Chapter 623: The Sound of the Pipe (2)
Vroooooom—
A dark, indeterminate space, submerged in shadows.
From somewhere came the sound of a faintly played harmonica.
Though Oliver couldn’t remember where he was or how he had arrived, he instinctively moved toward the sound.
Step, step, step.
His footsteps echoed like thunder in the dense darkness.
As he walked, and walked, and kept walking, he finally arrived before a flickering light.
There, in a shabby back alley, lay piles of trash, a few rats, a tattered tent, a simmering pot of mixed stew over a small fire, and a group of beggars.
“Hahaha! Harmonica, you’ve really improved! Amazing!”
A round, red-nosed man praised him, shaking a bottle with enthusiasm. Known among Kent's beggar crew as "Red Nose," his compliment drew similar praise from the others.
The blond boy, Harmonica, gave a bashful yet delighted smile in response to the compliments.
Ah, it came back to him. This was one of Oliver’s memories.
It was from early on, after he’d first met Kent and joined his gang.
There, huddled in the corner, sat a younger version of himself.
“……”
There was something odd about the scene—watching himself from a distance as though he were someone else.
Yet, instead of trying to analyze this strange phenomenon rationally, Oliver chose simply to enjoy the moment.
Because this memory, at least, was a pleasant one.
No joke—he genuinely meant it.
Even though the place reeked, the sleeping arrangements were uncomfortable, and the food consisted only of scraps of vegetables, canned ham, and stale bread thrown together to make stew, Oliver had found joy there.
Following Joanna’s advice to venture out into the world, he’d wandered aimlessly until he’d met Kent, finding his first shelter here.
In a way, it was where Oliver had first begun to learn about the world.
It was also, in many ways, the time he’d felt most at peace. He’d been free to satisfy his curiosity however he wished, without a care in the world, unlike now.
The scene before him, then, was one of his happiest memories.
“If I remember right, I think…”
Oliver watched as Harmonica finished his performance and returned to his seat.
As if on cue, Red Nose jumped up and patted his round belly.
“Kent! Is the stew ready yet? My stomach’s sticking to my back!”
“It needs to cook a bit longer. The broth gets better with time.”
Seated by the fire, Kent replied, stirring the stew with a ladle.
Red Nose sighed with disappointment.
“Argh…how much longer?”
“Just a bit more.”
“Is that so… Hey, newbie! Got any party tricks?”
Red Nose suddenly turned toward Oliver, who was sitting off to the side. All the beggars’ eyes followed.
Taken off guard by the unexpected question, Oliver thought for a moment before shaking his head.
For Oliver, who’d grown up in an orphanage and later survived in the mines, he had no special skills like Harmonica’s.
Red Nose grinned, as if he’d expected that answer.
“Well then, how about a song?”
“A song?”
“Yes, a song! Anyone can sing, right? It doesn’t have to be good! We’re family now, so we need to bond!”
“Um… I don’t know any songs.”
“You don’t know any songs? What a waste of a life! Here, I’ll sing one first. Try to follow along if you can. You probably won’t do it as well as me, but give it a shot!”
With an air of confidence, Red Nose wobbled his bottle back and forth and broke into a loud, spirited song.
Apparently, everyone has a hidden talent. The beggars, familiar with his singing, listened on, and Oliver did too.
At the time, Oliver hadn’t understood why Red Nose did this, but looking back now, he could see it. It had been a way of helping Oliver, who struggled to adjust to the beggar crew (at least in others’ eyes), to bond with the group.
That was why Kent had let him be.
Lost in thought, Oliver gazed at the long-forgotten memory.
Crackle, crackle!
As Red Nose’s song came to an end, Oliver stepped forward and, following Red Nose’s example, began to sing.
As he sang, the sounds of scurrying rats and insects faded, and the beggars stared at him, their eyes wide.
They were impressed by his singing.
Applause broke out as he finished, and Kent himself offered praise.
Caught off guard by the unexpected reaction, Oliver scratched his head awkwardly. Then, Kent offered him a warm bowl of stew.
As Oliver reached out to take the bowl, Kent spoke.
“You’ve got a good voice. Why don’t you stick around here and sing for us—”
—Flash!
Oliver opened his eyes.
It had been a genuinely peaceful and joyful dream, but something about Kent’s last words felt out of place, jolting him awake.
As he regained his senses, he felt as if he’d awoken from a deep faint. At first, he struggled to make sense of the situation, but memories soon started to return.
