The Best Laid Traps

"Pffft!"

A mouthful of tea sprayed across the mahogany desk and down the front of his doublet, but Baster did not even think to wipe it away. The report he had just received was simply too harrowing.

"W-What did you say?"

"One of our family's mana breathing techniques, the Drake Breath, has been listed for auction at the Mercenary Guild, sir."

Any momentary relief that his hearing had not failed him vanished in an instant.

"What kind of utter nonsense is that?! Why would the Drake Breath be on an auction block? And at the Mercenary Guild of all places! Are you absolutely certain this information is reliable?"

"Rumors are running rampant across the entire Dungeon City at this very moment."

"Do I look like a man asking about idle gossip? I'm asking whether it has been verified!"

The subordinate's voice shrank noticeably. "We checked with our contact inside the Mercenary Guild, sir. They claim the branch master personally verified its authenticity."

"...Damn it all."

Baster clutched his throbbing temples.

Within the hierarchy of the Drake Family, the Drake Breath was admittedly the most fundamental introductory tier among their mana breathing techniques. Yet that hardly meant it was something they could afford to let slip into foreign hands.

It was the paramount introductory breathing method, perfected over decades by grinding through mountains of gold and untold human collateral. Among all beginner-grade techniques on the continent, House Drake took pride in asserting it was without equal. In truth, it was the very foundation that had yielded remarkable results in nurturing the family's knights and battle mages.

And now, that very heritage had leaked and found its way onto an open auction stage?

"And out of all the wretched places in this city, the Mercenary Guild?"

The Mercenary Guild's auction hall was a den frequented merely by wandering sellswords, scavengers, and assorted rabble. For an esoteric technique belonging to the Drake Family—one of the reigning sovereigns of the Dungeon City—to be flaunted before every stray mongrel who had a handful of coin to participate was an intolerable disgrace. The moment this reached the ears of leadership, the reprimand would be catastrophic—

Crash!

"B-Butler Baster!"

A retainer slammed the door wide open. Sensing what was inevitably coming, Baster squeezed his eyes shut.

"Curse it."

"The Lord Patriarch demands your immediate presence in his chambers!"

Swallowing a bitter sigh, Baster hastened his stride, arriving at the Patriarch's private office moments later.

"You summoned me, my Lord."

"I hear rather fascinating news."

Alteon, the reigning patriarch of House Drake, stood gazing leisurely out the high arched window at the sprawling vista of the Dungeon City.

"They say our family's breathing technique has surfaced on an auction block."

Knowing the Lord Patriarch's volatile temperament all too well, Baster dropped flat to the floorboards without hesitation.

"Forgive me, my Lord. It has been confirmed that it is indeed listed for sale at the Mercenary Guild's auction hall."

"Who is the seller?"

"A Silver Rank Mercenary registered under the name 'John.'"

Alteon turned away from the panoramic view, his cold gaze pinning Baster where he knelt.

"A fabrication, obviously."

"It is a terribly generic name... According to my initial inquiry, there are well over a thousand registered mercenaries using the name John."

"Are the rival houses attempting to check our momentum?" Alteon murmured under his breath. Yet in the stifling stillness of the room, Baster caught every syllable clearly.

Another family?

The pieces began clicking together in Baster's mind. If this was the machination of a rival power contending for dominion over the Dungeon City, the entire debacle made terrifying sense. How they had laid hands on an authentic manuscript of the Drake Breath remained a mystery, but staging its sale at the Mercenary Guild rather than the Starfall Family's clandestine Black Market laid their motives bare. It was a calculated insult—a bucket of filth sloshed over the proud crest of House Drake just as their ascendancy reached its zenith.

"Baster."

"Yes, Lord Patriarch!" Baster pressed his forehead firmly against the polished wood.

"I shall exert pressure on the Mercenary Guild immediately! By whatever means necessary, I will ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ensure the manual is retrieved before the bidding can commence!"

"No. That is not the way."

"Pardon?"

