Truth Holds Even in Cyberpunk
The party's true colors began to show the moment they entered the dungeon and faced their first battle. Their initial foes were a horde of skeletons—roughly the same scale as what Paul's party had encountered before. But this fight was far tougher than the last one.
It wasn't a gear issue. As Amon had assessed at the entrance, the party's equipment was impressively high-end for rookies. Sure, it paled compared to Paul's crew, but against skeletons, it was overkill. No, the users were the problem, making all that gear look worthless.
"Charge!"
The orc tanker didn't even say where—just barreled straight in. In Paul's party, the tanker Tori had focused on clearing shield-bearers to open lanes for the machine gun, breaking their formation. Not this orc.
"Hahaha! That bastard's neck is mine!"
He ignored the shield-bearers and plunged right into the heart of the skeleton mob. Like some movie hero, he started smashing them apart. Thanks to him, the rest of the party was left high and dry, facing the skeleton main force without a tank.
If he'd at least beheaded the commander in one swift stroke, it might've made sense. But no—his reckless charge left him smack in the middle, just farming grunts, while the commander leisurely bombarded the home base from safety.
"Nngh! Get back here!"
Amon shouted, stepping up to shield the backline. He deflected bone spears, kicked away shield-bearers, barely holding the line. As he blocked the skeletons, his eyes rapidly scanned the battlefield.
Full of holes. The mage was chanting with eyes closed, ignoring evasion entirely. The tank was in the thick of it, tanking hits he didn't need to. In this mess, the only reliable ones were the machine gunner and the rifleman.
With the tank in the enemy center, indiscriminate machine-gun fire was out. So Amon called out to the party leader, the rifleman.
"Humf! Can you snipe the commander?!"
He beheaded an approaching skeleton, stomped its spine and skull, and yelled. Thankfully, Humf's reply was affirmative.
"Got it!"
"Then hit it when I signal!"
Amon charged the enemy lines. Dual swords flashing, he overextended into the center, slashing through the shield-bearers between Humf and the commander. He skipped crushing heads and spines, so they started rising again—but Amon reached the commander first.
Leaping high above its head, Amon shouted,
"Now!"
Bang!
A single bullet pierced the skeleton commander's skull. It shattered into fragments, the body staggering. Amon dropped onto the headless corpse, crushing its spine.
Crunch!
With spine and head destroyed, the commander stayed down. Of course, the rest of the skeletons didn't turn to ash just because their leader fell. Skeletons weren't that tough individually; their trick was forming ranks like proper soldiers.
Right after the commander dropped, as Amon intended, the unit began to crumble. But even amid the weakening assault, he didn't forget his frontline duty. He fell back to protect the rear.
Before he could reach them, though, an ominous sound rang out.
"Dodge on your own!"
With the commander gone and the shield wall broken, the heretofore-silent machine gunner opened up.
'Fuck!'
Amon cursed inwardly and hit the deck. Rat-tat-tat! Deafening noise and muzzle flash erupted. Bones shattered en masse right above his head. He endured bone shards raining down like hail for a few seconds. Finally, the gun fell silent.
In the bone-littered corridor, the beastman machine gunner whistled as he wiped sweat from his brow.
"Whew~ Feels good."
Paul. Amon and the orc tanker crawled out from under bone piles, protesting.
"What the hell was that?!"
"You crazy?!"
But the beastman brushed them off.
"Frontliners have tough skin, right? No need to whine over a little something like that."
Veins bulged on the frontliners' foreheads. Before they could snap, though, the skeletons began regenerating.
Watching the scene, Amon recalled Paul's party's method.
Right. Paul always handled cleanup.
Skeletons revive endlessly unless you smash their spines and skulls. With dozens in the horde, you couldn't do it one by one—so cleanup was always Paul's job.
Amon glanced at this party's mage. Just then, the elf girl finished chanting and cast.
"Enchant!"
"??"
Amon doubted his ears as her mana infused his and the others' weapons. Shockingly, it was real. She'd started chanting at battle's start... and cast enchant at cleanup time.
'Fuck, this pointy-eared bitch!'
Amon gaped at her. The mage seemed oblivious to her screw-up, finger to lips with a cutesy hum~? expression that made him want to kill her.
But the scene unfolding explained it all.
"What're you doing, Amon? Move already."
The men, boosted by her enchant, began finishing skeletons one by one. Amon couldn't believe his eyes.
Bang-bang!
The gunners were using mana-infused bullets for cleanup.
"???"
If the frontline orc had bashed them with his mace or the backline stomped them, it'd make sense. Mana conservation aside, it worked. But bullets for cleanup?
'Do these idiots think ammo grows on trees?'
In dungeons, you ration bullets. No resupply inside; run dry, and you're dead weight. Yet they acted clueless.
'Insane...'
