222. By Any Means Necessary.
"What were your impressions of meeting Kang Moo-hyuk?"
"He was pretty much exactly as the intel described. A sly negotiator through and through. He doesn't give away what he wants easily, but he makes his intentions crystal clear. Impossible to read the guy's mind."
Kayren Fisher, the general manager of Gunpowder Guild, began his character assessment of Kang Moo-hyuk before briefing guild master Dwight Hill on the negotiation details.
After hearing everything, Dwight drummed his fingers on the desk, lost in thought for a moment before speaking up.
"I don't like that he dragged Ithaca into it, but we don't have many alternatives, so we'll just grin and bear it. The real issue is something else."
"San Diego?"
"Those guys are self-proclaimed rivals. They're just jealous of the LA guilds—easy to ignore. No, it's the East Coast that's bothering me."
"The East Coast...?"
"New York Rockets and Washington Dynamite."
Fisher grimaced at the mere mention of those two guilds.
With names like something out of an explosion fetish, the pair dominated the monster ranching business for Dragon Horses, the mounts known as dragon horses. As Tier Guilds boasting S-rank hunters, they had even cornered the North American mount market, their influence immense.
If not for hunter laws restricting large guilds' regional expansions, they might have swallowed the entire U.S. Their insatiable greed kept the West Coast on constant alert.
"Word about Rider Wolves has reached our ears, so those East Coast nobles will be making moves soon enough."
"What right do those bastards have to meddle in West Coast business? Last incident, they didn't help—in fact, they just got in the way."
Fisher gnashed his teeth, his face hardening with fury. To an outsider, he looked ready to murder a blood feud enemy. Their relationship had always been rocky, but this time there was extra cause for grudge.
It stemmed from the red gate outbreak that spring.
A mid-tier guild, greedy for a red gate conquest, had underestimated its rank and attempted a secret raid. They fled when it proved too much.
The gate's opening was less an incident and more a catastrophe. LA's top guilds intervened early to avert disaster, but the village near the gate was obliterated.
The state government clamped down on media coverage immediately after containment.
Even in freedom-of-press America, gate-related matters were handled more conservatively than anywhere else.
In an era where national survival defined justice, any deviation by the guilds—tasked with protecting the public—could plant seeds of negativity toward hunters.
Hunters were essential for the nation's existence and social order, and to enforce their duties, they had to remain heroes forever.
Thus, the incident was downgraded from red to yellow gate scale.
The problem was the East Coast guilds' behavior.
Learning of the red gate breach, they anticipated a prolonged crisis.
Instead of aiding, they went shopping first—sweeping up California's hunter gear and consumables.
West Coast guilds were too busy with monster hunts to notice market shifts.
They contained it with minimal damage, but failure would have dealt a heavy blow, courtesy of the East's schemes.
"Since when do those East Coast pricks ask permission to interfere? Tormenting us at every opportunity is their favorite hobby. They're just scared of the West's potential. If we secure mass mounts, surpassing them is only a matter of time."
Dwight was confident in competing with the East's Tier Guilds.
No S-rank, sure, but West Coast gates spawned more frequently and massively. High risk meant high reward—more hunts honed mid-tier hunters beyond Eastern levels.
Solve mobility, and gate clears would accelerate.
Stats showed guilds with mounts cleared up to five times faster than those without. Gunpowder staking everything on Rider Wolves made perfect sense.
Fisher spoke with grim resolve.
"We'll wrap this up fast. Whether we sweet-talk Ithaca or pressure them with other guilds, we'll snag those Rider Wolves no matter what."
"Whatever you need, just say it. I'll mobilize the guild's full resources."
A prominent LA journalist once said:
'To see LA's dark underbelly, head to Skid Row. But I can't guarantee your life.'
Skid Row, a Downtown LA neighborhood, housed one of America's largest homeless populations.
Accounting for half of LAPD crimes, its security spoke for itself.
The city once tried a massive cleanup.
But displacing ten thousand homeless proved impossible. Protests from human rights groups forced retreat from force.
