Crossfire

Bennett quietly read through the luminous message before pushing himself to his feet. At first, he hadn't suspected anything amiss, but when two full days passed without a single sign of her, his instincts warned him that something had gone terribly wrong.

'Happy Money, was it?'

He headed straight for an information broker. Though Whisper had been wiped off the map in the wake of the recent disaster, they were hardly the only brokers operating in a metropolis of this scale. The moment Whisper evaporated, rival agencies had eagerly devoured their abandoned market share.

After navigating a few routine security checks, Bennett gained entrance into Eye of the Sky—the fastest-rising intelligence firm to profit from Whisper's downfall.

"Welcome. What information do you seek?"

"I need everything you have on Happy Money."

Bennett requested the most exhaustive dossier available. The price Eye of the Sky quoted was steep, but he paid without batting an eye.

"If you require a private room to review the materials, we can provide one."

"Much obliged."

Happy Money was a lending syndicate forged by loan sharks who had pooled their capital and influence. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠When debtors defaulted, they relied on brute force and violent extortion just like any back-alley usurer, yet they were surprisingly civil—almost gentlemanly—with clients who made their payments on time.

Given the nature of the trade, one could hardly call their reputation clean, but within the predatory lending racket, they were widely considered the lesser evil. Their headquarters sat just outside the walls of the Dungeon City. The operation required borrowers to undergo preliminary consultations at satellite offices scattered throughout the city before reporting to the headquarters for the actual disbursement of funds.

Having committed every vital detail to memory, Bennett walked out of Eye of the Sky. As he cleared the threshold, his stride hitched for a fraction of a second, but he resumed walking without missing a beat.

'Here it is.'

The neighborhood wasn't an outright slum, but a chilling, uneasy tension hung over the streets. Happy Money occupied a weathered, standalone three-story building.

Having swept the premises once more with his senses, Bennett approached the locked entrance and knocked firmly.

Thump, thump, thump!

"The hell? Who is it?"

The door yanked open, revealing a coarse, scarred face.

"We're closed today, so get the fuck—"

Bennett drove his dagger straight through the man's throat.

Schluck.

"Ghk... cough..."

As the thug swayed, Bennett caught him before he collapsed, slinging an arm casually over the man's shoulder like an old drinking buddy.

"Long time no see, friend! How've you been?"

Speaking in a hearty, easy tone with a completely deadpan expression, Bennett ushered the dying man past the threshold. He kicked the heavy door shut behind him.

Slam!

Securing the latch, Bennett swept his eyes across the interior.

'Hmm.'

At a passing glance, the place appeared ordinary enough, but a practiced eye could spot subtle traces of violence scattered across the lobby. Bennett dragged the freshly dispatched corpse toward a storage closet tucked in the corner.

Bzzzzz—

Flies swarmed inside in unnatural numbers. Slumped on the floor lay a heap of bodies dressed differently from the lookout—the actual employees of Happy Money. Thanks to Eye of the Sky's briefing, Bennett knew the firm's staff wore matching uniforms, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠making them trivial to distinguish.

He tossed the fresh corpse atop the pile. Seeing a face contorted in horrific agony was never a pleasant sight, but it was one Bennett had grown numb to. Barring the rare few who passed away in their sleep, nearly every corpse looked identical in death.

Rifling through the dead lookout's coat, Bennett uncovered an inked mark on his arm. It was a dagger insignia, the standard calling card of underworld syndicates.

"Figures."

A street gang had launched a calculated raid. Happy Money had likely employed a few bruisers of their own, but holding off a coordinated gang attack was beyond them. Stacking the fresh body onto the rotting pile, Bennett slipped deeper into the building without a whisper of sound.

Meanwhile, outside.

Zamora, the woman tasked by Ra'al to subdue Bennett, glanced back toward her retinue.

"How many are inside?"

"A moment."

An old crone whose foreign features and strange robes marked her as a traveler from across the sea produced a glass phial. The second she popped the stopper, the reeking stench of raw blood spilled into the air. Zamora and the gathered devotees grimaced, but the crone flicked the contents skyward with absolute indifference.

