A Matter of Discipline

Following the pickpocket, Bennett found himself at the ragged fringes of the slums. The sprawl had metastasized since his last visit, its chaotic border pushed farther outward into the wasteland. Following the girl's trail, he finally halted before a building that looked remarkably like a small manor—not a genuine aristocratic estate, of course, but an imposing, weathered structure that stood out starkly against the surrounding squalor.

As he moved to slip inside behind the girl, Bennett checked his stride. Directly beneath the half-open door, strung taut at ankle height, was a primitive tripwire. Tripping it would release a loaded crossbow bolted to the adjoining wall while simultaneously yanking a brass bell overhead. Though concealed beneath a thick tangle of weeds, it had not escaped Bennett’s trained eye. A brief scan revealed several more trip hazards along the approach to the house—none of them lethal, but all meticulously arranged to expose an intruder.

It was an oddly familiar setup, and the reason became clear the moment he looked past the threshold. Standing at the girl’s destination was a face he recognized.

"Someone you know?" the girl asked, clutching her stolen prize.

"Used to..." The man offered an easy grin and nodded. "He's the man I used to chase after. My mentor, in a way."

"Long time no see, Charlie."

"Bennett-nim! It really is you. I never imagined I'd run into you here in Dungeon City."

Bennett felt much the same. The Charlie standing before him was considerably more refined than the boy he remembered. Back when they had first crossed paths, Charlie had been little more than a greenhorn meat shield, but now he carried himself with the steady, quiet confidence of an experienced mercenary. The raw naivety was entirely gone, replaced by the weathered edge of a veteran who had survived his share of blood and mud.

"Have you been keeping well, Bennett-nim—?"

"Before that." Bennett raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Betty’s eyes widened in sudden terror. Before she could even register his movement, Bennett’s silhouette blurred, and his hand clamped around her right wrist like an iron vise.

"W-Wait!"

Panicking, Betty tried to wrench her arm free, but—

Crack.

Before she could muster any resistance, her wrist snapped cleanly in his grip.

"Guh...!"

Even through the blinding burst of agony, Betty instinctively reached with her free hand to draw a concealed dagger from her waist. But the moment she raised it, she froze stiff. The twin-track steel muzzle of the Shooting Star was pressed flush against her forehead.

"Swing that," Bennett said.

"...!"

"And you die."

His eyes were completely devoid of warmth or hesitation. She had deliberately styled her hair and clothes to look younger, weaponizing childish innocence to catch her marks off guard, but one look into those dark, pitiless irises shattered the illusion. It did not matter whether she was truly an adolescent or a hardened thief. Bennett Collins was a man who would pull the trigger without blinking.

Biting her lip until blood nearly welled, Betty slowly unclenched her fingers. The dagger slipped from her grasp and hit the floorboards with a dull clatter. Bennett casually kicked the blade across the room, released her limp, broken wrist, and turned his attention back to Charlie.

"Bennett-nim," Charlie began, his voice carefully neutral as he glanced at the girl, "are you diving into the dungeon these days?"

"Something like that."

"Incredible." Whistling softly in admiration, Charlie gestured toward an inner table. "Please, have a seat. What kind of tea can I get you?"

"I'll handle the drinks."

Bennett pulled a stainless-steel thermos from his coat and poured a steaming, fragrant brew into the cups Charlie set down. It was Maxim coffee—a packaged specialty from the dungeon world that Erika had carefully brewed and packed for him before departure.

"What is this...?" Charlie asked, leaning over the cup.

"A beverage salvaged from the dungeon world. Roughly equivalent to our tea."

"Fascinating." Charlie studied the distinctive caramel hue and rich aroma before gingerly taking a sip. His eyes immediately went wide. "Whoa... I've never tasted anything like this."

"Not bad, is it?"

"Bad? It's incredible!"

"Naturally," Bennett replied with a faint smirk. "It's a luxury drink savored by their nobility."

"Cough! It's that expensive?!"

Sipping their coffee, Bennett listened as Charlie briefly recounted what had transpired since their parting.

"I fell asleep exhausted like always, but when I finally opened my eyes, the whole battle was over. At first I was thrilled, naturally. But then I started worrying about you, Bennett-nim, and went scrambling to find you... only to discover you'd already vanished."

