Rooting Out the Nest
Pedestrians strolling along the street—or rather, assassins masquerading as everyday passersby—lunged toward Bennett in unison.
"W-What is this?!"
"Aaaah!"
Terrified screams erupted as the panicked crowd scattered in chaos. Weaving deftly through the confused, tumbling bystanders, the disguised killers closed the distance with practiced lethality.
Detection Lv.1
As his psionic energy drained at a rapid clip, a flood of spatial awareness poured directly into Bennett's mind. There might have been other ways to describe the sensation, but to Bennett, that was precisely how it felt: an instant cognitive shortcut that bypassed conscious calculation, registering pure comprehension in a heartbeat.
Though assassins and innocent civilians were thoroughly tangled together, Bennett picked out his targets in a fraction of a second. The faint traces of mana they harbored, combined with the sharp, prickling sensation of directed bloodlust, gave them away completely.
Without wasting a breath, Bennett whipped the dagger in his hand forward.
"Ugh!"
Struck square in the chest, a middle-aged woman crumpled to the pavement. To any casual observer, she appeared unarmed and harmless, showing neither aggression nor hostile intent. Yet Bennett's Detection had clearly flagged the lethal malice she harbored. The moment the woman drew her final breath, that malice vanished into thin air.
Bennett drew Shooting Star and pulled the trigger without a moment's hesitation.
Bolts punched cleanly into hearts, lungs, and foreheads. Several approaching killers tumbled forward, skidding across the stones in the exact postures of their charge. The tally of corpses mounted in the blink of an eye. The civilians, who had frozen in place screaming only moments ago, finally broke into a desperate stampede away from the slaughter.
Catching sight of an open field of fire now that the human shield had cleared, several archers and crossbowmen grinned and brought their weapons to bear.
"...?"
"Where did he go?!"
The ranged combatants swung their heads in bewilderment. Concealed by the sea of fleeing bodies for just an instant, Bennett had vanished without a trace.
"Guh-urk!"
A choked cry rang out as their squad commander dropped dead. The snipers turned reflexively, their breath catching in their throats.
The man they were hunting was already standing right behind them.
Th-th-thump!
"Gah!"
"Krk!"
A continuous burst of bolts tore through the archers, dropping them where they stood. Bennett slapped in a fresh magazine and glanced over the roof's edge.
Below, the swordsmen who had been charging his position were now milling about in total disarray, searching frantically for their target.
"Over there!"
The moment an assassin locked eyes with him, Bennett leveled Shooting Star. Thump! A bolt took the man right between the eyes, sending him flailing onto his back. Only then did the rest of the killers realize where he was, their faces twisting with fury.
"Get up to the roof! Kill him!"
Bennett pulled the trigger in steady, rhythmic succession. There was no need to activate skills like Reflexes or Marksman. From his commanding high ground atop the roofline, the assassins scrambling up from the alleyways were nothing more than clay pigeons. Every single quarrel found its mark. When he systematically picked off those attempting to scale the building first, the remaining assailants visibly faltered.
Fine by me.
Hesitating in a life-or-death shootout was proof enough of their mediocrity. Real professionals would have pressed the assault regardless of how many comrades fell around them.
"Air Punch."
A low, muted whisper drifted up. In the past, such a faint incantation might have slipped past him, but Bennett now possessed Detection. Pinpointing the sound instantly, he snapped his head toward the source.
A female mage stood a short distance away. Caught under Bennett's gaze, she flinched for a split second before setting her jaw and swinging her staff with fierce intent.
Wuuung!
Gathering mana coalesced in an instant and surged toward him—an invisible fist forged entirely of magical force. Yet Bennett was already tracking the projectile's trajectory in real time. Pivoting smoothly, he brought Shooting Star around.
Crack!
A bolt laced with psionic energy slammed head-on into the Air Punch, shattering the concussive spell and sending a shockwave rippling through the air.
"W-What?! The spell was—?!"
Her eyes went wide with sheer disbelief as a mere mechanical bolt unraveled her magic. The mage scrambled to chant another spell, but Bennett had already closed the gap, descending like a hawk.
"Protect her!"
Her personal guards hadn't been idling either. Moving before their charge could even bark the command, they sprang forward to intercept. The moment a ranged fighter chose to enter melee range on his own accord, they assumed victory was guaranteed.
Thwack! Crack!
It was a fatal miscalculation.
Wielding his baton, Bennett moved with fluid, dazzling brutality. Every motion was honed by countless life-and-death skirmishes. His striking angles were impossible to predict; strikes materialized from blind spots where weapons should never have been able to reach. To make matters worse, an unnatural aura coated each blow, eroding the mana within their bodies with every clash. Outmatched in raw power, speed, and combat experience, the guards stood no chance.
"Aaargh!"
Psionic Energy: 35 → 37
Psionic Energy: 37 → 39
Having decimated the retinue, Bennett stepped directly in front of the female mage.
