Old Soldier (1)
A door opening sound echoed.
"I definitely locked the door."
Allen turned his head and spotted a golem that resembled a Doberman. The moment it saw Allen, it delivered its message.
[VVIP Delinquent Tenant. Please vacate by the end of this week.]
So that's why the door had opened—it was a maintenance golem. Allen turned to check Taylor's reaction.
"Heh..."
He'd lost his grip on reality again.
Two months and the Taylor training method. Sometimes, knowledge learned at the risk of one's life was what made a mana training method. Francois wouldn't have introduced something floating around the markets.
Having made up his mind—no, he'd decided the moment he arrived here—Allen gripped the wheelchair's handles.
A new bed had appeared in the corner of Allen's warehouse. And beside it sat a box of adult diapers.
"You little shit. I told you to throw that crap out."
A sudden voice rang out. Taylor was glaring at Allen with a displeased scowl.
"I'd rather stick my shotgun in my mouth and pull the trigger than wear that."
"Your voice is full of vigor. Glad you're feeling better."
"You don't listen..."
Taylor pushed the lever on his wheelchair forward and wheeled away.
The first thing Allen had done upon arriving at the warehouse was install a mana furnace on the wheelchair. After inputting simple Star Letters into a soul stone, swapping out the wheels, and linking it to the lever, an automated wheelchair was complete in no time.
Taylor grumbled about the unnecessary hassle but clearly liked it, since he went on frequent walks around the area.
Sometimes dementia would kick in, his eyes darting around wildly. Other times, he'd be chatting normally only to suddenly clam up.
With both the illness and the curse tormenting him, it must be rough.
The depth of that frustration was hard to fathom unless you were in his shoes. At least the diaper box remained unopened—a small mercy. Strangely enough, Taylor's mind always cleared up whenever he needed the bathroom.
Having finished the day's work, Allen lay down on the bed to practice the mana training method. Taylor maneuvered his lever and rolled closer.
"Why's it called the Taylor training method?"
"Your sense of aesthetics is third-rate. Eh, I found it in the labyrinth and slapped my name on it. Thought it'd be a winner, but it turned out as much of a dud as my life."
"That could happen."
"Ambiguous phrasing? You agreeing the method sucks? Or that my life's the problem?"
"..."
As Allen fell silent, Taylor launched into another old tale.
"Think about it. I'm exploring deep in the labyrinth, and bam—a weird building pops up. Inside, I find a book labeled 'mana training method.' Heart's pounding, right?"
"Must've been disappointing."
"Still, it was perfect for me. Truth is, with my artificial Mana Heart, it was hard to get that kind of efficiency from anything else."
Taylor yawned widely and made a demand.
"Lemme see how far you've gotten. Run it once."
The Taylor training method had a distinctive feature: when you circulated mana, a circle appeared in the center of your forehead, with two more forming around your eyes.
All three circles overlapped at one point—the spot between the eyebrows.
The instant Allen circulated his mana, a circle appeared on his forehead.
"It's only been two days since I taught you, and you've already... Nah, you're kinda slow. I got mine up in a day."
"You said the last one took over two months. With three circles, a year flew by..."
"Hey! My dementia's making my memory fuzzy, that's all. Keep that up, and they'll haul you off for elder abuse and disability discrimination."
"Why would the prosecutor get dragged off?"
While Taylor sputtered, Allen savored the sensation that felt like awakening.
"You said the brain enhancement effect was weak, but that was a lie, right?"
"What're you on about?"
"My head feels much clearer, and my memory's improved. For example, I can now review a book that used to take a full day just to read."
"Even your analogies suck. No way... What's the difference? Does it hit harder if you're smart to begin with?"
"Maybe the brain expansion procedure?"
Almost no one skipped the brain expansion procedure. Slap a memory modifier on the back of your neck, and using knowledge became a breeze—who'd pass that up?
"You didn't get it? You're nuts."
"Why the sudden insult?"
"C'mon, guys strutting around as magitech engineers without even basic magitechwear in their skulls? No wonder it shocks folks when you beat 'em down. Like that Kiki yesterday? Bragging about his automaton on video call, then you shredded him."
Back then, bubbles had gurgled from the water-cooling pipes on Kiki's head. Sign his brain was overheating.
He'd even teared up. Robot-looking guy, but damn expressive.
"Call it heartfelt advice."
"Wanna spout bullshit?"
"Why do you love dogs so much?"
"Loyal animals. Familiar, too."
"Don't change the subject. That 'dog' word you toss around? It's an insult."
"Ugh..."
Taylor's mouth gaped open again. It felt like selective dementia whenever things turned against him.
Allen lay back on the bed after tying a chick-printed bib around the protesting Taylor.
The training method definitely worked. Better control over the mana tormenting his body boosted his focus, too—he figured he could handle three Rune Letters soon.
That was artisan level. Master artisan and grandmaster were distant dreams, but artisan alone was elite talent.
Any company application with "Proficient in 3 Rune Letters" on the resume? Instant hire.
