Royal Special Task Force (1)
Through the bustling crowd, Dalen spotted a familiar figure with her hair tied up. He maneuvered his way to block her path naturally.
“You little rascals… Ah!”
Thud.
The forehead of the girl with the tied-up hair bumped into his chest.
She looked up with annoyance, her small forehead furrowed with tension.
“Huh?”
But that irritation was short-lived.
“Oh my! Dalen!”
“It’s been a while.”
Penny’s eyes widened in surprise as she exclaimed. Dalen responded with a low chuckle.
She stepped back a couple of paces, rubbing her eyes to make sure it was really him, and then her face lit up with a bright smile.
“A while? It’s been ages! Almost half a year, right? Are you back in the city for good? Or more importantly, what have you been up to all this time…?”
Her voice was as cheerful as ever, a tone that had a peculiar way of lifting the listener’s spirits. But the middle of a crowded street wasn’t exactly the best place for a heartfelt reunion.
Dalen interjected with a soft laugh.
“We can catch up later. Weren’t you chasing someone?”
“Oh! Right! Those little brats stole my purse… Where did they go?”
“And here I thought you were a veteran sewer cleaner. Where’s all that civil servant pride?”
“Ugh, stop with the nonsense! And for the record, I wouldn’t normally fall for such a cheap trick. Do you know how many times someone tried to pick my pocket today?”
Penny retorted, her voice tinged with frustration. Dalen scratched his chin, scanning the bustling surroundings.
The place was indeed packed.
The southern district of the Bronze Quarter was always crowded, but today it was overflowing beyond its usual capacity. The sheer number of people seemed to have doubled since a few months ago.
With twice as many people, there were bound to be at least that many more pickpockets.
In any case, with such a surge in the crowd, it was worth finding out why. But now wasn’t the time for idle chatter.
“Your purse was stolen?”
Dalen asked. Penny nodded vigorously.
“Yes. It’s a leather pouch embroidered with our forge’s insignia in silver thread. I did the embroidery myself… No, that’s not the point.”
Penny tapped her lips, adding a brief explanation of the situation.
The purse snatched by the pickpocket kids didn’t just contain gold and silver coins. It also held contracts for pre-paid orders of timber and metal from a new supplier.
The Laveron Ahaim Forge, the Mithril Refinery, had been solidifying its reputation as one of the top forges in the Bronze Quarter over the past few months. With new suppliers lining up, losing those contracts in a budding business relationship was a significant headache.
“There’s been a surge in pickpocketing lately. Not just that, but murders, robberies, and even more sinister crimes have reportedly increased several times over.”
“The Bronze Guard must be having a tough time.”
“They’ve probably given up by now.”
Penny puffed out her cheeks. Well, the Bronze Guard’s reputation was already in the gutter.
Dalen closed his eyes, fine-tuning his heightened senses.
In the crowded throng, tracking down those who had fled long ago was nearly impossible. However, Dalen’s senses and intelligence had long surpassed human limits, and the power of his domain was about turning impossibilities into possibilities.
Clink. Crack.
Amidst the piles of goods in a cart loaded with pottery, the faint sound of breaking ceramics echoed in his ears.
Squish.
Beneath the hundreds of feet trampling the muddy ground, the wriggling of worms burrowing into the hardened earth was felt at his toes.
Thousands, even tens of thousands of stimuli flooded his mind simultaneously, and as he sorted and filtered them, a single thread of possibility unraveled.
Vroom…
Dalen opened his eyes.
Deep within his black pupils, a glimmer of magical light flickered. From there, a faint resonance of magic began.
His vision, piercing through physical darkness to see the mystical, extended the cutting edge of possibility in a new direction.
‘The third mark down from the cartwheel tracks. Loose leather shoe prints. Three minutes ago. Weight approximately 30 to 40 kilograms, with the stride and foot size of a child. Running at an irregular pace.’
The traces of those who had passed became vividly clear.
Surface information like physique, gender, and age came first.
The manner of running, the breathlessness, and the emotions etched on their faces layered on top.
Soon, even the weight of the purse clutched in their arms was distinctly perceived.
‘Found them.’
It was an act bordering on a miracle, tracing not just the tracks but backtracking through time.
Since his days as a mercenary escorting caravans, Dalen had relied on his senses and intelligence as his most enduring combination.
In the mercenary world, where the speed of perceiving an impending attack equated to survival, these two attributes had been honed solely for staying alive.
As they approached level 30, they had already begun to sprout new possibilities, stepping stones to another miraculous ability, the night vision.
“Dalen?”
Penny called out. Dalen turned his gaze to her.
“Uh…”
The girl’s shoulders flinched involuntarily.
The magical light flickering in his eyes was indeed unsettling for a fellow human to witness.
Seeing her face turn pale, Dalen realized it belatedly.
Having been around superhuman beings for so long, he had momentarily forgotten the typical reaction.
He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. When he opened them again, they were back to their usual dry black.
“You’re… human, right?”
“You asked me that last time too, didn’t you?”
Dalen chuckled softly. He gave Penny’s shoulder a gentle pat and then slipped into the crowd, saying,
“Wait for me at the Gallios Trading Company. I’ll find your purse and follow you there.”
“Hehehe.”
Deep in the back alley, in a dilapidated single-story building.
Sitting in a musty armchair, the bald thug Muffin was weighing the purse in his hand.
“Heh. Hehehehe.”
It was heavy. More than half of it was gold coins. The weight was enough to make him chuckle uncontrollably.
