Episode 4 — Sister Heavy Arms 1

"Ho."

"That's Whaleoka, from the Roaring Dragon Society. One of the top three artisan users in the whole faction."

"I see."

"But building gear this refined that doesn't even exist in the game normally..."

"?"

"This must've cost a fortune."

At Cuticle's remark, the Professor let out a short laugh. Now he understood why she'd come at him so relentlessly.

At a glance, it was clear — a user running a class and equipment that didn't exist in the game. Which meant, naturally, all her gear was handmade. And handmade meant expensive, every last piece of it.

"Next time I run into her, I'll have to kill her and see what drops."

"Wha— Professor?"

"What?"

"Isn't that a bit much?"

"She's going to pay for what she did to my favorite helmet."

Ten days passed.

As expected, once official-match season kicked off, the fighting between the Black Tiger Alliance and the Roaring Dragon Society tipped in the Alliance's favor. It wasn't that the Roaring Dragon Society was weak — they simply couldn't rack up meaningful results against the Alliance's flexible tactics.

Rattling the Roaring Dragon Society's regular server right before the season started, using outside contractors, had clearly done its job. Unlike the Black Tiger Alliance, whose dark-gamer core made them comfortable using mercenaries, the Roaring Dragon Society had a more insular streak, strongly preferring to handle everything with their own people. In the end, they'd had to pull some of their official-match forces to deal with the Alliance's outsourced raids, and that had cost them the war of attrition.

The Professor, watching the official-match broadcast with mild disinterest, had just switched the channel when the doorbell rang.

A client, it seemed.

The visitor this time was a mid-level officer from Mary's Children, a faction made up mostly of Catholic believers centered around what used to be Italy. They occasionally brought him small jobs, so they were on familiar terms.

Having Cuticle bring out tea, the Professor sat down across from him to discuss the job.

"Surprising, seeing you here in the middle of official-match season."

Most factions, presumably, were fully absorbed in official matches right now. For the Professor, who made it a policy never to participate in official matches, this season was usually a slow one for business. And yet this season, jobs kept coming to him for some reason.

"Something troublesome came up."

The job was a rescue.

Being a faction centered on religious devotees, Mary's Children generally maintained friendly relations with the factions around them — but there were a rare few they were hostile with. One of them was Crimson Hood, a mafia clan coalition formed by descendants of old-world crime organizations. A named user from one of Crimson Hood's mid-tier factions, Father Masquerade, had been trying to defect to Mary's Children for reasons of her own — but Father Masquerade had caught wind of it and taken her into custody.

They'd wanted to rescue her, but Mary's Children had also mobilized most of its people for the official matches, leaving no spare team to send. In the end, they'd come to hire the Professor, whose selling point was a 100% success rate.

"Don't worry about the money — I've already accounted for it. Hired a getaway driver too, just in case."

"That's not what concerns me."

The Professor didn't particularly care for religious types as a rule, but he knew well enough that Mary's Children weren't people who took trust relationships lightly. The only thing that gave him pause was that the opposing side belonged to Crimson Hood, one of Worst Field's largest superfactions.

100% success rate or not, he was still just a lone freelance mercenary. If a major faction ever decided to mobilize its full force to hunt him down, there'd be little he could do. It was exactly why he never got involved in official matches.

"A rescue's going to run a bit expensive. Is that all right with you?"

"...As long as it's not too expensive..."

His eyes shifted uncomfortably, but there was an honest look to him — clearly not someone plotting anything. The Professor didn't mind clients like that.

"For now, I'll go over the details."

"Here you are."

He handed over a device loaded with the data he'd compiled. The Professor tapped it, scanning through the holographic readout that came up.

Sister Grave.

A rowdy, powerfully built woman who wore a specially made bulletproof nun's habit, her body wrapped almost entirely in ammo belts underneath, wielding a heavy machine gun in each hand. Up until recently, she'd been a named user on Father Masquerade's side, with a solid combat record from official matches — a fairly well-known figure.

"I see. Someone of that caliber — makes sense Father Masquerade would want to hold onto her."

"Exactly. We'd just barely managed to talk her into coming over to our side, and she'd sat out this official-match season for it, but..."

"And that's exactly what tipped off Masquerade."

"........."

After a moment's thought, the Professor nodded, wrote a figure on the device, and showed it to him. The officer had to steady himself, swallowing hard.

It was a bit steeper than he'd expected. As advertised — a man who charged his own rates and never haggled.

"...Ah. That figure's for if she manages to escape under her own power."

"Huh?"

Remembering the getaway driver, the Professor apparently reconsidered and lowered the number slightly. Relieved, the officer took the hand the Professor offered.

"I'm counting on you!"

"Don't worry."

The moment he left, the Professor immediately began packing his gear. The client had asked for a swift rescue, so he intended to go scout the area right away. Slinging a light bag over his shoulder, he made his way to the city where she was being held, under Father Masquerade's control.

