[Dump Truck Hater: Of course.
You will be given this name in the future.
Wiš’adel means ‘wishing for a home’ in the old Sarkaz tongue.]
[Wiš’adel: Sarkaz have no home and never will.
I don’t need that ghost of a name.]
The cold wind of Kazdel howled through the mercenary camp, kicking up ash and dry dirt.
W sat by the remnants of last night’s campfire, staring blankly at the glowing embers.
She reached out, snapping a charred branch from the edge of the fire pit.
A few feet away, Hoederer sat on a weathered crate, quietly jotting down supply numbers in a small, battered notebook.
W dragged the burnt tip of the branch across the hard ground, mimicking the strange characters Frez had sent her in the chat.
The letters came out clumsy and jagged in the dirt.
She tilted her head, studying her own messy handiwork.
“Hoederer,” she called out, not looking up.
“What does Wiš’adel mean?”
Hoederer paused his writing.
He glanced over at the crude letters scratched into the earth.
“Wiš’adel?” he read aloud, not missing a beat.
“It means wishing for a home.”
A rare, genuine smile touched the scarred mercenary’s face.
He closed his notebook and leaned forward.
“W, are you finally going to learn how to write?
I can teach you.”
“What the hell?
I don’t need that.” W tossed the burnt branch into the ashes, scoffing loudly.
“Why bother learning that stuff?
It’s not like I can eat it, and it won’t kill my enemies any faster.”
Why study?
Hoederer had read plenty of books, and what good had it done him?
He was still out here, scrounging for a miserable living on the blood-soaked soil of Kazdel, just like the rest of them.
“That’s a typical ‘uselessness of education’ argument,” Hoederer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Reading more will do you good.
At the very least, you’ll be able to read bounty lists yourself and know exactly how much certain people’s heads are worth.”
He felt a familiar twinge of frustration.
W was undeniably brilliant.
Even without a day of formal schooling, she possessed a terrifying, instinctual talent for explosive yields, structural demolition, and battlefield tactics.
She could spot an enemy’s weakness in a fraction of a second.
If she just applied that mind to an education, she might actually have a chance to escape the endless suffering of their race.
She could leave Kazdel behind and find a place where she could just…
live.
“You’d have better luck hoping W doesn’t blow you to pieces in our next mission than hoping she’ll sit down and read a book.”
Heavy boots crunched against the gravel.
Ines strode over, her expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and deep irritation.
W immediately sprang to her feet, her hand dropping to the hilt of her combat knife.
Ines mirrored the motion, her eyes narrowing.
It was a scene that played out almost every single day since W had joined the squad.
The other mercenaries in the camp didn’t even bother looking up from their rations anymore; they were entirely numb to the routine.
Seeing the two women about to draw blades over absolutely nothing, Hoederer stepped between them, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
“Alright, enough.
W, Wiš’adel really is a good name.
If you’re willing, we can start calling you that from now on.
How about it?”
“No way,” W snapped, her grip loosening on her knife.
“The name W is just fine.”
She sheathed her blade with a sharp click, glared at Ines one last time, and sat back down on the dirt.
She stared at the name she had written, the letters still undisturbed on the ground, and silently tuned back into the chat group, letting the messages convert directly into audio in her mind.
[Dump Truck Hater: You’ll really like this name in the future, W.
And you’ll become ridiculously strong once you get your hands on the Ancestor Launcher.]
[Handsome Big Liar: Ancestor Launcher?
What a bizarre name.
Does it actually launch someone’s ancestors?]
There’s a group of special beings among the Sarkaz called Revenants.
They are the lingering souls of dead Sarkaz who aren’t accepted by the spirits of the multitude, so they just wander the land.
These old ghosts are, quite factually, the ancestors of the Sarkaz race.
They can possess humans or objects.
Later on, W will obtain a weapon that can be loaded with these Revenants as ammunition and fire them at people.
It’s incredibly powerful.]
[Fufu: So it really is launching ancestors!
How terrifying!]
Frez chuckled to himself.
The lesson here was simple: never get into a shouting match with Wiš’adel, because she literally had her ancestors available in bulk to win the argument for her.
Back in Kazdel, W frowned deeply.
She looked at the Sarkaz text floating in her vision.
It was completely beyond understanding to her.
Just staring at the dense blocks of characters was enough to make her eyes glaze over with sleepiness.
But relying on the text-to-speech function was starting to grate on her nerves.
Having the distinct voices of these strange people constantly echoing directly inside her head was an absolute hassle.
It was noisy, distracting, and frankly, annoying.
She kicked a pebble into the fire pit.
“Hey, Hoederer.”
He looked over.
“Teach me when you have some free time later.”
Hoederer blinked, surprised, before a warm smile broke across his face.
“Sure.
I’ll teach you whenever I’m free.
We’re about to reach our next destination anyway.
I’ll start your first lesson tonight.”
Far away from the barren wastelands of Kazdel, the Lungmen slums hummed with their usual chaotic energy.
Neon signs flickered through the damp fog, and the narrow alleys buzzed with illicit trade.
Inside a cramped, dimly lit rental room, Frez paused his chat interface.
It wasn’t because the conversation had died down, but because business had just come knocking.
The door creaked open, and a small, ragged figure slipped inside.
It was a young Cautus girl with messy, unkempt purple hair and long rabbit ears that drooped tiredly.
