The One-Gold Technique

The place Violet arrived at was her safehouse—the very same house where she had exchanged compensation with Bennett not long ago, the very place where she had tried to seduce him.

Thud!

Slamming the heavy door shut, she collapsed onto the sofa, gasping for breath. The bastards of House Drake had kept their promise to let her go, but they certainly hadn't released her in one piece. Not that they had actively tortured her after reaching an agreement. They simply hadn't bothered to treat the wounds she sustained while trying to flee before signing their contract.

The emergency potions in her original belongings had been confiscated and never returned, and her rapier had shattered during combat. In the end, Violet had been forced to flee with nothing but her bare life.

'...Still, it could be worse.'

While the other key executives of Whisper had all been wiped out, she had somehow managed to survive. House Drake had signed a magical contract, so they would honor their word for now. She couldn't say what the distant future held, but she could use the time she had bought to lie low and launder her identity. After all, "Violet" wasn't even her real name.

Pop!

Downing a backup potion she retrieved from a loose floorboard, she stared blankly at the ceiling. A sharp, prickling itch crawled across her flesh—the telltale sign that the elixir was stitching her torn muscle together.

Once the lacerations knit closed, all she had to do was grab the sub-space pouch hidden in the corner and slip out of Dungeon City for good. Stashed inside were her personal emergency funds, backup weapons, and every scrap of survival gear she owned.

"Haaah."

Lifting the hem of her shredded shirt, Violet inspected her abdomen. The deep sword slash had stopped bleeding thanks to the potion, and the parted flesh was already adhering as fresh pink tissue sprouted. Carefully examining the surrounding area, she only then realized just how wrecked her clothes were.

In her frantic escape, she hadn't paid attention, but her garments were reduced to utter rags. Trading furious clashes of aura without plate armor had taken its toll: her shirt was torn open across her chest, leaving bare skin visible, and her trousers were ripped clean through at the knees, exposing her thighs.

Reaching into her hidden sub-space pouch, Violet sighed in relief. There was a spare change of clothes inside. Since she was already at it, she pulled out backup gear as well—a fresh sword, leather armor, and standard accessories. It was a nondescript mercenary's kit, the kind of mundane attire worn by thousands who lived by the blade in Dungeon City.

'The underwear is still wearable, at least.'

Tossing back her sweat-dampened purple hair, she stripped off the tattered rags. Her slender yet alluringly curvaceous figure was laid bare in the dim room. Looking down at the swell of her bosom rising neatly above the undergarments, Bennett briefly crossed her mind, but she quickly shook her head to dismiss the idle thought.

Violet was neither foolish nor naive. She knew that any bridge between her and Bennett had been burned to cinders.

Though she had possessed no other choice with a blade at her throat, she understood better than anyone that fear was no excuse. Whatever the reason, she had cooperated with his enemies and helped lure him into an ambush. With House Drake moving in full force, Bennett would surely be captured or killed. It wouldn't affect her either way, but in any case, she would never see him again.

Washing over a fleeting blend of guilt, regret, and relief, Violet turned toward the table. First I have to survive to chase after men or whatever—

"...!"

Reaching for her fresh clothes, she froze stiff.

"Y-You're back?"

Bennett stood casually leaning against the doorframe, having entered without making a single sound. He was drenched in blood from head to toe.

Drip, drip.

Crimson pools rolled down the hem of his long coat and splashed rhythmically against the floorboards. Flustered, Violet barely managed to force her trembling face into a composure.

'H-How did he get out alive?!'

Having clashed with House Drake firsthand, she knew their terrifying might better than anyone. They were monsters who had breached Whisper's headquarters in a single strike, slaughtering the key executives and their leader in minutes. Violet herself hadn't lasted ten exchanges before being subdued. Yet he escaped them? Don't tell me... he didn't wipe them all out, did he?

"I'm... so glad you're in one piece. Do you want to wash up?"

She pointed toward the bathroom, but Bennett's gaze remained fixed on her body. More precisely, his eyes lingered on the fresh wounds carved into her flesh.

Knowing full well what he was examining, Violet feigned ignorance and stepped forward with a soft, inviting smile.

"Or... should we go in together? I could scrub your back for you."

Creeping forward with delicate, swaying steps, Violet suddenly kicked off the floorboards. Shooting forward like an arrow, she flicked her wrist, brandishing the spare sword she had palmed from the table.

"DIE!"

Channeling every drop of aura she could muster, Violet slashed downward with lethal precision. A brilliant azure crescent tore through the air, shearing Bennett's torso clean in two. An unexpected surge of triumph washed over Violet's face.

"I... I survived—"

At that exact moment, Bennett's bifurcated silhouette dissolved into mist. It was an afterimage. Jolted by the shattered illusion, Violet widened her eyes and whipped her head around in frantic alarm.

Yet before her muscles could react, a frigid, razor-sharp edge pierced clean through her spine.

"Urgh!"

A jagged black blade erupted through the center of her chest.

