Episode 9 - Behemoth Rises 1

The information she obtained was simple.
Next Friday, the Four Gang Lords would gather at an arena accessible through an old flower shop called the ‘Hall of Fragrance’ to observe a gladiatorial event.


Pink Rose Street housed vast underground facilities, including a long-abandoned aqueduct.
Among these underground aqueduct facilities were vast caverns scattered here and there. It was said that one such cavern had been converted into an arena where a traditional gladiatorial tournament of the underworld would be held.


Upon hearing that all four Gang Lords would gather here as both hosts and honored guests for this event, Kaftin set off for this location without delay.


It was regrettable that Count Carloz was absent, but the opponent was the core of the aristocratic faction boasting significant influence in the Maritime Kingdom's parliament.
It wouldn't be that simple to confront them.


Then, first things first: the Four Gang Lords.


Escaping the City Guard's encirclement via a secret passage, Kaftin spent several days moving between cheap inns scattered throughout the city.


Thanks to killing thugs in back alleys night after night to steal their wallets for food money, the City Guard was on high alert daily.


“Damn it! That bloody murderer! Where'd he go?!”
“Hey! You lot, that alley over there! Don't let a single ant slip through!”
“His portrait! Give me a portrait too! I've never seen the bastard's face!”


Somehow, the City Guard had identified Kaftin as the culprit behind the recent nightly murders and were even distributing his portrait.


They'd even put a bounty of 20 gold pieces on his head.
This was the first bounty placed on him in this district.
Watching the scene from the window of a shabby inn room, Kaftin chewed on corn and shook his head.


“Trying to catch me with a portrait like that... How ridiculous.”


The portrait they'd made didn't resemble him much at all.


All they had managed to pin down was black hair, black eyes, and fiercely curly locks—and even the curls weren't drawn correctly.


Probably none of the witnesses could properly describe curly hair.
With a portrait like that, he shouldn't have much trouble walking the streets.


Two days until the next gladiatorial tournament.
The number of well-heeled thugs was gradually dwindling.


For nearly a week, he'd been picking off only the wealthier-looking ruffians every night, beating them to death and taking their wallets. Word had spread, and the remaining ones had started hiding.


“They're running faster than I thought... Boring.”


He began turning over ideas in his head, jingling the stolen money pouches.
Considering his appetite, this petty cash, no matter how much he saved, barely covered his living expenses.


Even the clothes he wore right now were stolen. He'd threatened a thug during a raid, stripped him of whatever fit, and now they pinched everywhere.


He'd poured every last coin he'd stolen into food and lodging.
He could have slept rough, but with the emergency patrols running day and night, he risked getting caught by the City Guard.
Besides, he could get tangled up in other petty troubles.


Anyway, Kaftin felt it keenly—if he wanted to seriously make a living, his current methods wouldn't cut it.


“Kill the Four Gang Lords and seize their positions... is that it?”


Kaftin savored Whispermeer's words, his mouth watering.


*****


“What? Vesren...? Why is that insignificant bastard's name popping up again now, twenty years later?”


Athunga was genuinely dumbfounded.


Twenty years. Twenty years.
It had been twenty years since that stupid torture technician had died, struggling desperately against their full-scale assault.


And now some idiot was bringing up his name, trying to take revenge on them?
He was so flabbergasted he couldn't speak.


“Where was he from? What was he up to?”
“Well, I don't know the details, but... he wasn't an ordinary person.”
“Ha! That makes sense. If someone knows enough to bring up the name of some idiot who barely made a name for himself in the underworld twenty years ago, they must know this business. So, how old is he?”


At Athunga's question, the agent hesitated for a moment.


Black Curse King Athunga.
Currently considered the foremost of the Four Gang Lords of Pink Rose Street, a powerful commanding sorcerer in the late sixth circle.


He wore an elegant black tuxedo embroidered with gold thread, his right hand gripping a staff adorned with a skull—said to be carved from bone, with two magic stones embedded in its eye sockets—while his left hand held a swaying glass of red wine.


His white hair was cut short, slicked back neatly with copious amounts of oil. His deeply wrinkled forehead bore vertical creases that appeared when he frowned, hinting at his meticulous and cruel nature.


He was a terrifying boss and manager, rumored not to simply kill organizations or enemies who defied him, but to turn them into undead and exploit them in his business.


“Speak. How old was that fool?”
“...According to his testimony, he was 16...”
“What...?”


He briefly looked at the agent to confirm he'd heard correctly, but the man only stammered, offering no further explanation.
So then, was that true?


“Are you serious? A mere 16-year-old brat, just barely of age, dared to mention the name of some stupid torture technician who died 20 years ago and threatened to kill me?”
“Yes... yes!”
“And you call yourselves the Information Guild?”
“Hic?!”


Athunga stomped his staff on the floor, expressing his displeasure.
He'd been watching them with some disdain, impressed by their professional demeanor until now. Had these guys finally lost their minds after eating something bad?


