Even Gold Can't Buy Mercy
Dagon had lost his little sister because the mages and doctors refused to sell him medicine, even though he had the money. Their reason wasn't anything noble. It was the height of a plague outbreak, and they said they'd wait for the price to rise. And rise it did—the mages and doctors made a fortune. So Dagon decided to create a poison that killed people.
People couldn't understand Dagon's choice. A decision born from the rage of losing family couldn't be grasped through reason. Only those who had endured the same agony could comprehend his feelings.
Dagon created all sorts of poisons. He started with simple ones that just killed people outright. Then he learned of something called acid, a liquid that could melt even iron. Dagon began producing various acids. That was the substance now dissolving the assassins' flesh.
Marhal, having dripped a few drops of acid onto each of the five assassins, returned to the first one.
"Mmph...!"
The man's eyes were desperate. He'd no doubt trained as an assassin to endure all kinds of pain, but the agony of your living flesh melting away wasn't something you encountered every day.
"Want to talk?"
The man nodded. Alone, he might have held out longer, but with four comrades beside him? If one cracked first, the rest would follow. It was always better to betray first. No need to hesitate, no reason to.
"Good. Then let's do this. Hugo, bring it over."
"Right here, sir."
Hugo fetched a long tube—the kind used in draw-lottery games to hold thin sticks.
"You know what this is, right?"
The man nodded.
"Ten sticks inside. Numbers one through five, two each. You're number one. Go on, draw."
Marhal circled behind the man and held the tube in front of his bound hands. The man's fingers fumbled, touching the sticks inside. A lottery? Here? His comrades weren't idiots. They'd already reached the same conclusion and were just waiting for their chance to speak.
He had to draw. Had to. If he didn't, he'd die.
His fingers swept through the narrow tube. His wrists were perfectly bound—no movement there. All he had was the sensation in his fingertips.
The man drew out one stick. Marhal held it up to his eyes for confirmation.
"Number three. Bad draw. Number three—got anything to say?"
The third bound man nodded frantically.
"But first, pay the price for the wrong draw."
Marhal dripped a few drops from the leather pouch onto number one's stomach. The man thrashed in agony as his flesh melted and his organs seemed to tear free.
Leaving the convulsing number one, Marhal removed number three's gag.
"W-We’re assassins from the Black Fingers."
"That's enough. I already knew that."
Marhal gagged him again. Number three twisted in indignation. Marhal opened the leather pouch and slowly tilted it over the man's thigh. Number three writhed.
"Feeling wronged?"
"Mmph!"
Number three nodded.
"No need. If one spills everything at once, the others get shortchanged, right? So only one piece of info per turn."
A droplet hit number three's thigh. A scream pierced the gag. The chair rattled and toppled backward. Marhal glanced at Hugo, who righted it.
Marhal turned to number two.
"Your draw?"
Number two just glared at Marhal instead of answering.
"Silence after coming this far. Hope you feel the same next round."
A few drops of liquid. The stench of searing flesh. Then it was number three's turn again.
Poison filled number three's eyes. By the next full round, everyone would have endured that horrific liquid twice—except him. Why suffer torture after talking? And why had that bastard drawn his number?
He wasn't dreaming of escape. No, he had to spread the pain as evenly as possible. That was fair.
Number three drew number one. Number one gave no new info and just tasted the agony of his feet melting. Number one glared at three. Three glared back.
Marhal went to number four. Four drew number two. Two stayed silent. Number five drew number two as well. Number two's eyes turned bloodshot.
Next round, number two drew number one.
* * *
Bayola watched the torture chamber filled with madness. Each time Marhal sprinkled the pouch's contents, a sour stench filled the air. The stone floor was dotted with blood, urine, and chunks of melted flesh. Surprisingly, there wasn't much blood. With her phobia improved, she could handle it now. But crueler than any splatter was Marhal himself.
His torture was vicious. If asked how, it was because he toyed with their psychology. The assassins weren't glaring at Marhal—they glared at each other. The fear and rage that came with the pain were all directed at their fellow assassins. Their desperate draws looked less like self-preservation and more like trying to screw over a comrade.
Information was secondary now. Their goal seemed to be inflicting more suffering on the one who'd caused theirs.
Because the assassins raced to talk, the intel piled up fast: recipes for their poisons and antidotes, Black Finger codes and passwords, even their main base in Kerdesh. But the city outpost hadn't come up yet. They didn't seem to be holding back—they just didn't know. They'd been embedded in the dump from the start, taking orders from someone else.
"We were ordered to tail the mansion's people! And kill them when the chance came!"
Bayola stiffened at number four's words. Marin must have been attacked following those orders. She checked Marhal's expression. It hadn't changed.
"Is that so? You could've led with that."
With that, he gagged number four and moved on.
"Brutal."
Dagon, beside Bayola, muttered.
"What is?"
"Miss, ever hear about the hundred-gold bounty?"
"Yeah. That real?"
"Paid off nice."
"You?"
Dagon laughed at her question—whether he was the hundred-gold man. His two missing front teeth gleamed.
He pulled a small glass vial from his pocket—not leather, but glass.
"This here's worth eighty gold."
