A Dark Fantasy Spy

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Buildings lined up shoulder to shoulder could almost be said to have a height difference akin to a head or so, just like people.

The streets are filled with remarkable structures that resemble mushroom houses, reminiscent of a time during elementary school when I was completely absorbed in a game. Each wooden house, varying in height and closely packed together, looks just like the black and white keys of a piano.

Clank, as the lock turned, the iron gate creaked open, emitting a long, dry noise.

“Come in.”

“Thank you, Bereda.”

The Dark Elf smiled slightly and gave a little nod with his hat.

—

Episode 17 – The Tree That Drinks Blood

Bereda, a distant relative of Hormuz, mentioned that he is responsible for market research within the guild.

Having made a profit from the northern conflict, Hormuz turned his gaze towards the Mauritania Continent, beginning to focus on the possibilities held by ‘Dead Whale’s Port,’ an area where outcasts from society gather, due to its proximity to the coast.

By the way, the ship that brought us here originally belonged to a paper company managed by Francesca, and I suspect Hormuz has been planning to expand his business since he acquired it from the Palm Tree Trade Guild about four months ago.

“This will be your home for the time being, a special house prepared by the guild master.”

As I looked around the safe house, Bereda sent a signal to the Orcs and Goblins.

Employees from the Palm Tree Trade Guild took our luggage off the cart and left it in the living room before departing. Once the employees were gone, Bereda neatly clasped his hands together and began to ask questions politely.

“Is there anything uncomfortable for you? I mean….”

“Muir. Nation Muir.”

“Yes, Muir. Is there anything that is troubling you?”

I shook my head.

Hormuz’s business acumen was remarkable, comparable even to Francesca’s. Perhaps it’s because he’s a Dark Elf with an extraordinary nose for money. As soon as I mentioned wanting to quietly visit the Necropolis for a few days, he promptly arranged a perfect hideout.

As Camila, with sparkling eyes of curiosity, scanned the surroundings, I threw a glance at Bereda.

“I would like to ask something of you, Bereda.”

“Feel free to tell me anything.”

Bereda gently encouraged me to speak comfortably as a guest of the guild master.

“First… I need news about the city.”

“Delivering news is no problem. You see, in business, capital is half, and intuition is the other half.”

“And I would like you to help me find someone.”

“Should I call them here? Or—”

The Dark Elf’s smile grew wider.

“Would you like to go find them yourself?”

—

There is a saying about malignant entities.

They were once part of us but are banished for encroaching upon others’ territories. No matter how much we cut away, they cling stubbornly to life, burrowing deeper and deeper.

Thinking about how this expression originates from the mutations of cells that spread elsewhere, requiring terrible toxic treatments to be cured, the term ‘malignant entities’ is indeed quite an appropriate metaphor.

So what qualifies as a malignant entity? What falls under its category?

If it merely refers to criminals, there would be no need to attach the term cancer. There exists a word for a broader, more encompassing disease concept.

From this perspective, ‘malignant entities’ can be interpreted as having qualities that are not only harmful but also deeply rooted and can damage the surroundings when left unattended.

Like students who disrupt the atmosphere of study or parachuters who take salaries similar to others while contributing nothing.

And here,

exists a malignant entity of society.

“Ugh… ugh…”

The rat-like Riher sobbed and clasped his face in his hands. Drops of sweat flowing incessantly inside his damp clothes soaked the floor.

Calling someone a rat is extremely insulting, yet those who have met Raheer once would use the name without hesitation. He truly was a rat.

The Rat Beastman trembled as he touched his face with shaky hands. For a moment, he brushed his snout with his four front paws. Then Riher, almost squeaking, raised his voice in a frantic appeal.

“I didn’t do anything! I didn’t sell anything, you bastard!”

As Riher’s whimpering continued, the Orc opened his mouth.

“Quit the nonsense, Riher. Where’s the lie here?”

The Orc braced one massive arm on his knee and leaned forward. His arms, thick as those of a sprinter, created an imposing presence that could rival a boulder.

It looked like a Golem was moving.

“I-I’m innocent! Please believe me!”

“What’s innocent about you?”

“You know! Our goods… We promised not to sell our stuff in your territory! I’ve been paying the rent regularly, so why…?”

The rat, shaking his trembling hands, pleaded.

The Orc, watching the scene, casually tossed a bag in front of the Beastman.

“What’s this, then?”

His thick finger pointed at the transparent bag containing white powder.

It was undeniably drugs.

“Why is your clan’s ‘product’ wandering near us?”

“…….”

Riher’s eyes darted around as they settled on the goods at his feet. His shaking hands cautiously grasped it.

After what felt like an eternity, the rat found its escape hole, finally exclaiming, “Ah!” as he struggled to speak.

“This, this isn’t ours! The clan never encroaches near here. The merchants of the Yenzhi street—no, I mean, it’s the Palm Tree Trade Guild’s territory! How could the clan invade… Please believe me, I truly know nothing!”

Crash!

A loud, resonating sound interrupted his plea, akin to hitting a steel plate with a hammer. The impact was enough to shatter even the rust off a battleship, grinding down the fragile and delicate frame into smithereens.

With just one strike, Riher’s mouth was perfectly sealed. Gulping in desperation, he shrieked as he squirmed.

“Uwaaaah—!!!”

Every time the crushing hammer struck, high-pitched screams echoed like slaps across a tenor’s cheeks. Bang! Bang! Bang! As the Orc pulverized the Rat Beastman’s hands, he aimed the blood-splattered hammer at Riher.

“Who’s playing tricks around here? Speak now! Who ordered the sale of drugs!?”

“Ugh, ugh—”

“Who?!”

“I can’t say! If I tell you, I’ll get killed! I didn’t want to do this either—”

“This bastard.”

The rough hand seized the wrist. The Orc placed the rat’s hand on the table.

The holy text states that the great mother of all creation forbade the consumption of intoxicating substances, yet a curious angel trespassed and indulged. The creatures of her creation were denied a complete formation before they were marred, giving the rat incomplete toes since birth.

Though its four fingers, born from the angel’s mistake, were ragged, fortunately, the great mother of all creation, the Earth God, bestowed two hands upon the rats wandering in her embrace.

This means that one was left to ensure the job is thoroughly completed rather than leaving it half-heartedly.

“Ugh—”

As the Orc raised his hammer high, the Rat Beastman recoiled.

Tension gripped his muscles, almost snapping like a fraying rope, and a scream erupted from the shadows cast by fraying old magic lamps.

“Arti! Arti ordered it!”

Riher desperately yanked on his captured wrist and confessed.

“I was told to deliver the goods only to the port, and for the rest… the trader would handle the distribution. I only know up to that!”

“Who bought the drugs?”

“Umm, they were some religious group… about the name, it was short. Ca, Kai? Something like that.”

Was the hammering more painful than expected?

The awaited answer surprisingly tumbled out bluntly.

“…Hmm.”

I opened the door and gestured outside, indicating it was time for them to leave.

Understanding the cue, the Orc departed, and soon the sound of footsteps on the stairs was heard. The Rat Beastman was left sobbing, and I rubbed my ear with my finger.

“Mr. Riher?”

Huff— I blew on my finger and continued casually.

“Could you tell me what you were doing here?”