There was even a piece of paper inside that seemed to be a contract from some trading company. Though he was illiterate, he could recognize that much from experience.
If he sold it on the black market, it would fetch at least thirty percent of its value. If it was worth trading with a contract, it was likely in gold.
‘I could live lavishly for months. Maybe even expand into the drug business a bit.’
Suppressing the urge to grin, Muffin patted the girl’s head.
“Well done. You’ll get chicken for dinner tonight. Next.”
“Really? Yay!”
The girl beamed and skipped out. Following her, a boy with a swollen mouth stepped forward.
His expression was downcast. Muffin immediately noticed. This one had come back empty-handed.
Placing the heavy purse on the table, he grabbed a club. The quick-witted boy immediately prostrated himself on the floor, begging.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I swear I stole it, it was definitely gold…!”
“Anyone can claim it was gold with just their mouth! You little brat…!”
Muffin began to beat the boy mercilessly.
Thwack! Thwack!
“Ahh! Ugh! Please, spare me! Aaaah!”
The boy screamed, but the club didn’t stop.
Muffin knew. If he didn’t correct their behavior now, they’d surely slack off later.
Besides, the influx of people into the southern district was overwhelming. Losing one street urchin wouldn’t cause any trouble.
In fact, it might be a good opportunity to set an example. Just as Muffin was thinking that, he tightened his grip on the club.
“Hey.”
A deep, low voice interrupted. Muffin turned around in surprise.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, was a burly mercenary standing by the open window.
Muffin quickly assessed the mercenary.
A head and a half taller than himself. An emotionless face. Armor that was battered and dirty.
‘Tsk.’
He wasn’t a complete rookie. At the very least, he’d taken on a few jobs.
But if he were truly seasoned, he would have silently slipped in and held a knife to his throat the moment he entered through the window.
Moreover, any mercenary venturing into these back alleys was, at best, a silver rank.
‘There’s no benefit in facing him alone.’
Having quickly made his judgment, Muffin scowled openly and spoke.
“Who the hell are you, you bastard?”
”…”
“Not gonna answer, huh? Hey, go get the uncles.”
Muffin nudged the boy he had just been beating.
The boy, who had been lying as if dead, suddenly sprang up and dashed outside.
Soon after, men armed with skewers, daggers, and spiked clubs came rushing in.
The mercenaries’ subordinates formed a semicircle around the wall, naturally surrounding their leader.
Only then did Muffin relax, letting out a sly smile.
“Heh, how long do you think you can keep that mouth shut, mercenary? Who sent you here?”
Dalen scratched his chin, puzzled. What gave these guys such confidence?
Typically, when faced with a mercenary wielding a large sword, even seasoned fighters would take a step back. At the very least, they’d gauge their opponent’s strength or test the waters a bit. Street thugs were no different. In fact, those familiar with the underworld tended to be more cautious.
The labyrinthine city of Falcion was a sprawling metropolis teeming with superhumans. Though encounters were infrequent due to its vastness, the city’s back alleys often saw the likes of extraordinary individuals. Places like Sienna’s Crow’s Nest, Philopon’s Orchard, or Bjorn’s Workshop were frequented by the city’s shadowy elite.
This wasn’t some random encounter on the street or in a seedy inn. Seeing someone intrude so boldly into their territory, the usual reaction would be to retreat and reassess.
“Die!”
A club swung down, but Dalen sidestepped effortlessly, avoiding its path. He twisted the thug’s wrist with ease and gave a light shove to his chest. The thug tumbled backward, blood spurting from his mouth as he rolled away.
“Shit! He’s a mage! Get him all at once!”
Watching the thugs charge at him, Dalen realized, ‘These guys must be new here.’
Swish!
A metal skewer aimed for his throat, a dagger targeted his neck, and a lumberjack’s axe swung for his shoulder. Dalen’s mind drifted back to a few months ago when he first started operating in this city.
Back then, with Dalen’s assistance, the Bronze Guard had raided hideouts set up by the Apostles of Reversal and the Telia Trading Company throughout the Bronze District. It was inevitable that many of the underworld organizations would collapse in the process.
The Telia Trading Company had rapidly expanded, leveraging its underground network. It was only natural that smugglers and violent gangs became part of their supply chain. In the wake of the guard’s crackdown, hundreds of organizations were dismantled, and half a year had passed since then.
Half a year was ample time for new groups to establish themselves in the power vacuum left in the Bronze District’s underworld.
Returning to the present, Dalen’s thoughts slowed as he faced the incoming blades. His hand blurred for a moment.
Crack!
Blood, flesh, and bone fragments scattered. A shattered skull, a crushed arm. Brain matter mixed with a fellow thug’s entrails, and the shattered dagger embedded itself in its owner’s face like shrapnel.
Bones and flesh twisted grotesquely, not just breaking but exploding outward. The tissues, now outside the body, steamed in the cold air.
Thud.
White and red remnants fell to the ground. No one who had brandished a weapon at Dalen remained standing. Only a bald thug, who had been watching from the back after giving orders, stood there, mouth agape in shock.
“Hey.”
Squelch.
Dalen stepped through the fresh, sticky puddle and addressed the bald thug.
“Got a question for you.”
“Uh, uh…”
The bald thug stared at him dumbly. Dalen gently touched the thug’s blood-smeared cheek.
The thug screamed and collapsed, his focus finally returning. Dalen asked again.
“Answer?”
“Y-yes… ask away.”
“You and your lackeys. Where are you from?”