The plot to harm the prince. Oliver had intercepted the scheme, jumping through a portal to subdue the New Class conspirators who sought to assassinate the prince.
Just as the incident was about to come to a close, he’d heard the haunting, cheerful, yet discordant sound of a flute, echoing like a princess asleep in the enchanted forest.
At that moment, he’d found himself dreaming of the past.
It was a form of manipulation-based black magic.
Looking around, Oliver saw he wasn’t the only one affected.
The businessmen and capitalists who had been huddling in the far corners of the hall to avoid danger were all in a state of trance, their eyes rolled back, lost in hallucinations.
It was shocking.
And for good reason—out of all manipulation spells, controlling living creatures was the most difficult, with controlling humans being the hardest of all.
Unlike corpses or shadows, living beings instinctively resisted black magic, with intelligent humans fighting back the hardest.
Only those of exceptional talent could hope to control even one person, and they would still need various conduits and instruments to accomplish it.
Hence, almost no manipulation-type black magic practitioners controlled living people—it was useful, but the chances of success were low, and the resources required too high.
Despite his extensive experiences in Landa, Oliver had never encountered a black magician who directly controlled people, a testament to its rarity.
Yet here was the Piper, plunging everyone into a trance with nothing but the sound of his flute.
This included businessmen, bankers, and supers alike. That such a powerful effect was achieved with no discernible preparation marked the Piper as an extraordinary talent—a class apart from cannibal chefs or those like the Fan.
Having processed the situation and his admiration, Oliver snapped out of it and turned his gaze toward the prince.
Thankfully, the prince hadn’t fallen into a trance, but standing in front of him was a man.
The man was of ordinary height and build, dressed in a worn yet neatly kept cloak, traveling clothes, and sturdy boots.
Oliver knew instinctively that this was the Piper.
The Piper reached out toward the prince, and in response to the urgency of the moment, Oliver grabbed his arm without even picking up the quarterstaff lying at his feet.
“Too bad. I hoped you’d be dreaming something pleasant,” the Piper said as Oliver grasped his arm.
He had neatly combed hair, serpent-like sharp eyes, and a face once likely filled with sly smiles, now devoid of expression.
Oliver wasn’t mistaken.
There was a calm yet boundless fury in him.
An inexplicable sense of foreignness.
An aura not of this world, like that of the Burnt One.
Though nothing could be known for certain, one thing was clear. This man was dangerous.
His judgment complete, Oliver tightened his grip on the Piper’s arm.
Kkraaack—
Since he’d consumed the flesh of the Cannibal Chef, gaining monstrous strength, he’d only had to exert such force a few times.
Like the grasp of a dragon, Oliver’s hand sank into the Piper’s arm, as though he would crush it—
“You’re the one? The one who killed Hansel.”
In a voice disturbingly calm, the Piper revealed that he knew Oliver’s secret.
Startled, Oliver gripped harder, but the Piper effortlessly broke free with a single flick of his arm. Too easily.
The Piper then reached toward Oliver’s face, and Oliver reflexively extended his left arm to seize the Piper’s hand.
Their fingers interlocked, and both began to exert force.
Squeeeeeeze…
Gradually.
Grooooooan…
Gradually.
Grooooooooan…
Gradually.
Their superhuman strength pressed down on the surrounding air, causing the entire hotel to shake.
As the battle of strength wore on, Oliver was forced lower, with the floor beneath him beginning to crack. The outcome was now clear.
Oliver was losing in terms of raw power. The strength of the Cannibal Chef, the power of a dragon itself...
Craaack…
The floor split, echoing like the breaking of bones. It had reached its limit.
Gazing up at the Piper’s oppressive form, Oliver shouted to the terrified prince.
“Your Highness.”
“…W-what?!”
“Hold on to me.”
At Oliver’s calm but forceful command, Prince Albert reflexively threw himself into Oliver’s arms.
At that moment, the ground beneath them—and a whole section of the hotel—began to collapse.
Rumbleeeee—
With a crash and a cloud of dust. Pure, unrestrained physical force.
...
“You lunatics—!!”
“Do you even know who’s here, causing this chaos?!”
“Where’s backup?”
“They’re on their way back as we speak.”
“Hold the line! Don’t let them through!”
“Die, you bastards—!!”
“Arrrgh!!!”
In front of the Graham Hotel.
The air there was filled with a chaotic mix of shouts and cries.