"I had urgent business to attend to."

"Just how urgent was it that you couldn't even say goodbye? I took it hard enough, but the guys who practically worshipped you went completely berserk. Did you know they ended up forming their own mercenary band?"

Bennett paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. He had heard rumors that 'Bennett's Children'—the rookies who claimed to be his disciples—were actively hunting for his whereabouts, but he hadn't known they had formally established an outfit.

"A mercenary band?"

"You really didn't know? They call themselves the Blade Mercenary Corps. Their name has been popping up quite a bit lately."

Bennett tilted his head in thought. The Blade Mercenary Corps... Now that Charlie mentioned it, the name sounded vaguely familiar. For the rumor to have reached his ears in passing meant they had already grown far beyond a ragtag bunch of amateurs.

"And how did you end up here?"

"Well, trying to carve out a living brought me to the city. I ran into Betty after arriving, along with a few other strays."

"...Building your own syndicate, are you?"

"Honestly, it's less about building a power base and more about sticking with people fate threw in my path. Just like how I ran into you back when I was a clueless rookie." Charlie shrugged, taking another sip. "As for what comes next... I'm thinking of training a few dependable hands, just like you did for me. Having reliable people at your back is never a bad thing in this line of work. I plan to keep taking mercenary contracts, too. Since coming to Dungeon City, I've noticed a surprisingly high demand for fighters who don't actually enter the dungeons."

Bennett gave a slow nod. "Because violent clashes out here are a daily occurrence."

"That's exactly what the Guild branch told me. Ah, speaking of which, did you hear? The branch master here used to be our former commanding officer back then... but word is, he was assassinated."

Bennett’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. "Assassinated? When?"

"About three days ago, from what I gathered."

Bennett understood immediately. It was retribution from the Drake Family.

"At any rate..." Finishing his coffee, Bennett rose from his chair. "I'll be seeing you around."

"Haha, it was truly an honor catching up with you, Bennett-nim. Travel safely!"

The moment the door clicked shut behind Bennett, the warm, deference-laden smile vanished from Charlie's face. He turned toward Betty. Her features were twisted in impotent fury, humiliation burning across her face after being dismantled without mounting a shred of resistance.

"You holding up?"

"...It hurts."

Charlie took her injured hand and inspected the fracture with practiced detachment. "At least it's a clean break. If he'd crushed the joint into splinters, you'd be a cripple for life."

Betty flinched, but the venom in her scowl didn't abate.

"Don't even think about getting revenge," Charlie warned coldly.

"What? But he broke my wrist without even—!"

Before she could finish, Charlie’s hand shot out, his fingers locking onto her jaw with bruising force as he pulled her face level with his.

"If I hadn't been standing in this room, you'd be a corpse right now."

"...!"

"And if luck hadn't been on our side, he would've put a bolt through my skull too."

"I... I understand..."

Betty lowered her gaze in chastened submission, but Charlie didn't release his grip.

"Burn this into your mind. That man never leaves an enemy alive. He's survived in this meat grinder for ten straight years living by that rule, and the fact that he's still walking proves how lethal he is. Unless you have a death wish, don't ever make an enemy out of Bennett Collins."

"...Yes, sir."

"Man, oh man..."

"What?"

"You really have a knack for dragging back the strangest treasures."

Balduin marveled as he inspected the salvage Bennett had spread across the reinforced workbench.

"A quadrupedal combat automaton—damaged, sure, but fully functional. A mounted heavy machine gun with five rounds of 7.62mm caliber ammunition, a 9mm Glock magazine with two live rounds... You're planning to bleed our dwarven treasuries dry again, aren't you?"

"Does that bother you?"

"Bother me? Bah!" Balduin snorted, waving a soot-stained hand dismissively. "It's not my gold, is it? Take every copper they've got, lad!"

With the inspection concluded, Bennett laid out his next objective.

"You're looking to establish a permanent hideout?" Balduin stroked his braided beard.

"I know the Dwarf Kingdom holds several prime real estate deeds within Dungeon City."

"Well, aye, they certainly do. Are you in a desperate hurry?"

Bennett considered it for a second, then shook his head. While securing a base quickly was ideal, he had no intention of rushing and weakening his bargaining position.