She was painfully thin, her clothes little more than oversized rags.
Stark, jagged black Originium crystals grew across the skin of her thighs—the obvious mark of an Oripathy patient.
“Boss Frez!” she greeted, her voice bright despite her grim appearance.
“Rope.
Have you noticed any particular gangs making moves lately?” Frez walked over to his small, humming refrigerator, pulled out a fresh apple, and tossed it to the little rabbit.
Rope caught it deftly, her eyes lighting up.
She hopped onto a rickety wooden chair, taking a large bite before answering.
“Last night, two local gangs got completely wiped out by who-knows-who.
The Lungmen Guard Department is swarming the area right now, trying to investigate.
They haven’t found the culprit yet, but I spotted a newcomer lurking around.
Someone very mysterious.”
Frez leaned against the counter, listening intently.
Not long after he had first arrived in Lungmen, Rope had successfully pickpocketed him.
Instead of turning her in after catching her, Frez had found her amusing and struck up a friendship.
Through her deep knowledge of the slums, she had introduced him to his first local gang, and then his second.
They had quickly formed a mutually beneficial partnership.
Frez handled the heavy lifting, and every time he scored a payday, he slipped Rope a generous cut.
As an infected Cautus living in the gutters of Lungmen, her skill set was strictly limited to petty theft, lock-picking, and gathering street gossip.
Frez simply paid her to use her greatest advantage: being an invisible local who saw everything.
“A newcomer?” Frez asked, raising an eyebrow.
“From out of town?”
“Yeah.
A Lupo.”
“A Lupo?
White hair?”
“The night was too dark, and the fog was thick.
I couldn’t see her hair clearly,” Rope mumbled around a mouthful of apple.
“I got woken up by the sound of fighting in the alley below my spot.
After the screaming stopped, the clouds parted just enough.
I only saw a Lupo standing there in the moonlight, holding a sword. You are reading on novelping.com, the official source.
She was terrifyingly fast.
Took down a whole group of Lupo gangsters all by herself.”
Frez tapped his chin.
A blue one, then?
Could it be Texas?
Penguin Logistics hadn’t officially established their Lungmen branch yet.
If the timeline was right, it meant Texas had only just arrived in the city, likely still dealing with the remnants of her mafia past.
“I see.
That information doesn’t seem immediately profitable, but good work anyway.
Take this.” Frez pulled a few crisp Lungmen Dollar bills from his wallet and handed them over.
“Don’t go running wild outside while the L.G.D.
is on high alert.
If something happens, run straight toward Grey Tail Hall, or hide out at the Lin Family Candy Shop.
Got it?”
“Mm-hmm!
Got it, Boss.
I’ll remember!”
Rope snatched the bills, her long ears perking up happily, and darted out the door, vanishing into the damp Lungmen streets.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Less than ten minutes later, the door to the rental room rattled violently under a series of heavy, booming knocks.
Dust drifted down from the ceiling frame.
“Stop knocking!” Frez shouted, marching toward the entrance.
“That’s a century-old rusty door!
If you break it off its hinges, you’re paying for it!”
He yanked the door open.
Standing in the narrow hallway was a towering Forte man.
A pair of thick, curved bull horns jutted from his head.
His chest muscles strained against his suit, and his arms were so absurdly massive that a Kuranta could probably use them as a running track.
“Old Niu?” Frez blinked.
“The Young Miss requests your presence,” the giant Forte rumbled, his voice like grinding stones.
“She could have just sent me a message.
Why did you need to make a trip all the way down to the slums?”
“I drove here to pick you up.” Old Niu offered no further explanation.
Despite his terrifying physique, he had a surprisingly simple, honest face.
But Frez knew better.
Old Niu was the personal bodyguard and most trusted subordinate of the Rat King’s daughter, Lin Yuxia.
Rumor had it that in his youth, this ‘honest’ man could take on ten rival gangsters at once, hacking his way from one end of a street to the other with nothing but a rusty watermelon knife.
“Alright, I got it.
Wait a second.”
Old Niu nodded once and turned, his heavy footsteps thudding down the stairwell.
Frez quickly changed out of his casual clothes, locked his fragile door, and headed downstairs.
He slid into the back of Old Niu’s sleek, armored black sedan.
The drive was silent and smooth, taking them out of the grime of the slums and into a high-end district.
They pulled up to an elegant, traditional Yen-style teahouse.
Old Niu led him through the quiet corridors, the scent of expensive incense hanging heavy in the air, until they reached a secluded private room at the back.
He slid the wooden door open and stepped aside.
Sitting gracefully at the low tea table was a young woman with light purple hair.
Delicate pearl earrings with long tassels hung from her large, round Zalak ears, swaying gently with her slight head movements.
Her face was striking—cold, elegant, and impossibly beautiful.
She wore a tailored black short skirt, her long, slender legs wrapped in dark silk stockings, resting neatly beneath the table.
Seeing Frez enter, Lin Yuxia didn’t bother with pleasantries.
Her voice was cool and concise.
“Sit.”
“Does Miss Lin need something from me today?” Frez asked, a relaxed smile playing on his lips as he took the cushion opposite her.
Lin Yuxia poured a cup of steaming tea and pushed it across the table.
Her piercing eyes locked onto his.
“I’ve come this time to officially invite you to join Grey Tail Hall.”
[Akarin’s Note:
Enjoying the story?