The One-Eyed Master Craftsman (3)
“Have all the mercenaries been sent away?”
“Yes, there was a bit of noise, but once we handed them some healing potions and herbs, they left without much fuss.”
“Good. What choice did they have? Did they think this was a real clinic? If they don’t want to get shot, they’d better clear out.”
Basilikov, the bandit-bearded leader, nodded in satisfaction. He rapped on the tightly sealed coffin.
Thud, thud.
The sound of rough wood echoed.
The thirty elite soldiers gathered in the room turned their attention to the coffin and their leader.
Inside that coffin lay the mercenary band of the lord they served.
To Basilikov, this lord was more than just a leader; he was a childhood companion.
‘Boris Kalashnikov.’
The rightful heir to the royal scepter, the true successor to the title of Tsar.
Yet, unable to bear the weight of his destiny, he fled, living as an unknown mercenary—a tragic prince.
Among the faction known as the “Guardians of the Seven Crowns,” which sought to dethrone the current Tsarina and restore the rightful heir, some called Prince Boris a coward.
Though Basilikov was part of that faction, he couldn’t agree with such words.
Even if he did, voicing it was another matter entirely.
Whether prince or mercenary, the fact remained that Boris was of royal blood and his lord.
‘My lord, I will avenge you.’
Looking down at the coffin, Basilikov steadied his breath.
A few months ago, his lord Boris had vanished in a labyrinth.
When the mercenary band suddenly crossed the empire’s border while heading south, and the tracking spells abruptly ceased, he sensed something was amiss.
Upon urgently sending people to the labyrinth city of Falcion, it became clear that a mercenary had likely killed Boris in the labyrinth.
‘The killer of the demon Golakap, the gold-ranked mercenary Dalen.’
Further investigation revealed that this mercenary was beyond ordinary.
Rumors began when he arrived in the city and, within weeks, helped the Falcion guards eradicate a cult in the Bronze District.
He then descended into the labyrinth, wiped out the largest gnoll tribe on the first floor, captured a demon wielding a holy sword, and even claimed a bounty from the Golden Palace.
Recently, there were whispers of him destroying an orc horde displaced by an influx of monsters and defeating the black mages of Revivach.
A legendary warrior, the likes of which appear only a few times a century.
Under normal circumstances, Basilikov would have retreated.
The Guardians already faced the formidable royal family of the Tsarist state.
There was no need to stir up trouble in this distant foreign land.
But.
‘No matter how superhuman, the crime of killing a royal cannot be taken lightly.’
Basilikov clenched his fist. No, he couldn’t let it go.
The Guardians were formed to place one of the seven princes on the throne.
Without a royal heir, the Guardians had no purpose.
Thus, Basilikov had brought his personal forces and resources to this far southern land.
Though his lord had abandoned the throne, making his faction the weakest among the seven military factions of the Guardians.
Yet, the elite soldiers armed with explosives and firearms were more than enough to capture a single gold-ranked mercenary.
‘He didn’t achieve those feats alone anyway. He worked with the guards to handle the cultists, and a paladin accompanied him to capture the demon.’
And so, after executing a plan with lingering unease, the result was now before him.
The coffin being transported to the cemetery on the city’s outskirts by a hired hand clearly contained the mercenary’s corpse.
Even a superhuman who captured a demon couldn’t have easily evaded the crossfire of nearly ten snipers.
Seeing that Natasha hadn’t returned, perhaps she had resorted to a final act of self-destruction.
A great sacrifice, but the reward was sweet. Basilikov paused for a moment of silence for his fallen comrades.
After a moment, he opened his eyes and commanded.
“Open it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Crack!
A crowbar was roughly wedged into the coffin’s seam. The lid, nailed shut, wouldn’t come off any other way.
Given the coffin’s size and weight, it was almost certain the large barbarian was inside.
But the mission of avenging his lord had to be completed thoroughly.
As he applied more weight, the gap in the coffin lid began to widen.
Creak!
Finally, the nails popped out, revealing the contents inside.
”…Damn it.”
Basilikov cursed.
Inside the coffin was a human shape covered in cloth.
But as the lid opened, there was no stench of decay or blood.
‘A wax figure.’
The moment he realized it.
Ping―!