Time for dinner, so Allen got up—and spotted the chick bib tossed on the floor.
A glance at the wheelchair: Taylor's lips were moving.
"Coca..."
"White powder? So that's why you can't pay rent."
"You psycho, not that. Cockatrice roast. Ugh..."
Pretending to hurt, but slyly dropping a very specific dinner wish.
Allen nodded readily. Fine cuisine was one area where he spared no expense, alongside knowledge acquisition.
Old Soldier (1)
Since taking over Taylor's livelihood, Allen's living expenses had skyrocketed. Alone, he could scrape by, but not with two.
Can't just serve him any old slop, either.
Francois had introduced them, sure, but who else would care for someone for two months in exchange for a mana training method?
Checking his dwindling account, Allen felt the urgent need to secure funds.
Couldn't drag a sick guy into the labyrinth, so he looked for surface work.
"Can you fix this revolver?"
"Barrel's bent clean through. Might as well buy a new one."
A bar brokering jobs for mercenaries and freelancers became his temporary gig.
Better pay than house calls, more varied magitech. Household runes like washers and fridges? He'd seen too many at Nobak Clinic—boring now.
Allen charged less than pro shops, word spread, and income was solid.
Skepticism at first, but demos shut them up. Folks cozy with shortcuts, getting treatments from unlicensed docs—magitech was no different.
"Grandpa with you again? Good on ya. Bring friends next time."
Some said that often. Did the sight of a grandson caring for his ailing grandpa tug heartstrings?
No way.
These blood-and-guts types filling pockets with death? Any softness left went to family or friends.
Customers came for Allen's skills, plain and simple.
Rolf watched from the counter. Broker and bar owner, his hair and beard evoked a lion's mane—fluorescent red dye made it pop.
This dwarf hadn't let Allen in scot-free. 20% of daily take went to him. Originally 50%, slashed after seeing skills.
Protection money. Without it, any hack could claim magitech engineer and cause trouble. Plus, it was Rolf's turf.
Taylor at the bar counter sniffed a glass of clear liquid, grimaced—it was soda water, not booze.
He glanced at Allen, then whispered to Rolf.
"Now's your chance. Hit me."
"Grandson said he'd cut the tribute if you got a drink."
"Grandson my ass. He'd never complain if I just took it."
"Dementia got you not recognizing your own grandson?"
"He's not my grandson..."
"Kid's an adult? In this era where blood ties mean zilch, you think I'd drag just anyone around? Especially a wheezing old codger on death's door?"
"Death's door? That's harsh."
"Fair."
Taylor looked every bit the wrinkled elder, but his upper body was ripped like a young buck. Mysterious world—age meant little.
Elders could be dangerous. Surviving this scene to that age unscathed? Meant skills.
Rolf trimmed his beard, then slipped in:
"But offing yourself quick might help the grandson..."
"Tch! I'll burn this place down."
Taylor glared, then softened fast—Rolf had snuck him a whiskey. He downed it quick, peeked at Allen, and their eyes met.
No change in expression or gaze—impossible to read. Early on, Allen could guess; now, nada.
That's what makes him scarier.
Taylor flashed his brightest smile; Allen stared a beat, then packed up.
Rolf chuckled at Taylor's fluster, greeted Allen at the counter.
"Calling it quits already?"
"Yeah, got somewhere to be. Here's today's tribute."
The bill stack on the counter was thin. Rolf, no stranger to counting cash, clocked it instantly.
"Kinda light? You made good today."
"You promised a cut if he drank."
"Booze ain't free. Pricey guy, too."
"Was gonna do 5%, but with that, it's 10% total."
"No gaps in your armor."
Rolf nodded, pocketed the cash. He watched Allen leave the bar, heavy wheelchair trailing silently. Grandfather and grandson, clear as day.
On the monorail, Taylor finally spoke—heading not home.
"Where to?"
"Western Sky."
"That pharmacy with the pretty garden? First time."
"Never been?"
"Breaker subsidiary handles that crap—no need. Why you?"
"Forgot meds last sudden call."
"What meds?"
"..."
Conversation died. Taylor scratched his head, fiddled with the wheelchair. Woke up to changes again.
Pressed a button by the directional lever—thick handle split, shotgun barrel popped out.
"Crazy."
Feeling sharp stares, Taylor reset it quick—even gun-savvy locals lost interest. Save for a kid nagging for a transforming chair.
Off the monorail, Allen stayed mum. Taylor, bored by the silence, kept prying.
"Keeping secrets from me?"
"It's only been a week."
"Nitpicker."
Entering Western Sky, lush greenery welcomed them. Unlike the gray outside, green everywhere.
Allen naturally removed his mask; Taylor marveled.
"Air and mana totally different. Should've come sooner."
"They chase gawkers. Wanna stay? Pay up."
"Still, folks'd flock, right?"
"If they can laugh off fairy pranks."
Reaching the fox spirit zone, Allen couldn't hide his embarrassment. When conversing with an important guest