Wayne said nothing, swallowing hard to steady his nerves. Holding his breath, he focused on William's palm. The flash of light had vanished in an instant—so fast that he almost doubted his own eyes.
Ever since he first heard the city's urban legends, an inkling had taken root in Wayne's mind: this world was not as simple as it seemed on the surface.
What had just happened undoubtedly proved his suspicion.
It was bad news. As an ordinary mortal, Wayne felt a chill of malice radiating from the world around him. Rather than some mysterious, magical reality, he would have vastly preferred everyone else to be just as mundane as he was.
Unless, of course, he wasn't ordinary either.
The Book of Greed!
At this moment, Wayne craved opening that book more intensely than ever before.
"Who branded you with this?"
Confronted with William's interrogation, Abel's expression turned even more bewildered. A moment later, something seemed to click in his memory, but the instant he opened his mouth to explain, the mark of death on the back of his hand suddenly began to warp.
Four writhing appendages sprouted from each side of the inverted triangle, thrashing wildly like a stylized black spider.
The symbol was etched deep into his marrow—and perhaps his very soul—far beyond the realm of any ordinary surface tattoo. The eight spider legs crawled up his veins like venom, spreading with alarming speed before Wayne's eyes until they engulfed Abel's entire arm.
Abel groaned in agony, caught in some desperate inner struggle. His features twisted in pain; the harder he resisted, the more unbearable the torment grew. Speaking was completely out of the question—even drawing breath had become an ordeal.
William's fingers tightened, clamping down on Abel's wrist like an iron vise. A warm, radiant glow flared to life once more, dispelling the darkness and forcing the eight spider legs back into retreat.
Abel's groans softened into a sound of relief. At the same time, the Book of Greed pulsed with hunger again, leaving Wayne's own mouth watering in sympathy.
Unfortunately, the object of desire was William.
Thanks to William's intervention, Abel's pain subsided, and he slipped back into a dull, dazed state. Babbling incoherently at first, he managed to recount a gathering in the warehouse district.
Abel didn't know much. He was barely familiar with the Cult of Death; to be precise, he wasn't even an outer member, merely an accidental convert swept up by mistake.
Exhausted from years of grueling labor, he walked with unsteady steps and vacant eyes. His gaunt, haggard frame looked so utterly devoid of life that local cultists of the Goddess of Death had taken notice of him and lured him into their stronghold in the warehouse district.
Outnumbered, Abel hadn't dared resist. After swallowing a single cup of black rum, the mark of the Goddess of Death had manifested on the back of his hand.
Most of Abel's information was trivial, but the warehouse district stronghold was well worth investigating. Pressed further by William, Abel supplied a few names.
Among them, a dockworker named Pluto caught everyone's attention.
Mrs. Lainer, Abel, and Pluto were all interconnected. The scent of the Death Walker clinging to Mrs. Lainer was highly likely to have originated from Pluto. Even if he wasn't a true Death Walker himself, he would certainly prove a crucial lead.
"Let's go. To the warehouse district!"
Making up her mind on the spot, Veronica stepped toward the door with the black cat in her arms.
William knocked Abel unconscious with a quick blow, pulled a blanket over him, and turned to follow her.
Wayne lingered where he stood. His instincts screamed that danger lay ahead—that going would guarantee regret. But if he stayed behind...
He would regret it even more!
Weighing the perils of this world against the stubbornly locked Book of Greed, he gritted his teeth and hurried after them.
"Are we heading to the warehouse district right now?"
Out on the street, Wayne glanced at his watch, torn. "It's getting late. By the time we reach the warehouses, the sun will already be down."
Traveling from the docks to Abel's apartment and then heading back to the warehouses near the waterfront had consumed a substantial amount of time. Though Wayne would never admit it aloud, deep down he harbored an intense dread of Londan's nights. If possible, he wanted to set out tomorrow morning.
William saw right through Wayne's reluctance. He clapped a broad, powerful hand onto Wayne's shoulder—radiating an astonishing amount of warmth—and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I imagine you've already figured it out. That's right: Veronica and I are magicians. Night may be terrifying, but the moonlight will guide us. Nothing will go wrong."