But it wasn’t just voices. Gunfire rang out in rapid bursts, mingling with the booming of explosions, creating a deadly orchestra of sound that set nerves on edge.
And as the battle continued, the bodies piled up—a fitting, grim symphony.
The reason for this deadly clash was none other than Prince Albert, who was inside the hotel. More precisely, it was the madmen who had come to assassinate him right in the middle of the city.
The defensive forces and some of the New Class supers protecting the hotel were baffled, unable to comprehend the audacity of these attackers.
“Bazooka, incoming!!”
One of the defensive guards, who was pressed against the barricade protecting the hotel, called out to Joe, a member of the New Class Alliance and director of the Redevelopment Coalition.
In the direction he pointed, a masked figure—an oversized man in a gas mask—approached, hefting a massive bazooka on his shoulder.
It appeared modified by Black Market technology, as an immense amount of magical energy coursed through the weapon, enough to shatter the barricade in one shot and obliterate their carefully held defensive line.
Joe, after taking stock of the threat, covered himself with several layers of the Black Suit armor, squeezing it down until it compressed to extreme density.
Hisssss—
With a hiss, the armor emitted smoke as it condensed, reaching its maximum density.
Then, transforming the Black Suit around his legs to resemble those of an herbivore for added stability, Joe launched himself forward.
Boom—
The concrete shattered beneath him, scattering shards in every direction as he propelled himself forward at a speed invisible to the untrained eye. He dove straight into the heart of the attackers.
“...?!”
Caught off guard by his blinding speed, the assailants had no time to react.
This was the reason Joe had stepped outside the hotel defenses in the first place.
With his speed, defense, and sheer brute force, he could hold the line alone, charging in and out of the ranks to break their formation.
Smashing through a modified vehicle shield the attackers were using as cover, Joe lunged toward the masked gunner with the bazooka.
Swoosh—
As he neared, the gunner swiftly redirected the bazooka toward Joe, proving himself to be more than a mere brute but a capable magic user.
With remarkable reflexes, the gunner adjusted his aim and fired a shot, packed with concentrated magical energy, directly at Joe.
Relying on his reinforced armor, Joe continued his charge, thrusting his fist forward.
A double-layered shockwave erupted from his punch, overturning the ground around him in an explosion of force.
The impact split the gunner’s missile in two, sending it back toward the gunner’s head and shattering it like a ripe watermelon.
Splurt—
The wet, heavy sound of impact echoed, and those around him froze at the sight.
Exploiting the shock, Joe intensified his attack, concentrating additional armor into spherical projectiles on each arm and throwing them to the left and right.
Though a simple tactic, these condensed projectiles were devastating in force.
The spheres Joe threw tore through everything in their path like massive iron balls, destroying armored soldiers, supers, vehicles, trees, and even sections of buildings.
The gaps in the attackers’ formation widened, and the defensive forces, seeing the disarray, rushed out from behind their barricades to strike back at the stunned enemies, driving them further back.
The tide of the battle began to turn, and shortly after, reinforcements arrived in quick succession—the police special forces, Landa Defense Force, and the Security Bureau—all converging on the scene.
They encircled the attackers surrounding the Graham Hotel, reversing the ambush with overwhelming firepower.
Caught in this donut-like encirclement, the attackers could do little to resist, and just as their revolt was nearing its end...
BOOOOOOOOM—
A deafening roar split the air, shaking bones and rattling flesh.
It seemed as if something had gone wrong with another defensive line, but that wasn’t the case.
The source of the sound was none other than the hotel.
Sensing something gravely amiss, both the defense forces and the attackers stopped fighting momentarily, turning to look toward the building.
To their astonishment, a section of the high-rise hotel had collapsed, sending a massive cloud of dust into the air. It was as if someone had sliced a piece off a giant cake.
At first, it looked like a bomb might have gone off, but it wasn’t the result of an explosion. It seemed more like the building had caved in from an unbearable weight.
The notion was absurd. Built with the latest architectural techniques in Landa, the hotel was designed to withstand immense stress, yet here it was, crumbling.
In the face of this unbelievable scene, the hundreds of forces surrounding the hotel paused to watch as the dust began to settle. Amidst the clearing haze, they saw a group of figures.
At the center stood Oliver, his body strengthened by disease-type black magic, holding the prince protectively. In front of them loomed the unidentified man, who had managed to bring Oliver to his knees through sheer brute force.
The man spoke to Oliver.
“You’ve got some fight in you.”