Chapter 28: The New Master (2)
Ding-a-ling.
As the door to the pharmacy opened, a beautiful chime echoed throughout the shop.
An old woman, hunched over and wrapped in a tattered scarf, shuffled inside.
"Welcome."
A middle-aged man, half-bald and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, greeted the old woman.
He was the owner of the pharmacy, dressed in a white coat over his suit.
"Ah, good day, pharmacist," the old woman said, greeting him warmly, her face wrinkled with age.
The pharmacist returned her greeting just as warmly. Indeed, she was a well-known and respected figure in the city.
"Yes, I’m always well, as usual. Now, here, let me help you..."
The pharmacist moved closer to assist the elderly woman, who struggled with arthritis.
It was a kindness ingrained in him, and the old woman expressed her gratitude.
"Th-thank you, doctor. That... Ah! The chicken dish you sent the other day, I enjoyed it so much! It was the best meal I’ve had in my life. Really, thank you."
"No need to thank me. I’m just glad you enjoyed it."
The pharmacist replied skillfully. After all, he had done so many good deeds in the city that hearing such thanks several times a day was no surprise to him.
Once her words of thanks were over, the old woman pulled out a crumpled bill from her pocket.
"I know it’s really... really shameful to ask, but could I buy a painkiller with this money? Please, doctor?"
The pharmacist glanced at the money. It wasn’t enough, not even close.
The old woman seemed to understand as she pleaded once more.
"It’s getting harder and harder for me to move... I’ll pay the rest later..."
The pharmacist raised his hand, stopping her. He then went into the back of the shop and brought out a recently stocked painkiller.
It was a painkiller made by John Snow Pharmaceuticals, known for its solid effectiveness.
"Take it with water before bed. It’s a newly released painkiller, and I hear it works quite well."
"It looks rather expensive..."
The old woman hesitated, her voice trembling, but the pharmacist responded kindly.
"Don’t worry about it. Let’s call it an early birthday present."
"But my birthday’s still far away..."
"Didn’t I forget to give you a gift last year? Just take it. You can say that money was pocket money for your grandson."
Despite her reluctance, the old woman eventually accepted the pharmacist’s kindness, feeling immensely grateful.
She repeatedly thanked him, while the pharmacist, wearing a benevolent smile, reassured her that it was no trouble at all.
"How old is your grandson again?"
"He's... he’s about fifteen now, I think."
"If you’d like, I could arrange some work for him. There are places in need of help, like the warehouse or restaurants and factories in Landa. Just let me know if you're interested."
"Thank you, thank you so much... You’ll surely be blessed."
The old woman expressed her thanks as she prepared to leave, but at that moment, the chime rang again, and she almost collided with the people who had just entered.
"Oh my..."
"Are you alright?"
A boy with jet-black hair and pale skin—he looked like a living corpse—steadied the old woman before she could fall.
Though his actions were kind, his lifeless skin and dead eyes caused more discomfort than friendliness.
The old woman, likely feeling the same, hurriedly thanked him and hastily exited the pharmacy.
"...."
"...."
The recently arrived guest and the pharmacist exchanged silent glances.
After a moment, sensing something unusual, the pharmacist walked over and locked the door with a click. He hung a sign that read "Closed" at the entrance.
"Just to be sure, I’ll ask—You’re not here to buy medicine, are you? You came looking for me."
The guest—no, Oliver—responded.
"Yes."
The pharmacist led Oliver and his companions, Mari and Peter, into a small room at the back of the pharmacy.
"Sorry, there are only two chairs, and I can only offer water. This room wasn’t designed for entertaining guests, you see."
"That’s fine, sir."
The pharmacist poured water into cups, took one for himself, and asked,
"Let’s get to the point. I never close for more than 20 minutes, no matter how urgent. So, what’s the reason for your visit?"
"I came to ask you a favor."
"A favor?"
"Yes."
"If it’s a favor from Joseph, he should be the one coming himself. Why are you here instead?"
"Because it’s my request, not his."
"...."
The pharmacist quietly studied Oliver, trying to figure out what this was all about. But just like the previous times—when Oliver came to extract life force or brought in an attacker—there was no malice, no goodwill, and no ulterior motive in his demeanor.
".... Normally, I wouldn’t even listen and would kick you out. But since you helped my employees during that battle with the wizard, I’ll hear you out... Wait. Before we continue, you did get Joseph’s permission for this, right? He won’t be pleased if you acted without his approval."