"You must strike the precise moment the auction concludes. Only then will we drag both seller and buyer into the light."

A breath caught in Baster's throat as the logic settled. If a rival faction was pulling the strings, ambushing the transaction after the hammer fell was indeed the superior course. Only by shadowing the conclusion could they expose the hand that had pilfered the manual and unmask the conspirators eager to purchase it.

"Understood, my Lord. I shall devote every resource—"

"You had best see it done flawlessly."

Baster's shoulder flinched at the soft, venomous cadence.

"That is, if you wish to retain your seat."

"...Understood, Lord Patriarch."

Swallowing hard, Baster offered a reverent bow and withdrew. Being First Butler of the Drake Family afforded intoxicating wealth and prestige, but the cost of retaining it was an endless knife-edge. Two days melted away in a blur of feverish orchestration.

"Sir Baster."

"Are the detachments fully assembled?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Yes, sir."

Nodding, Baster led the way to a secure staging courtyard within the estate. Scores of operatives stood assembled in disciplined formation. Some wore form-fitting midnight camouflage, others stood clad in heavy tactical plate, and a third group blended seamlessly in unremarkable civilian garb.

"Eyes on me."

The relaxed posture of the men hardened instantly into razor-sharp vigilance.

"Our directives for today are as follows."

Though the core operational briefing had already been distributed, Baster reiterated every contingency with meticulous detail.

"A question, sir," one of the covert leaders spoke up.

"Speak."

"You instructed us to track and apprehend both the vendor and the highest bidder. If complications arise in the field, securing both assets simultaneously may prove untenable."

A flicker of displeasure touched Baster's brow, yet he nodded in concession. Given the swarm of factions hovering around the event, unforeseen chaos was practically guaranteed.

"A reasonable concern."

"In that event, which target takes precedence?"

After brief consideration, Baster answered, "Prioritize the seller. Rooting out whoever leaked our family's secrets to the outside world is of far greater import."

"Understood, sir."

Baster signaled to an attendant at his side, who brought forward an ironbound chest and began distributing small, rounded curios to each operative. Resembling smooth river stones, the objects were astonishingly lightweight, their surfaces cool and strangely slick to the touch.

"Sir Baster, what are these?"

"Fasten it to your ear. Whichever side feels more comfortable."

Subordinate officers circulated through the ranks, demonstrating their operation. "Press firmly against the raised notch along the top."

Baster affixed one to his own ear before the contingent. A faint vibration hummed through the cartilage, accompanied by a subtle chime. The men twitched in unison as an ethereal mana pulse rippled between the linked artifacts.

—This is Baster. Can ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all units hear me?

Eyes widened across the courtyard. The butler's whispered voice resonated in their ears with breathtaking clarity.

"As demonstrated, these artifacts transmit voice between users across distance. They are exceptionally costly, so handle them with extreme care and return them without fail upon completion of the mission. Transmission is only enabled while holding the upper sensor."

The operatives quickly mastered the operation. Provided they stayed within operational range, it was a peerless tool for tactical coordination.

"Move out."

"Yes, sir!"

The assembled units departed in unison. Yet the moment they breached the courtyard gates, they scattered into the city's labyrinthine alleys, melting away without leaving so much as a ripple.

Baster climbed into an enclosed carriage bearing the Drake Family crest alongside a modest escort.

"To the guild."

Their destination was an auxiliary facility adjacent to the central Dungeon City Mercenary Guild. Situated right alongside the main hall, this annex functioned as the guild's official auction house. Under typical circumstances, it was frequented only by scruffy sellswords haggling over salvaged scrap, but today, an endless procession of ornate, crest-laden carriages choked the thoroughfare.

Surveying the heraldry carved upon the passing coaches, Baster's scowl deepened.

Every vulture in the city has caught the scent.

Every prominent faction across the Dungeon City was arriving in force. Predictably, House Drake's bitterest political adversaries were present, but even allied nobility were attending without shame. Nor were the aristocrats alone; rival syndicates and merchant leagues had sent contingents, flanked by unaligned archmages, high-tier free knights, and an influx of ambitious mercenaries who clearly had no grasp of the crossfire they were stepping into.

