Northern Babel, [Dead City of Flowers] Area 1.
Although Babel went by the name of an academy city, it functioned far more like a massive vocational training institute. Graduating from Babel yielded enormous prestige. For alumni of the Tower at Babel's core in particular, a glorious future was practically guaranteed. To that end, Babel maintained an open-door policy, turning away no one who possessed genuine power—though whether a notorious criminal could actually pass the entrance exam was a different matter entirely.
In short, there were no restrictions barring hardened veterans of the underworld from taking the exam, even if they were well past adulthood.
"Aaaagh!"
A scarred behemoth wielding a curved blade had suddenly emerged from the trees, prompting a blond youth to loose an arrow with a terrified shriek. The shaft struck the giant's shaved head, but with the sharp ping of deflected metal, it tumbled harmlessly to the ground without leaving so much as a scratch.
"Damn it!"
Driven by sheer desperation, two girls flanking the petrified archer raised their swords and slashed at the scarred giant. Their strikes merely bounced off his ironclad hide. With a casual backhand sweep of his left arm—as though swatting away persistent insects—he sent the teenagers crashing into the tree trunks, where they crumpled into stillness.
Gazing at the fallen youths whose necks were bent at unnatural angles, the giant clicked his tongue.
"Dead already...? This is why I hate dealing with brats. Too fragile."
Muttering under his breath, the scarred giant turned his eyes toward the youth who had drawn the bow.
"Eeeek!"
His legs completely failing him, the boy slumped to the ground in terror. The giant closed the distance with a single stride.
"Sorry, kid. Things get messy otherwise, and since you saw too much, you've gotta go."
With a clean sweep of his curved sword, he severed the screaming boy's head. He fished the badge from the corpse's pocket, giving it a nonchalant flick of his finger.
"Ha! I thought this'd be a tedious job just luring some brats out, but it's turning into some real easy money."
The massive, bald-headed man—the B-rank criminal known as Mad Hound—smirked as he appraised the badge.
This particular contract came straight from Babel's upper echelons. No matter how many examinees he slaughtered, he would not be disqualified, and his final score would be paid out in aul once the exam concluded. On top of that, delivering the designated targets to their specified location would net Mad Hound an astronomical sum.
When he had initially been placed in a different squad from that incompetent fool named Kai Heinemann—deviating from the original plan—he had felt pure murderous intent toward his Babel employers. Now, however, he was actually grateful.
Most importantly, they were honoring their agreement: no amount of killing on Mad Hound's part would result in disqualification, allowing him to carry out the contract without a single hitch.
"Now then, guess it's about time I tracked down the mark and wrapped this up."
Just as he turned to stride deeper into the forest—
"Hm?"
Three fiery spears rained down from above. Twisting his torso, he dodged the first, cleaved the second in two with his curved sword, and caught the third in his left hand, hurling it back toward the canopy. The flame spear vanished into the dense foliage, and with a rustle of leaves, a green-robed man came crashing to the forest floor.
"Small fry!"
Evidently, the academy had hired other criminals for the job, explaining why he was attacked every time he crossed paths with one.
When contracts clashed, might made right. Such was the law of the underworld for Mad Hound and his ilk. This was simply the natural way of things.
(Ain't done yet, huh.)
An oppressive, dangerous aura bled from the deeper woods. His opponent clearly had no intention of concealing his presence.
"Come on out!"
In response to the scarred giant's roar, a lightly armored swordsman with long black hair stepped from the forest's shadowy depths.
"Hoh. You look like you might actually put up a decent fight."
"..."
The black-haired swordsman merely let the corner of his mouth curl upward before leveling his blade. An instant later, the two clashed.
Mad Hound and the black-haired swordsman were an absolute match in skill.
After dozens of blade strikes, a sharp pain suddenly pierced Mad Hound's left shin. A serpent of flame had clamped its jaws onto his leg. A beat later, his vision swam, and he dropped to one knee.
"You muscle-brained gorilla! That's a paralytic venom potent enough to drop an ogre! We win!"
The green-robed man, who had been lying on the ground moments ago, shouted in triumph.
Paralytic venom, huh? Thanks to his Gift, Mad Hound possessed a natural resistance to toxic effects. Even so, purging the poison would take several minutes, during which his movements would be severely compromised. Against a common thug, he might manage, but the swordsman before him was hardly soft enough to let such an opening slip by.
"You bastard..."
The black-haired swordsman quietly observed the staggering Mad Hound and the gloating green-robed man before making an utterly unexpected proposal:
"Why don't you two join forces with me?"
"Hah? Join forces?"
Doing so would split the payout three ways. Escorting an incompetent brat and a pampered noble to a drop point was supposed to be easy money. There was no reason to collaborate.