"Eighty...?"
Eighty imperial gold coins wasn't pocket change. Depending on use, it could build a village.
"You a mage?"
"Nah. Too much hassle. Wouldn't do it even if asked."
He knew what mages were like, at least roughly. Plenty pretended to be mages without the chops, but someone qualified who rejected the title? First for her. As expected, no normals around Marhal.
"Right, the gold talk. Anyway, if you think he's one of yours, the guy's ruthless. Black Fingers? Even the Emperor's shadows couldn't touch him now."
"Doubt that."
Abandoned by the Empire or not, Bayola was imperial nobility to the bone. Dismissing the imperial house was hard to stomach.
Dagon didn't reply. He'd clocked her noble origins at a glance. Pride like that? No core imperial forces coming west. And even if, odds of clashing with Marhal? Pointless argument—just tiring.
Marhal kept at the torture. The basement had no sense of time. To Bayola, it felt like a day had passed. The blood and screams had worn at her mind that much.
The basement door opened. A sword-bearing man descended—Hugo's subordinate. Bayola recognized the face.
"Found it, sir!"
Marhal, shaking the lottery tube, turned.
"Where?"
"Uh, I'll show you."
"Lead on. Hugo, handle these guys."
"How?"
"Traditional way."
"Got it."
Marhal tossed the tube aside. Sticks scattered across the floor.
"Strekl, Kaban—mind coming?"
"Aye."
"Of course."
The two armored killing machines followed Marhal. As he headed for the stairs, he asked Bayola.
"Bay, coming?"
Bayola hesitated. Strekl and Kaban were impossible to counter normally. Assassins wouldn't fare better. Marhal claimed weakness, but she'd seen the clouds part that day. No Hero there—it was Marhal. Not unconditional, sure. But he held Hero-level power to cleave the sky. Did she belong among those three?
"It's fine. You won't be in the way."
"...Really?"
"Wouldn't bring you if it was dangerous."
"Then I'm in."
The surface was darker than below. The rising moon sliced the sky like a blade. Reach out, and it'd cut.
Bayola walked under the bladed moon. They left the mansion, strolling night streets. Rows of identical buildings felt dreamlike, repeating. But the chill air and Marhal ahead were stark reality.
"Here."
Marhal's subordinate stopped not far from the mansion. Identical building. But light leaked only from this one's windows.
"Most gold flowed here, starting from the drug surge."
"Good work. Head back."
The man bowed deeply and dashed into the night.
Before Marhal touched the door, it opened on its own.
"Let's go. They're inviting us personally."
"Safe?"
Strekl asked. Fighting assassins was one thing—entering their lair another. Traps built to kill.
Marhal dismissed Strekl's concern.
"Safe."
"Then fine."
Marhal led into the building. Door opened to a hall, stairs up at the end. He climbed slowly. At the top, a door with light seeping through. Not candle—relic glow. Easy relic, but not for assassins.
The door opened itself. Inside: a muscular man lounging on leather sofa, legs spread, arms on thighs. Hands hidden under table. Five black-clad men stood statue-still behind him.
"Sit first?"
Pubguk dialect, Kerdesh flavor. Native, probably.
"Sure."
Marhal sat opposite. Strekl and Kaban stood behind him.
"Miss, we stay here."
Dagon held Bayola back. They guarded the door—escape route, just in case.
Marhal crossed his legs, hands on knees. He spoke first.
"Business."
"Know the word 'alchemy'?"
"What idiots chasing turning lead to gold called it."
"What if it's real?"
The man revealed his hidden hand: one stone, one gold piece. Both cracked. He fitted them—seamless, like one all along.
"Alchemy. We've got the secret to infinite gold."
Marhal tilted his head.
"So?"
"Infinite gold! Swallow the west's economy, the duchy, rule the world! Can't grasp that? You, a major landlord in this city!"
"You. Name?"
"Yusbal, lord of the Black Fingers."
"Yusbal. What now?"
"Anything. Save this city, own the whole west. Got drugs too. Flip it—what can't we do?"
Yusbal's burning gaze fixed on Marhal. Eyes of a dreamer. Typical for those who'd come west with passion and ambition. Marhal had seen plenty. And watched that fire die.
Marhal's apathy enraged Yusbal. People get mad at the obtuse.
To Yusbal, Marhal was a lucky fool unfit to rule the city.
Marhal asked again.
"That's why you flooded the city with drugs and turned it into a dump?"
"That's why? That's why? Infinite gold even the Emperor can't have, and you call it 'that'?"
"Yeah. Just that."
"Not worth talking to."
Yusbal stomped the table. No wind-up. By Strekl and Kaban's reaction, needles had already launched from his hand. His assassins moved too. Hundreds of needles glittered like stars; ceiling crumbled as more dropped.
Then the wind stirred.
Yusbal froze mid-stomp, foot on table. Short sword fresh from his sleeve in hand. Needles aimed at Strekl, Kaban, Bayola—and falling assassins—halted midair.
One needle hovered before Marhal's forehead. He flicked it aside with a finger. It veered off in the air.
"Just this?"
Yusbal's gaze met Marhal's eyes for the first time. Blazing flames stared back.