Carriages and entourages tangled in a sprawling knot of congestion.

Fortunately, Baster's seasoned coachman maneuvered skillfully, slipping their carriage past the bottleneck to halt smoothly near the entrance. Smoothing down his attire, Baster stepped out accompanied by his escorts.

"Drake Family delegation."

A guild clerk flinched before regaining his composure, asking cautiously, "Are you carrying weapons, sir? In the interest of internal security, all armaments are strictly prohibited within the auction hall. This includes spell scrolls and mana-inscribed equipment."

"Armaments? What a preposterous farce." Baster offered an open sneer. Only an establishment run by vulgar sellswords would utter such infantile nonsense. Every representative here had brought a personal guard composed of seasoned elites. Confiscating steel could never blunt their lethality; for a trained knight, an aura-forged physique was far deadlier than any blade.

Even the dimmest guild master had to know that. Yet the staff insisted on protocol, and wishing to avoid pointless delay, Baster gave a curt nod.

"Hand them over."

"...Yes, sir."

Only after the order was given did the guards unbuckle their scabbards. Once the steel was cataloged and stored, the clerk bowed respectfully.

"Right this way, please."

The interior of the annex had undergone some cosmetic effort to project elegance, but in Baster's eyes, it was thoroughly pathetic. Reflecting its origins as an exchange for drifters, general attendees and highborn guests filed through the exact same entrance corridors. The so-called 'VIP gallery' was merely a mezzanine of crude wooden benches outfitted with stiff velvet cushions.

Worse still, there were no private partitions or reinforced canopies to shield guests from foreign eyes, let alone iron grates separating highborn representatives from the lower floor. If an assassin among the commoners harbored malicious intent, the venue offered zero structural defense.

Crossing his arms, Baster made no attempt to conceal his disdain. By contrast, envoys from rival houses wore thin, mocking smirks. Had the roles been reversed, Baster would have indulged in the same smug amusement; after all, they stood on the verge of acquiring their rival's prized foundational art for a pittance.

Hmph.

If these spectators had not been present, Baster would have mobilized the private army to tear this wretched hall down to its foundations.

"Thank you for your patient wait, ladies and gentlemen! The auction shall now commence!"

The proceedings unrolled as miserably as anticipated. The preliminary lots were coarse, insignificant dungeon dregs, yet the mercenaries on the floor threw themselves into bidding wars over the scrap.

There is no conceivable way trash like this breached our family's vault.

The display only cemented Baster's conviction that an organized rival power orchestrated this sabotage. Unable to endure the dreary proceedings, Baster leaned back against the hard wooden bench.

"Wake me when the Drake Breath appears."

"Understood, sir."

Having sacrificed sleep for days, Baster drifted off into a light doze. When he opened his eyes once more, the hall was abuzz—the main event had finally arrived. Throughout the gallery, representatives sat upright in rapt attention.

"I have overseen countless auctions on behalf of this guild, but never in my years have I presented an item of such monumental renown! Indeed, this may well be the first and last time such a treasure graces this podium!"

Get on with it, you blabbering fool! Baster seethed silently.

"One of the Three Great Breathing Arts of the illustrious Drake Family—the Drake Breath! Bidding commences at five hundred gold coins, advancing in increments of one hundred gold!"

The mercenaries on the floor went quiet, cowed by the staggering baseline, but the faction envoys surged into a cutthroat bidding frenzy.

"One thousand gold!"

"Eleven hundred gold!"

The numbers escalated aggressively. Baster, who had briefly toyed with reclaiming the manual through a nominal bid, abandoned the notion instantly.

"Two thousand gold! We have two thousand on the floor!"

"Twenty-one hundred."

...We proceed with the primary ambush as planned, Baster concluded.

