell assaulted his nose from the entrance, so he quickly donned the mask hanging around his neck.
People worn down by life dotted the area here and there. Their clothes were shabby, their faces gaunt. One person's synthetic skin had peeled off and dangled loosely.
The apartment was a chicken coop crammed full of citizens for cheap. That was why Allen stayed in his warehouse.
The wealthy lived clustered in affluent districts, not places like this. A single grand mansion there had more square footage than an apartment housing thousands. No high-rises nearby meant sunlight poured in much better too.
After stepping out of the elevator, Allen shoved a lizardman lying in front—clearly high on something—over to the wall. His clothes, already worn, got scraped up with dust and grime, but it was better than being trampled. There were already a few shoe prints on him, in fact.
Weaving past people slumped in the hallway, Allen turned at a prickling stare. The ones he'd taken for drugged-out zombies were watching him pass with hazy eyes, sizing him up.
Checking if I'm prey or not? Should've brought the leopard.
Their intentions were obvious. Allen readied his shield generator for instant activation and met their gazes head-on.
Whether due to his impassive eyes or his quality gear, those who locked eyes quickly looked away.
Allen walked slowly until he stopped at the end of the hall.
'3630'
The last unit on the 36th floor. With 50 floors total, the building theoretically held 1,500 units.
Allen glanced at the slightly ajar door before pressing the doorbell. Even if it was open, barging in uninvited was incredibly rude.
No response after several presses. Just as he wondered if the occupant was out, a groan came from inside.
"Ughhh..."
It sounded like someone injured, so Allen hurriedly opened the door and stepped in.
The interior resembled a studio with no dividing walls, and in the center sat a white-haired old man in a wheelchair, back turned so his face was hidden.
"I heard a strange noise and came in. Are you alright? ...I was referred by Breaker."
"Ughhh..."
Another groan. Allen approached and checked the old man's face. Saliva dripped from his wide-open mouth.
Facing this unexpected scene, Allen debated contacting Francois but felt a chill.
The source was the old man. His mouth still agape, only his eyes rolled to fix on Allen. The blank stare was gone, replaced by the ferocity of a beast.
The old man's hands gripped the wheelchair wheels. He spun them hard, sending the chair rocketing backward at high speed. It suddenly veered ninety degrees and slipped neatly into a small side room.
Was that a drift just now?
Now he knew why the residents never entered despite the open door.
Moments later, something glinted in the darkness of the small room. The muzzle of a shotgun.
"Who the hell are you? Your getup says you're no resident trash."
"From Breaker..."
"What, come to kill off the senile geezer?"
"You watch too many movies, don't you?"
"Bullshit."
Allen threw back the exact line Francois had mentioned, and the old man scowled. Keeping calm under the gun barrel, Allen continued.
"Francois from Breaker referred me."
"Anyone else, maybe not, but he's alright. Sit tight a sec."
The old man used a wheelchair, so there was no sofa or such. The bed was the only seat, but using it would've been rude.
Standing awkwardly, Allen moved to help as the old man prepared drinks but got scolded.
"Think I'm a crip just 'cause I'm in this chair? Listen when an elder speaks."
Allen obediently waited, scanning the room. Seeing bite marks on the plastic part of the desk clock, he wondered if the drink was safe to consume.
How'd he bite clean through like clay? Impressive.
Mana Training Method (2)
As Allen eyed the drink on the table, the old man grumbled. It suited his cantankerous face perfectly.
"You a food inspector?"
"Pardon? What do you mean?"
"You got taste sensors on your tongue like them? Or scared of plastic bits or contaminated water, so you just chug whatever's offered."
Civilizations using mana polluted less than oil-based ones, but meeting the demands of masses inevitably dirtied nature.
Maze City, with its tens of millions of residents, couldn't escape pollution either. Cheap food was likely harvested from tainted soil—or worse, mixed with plastic and sawdust and sold as "food."
But Allen hesitated for a different reason. The identity of the brown-and-yellow mixed drink before him.
"It's barley tea, so just drink. Cleaner than no-name cheap water or whatever groundwater they pumped up."
"Barley tea?"