"Oh, don’t worry about that. He’s dead."
"...What?"
"He died. In Landa."
"...Did you see it happen?"
"Yes."
"How did he die?"
"He was hit by a Wrath Bomb. It blew off one of his arms, and he bled to death..."
"Did other black magicians attack him? And how did you manage to survive...? Ah, did you kill him?"
The pharmacist, as if he had figured it out, spoke. Oliver calmly answered.
"Yes, that’s right."
Despite the shocking revelation, the pharmacist wasn’t all that surprised. Looking at the boy in front of him, it somehow made sense that things would turn out this way.
"...Why did you kill him?"
"He tried to kill me. To be more precise, he intended to sacrifice me to a demon... so I had no choice."
The pharmacist didn’t seem surprised. After decades of dealing with black magicians, he had heard enough of their bizarre actions to no longer be shocked.
Especially for a powerful black magician like Joseph, it wasn’t entirely surprising that he would make a deal with a demon. There was nothing new in that.
But this boy was different.
Any black magician who offered sacrifices to demons would be a terrifying monster.
Yet the boy in front of him, who claimed to have defeated such a monster, showed no signs of joy or arrogance over his victory.
There was no malice, no pride, no cruelty—just a strange, disquieting calm.
"Alright, I get it. Joseph tried to kill you, and you killed him in self-defense. Is that correct?"
"Yes... I’m relieved you understand."
"...What I don’t understand is why you came to see me. What do you want?"
Oliver whispered a few words to Peter before answering.
"Ah, I’m sorry. I’ve taken over as the head of the Family in place of the Master, and I’ve been told that if others find out about the Master’s death, they might attack us."
"That’s possible... Are you here to ask me to mediate?"
"Yes, that’s right. Could you help us?"
It was a request so innocent, it was almost naive. The pharmacist sensed something deeper than simple malice or scheming.
"No."
"...May I ask why?"
"Regardless of the reason, I’ve been doing business with Joseph for a long time. Now, suddenly, one of his subordinates has staged a coup and asks for my help. Can you really expect me to help you? For all I know, you could be lying."
"...That could be true."
Oliver seemed to genuinely consider the possibility.
Peter whispered to Oliver again.
"...Still, we would appreciate it if you could assist us. If black magicians end up fighting, it could also affect your business, wouldn’t it?"
"Are you threatening me?"
"No, absolutely not."
Oliver quickly raised his hands, denying any intent to threaten. The pharmacist sighed.
"Haa... You have a point, but mediating a conflict like this usually brings no gain. At best, I break even. At worst, I lose everything. If I help you and someone gets the wrong idea, I stand to lose more than I gain."
"But you’ve helped before, haven’t you?"
"That was when both sides wanted peace, and I stood to benefit from it."
"Then, what if I could offer you something in return? Something that benefits you?"
The pharmacist was about to dismiss it as nonsense, but he stopped when he saw the look in Oliver’s eyes.
It wasn’t just idle talk—his instincts as a businessman told him so.
"...I can’t promise to help fully, but I can at least arrange a meeting so you can have a conversation. After that, it’s up to you."
"That would be more than enough. Thank you."
"I haven’t agreed to anything yet. What can you offer me?"
"Oh, that would be..."
Oliver pulled out a filgaret and began to speak.
...
Two days after the meeting with the pharmacist.
As promised, the pharmacist arranged for Anthony and Dominique, the heads of two black magic families, to meet at a tavern he owned.
Anthony was a thin man with pale skin and brown hair slicked to one side.
Dominique, on the other hand, had a sturdy, muscular build and a square jaw, like someone used to manual labor.
Both men were around the same age as Joseph, so naturally, they didn’t take kindly to Oliver, who barely looked older than fifteen.
Still, since it was the pharmacist’s invitation, they kept silent and observed the situation.
"...."
"...."
"...."
The awkward silence weighed heavily on the room, until Oliver stood up and greeted them.
"Thank you both for coming. I truly appreciate it."
There was no reply.
But to say there was no reaction would be wrong. Each of them displayed different emotions: curiosity, irritation, confusion, speculation, and calculation.
As Oliver was about to speak again, Anthony raised his hand.
"Ah, yes. Is there something you'd like to ask?"
"...I have many questions, but let’s start with the most basic. Who are you?"
"Oh, my apologies. I’m not very used to these kinds of meetings... My name is Oliver."