Excruciating agony detonated along her nervous system, and a crushing weight seized her punctured lungs, choking the air from her throat. The mechanical grind of anomalous teeth churning within her chest cavity was horrifyingly vivid. She strained desperately to draw breath, but her airway flooded instantly with thick, bubbling gore.

Violet reached a trembling hand toward the blade, but her strength evaporated, and her fingers dropped limply. Her vision smeared into gray, her knees buckled, and her body collapsed forward. Consciousness plunged into bottomless dark; the world drifted away into absolute silence.

Her lifeless corpse slumped heavily onto the floor.

Thump.

Flicking the crimson sheen from his Chainsword with a snap of his wrist, Bennett stepped over the body and headed for the sub-space pouch. Its dimensional volume wasn't particularly massive, roughly comparable to the basic satchels used by his own party. Inside were spare clothes along with miscellaneous valuables that could easily be converted to hard coin. Dumping out the useless clutter, he pocketed the pouch and slipped out into the shadows of the safehouse.

Returning home, Bennett was, naturally enough, subjected to an immediate interrogation by his little sister. It wasn't that he hadn't tried to conceal his state, but living under the same roof made secrecy nearly impossible—especially when she was standing right behind the front door the moment he turned the handle.

"What on earth have you been doing?!"

"...Ran into some unexpected trouble."

"What kind of trouble leaves you drenched in blood like this?! Did you go fight a whole war?!"

Bennett hesitated for a second, then nodded faintly.

"Something like that."

"What? Really?! Who were you fighting?"

"House Drake."

The scolding sister choked on her words and froze.

"Really? Why them all of a sudden?"

"Well, you see..."

Listening to Bennett's brief rundown of the ambush, Bella's brow knit into a tight knot of worry. Still, the hand she had raised to swat him slowly fell back to her side.

"No, but still..."

"Don't worry. I'm not badly hurt."

"That's not the point!"

"Bella." Bennett crouched slightly, bringing his eyes level with hers. "Whatever terrible things you're imagining, I swear they won't happen. I promise."

"...You really, truly promise?"

Having finally eased Bella's panic, he retreated into the bathroom. The blood of others clinging to his skin and leather washed down the drain in reddish spirals beneath the scalding water. Savoring the sensation of relentless exhaustion leaching out of his muscles, Bennett closed his eyes.

"Phew..."

Stepping out of the steam, he collapsed straight into his bed and fell into an undisturbed slumber.

Waking late the following morning, Bennett prepared to head out once more. Frankly, he wanted nothing more than to lounge at home and recover, but he needed to bleed House Drake's leverage before they could regroup.

Bringing out his disguise kit, he sat before the mirror. Taking his time to craft the weathered, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bearded face of 'Silver Rank Mercenary John,' he packed a transcribed copy of the Drake Family's introductory mana breathing technique, the Drake Breath, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.

"Be careful today!" Bella called out from the kitchen.

"I'll try."

Waving over his shoulder, Bennett made his way straight to the Mercenary Guild.

"Welcome! We are honored to welcome you to the Mercenary Guild..."

Recognizing Bennett's disguised face—or rather, the infamous visage of John—the female receptionist's rehearsed smile froze solid.

"...Or are we?" she muttered under her breath.

"Are you welcoming me or turning me away?"

The receptionist let out an ostentatious sigh, leaning her chin on her palm.

"Considering the storm you stirred up during your last visit, Sir John, it's awkward whether I should welcome you or barricade the entrance. I heard you threw down another bloody brawl right after the auction ended."

"You know about that as well?"

"How could we not?! Explosions and pillars of flame went off practically right on our doorstep! The Cleaners had a hell of a time hauling off all the charred corpses left in the aftermath."

Bennett furrowed his brow.

"Those men belonged to House Drake, and the municipal Cleaners had to dispose of them?"

Standard underworld etiquette dictated that any reputable faction collected and disposed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of its own casualties to preserve dignity and secrecy. Only unaffiliated vagrants or broke, bottom-tier gangs pawned off corpse clearing onto commercial Cleaners.

For a prestigious ruling noble family to abandon the bodies of their own retainers in the street was a humiliation that invited universal contempt. Even Bennett, who was waging a shadow war against them, hadn't anticipated they would act so brazenly dishonorable.

"At any rate, what kind of bomb are you planning to drop on our heads today?" she asked dryly.

"I will speak directly with the Branch Head."

"...I am so glad I never accepted a managerial promotion, truly."

It was a passing quip, yet it underscored that her actual authority within the branch hierarchy was far higher than that of an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ordinary counter clerk.

Stepping out from behind the mahogany counter, she gestured for him to follow. She led him through the familiar winding corridors straight to the reinforced private office at the end of the hall.

Branch Head Dawson narrowed his eyes the moment he saw John enter, but after clicking his tongue in resignation, he gestured toward the plush armchair across his desk.

"Well now, what kind of disaster have you come to unleash upon my desk today?"

