Drug-Eating Genius Mage (Fanfic)

After thoroughly searching through the pockets of the scattered clothes, he managed to locate a pair of old sunglasses, an empty wallet, and two keyrings. 

Most of the keys, like those from the knocked-out supervisor earlier, opened various rooms or locked doors. But one key caught his eye—it had a code that looked like a vehicle identification number. He didn't know what kind of license plates vehicles used in this world, but having an extra key was a bonus.

Thump, thump!

A faint vibration echoed from beyond the break room's wall—a booming sound, like something being pounded far away. It was clear the union members were causing a ruckus throughout the factory. In a hurry, Asmon pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a deep drag. Though he had never smoked in his old world, he adapted quickly. The familiar smoke, seeping into his body as before, made him forget his fatigue and pain.

 At the same time, his razor-sharp focus began to relax, and his tension eased. While it was good that the smoke helped him forget his physical weariness, the mental relaxation wasn't ideal right now. Consciously, Asmon took only a moderate amount, then pulled the cigarette from his mouth. "They said it's mixed with some antipsychotic herb… take too much and even your thoughts slow down," he reminded himself.

It wasn't that these vices—meant to be inhaled from burning—weren't powerful. Their effects hit hard, and the side effects could be brutal. One wrong puff and you'd be as limp as a wet rag. Until Asmon got out of the factory, he had to keep his wits about him. He flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe. Then, he quickly changed into a set of clothes he found among the scattered garments in the break room. A laborer's uniform or even a supervisor's work outfit would be too obvious; these off-duty casual clothes were less likely to draw unwanted attention. "Ugh… the stench is overwhelming," Asmon muttered, pinching his nose as the mix of sweat and smoke assaulted his senses. Still, he forced himself to change. He stashed his old work uniform under a sofa and was about to leave when footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Quietly, he dropped the door handle and ducked under the sofa. As he had feared, the footsteps quickened and then stopped right at the break room door.

Bang!

A gruff voice called out, "Hmm? Who left the break room door open? Trying to snag another order from the boss, I suppose?"

Another replied, "On a day like this, things are bound to get hectic."

The door swung open, revealing two exhausted supervisors with unfamiliar faces—clearly not the ones patrolling near the parts room where Asmon had been working. The supervisor on the right sniffed the air and grinned broadly. "Judging by that smell, looks like someone else snuck in."

They had mistaken the scent of Asmon's cigarette smoke. It was clear from his tone that the supervisor often indulged in a smoke break in this room. The other supervisor chuckled and slumped onto a nearby couch. "We snuck out too—can't say it's a crime if everyone's doing it. Let's have a smoke first, then we'll talk."

Soon enough, the sound of a lighter clicking and a soft exhale of smoke filled the room. Asmon held his breath, crouching silently behind the sofa as he listened. One of the supervisors murmured, "Ah… he's still alive. They probably won't come back until the product quota is met, right?"

His companion replied, "From the looks of it, they're going to have to push through today to hit the numbers."

"Damn… this is driving me insane," the first grumbled.

Their hushed conversation continued as they focused on their cigarettes. Then one of them suddenly said, "Decision made."

"Decision on what?" asked the other.

Fixing a steely gaze on his companion, the first replied, "Let's burn this mess and take the parking lot."

"Really?" the other asked incredulously.

"You just got a new car, didn't you? If you hide in it, no one will ever know," the first said with a sneer. Later, if the head honcho caught them, a beating wouldn't be surprising—but who cared? As long as they avoided the current headache, it was all acceptable. The two exchanged knowing smiles and then began rummaging through a pile of clothes on the floor.

Watching the burly men search for car keys, Asmon silently steeled himself. Though his magical power wasn't strong enough yet to reliably cast offensive spells on people, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Retrieving the pistol from his vest, Asmon slowly raised his magically charged hand toward its muzzle. He whispered, "Silence." A shimmering, blue barrier briefly enveloped the muzzle before vanishing. With calm precision, Asmon pulled back the slide to chamber a round, gripping the pistol with both hands as he waited.

Meanwhile, the supervisors, still searching for the car keys, exchanged worried looks before abruptly leaping to their feet.

"It's not here," one muttered.

"Now that you mention it, the door was open earlier…"

"Damn it, no way!"

If it were just the car keys missing, that might be one thing—but if they realized that Asmon had swept up all the keys in the area, it would raise serious suspicions. They weren't so dense as to ignore the gravity of the situation; soon enough, they began to act. "You, head down to the parking lot immediately," one supervisor ordered.

"And you?" the other asked.

"First, report to the boss. Tell him someone stole our keys, so we aren't blamed," the first replied. One of the supervisors—seemingly convinced—moved toward the break room door. Sensing that time was running out, Asmon immediately grabbed his pistol. His hand trembled for a split second, but his fingers pulled the trigger with natural motion.

Bang!

The shot was so soft it almost sounded like a whisper, yet the supervisor reaching for the door exploded in a spray of blood and collapsed instantly. After a brief pause, another supervisor shrieked, "Aaaah!!"

"Shut your damn mouth!" Asmon shouted as he burst from behind the sofa, leveling the pistol at the other supervisor. The man's eyes widened in terror as he realized the threat, and he clamped his mouth shut in silence.

As Asmon slowly closed the distance, he glanced down at the supervisor who had been shot. The man lay on his back, head lolling, twitching slightly—dead on the spot. Realizing he had just taken a life for the first time, Asmon felt only a cold sweat trickle down his face. His ironclad mental strength—his calm, rational nature—had suppressed any surge of guilt, fear, or revulsion. In this extreme situation, his unflinching composure shone through, a clear sign of the true mage he was becoming.

Asmon kept a careful distance—close enough to never miss his target, yet far enough to avoid a surprise attack. With his weakened body, any sudden move could mean instant death. Seeing Asmon's determined expression, the remaining supervisor began to tremble and pleaded in a shaky voice, "P-please, spare me."

"…"

"I promise I won't say a word. Please…" For the first time, Asmon really looked into the terrified supervisor's eyes. They were bloodshot from exhaustion, his patchy beard unkempt, and his lips and jaw shaking uncontrollably.