Chapter 34
Chapter 34
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 34
Chapter Title: My Emergency Funds Are Screwed
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As always, the fine spring weather continued with clear skies. Outside, neighborhood kids were chasing a ball, chattering noisily as they scampered about. The magic-powered air conditioner I'd splurged on not long ago hummed away, sending cool air throughout the office.
Shura must have started the laundry, because I could hear the creaking whir of the magic washing machine from the second-floor bathroom. After my morning training and a quick shower, I changed into fresh clothes and headed to the office.
Today, like always, big sis Armida was slumped over the counter, snoring away. Talk about a charmed life. She said she'd come down to the surface looking for a friend who'd run off, but now she was lounging around like she'd transcended all worldly cares.
I grabbed a glass of fruit juice from the fridge, downed it, and stepped out of the office. Something had come up that needed handling right away.
"Phew, it's hot."
It was still late spring, but Kara's downtown was sweltering. Not all desert climates were like this, but today felt especially brutal.
Just then, a pack of kids came barreling toward me. One must have flubbed it—a little ball came rolling right to my feet. The kids ran up with bright smiles.
"Mister! Can we have our ball back?"
I smiled faintly and kicked the ball hard toward the distant west gate. Infusing it with full mana sent it flying over the walls until it shrank to a dot and vanished.
"You little brats! I told you to go play somewhere else 'cause you're too noisy!"
The kids pulled long faces as they chased after the now-invisible ball. One gutsy little punk flipped me the bird and yelled.
"Mister! I'm telling my dad!"
"Yeah? Bring him here. I'll give him a fair one-on-one duel of honor and cut him down in one stroke."
Once the kids were gone, things quieted down. Still muggy, but comfortable enough. Like always, I was working hard to maintain this pleasant life.
After finishing my errand, I was humming my way back to the office when a faint voice called from behind.
"Excuse me."
"Huh?"
The old man was dressed in a long robe adorned with jewels, clearly from the continent. Age had bent his back, and his weakened hands rested on a slender staff, but his eyes were sharp and lively.
He wasn't alone. A line of warriors who looked like escorts trailed behind him. Not regular soldiers or mercenaries—they seemed affiliated with some organization.
The old man bowed politely to me.
"Greetings. I'm Robert Berbe. Might you be Kaoyan of the White Mask, by any chance?"
I tilted my head.
"Kaoyan's right, but what's this White Mask business?"
"That's what they're calling you around town these days."
Guess I'd picked up a new nickname. 'Kaoyan of the White Mask,' huh? A step up from my past life's moniker: 'Dirtbag Grand Duke's Heir.'
Who knew snagging—er, acquiring—that white mask would lead to this kind of success.
"Oh yeah? So, what's the visit for?"
"Truth be told, I have an urgent request, so I've come hat in hand."
"Alright then, let's talk inside."
I hurried back into the office and nudged big sis Armida awake with my heel—she was drooling face-down on the counter.
"Sis, up and at 'em. We got a guest."
As Armida wiped her mouth and sat up groggily, Berbe left his escorts outside and stepped in.
"Ho ho~ What a beauty your sister is."
Armida stared blankly at Berbe.
"Who's this geezer?"
"A guest. So get some drinks out here, quick."
"Me? Little bro, you know who I am, right?"
I glared at her petulant whining.
"You want me to handle the client too? If you're crashing here, pitch in with the bills. Hurry up."
"Tch, fine."
As Armida grumbled off, I seated Berbe on the reception sofa.
Berbe nodded, looking around.
"Very comfortable in here."
"Yeah. Been sprucing it up lately."
I'd dropped a fair bit of coin recently. The magic air conditioner, fridge, washer, and lighting had cost 24 riff, and adding the mid-grade essence for mana supply, energy system, installation, and mage labor brought it to 277 riff total.
But that was pocket change. The real money sink was the magic lantern tucked in my subspatial pouch right now.
A mere 30cm handheld thing—how much could it cost? Mine was pricey as hell. Top-grade essence went into it. That ate up all the Chaos Pieces from Preyker hunts, plus extras I bought for 465 riff. Worth every coin, though.
This lantern was item number two in my survival kit, alongside the pitch-black absolute bend-horse.
Light it up at night, and it illuminates 100 meters around. Use it only after dark, and it'll last forever. Essential for nighttime beast fights or midnight escapes.
"I see."
"Anyway, spill it. What's the reason for tracking me down?"
Berbe's face darkened.
"It's about saving my worthless son's life. That's why I've come, begging despite the impropriety."
"Your son's on death row? Why?"
Armida set two glasses of juice on our table. Berbe thanked her, took a swig to wet his throat, and began softly.
"Well..."
Berbe ran Berbe Trading Company, one of Robros Kingdom's top intercontinental firms. They dealt in magic goods sold to Agenka Continent and East Continent, importing silk, tea, spices, and such in return.