By then, Amon had written them off as trash tier. Grumbling inwardly, he joined the cleanup. The mage just flapped her gums, fingers idle.
"Fighting! You got this!"
No pep from the cute elf girl—just skyrocketing blood pressure. The other guys, though? Machine gunner, orc tank, rifleman leader—they hustled for her attention, burning ammo to impress.
Once done...
"The MVP for most skeletons smashed... is Paul!"
The elf picked a top player. Watching explained the party's mess.
'Fuck. She's the queen bee.'
Oblivious, the elf flirted with Amon, aiming to hook him too. It backfired spectacularly. He recoiled, putting distance between them. The others misread it, glaring competitively.
'Fuck...'
Amon sighed, rubbing his face. Meanwhile, the leader rummaged through skeleton loot, pocketing bits before shaking his head and rejoining.
Amon's eyes narrowed. Before he could press, the leader dropped an unforgivable line.
"Break's over—let's move!"
"???"
Question marks exploded over Amon's head. No gun checks? Ammo count? Injury report? Mage mana check? Feedback session? He asked, thinking maybe the leader forgot.
The whole party stared like he was nuts. Leader spoke.
"You check your sword after every fight?"
"Obviously?"
Swords aren't infinitely durable like in games. Check 'em when you can.
But that irked the leader.
"God, what a drag."
"??"
"How else do you hit daily quotas? Fight, check, repeat—no time to grind specs. That's why you can't meet quotas, dummy."
Amon clamped his jaw. He wanted to argue—Paul's superior party debriefed and checked gear post-fight. But they were mid-tier with buffers; this was rookie daily-grind-or-starve.
He got their time-value difference. If they weren't trash.
'Stick with this moron, and I'm 100% dead.'
Three trash already; leader skips checks and feedback, and skims loot. Trash count: four. Decision made.
"I'm out."
Like the last frontline—digested legs by slime, skull cracked by monster, or burst in queen-bee turf war. Future with them? Grim. No attachment anyway. Die wherever.
But the leader wouldn't let him go easy.
"Pay the penalty then."
"No contract, no penalty."
"First time I've seen someone this clueless. Didn't read the rules when joining? It's for runners like you."
Amon tilted his head. No such clause. He double-checked rules, even precedents. No penalty clause.
While pondering if he'd missed it, the leader mistook hesitation for acceptance, palm out.
"4000 dollars."
"Pardon?"
"1000 each from four of us."
The gall left Amon speechless. Did he seriously think a day's pay from a rookie like him was worth 1000? That smug face confirmed it.
'Just a moron bluffing.'
Amon had a comeback.
"Must've misread. Clause says if infighting causes someone to leave, split earnings to that point."
"What do you know—"
Amon pulled up the dense PDF rules on his phone, pointing. There it was.
"That scam doesn't fly in modern society, sir."
Evidence shut the leader up. Amon bid farewell.
One thing first.
"That item in your pocket—my share too, right?"
"Wh-what..."
Thought no one saw? Easy while eyes were on the queen bee. But Amon ignored her. The leader's head-shake on joining? Laughable.
Amon knew his rights. Palm out, like the leader.
Leader sweated, glancing at party. They didn't back him. He eyed Amon—whose other hand rested on his sword hilt.
No escape. Leader groveled, switching to polite speech.
"You're loaded anyway. Let us have it."
"Us?"
"..."
"Us? Just you."
Amon half-drew his sword, cold steel glinting. Leader froze, then yelled his sob story.
"I got a sick sister! Last frontline—legs digested by slime. For her..."
Amon didn't care.
"Shut it and pay my share."
"You'd summon D4C for strangers but haggle over a 10-dollar mana stone?!"
"Burned too much cash then—balance is tight."
Lie. Amon could drop 100 million on strangers—as repayment for rare kindness in this cyberpunk hell. But sucker's treatment? No charity. Tit for tat.
Bickering for 10 bucks? Petty, but principle.
Leader glared, tossed the stone.
"Choke on it, Scrooge."
Amon pocketed it, turned. Out of faint faith, he asked,
"Coming back with me, or you lot pushing on?"
Self-aware, they chose retreat.
"Coward."
Amon shrugged off the leader's hiss, leading out. Bickering followed.
"Cough up what you skimmed."
"First time! Believe me."
"Why should we?"
"For my sister."
Amon smirked. Why indeed.
Queen bee tried mediating to seize control. Amon dragged the trash party out.
Parting words:
"Nice meeting you."
"Piss off, hypocrite. Ptooey."
Last goodwill crushed. Amon wasn't thrilled but chalked it up to stepping in shit. Forget it.
Next day.
"Mr. Amon. Police. Open up?"
"What's this about?"
"Confirming: party leader from yesterday—Humf?"
"Yeah."
"He died last night. Homicide possible; investigating. Can you cooperate?"
Amon sighed deeply at the intercom voice. No clean days ever.