"Magic Missile—urgh!"
Instead of running her through, Bennett silenced her with a precise blow to the neck. Hoisting her limp form onto his shoulder, he slipped away into the shadows.
Splash!
A bucket of frigid water hit Demi square in the face, jolting her awake with a gasp.
"Awake?"
She had been outdoors when consciousness slipped away; now, she found herself tied to a chair in a dark, damp room. She struggled to rise, but coarse cords bound her wrists and ankles firmly in place. Belatedly, the reality of her captivity sank in.
"W-Who are you?! What do you think you're doing?!"
A small orange flame flickered to life in the darkness. Squinting, Demi tried to make out the figure across from her, only to freeze. Her intended target, Bennett, stood looking down at her, the dim light casting sharp, ominous contours across his face.
Gulp.
Demi forced her expression into rigid composure. Every ally deployed on the ambush had been mercilessly slaughtered by this man. If he had kept her alive, it could only mean one thing: he wanted information.
"What's your name?"
"...Demi."
"Very well, Demi. Answer my questions honestly, and you might earn yourself a second chance at life. Do you understand?"
"I-I understand."
Bennett nodded, pulling over a wooden chair to sit opposite her.
"Who do you work for?"
"My affiliation is with the [Syndicate]."
"The [Syndicate]?"
"Yeah. We received direct orders from leadership to eliminate you. Someone took out a contract on your head."
Bennett studied her face intently for a moment before slowly shaking his head.
"You're a remarkably skilled liar. You didn't blink, and your expression didn't waver once."
"...It's not a lie! I'm trying to survive here, I'm telling the whole tr—"
"You clearly didn't do your homework," Bennett cut in cleanly. "The [Syndicate] never admits mages into its ranks. It's an outfit exclusively composed of melee combatants—warriors and bladesmen."
"..."
Bennett knew the organization intimately, having accompanied them on missions in the past. Realizing that Demi was not the type to break under polite questioning, he unsheathed his dagger and drove the steel straight into her thigh.
Thunk.
"Nn-gh...!"
Tied to the chair, Demi convulsed, biting her lip hard to suppress the scream. Seeing her endure the puncture wound, Bennett noted that she differed from ordinary mages. Common spellcasters were fragile and unaccustomed to physical trauma; only battle mages who had seen real combat could withstand pain like this.
He pulled the dagger free and poured a splash of healing potion over the puncture.
What followed was methodical repetition. Bennett dragged the blade across or drove it into non-vital areas—limbs, shoulders, flesh—and immediately dosed the wounds with potion to stitch them shut. Demi shuddered violently under the unending torment, yet she stubbornly refused to admit she had lied.
Recognizing that petty flesh wounds would not break her resolve, Bennett escalated to the next phase.
"Ah-hk!"
This time, he targeted her fingernails and toenails. Slipping the thin tip of his dagger beneath the nail beds, he pried them loose before splashing potion over the raw beds. The agony of having the keratin torn out, followed instantly by the searing burn of rapid tissue regeneration, pushed her to the brink. Tears welled in Demi's eyes, but she ducked her head, trying to hide her face. Even after several rounds, she remained obstinate.
"I will ask again. What is your true affiliation?"
"I told you! It's the [Syndicate]!"
"I already explained that they don't take mages."
"You don't know anything! That's just the public cover! There's a separate black-ops unit that handles special assignments!"
There was indeed an elite detachment for sensitive tasks, but that group operated in tight pairs or three-man cells at most—never sprawling ambush squads like the one she had brought.
"Are you going to keep this up?"
"I'm telling you the damn truth!"
Demi screamed with desperate conviction. Anyone else might have wavered, wondering if she was actually telling the truth. Bennett merely stood up and stepped closer.
Instinctively, Demi tried to pull back, but the ropes kept her pinned fast. She attempted to muster her mana to cast a spell—as she had been doing repeatedly in secret—yet for some reason, her magical flow remained entirely blocked. Her eyes widened in panic.
Bennett casually drew his blade across her soaked, clinging shirt, slicing the fabric open.
"W-What are you—?!"
"Stay still."
"Hah?!"
Her thrashing froze instantly. Bennett's bare palm rested flat against the left side of her chest. Though she wore an undergarment, the thin strip of damp cloth provided virtually no barrier. Demi glared at him with furious, humiliated eyes, but Bennett didn't look away. His gaze remained cold, impassive, and direct.
"From this point on, you will answer only with yes or no. Do you belong to the [Syndicate]?"
"Y-Yes!"
Tracking her racing pulse, the twitch of her pupils, her micro-expressions, and reinforcing it all with Detection, Bennett gave a faint nod.
He carried scrolls inscribed with truth-detection spells, but even magic had weaknesses: it could not account for deliberate omissions, and there was always a slight margin for detection error. For that reason, he personally preferred this classic, physical method. Touching the neck or wrist produced similar data, but placing his hand directly over her heart served as an added psychological lever.