"Thirty-eight hundred gold! Do I hear thirty-nine? Thirty-eight hundred once, thirty-eight hundred twice, thirty-eight—"

"Thirty-nine hundred over here!"

"Thirty-nine hundred gold acknowledged!"

Several more bids exchanged in rapid succession.

"Forty-one hundred gold."

"Forty-one hundred gold to the gentleman in the rear!"

The bid came from an unidentifiable figure shrouded beneath a deep traveler's cowl. Baster squinted across the gloom, but the heavy fabric swallowed the man's features. The knight stationed beside Baster shook his head in quiet defeat.

"He bears no identifying house sigils, sir. He appears to be acting as an independent."

"An independent capable of producing four thousand one hundred gold on a whim? It is far more plausible he was instructed to disguise himself as a lone buyer."

It mattered little either way. They would drag him into an interrogation cellar regardless, and the branding irons would loosen his tongue soon enough.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

"Sold for four thousand one hundred gold! Our congratulations to the buyer!"

With the climactic sale of the Drake Breath concluded, the auction ground to an immediate close. Baster rose and made for the exits, the envoys of other factions trickling out behind him. The moment he settled into his carriage, the transceiver artifact against his ear vibrated with urgent transmissions.

—The buyer has just exited through the southern vestibule. We are shadowing him and will subdue him at an optimal juncture.

—Seller's position confirmed. He has cleared the guild hall and is on the move. Staging intercept teams along his route now.

"Do not lose them," Baster ordered in a cold whisper. "Failure is not an option."

—Yes, sir!

Having tucked the staggering proceeds from the Drake Breath into his Sub-space Pouch, Bennett stepped out into the crisp air beyond the guild annex.

Sure enough.

Just as he had anticipated, the shadows were already stirring behind him. Several men in nondescript civilian clothes followed at an orchestrated distance, putting on an unconvincing display of drunken stumbling. Yet their disciplined spacing and shifting eye lines could not slip past Bennett's trained perception. Having survived countless ambushes and tailing operations during his decade as a mercenary, unmasking their coordination was child's play.

Time to wrap this up.

The Drake Family's net was tightening around him.

The faint friction of boot soles scraping across cobblestone drew near with uncanny clarity.

Bennett casually slid his hand beneath the folds of his coat. When he turned and withdrew his arm, a well-worn slingshot rested securely in his grip.

Given his preferences, he would have favored his custom Dwarven repeating crossbow, but drawing that weapon here carried too great a risk of exposing his identity; a mechanized repeating crossbow was simply too distinct. A slingshot, however, was an entirely different story. While less widespread than hunting bows or light crossbows, it was nonetheless an ordinary sidearm among wandering sellswords, commonly fielded as an opening volley weapon or alongside daggers and maces.

It had been quite some time since he had relied on this piece.

It was an old companion from his early years in the mercenary trade—a keepsake bequeathed by a veteran mentor named Jackson after Bennett had pulled him from the jaws of death. Jackson had later perished on a contract with no surviving kin, leaving the weapon naturally in Bennett's care.

Fashioned from supple, high-tension troll sinew and the carved femur of an ogre, it was an exceptional custom implement. Bennett slipped a dense, machined iron pellet into the thick leather pouch. The tactile familiarity of the worn leather against his calloused fingertips stirred dormant reflexes.

He drew the band backward. Without demanding undue exertion, the troll sinew stretched fluidly, humming with stored kinetic violence. Sighting down the alley took less than a heartbeat.

—Don't calculate with your head. Your instincts are sharp.

Recalling Jackson's gruff counsel, Bennett locked his sights onto the foremost pursuer closing the gap.

Thwack!

The aerodynamically tapered iron slug ripped through the air with a vicious whistle, boring cleanly through the bridge of the lead tracker's nose.

"Guh...!"

Before the trailing operatives could even register the collapse of their point man, Bennett was already seating a second pellet into the leather cradle.

Thud. Crack-thud.

A relentless rhythm of iron projectiles tore through the gloom, dropping the pursuers into the dirt one after another.