Allen's eyes flicked subtly behind the old man. The trash can held a freshly emptied can. He could even hear the fizz of escaping foam.
The old man had been drooling saliva moments ago, yet now he gulped down fermented alcoholic barley tea.
Alcoholic dementia? Even with a Mana Heart, liver function improves—so how much drinking does it take to end up like that?
As Allen pondered, the old man—observing him with one eye while sipping—spoke up.
"Wipe that suspicious look off your face."
"...?"
"You know what I mean. Those droopy fish eyes—you think I can't tell? At my age, I can read your thoughts from the vibe alone."
He stated the extraordinary casually. Reading people was key between humans, yet most bungled it blindly.
Allen sat still, staring at the old man.
"Then why not tell me what happened to you? That way, I won't make mistakes on that front."
"You look awfully persistent... You'd cling like a leech if I didn't, huh?"
"Maybe, maybe not."
Allen twisted his words on purpose. The old man seemed to like it, chuckling faintly—though it might've been a scoff.
"Ha, check this guy out. My head's like this 'cause of a little training mishap."
He placed both hands on his head and opened his mouth wide.
"Boom! Self-inflicted, so quit gawking like I'm a drowned rat."
"I wasn't thinking anything this time."
"I know. Just testing."
The old man refocused on his cup, licking even the last drop from the rim meticulously.
Now Allen understood why the 'Brain Enhancement' entry was rated 'Low.' Not derogatory—the old man had pushed it too far and run into trouble.
Brains and spines weren't called 'central nervous system' for nothing. Vital parts deserved the name. Tamper recklessly, and disaster followed.
"Not drinking?"
Before Allen could reply, the old man snatched the so-called barley tea and downed it in one go. The belch that followed was flawless.
"Burp!"
"I'm Allen."
"So? Francois didn't even tell you my name?"
"It just said [Retiree1]."
"Ha... that punk. I'm Taylor. Intro's done—now scram."
"Francois said I'd learn the mana training method if I came here."
"You save his life or something?"
Allen recounted the labyrinth incident. As the story progressed, Taylor's face twisted more—like he'd swallowed sweet potatoes without drink.
"Stubborn bastard. Told him to ditch the pride, but he still can't shake that bad habit."
"His pride that strong?"
"You buy that? Sure, pride played a part, but I figure he's building rapport to convert to full-time."
"Agent position?"
"You zero in on the key points. But that spot ain't for just anyone..."
Taylor suddenly scowled, furrows deep enough to farm between his brows.
"If it's a restriction, you don't have to tell me."
"He told you that too? Got more talent than you look. Makes sense—Breaker wants to conquer the labyrinth more than anyone, and that takes talent in spades."
"You know why?"
"Jake probably does. Slippery bastard."
"Are you friends with Chairman Marshall...?"
"Friends? We just happened to join the same time. That guy's royal family and a genius; I was a mutt... Wait, why the hell am I telling you this?"
Taylor trailed off incredulously, but Allen responded in his usual even, ambiguous tone.
"Fascinating conversation. Your vast experience broadens the horizons of knowledge."
"Fascinating my ass. Spilled all sorts of weird crap to a stranger. You've heard enough—get lost."
Recalling Francois's words as Taylor resisted sharing, Allen asked,
"Do you need tuition, by any chance?"
At "tuition," Taylor's expression shifted fast—like a dwarf loan shark smelling coin.
"You loaded? Then 10 billion coin..."
"That'd buy other training methods."
"I know. Here's the deal: Pension hits in two months. Till then, before I check into a nursing home, tend to me. Hate it? Door's that way."
"No savings at all?"
"Today's drinks... er, rent's tight as is. Why? 'Cause..."
Taylor tapped his temple with a finger. Medical bills, clearly.
Held off dipping into pension this long—impressive.
Then Allen's eyes caught something. Zooming in on the crumpled paper poking from the trash: the word "racetrack."
Races with spirit beasts like dragon-horses and unicorns. Tickets pricey, payouts massive.
Noticing Allen's gaze, Taylor wheeled slightly to block the trash can.
Just then, the doorbell rang, and the door