Secret hunter deployment failed too—local hunters rebelled.
They protested aimless eviction, ready to fight for their homes.
A hundred low-rank hunters could be swept aside, but a massacre mid-LA was impossible. Downtown redevelopment fizzled.
Surviving great and small wars, Skid Row slumbered tonight to siren lullabies of cop and ambulance.
Deep in a dark alley, a shuttered warehouse.
Two indistinguishable men—hobos or gangsters?—held a booze bash.
"Glug. Glug. Ahhh. This moonshine tastes like crap. Can't even sell it."
"Who sells booze? We drink it."
"Ain't we brewing to sell all this?"
The exasperated man glanced back. Huge metal vats and bottles brimmed with liquor.
The boozer chuckled at his stunned pal.
"Kidding. How could we drink it all? Brewed 'cause there's buyers. Folks who love the hard stuff. Mix in their recipes, and boom—lights out."
"Hunters, huh. Real smart. Picking banned booze like pros. Tsk tsk."
"Hunters dodge liquor law violations easy."
"Fucking America. Gate disaster taxes jack up booze prices. Rich hunters just sip moonshine."
"But that's our livelihood."
"True. Problem is, it's not for normal folks."
"We ain't normal?"
"We don't plan long-term. Live for now, right?"
Face flushed blood-red, one man stood.
"Where to?"
"Drain the lizard."
"Not here—back alley. It's a business, don't stink it up."
The man staggered behind the illegal distillery warehouse to the sewer grate.
Once sealed, now lidless—metal thieves.
Fumbling his fly, he unleashed.
A wind whooshed from below. Hot like spring breeze from underground, minus the stench. Perfect autumn warmer.
"I'm wasted. Sewer smells like a heater."
Finishing, he looked down zipping up.
"??"
A faint breath from the round hole. Wind at first, but rhythmic repeats proved otherwise.
Sobriety hit like lightning.
Downtown monster-era rule:
'Never step in suspicious spots.'
It'd be your funeral.
America's daily wisdom living with monsters.
"This is bad..."
Too stunned to zip, he backed away.
Mind clear, body lagged. Drunk stagger? He collapsed.
Not booze—he'd lost balance.
"Grraa... Grrk."
Clutching his throat: impaled. Long, thick rod.
Bat? Skewer?
Tracing outward: furry clump at end.
Unable to bow neck, eyes down.
From sewer: massive fur ball, iron skewer tip.
Whoooosh—eerie wind past ear.
The entity fully emerged, unseen.
World blacked out. Breathing, paralyzed. Dragged asleep.
Skid Row fell silent.
Kang Moo-hyuk recalled yesterday's talk with Thomas.
Thomas's mana trait... like a total cheat character?
No better way to put it.
Not original training skill, nor gate-granted—he freely modded acquired skills. Unprecedented.
Even mimicking unlearned skills via mana combos? Beyond imagination.
Teasing that then cutting off? Raising his price tag.
Thomas cited mission duties for no long chat, rescheduling. Kang didn't buy it.
No grand destiny; no mission worth his life.
I get why he needs leverage.
Ithaca Guild.
Skills fed to Thomas: yesterday's New York market price, $770 million. About 900 billion won. One-time-use strategic nuke via unlimited-magic trait—no way they let go easy.
Plus, a trillion-won incurable research burden. Uncertain cure.
Old Kang Moo-hyuk would've backed off, cure or not.
But knowing the trait's potential elevated Thomas from personal to guild recruitment priority.
Bet he dangled it knowing that. 'Trust you' was bullshit. Fun guy.
Kang's interest wasn't the ploy. It was hunter Thomas.
Solve mana addiction—what power then?
Father's treatment needed early intervention. Delay hardened it.
Kang started early but couldn't finish—human limits. Aborted midway.
Life-death cycles yielded half-success: daddy's meds or bust. Resistance doomed him.
But a hunter...? Might endure full procedure.
One path forward.
"Gotta extract Thomas Hunter. By any means necessary."
In his room, pulling a leather bag from luggage, Kang smirked meaningfully.