Amon's Style: Overwhelm with Specs
Amon the cyberpunk mercenary fundamentally preferred to crush his enemies with overwhelming specs. Not even allowing for the slightest mishap—that was the firepower and power he favored. That was Amon's preferred playstyle. Because of this, he always prepared an escape route in case his specs fell short. Conversely, if his specs were sufficient, Amon never shied away from a fight that came knocking.
From the third-floor window of the building, Amon looked down at the gang members. Humans, when on guard, usually only checked front, back, left, and right—they rarely thought to look up or down. The gang chasing Amon was no different. Unaware that Amon was peering down from right above them, they scanned around restlessly.
Amon mapped out their formation in his mind. Five in total: one swordsman, two gunners, one hacker, one mage. Looking down on them, Amon reminded himself that reality wasn't a game. Thus, these weren't NPCs. He didn't expect them to react with stupid NPC logic. But even in their irregular movements, there were consistent patterns. Amon quietly waited for his moment.
When the gang members' gazes briefly shifted forward, Amon dropped behind the rearmost mage. If lethal force had been allowed, he would have weighted his fall and slit the man's throat—but killing was off-limits, so instead, he kicked the mage's occiput mid-air.
Thwack! One went down unconscious with the sound. The noise made the others whip around toward Amon, but he was already holding the fainted mage.
"???"
While the gang members were stunned, Amon hurled the unconscious mage at one of the gunners. Then he drew Kashi's borrowed pistol and unloaded at the swordsman's lower body.
Bang bang bang! One of the three shots hit the knee. As the swordsman crumpled, Amon thrust the sheathed sword into his solar plexus without drawing it. Even a scabbard could kill if mishandled, but since the guy carried a sword in the Saepung world, Amon trusted his durability.
As Amon expected, the swordsman just rolled his eyes back and passed out. With the swordsman neutralized, Amon yanked the blade free and crouched low. A bullet whizzed past where his head had been. He spun immediately, spraying pistol fire while reverse-gripping the sword in his other hand and charging the gunner.
When he emptied the magazine, he covered his face with his arm and kept running. Bullets hammered his body but failed to pierce his clothes. Enduring the sharp pain, Amon closed in and stabbed the sword into the gunner's instep.
"Aaaagh!!"
He elbowed the screaming gang member's lower jaw to knock him out, then glanced at the one who'd caught the mage. By the time that guy set his comrade down, Amon had already handled two more. Before he could draw his gun again, Amon's thrown sword pierced his knee.
"Gaaah!!"
The gang member collapsed. Only the hacker remained. Amon shrugged and eyed him.
The hacker frantically tried something on Amon, but it had no effect. Of course not—Amon's body had no cyberware. Doubting that pure human flesh could do this, the hacker kept trying. But Amon reached him without the man achieving anything.
Amon placed a hand on the bald hacker's shoulder.
"Shall we have a little chat?"
All the hacker could do was nod.
The talk with the gang wrapped up smoothly. Using the fact that Amon could have killed them but chose not to as proof, they cleared up the misunderstanding. The hacker relayed the truth to his boss; Amon did the same with the broker. That set up a meeting.
"We'll handle the details between me and their boss."
The broker spoke from his creaky wheelchair. The young man Amon remembered from fifty years ago had become a seasoned businessman.
Who could've guessed that punk kid would turn out like this?
The son, once set on gang life over mercenary work and breaking his father's heart, had straightened up after the old man's death and taken over the business. Those connections didn't vanish, so he resolved this gang issue too. Broken bones and pierced limbs were no big deal—Amon's actions were justified self-defense, and they were still breathing.
Once resolved, the broker praised Amon endlessly.
"As expected of a natural talent! A kid with this much business sense is a first in fifty years!"
Had Amon killed anyone, things would've gotten messy—but his excellent handling prevented escalation. The broker already disliked "kids these days," but he saw Amon as the real deal, the only one acting with proper roots.
Seizing the chance, he prepared some gifts for Amon.
"This is...?"
"Commissions. I hand-picked 'em myself, so you'll hit silver rank in no time clearing them."
Amon gratefully accepted. Broker-vetted jobs carried deep meaning. This world had no official quest ranks. Mercenary ranks—bronze, silver, gold, platinum—were just credit ratings, reflecting success rates, not raw strength or experience.
Requests worked like this: Someone posted at a brokerage; a broker picked a merc. Merc safety? Ignored. Brokers judged feasibility; mercs judged survival. Ranks were like bank scores—even platinum mercs died without self-awareness.
Pick a good broker, and survival skyrockets exponentially.
Mercs died from recklessness, sure—but far more from shady brokers withholding info, padding stats, or even baiting them into traps for organ trafficking. Finding a reliable broker was a merc's true skill measure.
In this industry, the broker's offer was a godsend. "Hand-picking" meant special care, prioritizing the merc's convenience.
Plus, the broker's rep was solid. In part 3, he'd just idolized gangs and pissed off his dad—but his skills and loyalty were legit. He'd assign Amon safe, suitable jobs.
Amon accepted fully.
"I'll strive to be your ace merc, sir."
"Heh, big dreams. You know who my ace is? Planning to catch up?"
"Anyone but the Mercenary King—I can catch 'em."
"Hah! What a gem."
The broker boomed with laughter and handed over pay—the fee the dead merc would've gotten. Amon pocketed it and left the office.
Descending to the lobby-bar, he spotted Kashi waving cheerfully from a corner booth. Amon sat opposite.
"How'd it go?"
He smiled as always.
"Case closed. They told me to ditch errands and take real commissions now."
Kashi clapped like it was her win.
Then realization hit; she eyed him slyly.
"Oh, right."
"Something up?"
"Who's gonna teach me then?"
"Learn on errands."
"By myself?"
"Errands are solo usually."
"After today, you say that!?"
Amon started to argue but held back. Strictly, today was exceptional. He'd never faced real danger before. For her first errand, it hit different. She looked scared of solos now.
Amon had a fix.
"Join my commissions as errand support then."
Safe enough. Her face lit up.
"With you, I'm good."
"Once a week, dinner's on you."
"A week? Three days... nah, every three days."
"Looking forward to it, Kashi."
"Same here, Amon."
Months passed since Amon started proper merc work. Thanks to his sharp broker, he hit silver rank fast. His gear evolved too. Once ignoring guns, now a sawed-off shotgun hung at his waist as backup. Sometimes bullets beat blades.
His merc life changed more.
"A~"
"Hey, K."
As Amon prepped today's job, Kashi approached. While he wiped oil from his hands, she pulled out her map and briefed him.
This was the change: He'd planned solo, but somehow Kashi joined as partner. Chatting often during same-rank errands built fondness.
As a teammate, Kashi meshed perfectly. Her basics came from Amon's tips—perfect synergy. Proof: the analog map on the table. Amon went old-school for hack-proof ops; she'd learned and always prepped briefings that way.
They reviewed the job thoroughly, then stood. Amon checked his blade; Kashi her foldable spear, holstering it.
At the alley mouth, they took cover, waiting. Three, two, one—and on Amon's zero signal, they dashed in together.