“Didn't you clearly say you weren't interested in the drug business? Surely you're not saying you're interested in eating it yourselves, not the business?”
“Th-that's not it! It's all true!”
“I'm asking if that's what you came asking for as information! You moron!”
“H-heh?!”


Unable to contain himself, he hurled the wine glass in his left hand to vent his frustration.
The agent desperately crouched to dodge the glass, but fortunately, Athunga began regaining his composure, pressing his hand to his forehead.


“So there's a connection between that bastard and the torture technician...”
“Well... from what we heard, he also claimed to be the successor of the Torture Martial Arts.”
“......”


Athunga's eyes sank coldly.
With that title mentioned, it was certain this agent's information wasn't nonsense.


Torture Martial Arts was that laughable technique that stupid torturer guy used to mimic combat skills, pretending to protect himself with his non-existent talent.


If that kid was embarrassed enough to bring up such an obscure technique name, he clearly had some kind of connection to that torturer guy.


Then...
He couldn't be left alive.
He had to be killed to silence him, to prevent future trouble.


“Hey. That little punk, you're tracking where he is and what he's doing now, right?”
“Ah, yes! Of course. Two of our agents are observing him from a distance.”
“......”


Should I send an assassin?
As he mentally narrowed down suitable candidates, he suddenly spoke as if a thought occurred to him.


“Hold on. What did that brat do?”
“Well, he... he interrogated the Four Gang Lords and Carloz about their whereabouts.”
“...And sold it for money?”
“...Yes....”


It was awkward to admit he'd sold information about the Four Gang Lords, but his counterpart was Athunga.
The agent, who had barely managed to answer in a shrinking voice, closed his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut.


As he wept, prepared to die and become an undead at the furious Athunga's hands,


“Well, that saves me some trouble. Hey! That brat isn't running around spouting nonsense or anything, is he?”
“Ah, eh? Yes?!”
“I asked if he's spreading weird rumors or something.”
“Th-there's absolutely no sign of that. For money, he attacks thugs every night and brutally murders them, but...”
“Hmph. That's good enough.”


Athunga waved them off with a dismissive gesture, as if annoyed.


“Eh...?”
“If what you say is true, he'll definitely crash this Friday's gladiator tournament. Right?”
“...! Y-Yes.”
“Good. The moment he barges in, we'll add our own bounty to the one already on his head and make sure the tournament participants turn him into mincemeat.”


The agent's lips twitched at Athunga's words, spoken as if this were a simple matter.
The information they had obtained... they hadn't managed to convey the fact that the body of Kaftin, the youngster seeking revenge, was not an ordinary one.


“Um, excuse me...”
“Enough! Now get lost!”
“Ah, yes! Understood! My apologies!”


Startled by Athunga's displeased bark, the agent bowed hastily and retreated.
It is said Athunga would later regret this incident for a long time.


*****


Friday.


The gladiatorial tournament commenced as scheduled.


The underground arena was brightly lit, relying mainly on the faint light streaming through the skylights piercing the ceiling and floor of the flower shop, supplemented by torches.


The commentator, holding a wand enchanted with a sound amplification spell, was hyping up the atmosphere from the broadcast booth.


“The main event of the Dark City Four Gang Lords' Gladiatorial Tournament, held without fail every year! That tournament begins today! Today it starts! Thirty-two warriors, who survived countless preliminary rounds, are waiting to show you blood and victory!”


In the VIP section, the Four Gang Lords gathered to watch the event were comfortably reclined in luxurious chairs, ready to observe.


“So, that youngster is coming?”


Gabelth, the Night Fist Lord with a combative nature, showed particular interest in the successor to the Torture Martial Arts passed down by Athunga.


Considering how he'd been right at the front, fighting that bastard Vesren with gusto when they dealt with him, it was only natural.
Regardless of the circumstances, seeing him so healthy at his age was always a relief.


“He asked for information, so he can't very well not come. If not now, he'll never get another chance to face us all at once.”
“Hee-hee…. If he does come, can I take him on first?”
“No way. You're not alone anymore, are you? Those flies are for your subordinates to deal with.”


Gabelth licked his lips and clung even tighter to Athunga, who waved him off dismissively.


“Hey, hey, don't do that... You know as well as I do? No one wants to spar with me these days, what with my age. I'm bending over backwards trying to find a sparring partner. Just a little, just a little sparring, then I'll back off... Huh?”
“Ugh...”


That tone made it painfully obvious he'd charge out regardless of what anyone said.


“You never know, right? That torture technician... who was he again?”
“...Vesren.”
“Right! If that bastard's still alive, he's a pain in the ass, isn't he? I'll beat some sense out of him and find out.”
“......”


Who knew Gabelth had thought that far ahead?
Silently acknowledging he hadn't aged in vain, I drew a circle with my fingers to signal okay.


Soon the game began, and they enjoyed the match while maintaining a tense state.


Twenty years had passed since that day. Having never let their guard down for even a moment, they had reached this place. For them, words like “laxity” or “laziness” simply didn't exist.


-To be continued-