Business was booming, but Berbe had one headache: his reckless heir. Fiat Berbe—his one and only son.
"And?"
"That fool of a son took on an overambitious caravan run recently and got hit by the Great Desert Bandits. Now he's their hostage."
I couldn't quite follow. I got the words, but not Berbe's angle.
Desert bandits rob for cash. Hostages get ransomed out for coin most times. No reason for Berbe to splash big hiring me separately.
Sure, some scummy bandits eat the ransom and kill anyway, but that's rare. They lose cred, and future deals tank.
"Hostage? Then why come to me? Aren't you negotiating?"
"We tried... but an unexpected snag derailed it."
"What snag?"
Berbe had hunted down a mid-broker after hearing about Fiat. Standard play: someone chummy with bandits bridges the gap.
He picked a mercenary captain for the job. Long-time vet on desert trade routes, ties to many bandit crews, solid rep.
"Wait, mercenaries buddy up with bandits? Aren't they enemies?"
"On the surface, yes. But endless bloodshed hurts both sides, so savvy mercs pay tolls for safe passage. Bandits accept to avoid casualties too."
A live-and-let-live symbiosis, basically. Makes sense—fight to the death, both bleed out. Survival means compromise for mercs and bandits alike.
"Got cozy that way? Go on."
"The merc captain took the ransom and bolted mid-negotiation. The bandits, stood up on deal day, are furious at the betrayal. We reached out days ago, but they threatened to kill my son as an example."
"Threats? He still alive?"
"Yes. Still holding on."
I smirked. 'Kill as example' but haven't yet, just threats? Obvious—they want more cash.
"They're just asking for a bigger payout."
"Exactly. Amid our ongoing attempts, they made a new demand."
"What?"
"Catch the merc captain who screwed them. Alive."
"Ah, blood revenge personally? So my job's hauling in that merc captain?"
"Precisely."
"Who?"
"You'll know him. Alon."
Alon—the guy who tricked Commander Adan into the Preyker hunt, netting me fat stacks. We clashed briefly; I let him live as 'emergency funds.'
Good deeds pay off. Spare him generously, and boom—new commission.
"Ah, that slush fund guy? I know him. Why'd he snatch your ransom and run?"
"Word is, he couldn't merc in the desert anymore. Fleeing to homeland, pulled this stunt en route."
"Did he get roughed up bad?"
"No. Got death threats."
I cocked my head. Alon's crew was decent-sized. Not easy to threaten.
"Weird. They'd threaten others, not get threatened."
"..."
Berbe stared without answering. I got the gist and pointed at myself.
"Me?"
"Yes. Word's spreading in Kara: you declared you'd kill Alon and his mercs to Saint Yu Jenbe."
Recalling the scene, I scratched my head sheepishly. Some nearby merc must've eavesdropped on me and Uncle Jenbe.
Blame Uncle Jenbe entirely.
Guy's voice booms like thunder. That gravelly baritone yelling everywhere—no way folks missed it.
"Tch. Did I say I'd kill him outright? Just if he attacked me. Thought the punk was sneaky vicious; turns out he's a cowardly slime. Ahem~."
"Master, no blame intended. Our fault picking that broker. I just need Alon to save my son. Alive, no less."
I crossed my arms, stumped.
"Problem is, where's Alon now?"
"At Polkin Pass with his mercs. We magic-commed an acquaintance there—the gate admin—to block him."
Polkin Pass: sole route over the Ipogium Mountains between desert and Prosia. Stuck there, no escape. Cliffs everywhere, guards swarming.
That fortress held off a massive beast horde for over a year. No release, no exit.
"You know the gate admin? Can't you grab him?"
"Not that simple."
"Why?"
"Paying desert bandits is illegal in Robros Kingdom by royal law. If he's nabbed and spills out of spite, our company faces ruin."
Robros sees desert bandits as thorns sniping trade revenue and taxes. Strict controls on citizen-bandit dealings.
"So sneak in, snag him quietly?"
"Yes. But no big commotions. Current Polkin commander is a stickler on that."
Simple on paper, tricky in practice. Harder to save than kill, especially infiltrating the world's toughest fortress, dodging guards, extracting Alon stealthily. No noise allowed. Headache-inducing constraints.
But doable if played right.
"Pay?"
"200 riff."
I didn't snort. Too low for the risk. Barely covers labor.
"Pfft~ That's it?"
"Get the rest from Alon. He took our 600 riff—plenty for bonus."
Alon really gorged. 600 riff? My two months' fun money.
"What if Alon's tapped out? Happens plenty."
"I'll cover any shortfall."
Solid gig. 800 riff minimum—not bad.
I had beef with Alon anyway; he'd painted me as a psycho killer town-wide. Time to settle scores.
I pocketed the coin pouch Berbe offered as assent.
My Emergency Funds Are Screwed End