The crimson droplets vaporized instantly into a red haze, sending an unnatural ripple outward with the crone at its center.

"Three... no, twenty-three."

"Twenty-three? Are you certain?"

"I am."

Zamora set her jaw. To carry out Lord Ra'al's divine will, she had mobilized every scrap of leverage available to her. From the cultists under her stewardship to their hidden coffers, she had emptied everything to recruit capable hands—including shamans from Oscar Continent. These practitioners of Shamanic Curse could perform miraculous feats through blood, manipulating even stale, corrupted essence. It was thanks to their occult arts that they had tracked Bennett's elusive trail this far.

"Priestess Zamora."

"...Speak."

The man who stepped forward was the deadliest martial combatant among the followers. Hank—a former elite-class knight converted by Lord Ra'al's word, and easily the most formidable warrior present.

"Judging by how he entered just now, the target is clearly allied with the men inside."

"I am well aware. Superfluous obstacles will only jeopardize our mission for Lord Ra'al."

"Then we should wait until he is isolated—"

"However," Zamora raised a hand, cutting him off, "causing an incident in the bustling inner districts is out of the question. You know this."

"...The Holy Alliance is hunting us."

In truth, even reaching this location had been an ordeal. The Holy Alliance had deployed inquisitorial patrols across the city. While the cult had slipped through the cracks using secret channels, the moment they made a loud move, paladins and zealots would swarm them like starving dogs. And the Holy Alliance was only half the problem.

Every stop Bennett had made today was within the inner city walls—patrolled constantly by the municipal guard. Dense crowds would only get in the way, and the slightest delay would bring the city watch and inquisitors down on their heads. To Zamora's mind, striking now was their only viable option.

"What is the combat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠prowess of the men inside?"

"A mixture of mana practitioners and commoners," the crone rasped.

"Their numbers may have swelled, but a warrior of Brother Hank's caliber, alongside our brethren, can easily suppress them."

Hank weighed the risk for a brief moment before exhaling a deep breath and nodding.

"...I shall follow your guidance, Priestess."

"Thank you. I will ensure Lord Ra'al learns of your devotion."

"Dharma Ahkhar."

Hank uttered his prayer in his solemn cadence, and Zamora turned her eyes toward the shamans.

"Give this your utmost effort as well."

"Heheheh, have no fear."

The crone chuckled wetly and crooked a finger. A man and a woman dressed in similar foreign robes stepped forward from behind her.

"These two shall join the vanguard, and I will support you from the rear."

Nodding, Zamora drew the ritual dagger at her hip. Though not a frontline fighter, she carried herself as commander.

"Commence the attack."

Zamora's forces moved in unison. Trailing behind, the crone expended another vial of blood to weave a fresh curse. A translucent, shimmering membrane draped over the Happy Money building—a ward designed to swallow all noise. In that very instant, Ra'al's armed zealots smashed through the front entrance.

Crash!

"Slaughter them all!"

"Glory to Ra'al!"

The syndicate thugs occupying the lobby rushed out to investigate the disturbance, only to be met with naked steel.

"Guh!"

A cultist's scimitar cleaved through a thug's chest, dropping him in his tracks.

"Ambush! We're under attack! Get down here!"

"Who the fuck are these maniacs?!"

With Hank spearheading the charge, the cultists cut through the gangsters with ferocious efficiency. Had it been only the ordinary devotees, the battle might have been evenly contested, but an elite-class knight was an insurmountable wall. For every thug a zealot managed to kill, Hank carved through three or four with ease. On top of that, the crone and her two shamans displayed terrifying lethal arts.

Though the gang held the advantage in raw numbers, the sheer gap in martial prowess erased it completely. For every five or six thugs butchered, barely a single cultist fell.

Sitting on a wooden crate packed with plundered coin on the upper floor, the gang boss screamed in sheer disbelief.

"Fuck! Where the hell did these bastards come from?! Aura?! Why the fuck is an elite knight throwing down in a dump like this?!"

"W-We don't know, boss! They just kicked the doors in and started hacking...!"

"Then talk to them, you idiots! Negotiate!"

"They hit us before we could even open our mouths!"

"Are you talking back to me, you worthless shit?!"