*Say whatever you want, but keep your hands to yourself!*
*And another thing: a pretty young lady like Veronica being a magician makes sense, but what business does a walking mountain of muscle have practicing magic? Are they that desperate for recruits?*
Feeling William's strong, uncomfortably warm grip, Wayne's eyelid twitched. "I've only ever read about magicians in novels," he said dryly. "I heard it's extremely difficult and demands immense talent. So... could I become a magician?"
"You could," William said with a solemn nod. "But first, you must possess a faith of your own."
"Shut up. You talk too much," Veronica cut in coldly. "Don't drag ordinary people into this."
"I know, but Wayne is already involved," William protested, his voice shrinking to a mutter toward the end. "The aura of death on him is thick; a Death Walker is already after him..."
It was painfully obvious that he was terrified of Veronica.
Wayne's eyes went wide. What did he mean by a thick aura of death? What did he mean by a Death Walker already targeting him? When discussing matters of life and death, could they please speak plainly?
"Don't worry. Once we purge the death cultists' stronghold in the warehouse district, you'll be safe," William said, patting Wayne's shoulder once more. Catching Veronica while her attention was turned, he slipped a faint spark of light into Wayne's body.
Veronica cast a glance in William's direction, but said nothing.
***
Inside the cab, Wayne kept silent, his eyes closed as if resting. Unbeknownst to the others, he was busy thumbing through the Book of Greed.
The book had opened!
William hadn't taught Wayne anything about magic, but he had placed a protective spell upon him—a simple, straightforward application of mana and faith meant to shield Wayne from mortal danger at a crucial juncture.
Wayne was oblivious to this, nor did he have time to ponder it. The instant that spark of light entered his body, the Book of Greed devoured it whole. Serving as the key, it unlocked the pages, allowing Wayne to browse its contents.
There wasn't much to see; almost every page was blank.
The good news was that Wayne's name was inscribed on the first page. The bad news was that the book felt utterly alien, a far cry from the original intent of the code he had written.
Perplexed, Wayne could only assume that Jose had slipped in his own secret modifications—or that a mountain of bugs had somehow evolved into unintended features.
Back when Wayne scripted the Book of Greed, he had piled on an absurd number of settings: title bonuses, stat multipliers, all-element immunity, Outer Gods, and so forth.
Among them was a feature called Sacrifice: it allowed him to sacrifice a player, claim everything in their inventory, and freeze their account for seven days.
It was crude, brutal, and thoroughly unreasonable—a total disaster for game balance. But as an admin-exclusive artifact, being somewhat overpowered was only natural; otherwise, one couldn't keep the peace.
After all, dealing with players—the dreaded Fourth Calamity—required overwhelming authority. Without it, an administrator would be run ragged, stripped of dignity and walked over by the crowd.
Now, however, the vast majority of the Book of Greed's settings were grayed out. Wayne couldn't tell whether they were temporarily locked or permanently deleted. Even the few features that survived were pale shadows of their former glory. Take Sacrifice, for example: what had once been sacrificing a living soul had now become forming a contract with one.
Wayne had tested it. His first choice was Veronica, but the contract failed, shattering his dreams of enslaving a magical girl.
Reluctantly, he moved on to William, which also failed. Even the black cat, Monica, was out of reach.
Failing to contract magicians and their familiars made sense to Wayne; he was too weak, completely unqualified. But why on earth couldn't he contract the cab driver or the pedestrians on the street?
After finally unlocking his golden finger and preparing to conquer the world, it turned out to be practically useless—and he had even squandered a spell in the process!
Had his cheat been nerfed into the ground, or was the user simply too pathetic?
The more Wayne thought about it, the more cheated he felt. Right then, however, the Book of Greed successfully snared an eligible soul.
No—a vengeful spirit!
Across the blank parchment, a cascade of blood-red code materialized, assembling a contract that awaited Wayne's signature.
Without hesitation, Wayne focused his intent and inscribed his name onto the pact.
*Humble petitioner, wrongful dead steeped in malice, I have heard your mournful cries...*
*Witnessed by this sacred covenant, all that is yours now belongs to me. You shall retain your past, yet forfeit your future...*
*Granted a chance at rebirth, you shall become a Spirit of Vengeance, raising your butcher's blade for your master, for your god, for me.*
Wayne: (一`´一)
*How to put it... this thing really doesn't sound like one of the good guys!*
Chapter 5