Bennett made no effort to correct him. In a sense, he really had come to cause a catastrophe.

"I wish to sell the Drake Breath."

"Are you putting it up for auction again?"

"No. This time, I want to sell it to anyone and everyone who desires it."

"What on earth do you mean by that?" Dawson tilted his head, unable to comprehend the statement at first.

"I mean mass-printing copies and selling them across the counters like standard textbooks. Say, for one gold coin each."

"...You've completely lost your mind." Dawson's jaw dropped as comprehension finally slammed into him. "You're stark raving mad. You want to make House Drake's proprietary mana breathing technique available to the open public?!"

"I am charging a nominal fee of—"

"That is the exact same thing as giving it away for free!"

Dawson squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his thumbs against his temples.

Bennett remained entirely unfazed. He had fully anticipated this exact eruption from the Mercenary Guild.

"Do you have any earthly idea what kind of cataclysmic storm this will unleash?!" Dawson hissed, leaning over the desk. "What happened during the private auction was troublesome enough, but this will make that look like a playful scuffle!"

"I am well aware."

"Haah..." Dawson dragged both hands down his face, groaning under an agonizing headache. "If we do this, House Drake will retaliate with everything they have against the Mercenary Guild. They might actively attempt to eradicate our Dungeon City branch! They were already subtly sabotaging our logistical convoys during the auction, but this would push them into open warfare!"

"Then how about listing it at open auction with a strictly enforced, low price ceiling?"

"Of course not!" Dawson roared, slamming his fist onto the polished wood. "Our guild still bears the full brunt of their wrath either way!"

"Disappointing."

"Wh-What did you say?"

"To think that the continent-spanning Mercenary Guild cowers before something so trivial."

A thick, thrumming blue vein instantly bulged across Dawson's forehead.

"Trivial?! TRIVI-A-A-AL?!"

Bennett blinked, momentarily taken aback. For Dawson, a veteran renowned across the underworld for an unnervingly mild and pragmatic demeanor, to lose his composure to this extent meant this wasn't negotiation posturing—it was genuine, visceral panic.

In tandem with his fury, a heavy wave of mana erupted from Dawson's frame. Fitting for an accomplished Elite Rank master, the fine glassware and brass ornaments in the room rattled violently against their shelves. Not that such an aura display could intimidate Bennett in the slightest.

Glowering furiously across the desk, Dawson finally let out a ragged, trembling exhale and unclenched his white-knuckled fists.

"It is far too dangerous."

"Even if other guilds join in?"

"...Other guilds?"

"There are several other organizations with continental reach operating right here in Dungeon City, are there not? The Adventurer Guild, for example. And furthermore..."

Dawson jerked his chin upward, urging him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to continue.

"You don't need to pay me a single copper of royalty."

"What?"

"On the sole condition that as many people as possible can obtain it, I will accept a flat sum of exactly one gold coin for the original transcript."

Dawson remained silent, but Bennett did not miss the subtle, calculating gleam that flashed in the veteran's eyes.

"If House Drake raises hell, the guilds can simply deflect blame onto one another," Bennett continued smoothly. "The Adventurer Guild points at the Mercenary Guild. The Mercenary Guild points back at the Adventurer Guild. The more neutral factions that participate in the printing, the easier it becomes to disperse accountability until House Drake has no singular target to attack."

"...Hrrrm."

"And if they demand to know who provided the original text, you are entirely free to give them my alias."

After a long, suffocating silence of cold calculation, the branch head slowly raised his head.

"You truly only demand one gold coin?"

"Provided the guild does not price-gouge the common scavengers."

While pocketing thousands of gold was always desirable, Bennett was far more interested in drowning House Drake in absolute humiliation and chaos. There were other avenues, of course, but properly shattering the noble family's generational monopoly required sprawling bureaucratic leviathans like the Mercenary and Adventurer Guilds to serve as the printing presses.

Had Dawson refused, Bennett could have theoretically mass-printed copies himself and dumped them from rooftops... But printing required heavy capital, and scattering them manually demanded immense time and physical labor. Doing it personally was a guaranteed way to attract elite trackers to his doorstep.

"Let us draft the contract," Bennett said.

"A magical contract, I presume? Excellent!"

While a magical oath was not an absolute shield against absolute power, whether one was signed or not fundamentally altered the legal and magical stakes of the deal. Bennett poured meticulous care into drafting the terms, ensuring the guild could never worm their way out of the distribution mandate once the pressure mounted.

Aside from this absolute protective clause, the remainder of the parchment consisted of strict obligations binding the guild's distribution network.

Every line of the document was engineered toward one single outcome: preventing a privileged oligarchy from ever monopolizing the technique again.

"A mutually profitable agreement," Dawson said, extending his hand.

The branch head's expression was an intricate tapestry of predatory excitement and deep, nervous tension. As Bennett took the offered hand, an uncharacteristic smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

He found himself genuinely curious to see what kind of faces the grand elders of House Drake would make once this news hit the streets of Dungeon City.