A sound like a spring snapping was heard.
Sizzle…
A faint noise of a fuse burning reached his ears.
The smell of gunpowder pricked his nose, and he suddenly recalled the mountain of explosives stored in the clinic’s basement.
“Uh, boss…”
His lieutenant realized it too.
“Everyone, run!”
She shouted, throwing down the crowbar and urging the subordinates to flee.
But Basilikov, sensing it was too late, pulled up his magical artifact cloak to cover himself.
At the same time.
Boom―!
A chain of explosions erupted from the coffin, unleashing a storm of flames and shrapnel throughout the room.
Boom. Rumble…
Flames and acrid smoke rose.
Dalen watched from the rooftop of a building across the street as a pillar of fire and explosions engulfed the three-story structure.
Beside him, the one-eyed master craftsman, Bjorn Kaladrakum, rubbed his hands together with a satisfied grin.
“Heh heh. Isn’t it magnificent?”
Bjorn said. Dalen scratched his chin and replied.
“Impressive work.”
“Heh heh heh, the power of a chain explosion. I caught the scent of gunpowder when I was in and out of that building with Volkma. It seemed they had a stockpile in the basement.”
The dwarf sniffed the air.
The dampness in the air, perhaps a sign of impending rain, carried the pleasant tickle of wet gunpowder to his nose.
“It’s perfect weather for setting off bombs.”
Watching the dwarf’s pleased expression, Dalen couldn’t help but admire him inwardly.
He knew the one-eyed master craftsman was a hero-level artisan in the field of gunpowder and mechanical devices.
But seeing the results firsthand was a different experience from watching through a monitor.
The preparation for the explosion that tore through the building from basement to attic was surprisingly simple.
Two grenades, gunpowder equivalent to a hundred bullets.
And a coffin, a cart, and a hired hand paid with a single silver coin.
Even though the explosion was due to the chain reaction of the gunpowder stockpile in the basement, the coffin booby trap that initiated it was undoubtedly the work of this dwarf.
Moreover, the dwarf had precisely calculated the power and direction of the chain explosion to ensure it only affected the building where the Tsarist rebels were gathered.
Deep and broad knowledge. The hands of a master craftsman.
A precise calculation ability down to decimal points, combined with the unique method of integrating rune magic and explosives.
“If you were born on Earth, you’d be one of two things: the best explosives expert in a special forces unit or the worst terrorist in history.”
“Hmm? What did you say? I didn’t catch that.”
“Nothing at all.”
Dalen shrugged and asked.
“Where did you learn to handle explosives?”
“Well, here and there, I suppose. Oh, by the way, I’ve been curious, is that young man practicing some kind of silent meditation? He hasn’t said a word while following us around.”
“Even a fragment of omniscience, when first received by a mortal, is a tumultuous process. Only after mastering the power and selecting necessary words can he speak like ordinary people.”
Felber patted his disciple’s head as he spoke.
Dalen nodded nonchalantly at the dwarf’s natural diversion of the topic.
Indeed, trust hadn’t been built to that extent yet.
How Bjorn honed his skills wasn’t even detailed in the lore.
It was a deeply hidden background of the character and a story directly tied to the continent’s political landscape.
‘Trust can be built over time.’
Dalen thought casually as he stood up. He stretched his shoulders and walked to the edge of the roof.
The dwarf, who had been watching the explosion with delight, suddenly turned his head. He asked.
“Hmm? Where are you going?”
“To finish the job.”
Dalen drew his axe.
The light of the explosives, painting the night sky red, glinted off the faint wave-patterned axe.
“Finish?”
“Three survived.”
“Three are fleeing.”
Two voices overlapped. Dalen and another answered simultaneously.
Dalen turned his head.
The voice belonged to a blond young man he had saved long ago in the sewers of Falcion.
Tommy Valentino, with eyes the same color as his hair, met my gaze with a slightly strained look.
As Felber expanded his domain, a gentle golden wave radiated around the young man.
Dalen chuckled softly. “You’re a quick learner.”
”…Thank you.”
“A student with both talent and diligence is rare. You must be proud, old man.”
Felber chuckled, stroking his beard. Even Felber Valentino, who had already mastered his domain, took quite some time to adapt to the grand magical system he had created.