"Is this 'cause of Somni Barrel, that Sacred Martial Arts Tournament semifinalist?" the green-robed man asked, conjuring another spear of fire in midair.
"His advancement was entirely due to his family's influence, though he remains blissfully unaware of it. He is hardly a reason for us to team up."
Narrowing his eyes, the long-haired swordsman shook his head in dismissal.
"Hey, hey. Don't tell me you wanna team up over one incompetent brat?"
One of their targets, Kai Heinemann, was a pitiful Gift Holder known as the most incompetent in the world. There was no way he posed any threat.
"Indeed. Word has it he fought on equal terms with Zack Power during the Sacred Martial Arts Tournament."
"Ah, that bogus rumor? No way in hell that's true."
Zack's martial prowess was legendary, not just in the daylight world, but throughout the underworld as well. He was a monster surrounded by tales of valor, such as single-handedly wiping out a massive horde led by goblin generals. The notion that someone with the world's weakest Gift could fight him to a draw was absurd.
"It is no rumor; it is the truth. Of that, there is no question."
At the long-haired swordsman's unwavering certainty, the other scoffed.
"Hah! I heard about that, too. Something about him using illegal magic items to cheat his way into the main tournament—"
"Are you an idiot? No amount of magic items would let anyone fight that monster Zack on equal footing!" Mad Hound barked in disgust.
"What did you say?!" the green-robed man snapped back.
"No, he is correct. Merely outfitting oneself with magic items would never bridge the gap against Zack. I have witnessed him in battle before; he is not an opponent one can handle so lightly."
The black-haired swordsman immediately backed Mad Hound's assessment.
"..."
Sensing no deception in his tone, the green-robed man silently dispersed his floating spear of flame.
"In short, you're saying this job is way harder than we thought. That what you're getting at?"
"Precisely. Far harder than you realize. And the headmaster faction within Babel—who oppose our employers—are likely operating under the same assumption."
The opposing faction within Babel's leadership, huh. Mad Hound finally grasped where the black-haired man was leading them.
"So the reason I got booted from Kai Heinemann's team was because of the chief headmaster faction?"
The black-haired man's lips curled into a faint smile.
"I take it the two of you were originally promised spots on Kai Heinemann's squad, were you not?"
Turning his gaze toward the green-robed man, he prompted an emotionless nod.
"Yeah."
"If my instincts serve me, the two currently assigned to Kai Heinemann were personally handpicked by the chief headmaster."
It all lined up. In fact, the pieces fit together far too cleanly. If Kai Heinemann was an anomaly significant enough to put Babel on high alert, going after him alone was suicidal.
"Works for me," the green-robed man agreed.
"I'll take you up on that offer, too," Mad Hound grunted, nodding in accord.
The golden rule of survival in this trade was never to underestimate a mark. Even if a target appeared as harmless as a slime, any hint of an anomaly demanded overwhelming force to crush.
At this very moment, the threat of Kai Heinemann had grown too severe for Mad Hound and his cohorts to dismiss.
"Splendid. The bounty will be split evenly among the three of us. No objections?"
"Fine by me."
"Same here."
The black-haired swordsman nodded in satisfaction.
"Then I look forward to our brief partnership."
He raised a hand in farewell as they parted.
Once Mad Hound neutralized the poison, he and the green-robed man vanished into the thicket. Watching them leave, the black-haired man's face twisted into an expression of sheer revulsion.
(Dealing with simpletons is truly exhausting.)
Muttering with quiet venom, he snapped his fingers. Black flames erupted from beneath his feet, rippling across the clearing in concentric rings.
The pitch-black fire reduced the corpses of the three examinees to ash in an instant, simultaneously melting the swordsman's form away to reveal a white-haired old gentleman with an impeccably groomed beard.
Upon the ground where the slaughtered youths had fallen, the three students now lay peacefully, their cheeks flushed with healthy color.
(As if millions of brainless marionettes dancing on their strings could ever hope to land a single scratch upon that Great One.)
The White-Haired Old Gentleman brought his hands together with a sharp clap, conjuring three masses of black flame that coalesced into humanoid forms.
(Take these children and deposit them near the plaza.)
The three figures of living shadow gave curt nods, scooped up the unconscious teenagers, and streaked toward the plaza at blinding speed.
(Now that I have disposed of the refuse cluttering our path, I suppose the grand finale is finally at hand.)
The White-Haired Old Gentleman clasped his hands in sheer ecstasy.
(Ah, my great and revered God! By the absolute fidelity of my soul, I swear I shall prove myself worthy of Your grace!)
He renewed his vow with burning fervor. The manic glow in his eyes was identical to—no, far more terrifying than—that of the compendium's most devoted denizens. He was a fanatic through and through.