"Oliver?"
Dominique, with his greased-back hair and rough stubble, stroked his chin as he spoke.
"Ah, you’re that Oliver? I heard about you. The one who took down a wizard in an ambush, right?"
"Yes."
"Hah! Just as I heard—you really do look like a weakling! So, you’re the one who killed a wizard?"
"I got lucky."
Dominique laughed, but suddenly stopped, his expression turning stern.
"I was told Joseph would be here. So why are you here instead?"
His sudden change in tone wasn’t genuine anger but rather an attempt to intimidate. It seemed Dominique was skilled at using this kind of posturing to control people.
Indeed, Mari and Peter flinched slightly at his shift in demeanor.
Dominique addressed the pharmacist directly.
"Pharmacist, you told us Joseph would be here. I don’t appreciate being played for a fool."
Dominique’s arrogant and threatening behavior caused the pharmacist’s employees to tense up, and in response, Dominique’s men began growling like wolves.
The atmosphere quickly became hostile.
The pharmacist calmed his staff and responded,
"I said the head of the Joseph Family wanted to meet you."
"Right. And that’s Joseph, isn’t it? So, where is h—"
Dominique stopped mid-sentence, realizing something. He turned to look at Oliver.
Anthony, too, sharpened his gaze as he scrutinized Oliver, who then spoke.
"Hello. I’m Oliver, the new head of the Joseph Family."
Oliver bowed politely, but the response he got was as cold as ice.
Both men stared at him, processing the information, until finally, Dominique grinned wickedly.
"I don’t get this shit at all. What the hell’s going on here?"
"I’ve taken over as the new head of the Joseph Family—"
"—No, no, you little shit. That’s not what I meant. How can a kid like you be the head of the family when Joseph’s still alive?"
"Ah..."
Oliver looked at the pharmacist, who shook his head. Finally understanding, Oliver explained further.
"The Master has passed away."
"Passed away? Joseph?"
Anthony was visibly shocked, clearly not believing what he had just heard.
"Yes."
"Who killed him? The man had enough power to make a name for himself even in Landa."
"I killed him. He tried to kill me."
"So you’re saying you killed Joseph?"
"Yes."
Though Oliver’s answer was calm and straightforward, it didn’t ease the tension in the room.
Dominique’s expression darkened, and Anthony chuckled in disbelief before asking in a low voice,
"How old are you?"
"My age?"
"Yeah, how old are you?"
"I’m not sure... I grew up in an orphanage and worked in a mine, so I don’t know my exact age."
"Hah... So, an orphanage kid who worked in a mine. Let me ask again—are you saying you killed Joseph?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any proof?"
"No... I thought it would be disrespectful to decapitate the Master’s body."
"This kid’s completely insane."
Dominique muttered, though it was unclear what part he found so crazy.
He then turned to the pharmacist.
"Pharmacist, you expect us to believe this nonsense? You called us here based on this crazy kid’s story?"
"It didn’t seem like a lie. Besides, he made an interesting proposal. One that could benefit all of us."
"This is fucking ridiculous—"
"—Let’s hear him out first."
Before Dominique could explode in anger, Anthony interrupted, trying to calm the situation.
"There’s no harm in listening. Let him speak. So, Oliver, what is it you want?"
"Thank you," Oliver replied sincerely before continuing.
"The reason I asked you to come is because I’d like to make a request."
"A request?"
"Yes. Even though the Master has passed away, I’d like for us to continue living in peace. I don’t like fighting."
Several of Dominique and Anthony’s men snickered at this.
"If you agree, I’ll offer a small reward in return."
"A reward? What kind of reward?"
Oliver reached into his pocket and pulled out a filgaret.
"I’ll share with you a recipe for making better-quality filgarets."
Both Dominique and Anthony reflexively turned their attention to the filgaret in Oliver’s hand. It shimmered with an unusual light.
"What is this?"
"I made this filgaret myself. It’s a higher-quality product than the usual ones. Even the pharmacist has confirmed its quality."
The pharmacist nodded in agreement.
"No, what I mean is, what exactly did you make this filgaret from? It seems strange."
"Oh, I combined the emotions of motherly love and anger, at an 8-to-2 ratio."
Oliver’s explanation left everyone in stunned silence. Anthony raised his hand and spoke.
"That’s an interesting idea, but what makes you think we didn’t already try that?"
"Well, why didn’t you?"