"Understood," Balduin grunted. "I'll make inquiries."

"Will that head steward come to negotiate again?"

"Who knows? I'll have to send word upstairs first—"

"There is no need for that."

Bennett and Balduin turned toward the doorway in unison.

A dwarven gentleman stepped into the workshop, closing the heavy iron-banded door behind him. Offering a crisp nod of respect to Balduin, he turned toward Bennett with a calculated, diplomatic smile—the kind worn by men who rarely smiled out of genuine emotion.

"And who might you be?" Bennett asked.

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

"Oldrock, Dwarf Intelligence Bureau. You must be Mr. Bennett Collins."

"Hold on a blasted minute!" Realization struck Balduin like a hammer blow, and the smith glared daggers at the newcomer. "You bastards were wiretapping my private workshop?! Who gave you permission to pull that filth under my roof?!"

"It was all conducted in the name of the Dwarf Kingdom's prosperity, Master Balduin."

"Prosperity my hairy arse! That's an entirely separate matter! How did you even manage it? I combed through this place and trashed every single listening device you lot planted!"

"You proved surprisingly adept at rooting them out, so we simply multiplied the numbers tenfold. You caught quite a few, but naturally, a few slipped your notice."

Balduin’s face flushed crimson with fury, but Oldrock paid him no further heed. His sharp, appraisal-laden eyes swept over the military haul resting on the workbenches.

"An intact, functional combat robot, a mounted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠machine gun, and live modern ammunition. You certainly reaped a bountiful harvest from this expedition, Mr. Collins. Though it appears you missed out on the most prized asset."

Oldrock was undoubtedly referring to the Superpower Development Drug, but Bennett merely cocked his head in feigned ignorance. He trusted Balduin, but he did not extend that trust to the dwarven government as a whole. There was no tactical benefit in disclosing such sensitive intelligence.

"The most prized asset?"

"Likely claimed by the elves or the Drake Family," Oldrock replied smoothly, waving it off. "No matter. That is not why I am here. I overheard that you require a secure base of operations."

"I do."

"If you are amenable, allow me to resolve that dilemma on your behalf. This will not be deducted from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠purchase price of your salvage. We will pay for the hardware in full... Consider the estate a modest token of our goodwill."

"A token of goodwill?" Bennett asked evenly. He decided to hear the dwarf out, curious as to why the intelligence bureau was suddenly rolling out the red carpet.

"Within the inner city walls, situated not far from the Central District, sits a vacant manor. It is not excessively lavish, but the grounds are expansive, featuring several detached martial training arenas. It offers more than enough space to serve as headquarters for an elite vanguard party or an aspiring clan."

Oldrock produced an ornate brass key and held it out.

"With this key, the property is immediately yours to occupy. It is already furnished with high-grade fixtures and essential facilities. If you desire it, I will transfer ownership into your hands right now."

"...I wonder what your true angle is," Bennett murmured.

"As I stated, it is a gesture of goodwill. A gift to cultivate a close, enduring partnership between yourself and the Dwarf Kingdom."

Bennett stared into Oldrock’s unblinking eyes for several beats before reaching out and taking the key.

"As for the appraisal on your salvaged weaponry..."

Oldrock quoted a handsome figure, and Bennett nodded after a brief mental tally.

"Agreed."

"Splendid. We will deliver the payment as soon as the funds are compiled. I know you prefer hard currency, but given the substantial sum, we will need to balance the coinage with standardized gold and silver bullion."

"That is acceptable."

"Then our business is concluded."

Oldrock extended a hand, and Bennett clasped it firmly.

Once Bennett departed the forge, Balduin turned an intensely suspicious glare upon Oldrock.

"What's your game, Oldrock?"

"Game? Whatever do you mean?"

"I know your type inside and out. You wouldn't hand over a cup of stale water without expecting a river in return."

"I assure you," Oldrock said, offering a nonchalant shrug, "it was an entirely genuine gesture of favor."

"Pah! Don't feed me that dung."

"I understand your skepticism, Master Balduin. However, every move I make is calculated for the prosperity of our realm. You know better than anyone how much capital and logistical support the Dwarf Kingdom pours into securing modern relics from the dungeon world."

"Aye, I do."

