The Informant's Legacy

The headquarters of The Union.

Duke Jeffery arrived at his office earlier than anyone else, just as he did every morning. For an organization that had only recently begun to stretch its wings, there was an insurmountable mountain of affairs demanding his personal attention.

He pushed the window open to let in the crisp morning air and brewed a pot of hot tea, savoring the delicate fragrance that drifted through the room. Freshly poured teacup in hand, he sat down behind his desk and prepared to plunge into the morning's paperwork. But the moment his gaze swept over the polished wood, something caught his eye—a lone slip of paper.

"What is this?"

Duke Jeffery picked up the note, a cold chill instantly crawling down his spine. Resting squarely beneath the note, on a surface that should have been completely bare, sat a stack of thick documents he had never touched.

Goosebumps erupted across his arms. He sprang to his feet, scanning every corner of his private office with sharp, darting eyes.

Nothing seemed out of place. It was the same familiar room he saw every single day. There were no signs of forced entry, no disturbed furnishings, not even a speck of misplaced dust.

Swallowing hard against the sudden dryness in his throat, his gaze dropped back to the papers.

This isn't internal stationery.

The formatting did not match any of the standard templates used by The Union. That meant the dossier had come from the outside. The critical question was who could have possibly slipped it onto his desk. He had personally organized and cleared his workspace before departing the previous evening, so it certainly hadn't been him.

Someone had walked in during the dead of night and laid it right here.

"Hmm."

This was the private sanctum of the supreme leader of The Union. It went without saying that ordinary foot traffic was strictly barred from this wing, and even during the late hours when the administrative staff departed, armed knights maintained a continuous watch outside the doors.

"Jasmine!" he barked.

"Did you summon me, Your Grace?"

The knight stationed outside entered briskly, saluting. She was a slender, sharp-eyed woman who carried herself with disciplined poise.

"Someone breached my office during the night," Jeffery said, his voice frigid. "Summon everyone who stood watch yesterday evening immediately!"

"At once."

The night shift guards were assembled in short order. Duke Jeffery subjected them to a relentless interrogation, but every single man gave the exact same answer: not a whisper of trouble had occurred on their watch.

"An intruder, Your Grace? We held our posts outside the chamber through the entire night without breaking vigilance. We detected nothing suspicious whatsoever."

"You swear there was not a single disturbance? Not even an odd sound?"

"Not one, Your Grace."

Duke Jeffery let out a heavy sigh.

While the pair looked disheveled and unnerved under his scrutiny, their combat credentials were unquestionable; they had been handpicked to guard his inner doors precisely for their keen senses. If they had noticed nothing, the intruder had not come through the door.

That left only one other entry point: the window.

Yet the window was far from ordinary. Secured with intricate mechanical deadbolts and interwoven with defensive mana seals, any unauthorized attempt to force it open was designed to trigger deafening sirens and discharge a lethal web of lightning magic. And yet, inspecting the frame revealed not a single trace of magic activation.

It's as if a ghost walked straight through the walls.

The spectral intrusion alone was deeply unnerving, but the contents of the file left on his desk proved far worse. Laid out across the parchment was exhaustive, classified intelligence detailing The Union's internal operations—and according to the records, the architect of this ledger was none other than the Reid family, whom The Union had granted a hereditary barony.

"Those treacherous dogs...!"

Of late, The Union had suffered a string of inexplicable losses across multiple ventures, large and small. Up until now, Jeffery had chalked it up to rotten luck. It was not bad luck at all; it was a hemorrhage of confidential leaks orchestrated from within their own ranks.

Furious, Duke Jeffery leveled his glare at Jasmine.

"Jasmine!"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Mobilize the purge squads. The Reid family will answer for this treason with their blood."

"About that, sir..." Jasmine hesitated, lingering on the spot instead of departing immediately to convey the order. Jeffery's brow furrowed into an irritated scowl.

"What is it?!"

"A report from House Reid's estate arrived just moments ago."

The duke, who had been rising from his leather chair in readiness to oversee the execution, paused mid-motion. "A report? What report?"

"Last night, Baron Leonhard was slain by an assassin."

"What did you say?"

Duke Jeffery stared down at the documents with icy, narrowed eyes. There was no question about it: this was the handiwork of the very same phantom who had broken into his office last night.

Who in the world could pull off something like this?

Who possessed the ability to bypass House Reid's defenses and eliminate Leonhard so cleanly? For a fleeting moment, Bennett crossed the duke's mind, but he quickly dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. While he knew Bennett was a remarkably capable mercenary, infiltrating a noble estate and butchering a baron went far beyond what an ordinary sellsword could achieve.

More importantly, the indisputable fact remained that House Reid had betrayed The Union.

"That changes nothing," Jeffery commanded, his tone hardening like iron. "Pass my orders to the purge squad immediately. Execute every traitor bearing the Reid name and seize all their holdings and assets. Move!"

"Understood, Your Grace!"

After leaving House Reid's classified documents behind at The Union headquarters, Bennett paid a visit to Balduin's workshop.

"Well, look who decided to crawl in! If it isn't my favorite uninvited nuisance!"