"Because it’s not as simple as it sounds. Emotions are incredibly delicate energies. Combining similar ones might be fine, but mixing opposite emotions is a different story..."
Anthony trailed off as Oliver calmly pulled out two vials and, right before their eyes, mixed two opposing emotions. At first, they clashed violently, but in Oliver’s hands, they soon stabilized and merged into a single, radiant substance.
"...But I can do it."
No one could find the words to respond.
Oliver looked around at the room, gauging their reactions, before speaking again.
"Alternatively, if you provide the emotions, I could synthesize them and supply you with better filgarets on a regular basis. That way, you could make more profits from higher-quality products..."
"Fuck this!"
A voice cut off Oliver’s words.
It was one of Dominique’s men, a hulking brute who growled like a rabid dog.
"You think you can challenge the Master just because you’ve got a few tricks up your sleeve? What, you can do it, so now you think you’re hot shit? This little punk has no respect."
Oliver turned to face the man, who was visibly angry, though there was a hint of cunning behind his rage. He wasn’t just mad; he was testing Oliver’s limits.
The brute pulled out a vial of potion and drank it. It was a mixture of life force and a Muscle Up spell, causing his muscles to swell dramatically.
‘Ah, combining life force with Muscle Up cancels out its side effects.’
As Oliver pondered this, the hulking man shouted and charged forward.
"I’ll teach you some manners, kid!"
Both Anthony and Dominique remained passive, watching the situation unfold, while the pharmacist and his employees stood tense.
As the hulking brute approached, only Mari moved to intercept.
"You dare to interrupt while the leaders are talking—urk!"
But the brute grabbed Mari by the throat with one hand. His hand was so large that one was enough to easily hold her, and he jeered.
"Tell me something, kid. If you’re really the head of the Joseph Family, why’d you only bring two lackeys with you? Were the others too scared to come?"
"Yes, they were all too frightened, so I told them to stay behind."
"Hahaha! This kid’s completely nuts!"
"Is that so? Could you let go of her, though? She looks like she’s in a lot of pain."
Oliver calmly pointed out the obvious, glancing at Mari, who was turning pale from the grip on her neck.
The brute shook her mockingly.
"Oh, what’s the matter? Can’t you do it yourself? You took down Joseph, didn’t you? So go ahead, use your strength and—"
"—Alright, if you insist."
Oliver shrugged and answered.
In an instant, black tendrils shot out from the shadows on the floor, wrapping tightly around the brute’s arms, legs, waist, shoulders, and neck, pinning him down.
The brute was utterly dumbfounded.
"W-What? What the hell?!"
Ignoring him, Oliver turned to Mari.
"Are you okay?"
"Cough! Y-Yes... but what is this?"
"It’s a technique I learned while fighting the Master."
Oliver wasn’t lying. Anthony and Dominique knew this all too well, having faced Joseph in battle before. The tendrils—Bind Shadow—were his signature move, often used to catch his opponents off guard.
The brute struggled in vain, trying to tear the tendrils apart, but they only tightened further, crushing his muscles and breaking his bones.
"Ugh...! Hrrgk!"
He could barely manage a groan as pain overwhelmed him. Oliver, watching calmly, apologized.
"I’m sorry. Could you stop struggling? It’s hard for me to control the strength..."
Sensing that things were spiraling out of control, the men from both families quickly readied their potions and tools, preparing for a fight.
Oliver followed suit, pulling out a vial and asking,
"So, is this going to be a fight after all?"
"...."
"...."
To everyone’s surprise, neither Anthony nor Dominique answered right away.
After a moment of tense silence, Anthony finally spoke.
"...Why? If we say yes, will you fight us?"
"I don’t want to, but if I have to..."
"Sigh... You don’t want to?"
"Yes. I don’t like killing people. And besides, fighting wastes time I could be spending studying... I’m sorry, but is there no peaceful way to resolve this?"
The situation was on the verge of exploding into violence.
Yet, despite being in the middle of such a deadly standoff, Oliver’s tone remained detached, as if the life-and-death struggle unfolding had nothing to do with him.
What made it even more unnerving was that it wasn’t arrogance or ignorance driving his behavior. It was something else entirely.
Everyone remained on edge, staring at Oliver.
As the tension built to its peak, like a bomb with its fuse nearly burnt out, someone finally spoke up, their voice urgent.
"...Let’s talk about the filgaret recipe again, shall we?"