76. Those Who Sell Their Brothers - [Amon! Because of you...!] *Click.*
Amon hung up on the Squinty Priest. A little time had passed since the dungeon evaporation incident. With the training dungeon suddenly gone, the priest—who now had to scramble for a new one—cursed Amon out every single day. But Amon didn't pay it much mind. This time, it wasn't his fault.
'Shouldn't have pushed me into it, then?'
Amon had said no from the start. The moment he heard its power scaled with the purity of one's faith, something felt off. But the Squinty Priest, the assistants, even the students had all nudged him into it. He felt bad for the priest, sure—but in a way, he'd given the green light, so it was his own doing. At least, that's how Amon saw it.
He pushed the vanished dungeon out of his mind. Instead, he decided to savor the brief respite he'd been granted. He'd cleared half a year for security work, but this mess had left his schedule in limbo. Until the priest scouted and settled on a new training spot, he was a free man. Amon resolved to spend that short break catching up with people he hadn't seen in ages.
He drove toward Downtown. It sat midway between the city center and the dungeon district. There, he pulled into a gear shop.
"Long time no see, Paul."
It was the shop run by his first party members. Seeing their faces brought back a flood of memories from that brief adventure. They'd taught him so much on his debut expedition, leaving him with a positive impression of the merc life. Scavengers had nearly wiped them out, though, and the cybernetic replacements had drained their mental stamina dry, forcing retirement. And yet, they'd been the ones to gift him his lifeline: Sky Step. They'd sunk their savings into opening this place.
The Mercenary Department Store. It stocked not just dungeon-specific gear but could order anything a merc might need. Like a mini-department store for mercenaries in his past life.
Having greeted Paul, Amon turned to his old party mate—now Paul's wife—with a nod. "Good to see you too, Tori."
"It's been a while. Three months?"
"Feels like it."
"Three months... So this is your first time since the rebuild?"
"Yeah."
"Aigoo, we've been slacking on our investor. Honey, what're you doing? Show him around!"
Whack!
"Ow. Sorry, misjudged my strength there."
True to her vanguard days, Tori's backhand pat had the ex-mage Paul staggering. There might even be a handprint under his shirt. A bit rough around the edges, but that was their way of showing love.
As Amon watched with a fond smile, Paul approached, rubbing his back with an ice spell.
"So, what's the occasion?"
"No real purpose. Repairs, shopping, catching up."
"Got time today?"
"Till dinner."
"Perfect. I'll give you the tour. First time since the rebuild, right?"
Amon accepted. He'd funded it himself, after all—he wanted to see how it turned out.
"I'll hold down the lobby. Have fun~"
The store's lady boss, Tori, waved them off.
Paul led Amon through the Mercenary Department Store.
"Whoa, this place has gotten huge~"
"Yeah. Thanks to you, touring it is a full-time job now."
Paul joked as he showed him around. The lobby—run by Tori—was the ground floor (0F): daily consumables every merc needed. Preserved rations, tents, meds, flares... Lifesavers for deep-dungeon delves.
As Paul explained, a question popped into Amon's head.
"Whatever happened to those energy bars I recommended?"
Paul gave a wry smile and pointed to a corner. There they were: familiar dried blocks on display. Half the shelf was already cleared out—they were actually selling.
Amon gaped. "People actually buy those?"
Simple reason: his old party's breeder mage had made them. Once he became head researcher at Kashi's corp, his first move was starting a company to mass-produce the things. The team tried to talk him down, but he was dead certain they had commercial potential. As everyone but him predicted, no retailer would touch them.
Still, the breeder wouldn't quit.
—"Retailers aren't mercs! They don't get the market—they can't see the value!"
Irrefutable logic. To break his stubborn streak, Amon had reluctantly pitched them to Paul.
'Once they sit on the shelf unsold, he'll give up.'
That was the plan. But...
"Why are they selling?"