Rather than offering a verbal retort, Bennett simply reached into his coat and tossed an item scavenged from the dungeon straight at the dwarf. Balduin caught it reflexively, his bearded face tilting in confusion as he turned the mechanism over in his thick hands.

"What's this junk...? Wait. Hey! Isn't this—!"

"You told me these weren't circulating on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the market," Bennett said flatly.

Balduin offered a strained, guilty laugh. The object resting in his palms was none other than the knockoff rapid-fire repeating crossbow recovered from Sasha—the very weapon that had forced Bennett onto high alert during their skirmish.

"W-Well, you see, that's what I heard! I was dead certain none had slipped out!"

"..."

As Bennett's gaze went entirely deadpan and his right hand drifted casually toward the grip of Shooting Star, Balduin bolted to his feet and bowed low in a frantic, groveling posture.

"I'm truly sorry! I swear on my beard that I didn't sell it! But there are other dwarfs out there, aren't there? I can't keep a leash on every stubborn fool in the kingdom!"

Bennett had a mountain of grievances he could have aired, but he reined in his irritation and got straight to business.

"Just honor your end of the deal."

"What deal?"

Bennett's eyes narrowed, his fingers subtly shifting over Shooting Star's trigger guard. Balduin flinched violently, waving his hands in a panicked blur.

"I remember! Of course I remember! You wanted custom bolt heads, right?!"

"Right."

Balduin hastily gestured for Bennett to follow him toward the deeper recesses of the workshop. They reached a secluded, half-concealed alcove tucked away behind stacks of raw ingots.

Standing before an ordinary-looking weapon rack, the dwarf tapped three specific points along the brass frame. With a metallic clatter of interlocking gears, a section of the stone wall pivoted on a central axle, exposing a hidden recess lined with meticulously arranged arrowheads.

"As you can see, bolts forged by our kind are unmistakable. Unlike common human stock, the color alone gives them away."

Where typical bolt heads were black, dull gray, or coated in dark oil, every single dwarven piece resting in the velvet grooves shone a brilliant, immaculate white.

"So they do."

"You see this one here?" Balduin pointed a stubby, soot-stained finger at a particular head etched with hair-thin, geometric traceries. "These intricate engravings form an integrated magic circle. Depending on what enchantment is stamped into the metal, the payload and performance shift entirely."

He moved his finger to another piece. Unlike the previous one, its pure white surface was completely smooth, devoid of any runic inscriptions.

"This is an armor-piercing kinetic head. It maximizes pure penetration and blunt shock value. Even an armored knight cloaked in Mana Armor would feel his ribs rattle under the impact."

Ordinary Mana Practitioners merely circulated mana across their physical plate to enhance general durability, but knights of an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠advanced caliber utilized a far more sophisticated technique known as Mana Armor. It was not a matter of simply coating steel in a mana film; it was effectively conjuring a secondary, ethereal suit of armor woven from compressed mana over their physical gear.

Combatants capable of manifesting this were formally classified as Elite.

Unsurprisingly, their offensive capabilities were just as terrifying as their defensive resilience.

"And if you look over here..."

Before long, Balduin was beaming with unrestrained artisan pride as he showcased the various heads. For Bennett, who had only ever heard tales of authentic dwarven munitions, seeing them laid out in person was genuinely fascinating. Each head carried its own unique enchantment designed to detonate on kinetic impact, releasing its payload the split second it struck resistance. A few even bore secret dwarven ancestral arts rarely glimpsed by outsiders.

"Well? Not bad, eh?"

"Impressive," Bennett admitted.

A broad grin split Balduin's beard at the rare praise. "Since it's you, I'll let you have them at cost. So, which ones do you need?"

"All of them."

Balduin blinked, momentarily convinced his ears were playing tricks on him. "Which ones did you say?"

"Every single one."

"All... of them?" The dwarf stared blankly. "Have you lost your bloody mind?! You want to clear out the entire rack?!"

"I expect I'll be needing a great deal of them."

"If you take everything, what am I supposed to use?!"

"You can just forge more, can't you?"

Balduin clutched his chest in dramatic frustration. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to craft these things?!"

"I'll have a steady demand for them from here on out, so consider it a standing order."

"Ha!" The dwarf let out a loud, incredulous scoff and jabbed a thumb toward the front door. "Get out! Out of my shop, you damn nuisance of a customer!"

"Are you certain? You'll regret it."

"The only thing I regret is opening my shop doors this morn—"

Balduin's rant cut off abruptly. His eyes bulged, his jaw hanging open as Bennett produced a foreign metallic object from his Sub-space Pouch.

"A-A gun?!"

It was the handgun Bennett had recovered from the twelfth floor of the Closed Police Headquarters.

Balduin practically threw himself in front of Bennett, snatching the weapon out of the ranger's hands with trembling reverence. "A Glock 17! By the ancestors, to hold one with my own two hands!"

"A Glock 17?"

"And it's in pristine condition? Are there live rounds in the magazine?!"

Glancing around frantically, Balduin raised the firearm and aimed toward a reinforced corner of the workshop.

Crack!