Since every city was connected by rail and bus lines, travel itself was no trouble.

"So this is it."

Stepping off the bus and taking in the scene, the Professor confirmed his suspicion. This city was Father Masquerade's logistics hub — a place for users heading to official matches to stay and resupply. If this hadn't been official-match season, this rescue would have been impossible for the Professor to pull off alone.

The only users visible were a handful of production-class NPCs shuffling through paperwork in what looked like a warehouse building, managing supplies bound for official-match participants. Everyone else was just NPC security patrolling the streets and worker NPCs at the resource depots.

This much, the Professor judged, made a solo rescue perfectly feasible. Though, just in case, he'd need to strike during the early morning hours, when most users would be logged out.

He headed straight for the security company holding her.

Since the game's setting lacked any real government, and everything was run by corporations, city security was handled by one of three NPC security companies. None of them had particularly distinct characteristics, but their uniforms differed, and so did the equipment they used.

The one Father Masquerade had hired was—

"Fitting, I suppose."

The sign that came into the Professor's view belonged to Brawler Blues — in-universe lore had them pegged as a ruthless mercenary company from the early days of space colonization. Of the three companies, they had the most high-handed NPCs and were known for not hesitating to open fire. At the same time, they were also the easiest to bribe.

"Hey! You there! What are you here for? Turning yourself in?"

Conflict-zone territories operated under a number of unwritten rules distinct from regular servers. Ordinary users unfamiliar with them often ran into trouble with whatever faction controlled the area. The usual outcome was getting caught by that faction's users, robbed, and killed — but if you managed to turn yourself in to the local security company first, you'd simply get locked up by the NPCs. And if even that was too much, you could pay a fine to the NPC guards and have the whole thing wiped clean.

"No, just passing through — sightseeing, more or less."

"Hmph. If you're not here to surrender, don't loiter around a place like this. Before I throw you in myself."

The guard — wearing Brawler Blues' signature torn sleeveless uniform that showed off his thick forearms — shook a fist at him threateningly.

The Professor waved him off in apparent agreement, backing away slowly while scanning as much of the station facilities as he could with his eyes.

"No helping it... I'll have to work on that place separately."

If it were any building besides Brawler Blues', it wouldn't have mattered much — a floor plan of the security headquarters was bound to be floating around somewhere on the black market. The real problem was finding a way to draw out the swarm of NPC guards inside.

"Let's see..."

After several days of reconnaissance, the Professor put his plan into motion. He logged in during the early morning hours in real time, when most users would be resting, and made his way into the city.

His first stop was the largest building in the city — the city hall.

Slipping past the NPCs' notice, he planted the explosives he'd brought, packed into his bag, at several points throughout the building. Then, walking out with an ordinary, unhurried gait, he took up a position in front of the security headquarters.

"Let's get started."

The moment he clicked the switch clutched in his right hand, a tremendous explosion rang out, and the city hall building began to collapse spectacularly. Not quite enough to level it entirely — but the foundation had been targeted precisely enough to make the whole structure tilt, which would be more than enough to draw the NPCs' attention.

"Wh-what's happening?!" "Th-the city hall exploded!"

"Damn it! Terrorists?! Seal off the city gates immediately! Move, move!"

Sure enough, the security NPCs stationed at headquarters spilled out with grim expressions, scattering in every direction to stabilize the city and manage the damage.

The Professor slipped into a restroom inside the headquarters building amid the chaos. Inside, he changed into a security uniform he'd prepared beforehand and removed his helmet.

"Phew..."

After pulling on a synthetic-skin disguise over his face, he neatly stowed his gear and stepped back out.

Spotting a relatively junior-looking NPC hurrying by with a barricade in hand, he calmly raised a hand to flag him down.

"Wh-what's going on, sir? Kind of in a hurry here, make it quick!"

"Nothing much — just got assigned to guard the prisoner holding block, and this being my first time here, I'm not sure where..."

Playing the part of a transfer just arrived from elsewhere, he watched the rookie nod and give him quick directions.

"I'll be off then! Good luck on watch!"

"Ah. You too."

Watching him dash off with his barricade gear for a moment, the Professor set off at a brisk pace toward the basement — level B4.

The dedicated holding block for users was located on the lowest floor of headquarters. Taking the elevator down, he found two guards posted in front of the iron door leading to the holding block.

"Damn, what the hell's going on up there?"

"Some kind of uprising during official-match season, of all times... whoever's behind it..."

The explosion outside had apparently carried all the way down here — the two guards looked visibly uneasy.

"Yo."

The disguised Professor walked up casually, waving. The two flinched, reaching for their pistols, but lowered their hands once they registered the uniform.

"What, just you?"

"Yeah. There's a whole mess going on outside."

"What's happening out there?"

"Terrorism. Sounds like the city hall got hit."

Keeping up the pretense of casual small talk, as if this were a shift change, the two NPCs — still somewhat suspicious — began to drift, one step at a time, from their posts.

—To be continued—