Paul looked just as baffled. "Hordes, grad students, long-haul mercs mostly."
It clicked. Folks who'd traded humanity for efficiency would choke them down no problem. Repeated surgeries wrecked your taste buds anyway—that made it prime chow for them.
'What a mad world.'
Weird to judge by snacks, but this world never spun the way Amon expected.
Paul's tour continued. In the basement firearms section, they chatted briefly with blue-haired Hail. On 2F—combat systems and cyberware parts—they ran into yellow-haired sniper Even for some long-overdue banter.
"Oh? Walking these days?"
"Got a reinforced exoskeleton. Handles the strolling fine."
"Lower half holding up?"
"Every morning, Everest is right there."
Paralyzed from the waist down, but Even was still Even. Lover of guns and powder, never lost his optimism. Instead of despairing over his legs, he celebrated what still worked down there.
Blue-haired Hail tackled from the side. "Doesn't matter. No one's using it."
"What the hell, you prick!?"
Hail flashed his ring finger with a victory grin. Even grabbed his collar and shook. Amon watched their bickering with warm amusement.
After that, Amon and Paul wandered the store. It had everything a merc could want. Crowds of them packed the halls, staff buzzing to serve. Boom times.
Paul's grin never faded as he played guide.
'Seeing this makes the investment worth it.'
Amon had always felt a twinge of guilt toward Paul. Had joining their party drawn the scavengers? Taking essence over hospital bills starved their startup funds? It nagged at him.
But not anymore.
'Guess that squares us on the essence.'
A little late, but they'd repaid each other's debts.
They headed to Paul's office next.
"Let's chat till lunch."
Inside, they caught up freely.
"How'd you handle it back then, Paul?"
"Ugh, no answer for that. Tori laid into me too."
"Tough break."
"You too."
Mid-convo, human trafficking came up.
"Y'know, Amon—run into any traffickers lately?"
"Nah?"
He'd tangled with them twice early on as a rookie, but linking up with Kashi's corp put a stop to that. 'Lately'? No. 'Back then'? Maybe. Just in case, he shared the old tale of the beastkin clan chief hiding in their party.
Paul's face darkened as the story wrapped.
"That was you..."
"Huh? What happened?"
"Gangs were hunting someone recently. Turns out it was you."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Was gonna anyway."
Unlike big-league Amon, Paul rubbed elbows with the underbelly. His merc customers were tight with street life—hookers, gangs. Info flowed his way naturally.
"Trafficking's always been a gang cash cow."
Not hands-on—they outsourced. Scavengers, low-rent crews handled the dirty work. Safer, cheaper labor, fatter margins. Worked like a charm till one day...
Suppliers vanished. Steady organ farmers—scavengers. Merc-selling crews. All radio silent.
No supply chain, no business. Gangs hit the streets investigating. Turns out: total wipeout.
Amon pieced it together.
"No way..."
"They figure we smoked the scavengers. Lucky for us—gangs owe this store big, so no target on our backs. Crews were the issue."
"Ahaha..."
"Yeah. You."
Unlike the scavengers, he'd cleaned up the beastkin crew via the merc office. No surprise they never pinned it on him.
"Still, good news."
"How so?"
"They'll never link it to you. Ever."
Paul was right—gangs couldn't touch Amon anymore. Kashi scrubbed or faked any recent traces of him. If they reached him, it'd be corps, not street trash. And even then? He was untouchable now.
Paul relaxed. "Just keep doing you."
At least his friend and benefactor was safe. He waved it off—forget it, no need to get tangled.
But Paul overlooked three things. One: Amon didn't dodge fights when he had the upper hand. Two: He was bored lately. And three...
"Don't worry, Paul."
Morally, humanely, religiously—Amon never let line-crossers slide.
He gripped Paul's hands tight.
"Those who sell their brothers will burn in hell."
Paul started to say something, then held back. Instead, he thought: Weekend mass, light a candle for the departed.