Considering it had been less than a month and a half since Tommy began learning from Felber, being able to use even a part of the spell was remarkably fast.
Of course, stepping into a domain crafted by a master was easier than building one from scratch.
Yet, given the nature of spells that directly interfere with the timeline, even that was no small feat.
“It’s strange. Surviving in that firepower… More research is needed to combat superhumans with explosives.”
Leaving the dwarf deep in thought behind him, Dalen leapt lightly off the eaves.
As his silhouette disappeared into the city’s darkness, the building engulfed in flames finally collapsed with a thunderous crash.
“What a damn mess.”
Basilikov, with his bushy beard, staggered through the alley.
Two figures followed him: his direct subordinate and a robed sorcerer.
All three were severely injured.
“Boss…”
“Quiet.”
Basilikov cut off his subordinate. They weren’t safe yet.
After being ambushed by a bomb disguised as a coffin, only the three of them survived.
Surviving the explosion itself was a miracle. The basement, filled with grenades and gunpowder, had turned the building into a literal inferno.
“Who the hell is it?”
Even as he ran, Basilikov’s mind raced. Two suspects came to mind.
The first was the mercenary who had killed his lord, Boris, and owned the tracking spell.
But he quickly dismissed that thought. How could a mere mercenary handle explosives?
Using the mercenary’s badge in the coffin to reverse the tracking spell was one thing.
If the mercenary’s group included a grand mage from a magic tower, it wasn’t entirely impossible.
But explosives? That was a different story.
The secrets of gunpowder were closely guarded by the Empire and the Tsar’s nation, fought over as if their very fates depended on it.
If the mastermind wasn’t just a mercenary, it made more sense.
Basilikov suspected the Tsar’s royal special forces.
The special forces were the elite of the elite, capable of crafting such intricate traps.
Rumors of their secret networks across the continent weren’t unfounded.
He thought he’d evaded their gaze, but perhaps he’d been unlucky and caught somewhere.
“Then what about the mercenary badge in the coffin? Could Dalen, that mercenary, have been bought by Tsarina? Or was he a superhuman groomed by the royal family from the start? Was Boris’s assassination planned all along…?”
His thoughts were cut short. Basilikov stopped abruptly, turning to draw his sword.
Clang!
It was an instinctive reaction.
Not something perceived with his senses, but a reflexive move forced by his well-honed intuition sensing danger.
Only after sparks flew and his body was pushed back did Basilikov realize something had collided with his sword.
“Ugh…”
He barely regained his balance. As he raised his sword to prepare for the next attack, it happened.
A projectile, moving at bullet speed, changed direction mid-air, slicing through the sorcerer’s forehead and exiting.
“Ugh!”
The sorcerer collapsed, blood spurting. The projectile gleamed again.
“Aaah!”
His subordinate instinctively swung a small metal shield, but the disc of light sliced through her hand and embedded itself in her chest.
“Gah, ugh…”
With half her ribs gone, she gasped for breath through her shattered lungs.
Only then did Basilikov see it wasn’t a spell or bullet, but a hand axe.
“What the…?”
Before he could finish his thought.
Footsteps echoed in the alley’s darkness.
The axe, as if alive, wrenched itself free and flew toward the sound.
Basilikov’s gaze followed its path.
And he saw.
A thick hand catching the axe, and two dark, deep eyes gleaming in the shadows.
The owner was a towering figure, muscles clearly defined even under heavy armor, blocking the alley alone.
“Haha.”
Basilikov laughed hollowly. He couldn’t believe the situation.
The mercenary he had hoped to find in a coffin just thirty minutes ago, the target he had chased to this distant land, had become the executioner, now standing in the alley to kill him.
“Good instincts.”
The mercenary spoke. Basilikov swallowed hard.
Looking down at his sword with trembling eyes, he saw cracks in the blade that had remained unscathed for ten years.
Had he been a moment slower, it wouldn’t have been the sword that broke, but his skull.
Could he block it again? He couldn’t be sure.
“Are you the mastermind behind this?”
The mercenary asked. Basilikov nodded involuntarily.
The mercenary’s lips curled into a slight smile. He spoke again.
“Looks like we can have a conversation. We have a lot to discuss, don’t we?”