While the Dwarf Kingdom operated its own state-sanctioned expeditionary teams, their numbers were far fewer than those deployed by rival factions. Consequently, the kingdom routinely subsidized numerous high-potential scavenging teams and mercenary clans.

"Yet exceedingly few produce meaningful returns," Oldrock continued. "We select them with scrutiny, so recovering our initial investment is rarely an issue... but those who bring back paradigm-shifting breakthroughs are vanishingly rare."

"So you're saying Bennett is different?"

"Different? He is exceptional." Oldrock held up a gloved hand, ticking off fingers. "Beginning with that pristine Glock, and now a quadrupedal combat drone representing the pinnacle of the dungeon world's engineering. It may take decades to reverse-engineer and replicate such a machine within our own foundries, but why would we ever alienate an angler who consistently hooks legendary leviathans?"

"...Hmph. When I told you lot to treat him well months ago, you didn't give him a second glance." Balduin grumbled, though a proud smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. Nothing pleased him quite like seeing his comrade recognized for his sheer competence.

"We have tracked Mr. Collins's combat prowess ever since he pulled you from death's door," Oldrock murmured, his tone turning solemn. "Yet his recent growth defies our historical archives entirely. He has ascended to a tier far beyond our earlier projections. That is precisely why I extended this favor today. A man of Bennett Collins's caliber does not forget a debt of honor."

In the pitch-black depths of an underground chamber elsewhere in the city, an occult ritual whispered into the dark.

"Dharma Ahkhar... O true and everlasting God. Turn not Thy gaze from Thine humble servants..."

The praying woman shuddered violently. Before her, a crude stone idol enshrining a fragment of Ra'al’s divine flesh began to radiate an unholy crimson luminescence.

It was not merely illuminating the shadows.

An overwhelming, suffocating majesty spilled from the fragment—a crushing aura that defied all mortal defiance.

The woman had witnessed this divine manifestation once before, during her tutelage beneath the high priest Umar. If her memory served, this terrifying pressure signaled one thing: Lord Ra'al was reaching across the threshold to manifest his divine consciousness into the world.

Throwing herself prostrate against the cold flagstones, she pressed her forehead to the stone in trembling veneration.

"Dharma Ahkhar!"

She felt it pressing against her very soul—an immense, omnipotent entity looming a mere foot before her. Though her face was plastered to the floor, terrifying visions of Ra'al's divine visage danced behind her eyelids.

The voice that echoed inside her mind was jagged and halting, the toll of his incomplete descent into this reality, yet every syllable carried the weight of absolute authority.

"S-Speak, my Lord! Thy servant listens!"

The woman swallowed hard. She was acutely aware of what had transpired. The primary sect based in Dungeon City had been utterly eradicated; High Priest Umar and every single disciple had been slaughtered down to the last man. Her clandestine cell was all that remained of Ra'al's dominion in this city.

Clink.

A sharp metallic sound rang out as an object materialized from empty air and struck the stone floor.

Startled, the woman carefully lifted her head. Resting before her was a curved, semi-circular blade that gleamed with an eerie crystalline luster. Its jagged edges and irregular contour showed it had been violently cleaved from a larger weapon, yet its dreadful origin was unmistakable: it was a broken tooth from the blasphemous chainblade that had torn through her god's earthly avatar.

Her gaze zeroed in on the tip. A dark, dried smear stained the edge.

For a fleeting second, she sensed an undercurrent of exhaustion in the deity’s voice. Shaking off the blasphemous thought, she pressed her forehead ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back to the ground. "I-I see it, my Lord!"

She recalled the recent rumors sweeping through the underworld. Foreigners from distant continents were flocking to Dungeon City in droves, among them the sinister shamans of the Oscar Continent—sorcerers whose dark jūsul rituals utilized fresh blood to weave inescapable curses.

The woman’s eyes widened at the terrifying decree. To host the living flesh of Ra'al meant having one's consciousness systematically eroded until nothing remained but an agonizing, hollow puppet.

"It shall be done, Lord Ra'al!"

The crimson glow receded, leaving behind a strict temporal boundary that echoed in her mind: six days.

Having lived within Dungeon City her entire life, she understood the significance instantly. She had to corner and neutralize Bennett Collins before the portal gates reopened and swallowed him once more. Both the hunt and the ritual had begun.