The underling took a heavy fist to the jaw and whimpered, but the boss could only grind his teeth in mounting dread. The moment he heard that someone was projecting blue Aura, he knew one thing with terrifying certainty: they were completely screwed.

"Screw this. You lot, grab your weapons and follow me!"

Gathering every surviving thug, the boss rushed down toward the first floor, only to freeze dead on the landing. A man radiating the undeniable poise of a veteran knight was steadily ascending the stairs.

The moment their gazes locked, an eerie silence settled over the stairwell. It didn't last.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!"

The boss roared, ripping his broadsword free. Hank, who had been poised to strike without hesitation, paused, startled by the sheer, desperate agony in the shout. The zealots behind him recoiled slightly, catching their breath. The boss's scream was packed with something far beyond mere rage—it was drenched in raw grievance and complete bewilderment.

"I know this business is all about backstabbing, but isn't this fucking overkill?! We bought the intel on Happy Money! We planned the entire heist from scratch!"

"...What?"

"Who the hell are you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bastards that you're throwing an elite knight at us over petty cash?! Huh?! If we're gonna die here, at least tell us whose banner is putting us in the dirt!"

Sensing that something was deeply wrong, Hank's brow furrowed.

"Wait. You. Answer me one question."

"What?! What do you want?!"

"What is your connection to Bennett?"

"...Bennett? Who the fuck is Bennett?!"

The boss and Hank stared at each other in utter disbelief. A heartbeat later, both of their faces twisted into masks of realization and fury.

"I will ask once more. Are you truly not—"

"I don't know him! I've never heard of him, you lunatic! We just came here to rob the damn vaults!"

"Then why did Bennett walk through the front door with his arm draped over your man's shoulder...?"

Replaying that earlier exchange in his mind, Hank ground his molars together until they creaked.

"Damn it... we've been played."

"Sir?"

"The bastard sniffed out our tail and deliberately pitted us against each other!"

"Looking for me?"

Both factions whipped their heads around toward the sound of the calm voice. Standing halfway up the landing on the second floor, Bennett offered a casual wave.

"I'm right here."

"...KILL HIM!"

United by a sudden, volcanic fury, the thugs and cultists charged as one toward the staircase. In their frantic rush to reach him first, bodies slammed into each other, creating an instant bottleneck on the narrow steps.

"Out of my way!"

"You get the fuck out of the way!"

Cursing and shoving, the chaotic mob pushed past the choke point and surged up toward the hallway where Bennett had vanished. Rounding the corner, they found him waiting.

The dwarven repeating crossbow, Shooting Star, was already leveled at chest height.

Th-th-th-thump!

Armor-piercing bolts punched mercilessly through the vanguard. The heavy steel points tore through muscle and bone, burst out through the backs of the front ranks, and impaled the men charging behind them. The lead fighters collapsed into a fine mist of blood, and those trailing behind shrieked in horror, diving behind the hallway walls for cover.

...It was a fatal error.

Thud! Crunch! Thwack!

The specialized penetration tips tore through the plaster walls as if they were wet parchment.

"Aargh!"

"Gah! Mercy, spare me—!"

Click.

The drum magazine ran dry in an instant. Even as the hail of bolts ceased, the surviving attackers stood petrified, their minds paralyzed by shock. Their hesitation afforded Bennett all the time he needed to reload.

Clack.

A fresh drum clicked smoothly into place. This time, bolts imbued with incendiary enchantments fed into the chamber. Bennett squeezed the trigger. Torrents of roaring flame erupted from the tips, washing over the frozen mob.

"Aaaaaagh!"

Engulfed in white-hot fire, a gangster screamed and thrashed before collapsing lifeless onto the charred floorboards. Those fortunate enough to avoid the initial blast swallowed dryly, choked by the nauseating stench of burning flesh.

"R-Run! Run for your lives!"

Thugs and cultists alike abandoned their weapons, turning on their heels in a desperate stampede to flee. Bennett pulled the trigger with cold, mechanical rhythm.

Fwhoooosh!

Plumes of brilliant orange flame swallowed the retreating figures one by one, lighting the smoke-filled corridor in a blaze of ash and ruin.