A sharp retort echoed through the chamber as an empty brass casing tumbled onto the flagstones. Confirming the lead slug had buried itself deep into the stone backing, Balduin's entire face lit up like a festival lantern.

"It fires flawlessly! My dearest, most cherished friend!"

Bennett shoved the dwarf away before Balduin could throw his arms around him in an emotional embrace. Physical affection from an overenthusiastic male dwarf was something he preferred to avoid at all costs.

"You're buying it, then?"

"Do you even have to ask?!"

Dwarves prided themselves on being the greatest master craftsmen in existence; there was no world in which they would pass up modern Earth ballistics. "Make sure you keep its origin buried," Bennett cautioned.

"On my clan's honor!"

While Bennett remained cautious by nature, he placed a fair degree of trust not necessarily in Balduin's restraint, but in the pragmatic secrecy of the Dwarf Kingdom backing him.

"I'll return later."

"Safe travels, brother!"

Stepping out onto the street, Bennett gathered his thoughts.

The Corrupted Religious Ruler, was it?

While the feud sparked by Rose had been largely settled, the faction worshipping the Corrupted Religious Ruler was far more insidious than The Union. By some unknown sorcery, they had commanded grotesque winged abominations across dungeon boundaries to track him down, and they had dispatched human killers into the city to finish the job.

Should I consult an information guild?

Though vetting them would take time, the Dungeon City boasted dozens of shadow brokers. Checking them one by one might yield a lead—

"...No need for that."

Muttering under his breath, Bennett kept his pace steady.

Behind him, subtle footsteps were matching his stride.

After weaving through the bustling thoroughfare with deliberate leisure, Bennett turned into a quiet, deserted alleyway. As if on cue, two figures emerged from the opposite end—a man and a woman walking arm-in-arm, feigning the easy familiarity of lovers. But Bennett recognized instantly that they were operating in tandem with the tail behind him.

There was no fooling his senses; he had hunted down far too many targets in his ten years as a ranger to miss the synchronized intent.

With no bystanders around to witness the clash, Bennett brought Shooting Star up and fired without hesitation.

Th-th-thump!

A trio of bolts hissed through the narrow passage. Caught off guard by the abrupt preemptive strike, the pair's footwork faltered mid-stride.

Thwack! Thwack!

"Guh!"

The bolts punched clean into their torsos, dropping them hard against the cobblestones.

Behind him, steel whistled through the air as the rear pursuers closed in to strike while he reloaded. Detecting the sharp surge of mana coating their blades, Bennett engaged Flash Sprint, instantly blinking out of their lethal arc.

A pale blue slash cleaved empty air where he had stood a heartbeat prior. Still suspended in the apex of his evasive leap, Bennett leveled Shooting Star one-handed.

Thung! Thung-thung-thung!

Suppressing the repeating crossbow's recoil through raw physical strength and his Marksman passive, Bennett loosed a relentless salvo. The pursuers scrambled to parry the incoming fire, but the projectile velocity defied their expectations.

"Kh!"

"What the—?!"

The white dwarven bolts flew far faster and struck harder than the standard mass-produced human ordnance they were accustomed to countering. Though they believed their parries were timed correctly, their blades were a crucial fraction of a second too late.

Bolts struck flesh, sending the assassins sprawling into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the dirt. The wounds were not instantly fatal, but the kinetic trauma left them completely incapacitated. Mana had elevated their bodies beyond ordinary mortals, but once mobility was stripped away, internal energy offered little recourse; the shock of their injuries caused their mana cloaks to flicker and shatter entirely.

Bennett walked toward the fallen ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠men with measured, silent steps.

One of the wounded cultists bared his teeth and whipped a throwing dagger from his belt, but Bennett fired an answering shot.

Crack!

The bolt intercepted the flying dagger in midair, deflecting it aside before drilling cleanly through the center of the man's forehead. The assassin collapsed backward with a dull thud, his limbs going limp. The remaining survivors pale as their last hope vanished.

"I have a few questions," Bennett said calmly.

"...?"

"Who are you people working for?"

The surviving ambushers locked eyes and clamped their jaws shut, resolutely refusing to utter a word. Bennett continued his interrogation, altering his phrasing, alternating between cold bargains and overt threats of methodical torture. Yet, despite sweating profusely under the agony of their wounds, they clung fiercely to their silence.

"...I see you have no intention of talking."

Slinging Shooting Star across his shoulder, Bennett drew his weighted baton. An iridescent sheen of Psionic Energy wrapped around the steel core like liquid silver.

Swinging the empowered baton with clinical detachment, he broke their skulls one by one.

Crack. Thwack. Crunch.

Bennett wiped the blood from the baton and cast a sidelong glance toward the mouth of the alleyway.

One body that should have been lying there had vanished during the commotion.

It was the woman who had approached him alongside the man at the start. Bennett had deliberately spared her vital organs with his opening salvo, and his drawn-out interrogation had served a single purpose: giving her enough time to gather her strength and crawl away.

Scanning the faint trail of crimson droplets left against the stone pavement, Bennett slipped silently into the shadows. It had been quite some time since he last enjoyed a proper hunt.