"Lie."
"I told you it's the truth!"
"Are you a subordinate of Ra'al, the Corrupted Religious Ruler?"
"No."
Given that she didn't lapse into fanatical convulsions, she was telling the truth on that point. The priest he had encountered previously had thrown a manic tantrum at the mere mention of the name.
"Then are you connected to him?"
Demi shook her head, but her body told a different story.
"So there is a connection. Are you part of an affiliated organization? An armed wing?"
"No!"
"You are."
"Urgh...!"
Bennett paused, considering his next angle.
"Do you know the location of your superior—the one who ordered my assassination?"
"I don't know!"
Contrary to her firm denial, her heart hammered wildly beneath his palm.
"Where is he?"
"I said I don't know!"
Thump-thump, thump-thump. Her heartbeat accelerated even further—an undeniable lie.
Bennett looked down at her and lifted his dagger. Assuming he was about to tear out another nail, Demi braced herself, only to be struck with utter horror at what happened next.
Snip.
Despite being damp, the fabric of her trousers parted smoothly beneath the razor-sharp edge. He peeled the ruined cloth away, exposing her bare thighs and pale skin. Panicking, she clamped her legs tightly together. Having her upper body partially bared had been humiliating enough, but losing her lower garments stripped away every remaining layer of psychological defense, undergarments notwithstanding.
A wave of primal, uncontrollable shame overwhelmed all her professional conditioning.
"You'd better speak."
His eyes swept over her body. There was not a trace of lust in his gaze, but that utter detachment only made him infinitely more terrifying. Bennett was a man who would do whatever was necessary to achieve his objective. As if to prove it, his hand slowly descended toward her lower abdomen. It was an overt threat, and a devastatingly effective one.
Demi squeezed her eyes shut.
"I'll talk! I'll tell you, damn it!"
"How did you know I was coming?"
"He... he said he received a revelation."
"Who did?"
"There's a man who oversees operations in the entire Dungeon City! I don't worship Ra'al or whatever, so I don't know their internal doctrine, but he's the supreme commander in this city!"
Bennett gestured for her to continue.
"I used to be his bodyguard. I know where his hideouts are. He'll definitely relocate once he realizes I haven't returned, but even so, he can only go to one of three places."
Without holding back, Demi spilled the coordinates of all three safehouses in rapid succession.
"Very good."
"Then... please. Just kill me. Don't humiliate me any further."
With an air of resigned defeat, Demi closed her eyes. Bennett slipped his dagger smoothly beneath the curve of her left breast. Meeting no resistance, the blade slid cleanly between her ribs, piercing straight into her heart.
"Hk...!"
Her eyes snapped open. She glared at Bennett through a haze of agony before her chin dropped limp against her collarbone, her dark hair spilling loose over her lifeless shoulder.
Psionic Energy: 39 → 42
I need to move fast.
Knock, knock!
Pacing restlessly across the wooden floorboards, Umar whipped his head toward the entrance.
Knock, knock, knock!
Hurrying to the door, he pressed his ear against the timber and held his breath.
"Dharma Ahkhar."
It was the sacred password known only to those who knelt before Lord Ra'al. Recognizing the familiar voice, Umar quickly pulled the door open. The subordinate priest he had dispatched to assess the ambush slipped inside, breathing heavily.
"What took you so long?!"
"Forgive me. The city guards had cordoned off the entire perimeter."
"The guards? Then... what of the strike team?"
"All of them... are dead."
Umar bit his lip so hard it nearly bled.
"We leave the city. Immediately."
"Understood!"
His heart ached at the thought of abandoning the faithful brethren scattered across the city, but preserving their leadership was paramount. Not only had the infidel Bennett survived and counterattacked, but even the authorities had caught wind of their presence. Until the storm blew over, they had to bury themselves deep in the earth.
Shouldering pre-packed rucksacks, the two men slipped out the back entrance into the winding alleys.
"Once we make it past the checkpoint, we can secure a carriage and clear the city gates without delay."
"Good work."
"Thank—"
The priest leading the way suddenly shuddered, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed face-first onto the cobblestones. Umar froze in terror. A heavy crossbow bolt was buried deep between the dead man's eyes.
"Damn it all!"
Umar spun on his heel to flee, but in that very instant, a searing burst of agony tore through his lower leg.
"Aaaargh!"
Tumbling hard against the pavement, Umar stared in shock at the bolt driven clean through his ankle.
"You cowardly infidel dog! Show yourself!"
There was not a soul in sight along the desolate alleyway, yet Umar knew with absolute certainty that the archer was listening.
"Killing me changes nothing! Lord Ra'al will descend upon this wretched realm in time! When that day comes, no one—not even the damn authorities—will be able to stand before Him!"
"So He's still trapped in the dungeon world. Thanks for the intel."
Umar snapped his head toward the quiet voice, trembling violently as he saw Bennett materialize from the gloom, looking down at him with flat, pitiless eyes.