Biocores: The Legendary Weapon Designer-Chapter 90: The Dealing with the problem

Nioh and the team passed through the gate and arrived directly inside the War Hall.

The mission was complete. On paper, a success.

But in truth, it was a disaster.

Neither Akron nor Althea spoke during the return trip. The silence weighed heavily, filled with questions no one wanted to ask out loud. Each of them carried worry like a second skin. And Nioh, their leader, knew what was expected of him—to comfort, to inspire, to reassure.

He tried. He smiled.

"Let’s get a drink. We just closed our first mission. We should celebrate."

It sounded convincing enough.

The trio moved through the streets of the Citadel like shadows slipping through noise. They landed at the Harvester Hall, the city’s most vibrant bar. But tonight, it was different. The room was packed. Bodies pressed against walls. Voices stacked on voices. Energy overflowed.

"You guys get a table," Nioh said, nodding toward the crowd.

He walked to the counter, found Atlas polishing glasses with his usual bored expression.

"Hello there," Nioh greeted.

"Oh. Hi. What are you doing here?"

"We just wrapped up our first mission. Here to unwind." freewebnσvel.cѳm

Atlas raised an eyebrow. "Ten million Conqueror Points. Not bad."

"Yeah. What’s with the crowd? Place looks like a warzone."

"A ranking match is happening. The Witch is fighting The Trigger. Stakes are high. A few hundred million on the line. The rest of these vultures are here to gamble and scream."

"Interesting," Nioh muttered.

"Three drinks, please. And open a tab. We might need more."

Atlas nodded and poured without a word.

Nioh returned to the booth. Akron was leaning into his seat like he wanted to disappear. Althea sat upright, back straight, jaw locked, eyes somewhere far off.

The energy in the Harvester Hall had shifted. It was no longer just rowdy—it was electric, vibrating with anticipation, with raw hunger for chaos.

On the central holographic dome above the hall, the arena pulsed into view. A digital recreation of a scorched battlefield came to life, stretching across molten canyons and rusted towers. The crowd hushed as the first explosion rocked the feed.

The Witch arrived in a column of fire, flames wrapping around her like a silk cloak. Her eyes were like twin coals, her hair a floating blaze. Her every step scorched the earth, and as she raised her hands, jets of superheated flame spiraled into the sky, forming a phoenix that screeched across the battlefield.

"She’s not holding back," Althea muttered, her eyes locked on the screen, her fingers tightening around her drink.

Then came the Trigger. A flicker of movement, a distortion in the air—before bullets rained down like meteor showers. He was fast, almost too fast for the camera to track. Dressed in a long, tattered coat, his twin guns were like extensions of thought. Every shot he fired carved lines into steel, tore holes through cover, and rattled the arena’s shields.

"His aim is disgusting," Akron commented, eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. "Six shots, six flame decoys down. She’ll have to go full core soon."

The Witch spun, flames erupting in a whirlwind around her. Her voice echoed in ancient tongues, and a rune ignited beneath her feet—massive, red-hot, intricate. Then came the eruption: a towering inferno that collapsed the central structure of the battlefield, swallowing half the sky in light and heat.

The Trigger vanished into smoke, only to reappear on a crumbling pillar mid-fall, balancing casually while reloading. The camera zoomed on his grin as he unleashed a barrage of piercing rounds—bullets that curved mid-air, each one marked with precision-enhancing runes. They tore through the firestorm, reaching the Witch’s defenses with unrelenting force.

Boom. Crack. Shockwaves echoed through the Hall. Tables shook. The crowd roared. In the corner, a gambler smashed his drink on the floor as his bet slipped away.

Nioh didn’t say a word. He watched, eyes cold, drink forgotten

The Witch lifted her hand one last time, gathering everything. Her flames condensed into a singular orb, spinning with a sound like a thunderstorm trapped in glass. She launched it—no finesse, no elegance—just rage.

The Trigger smiled and jumped straight toward it.

The orb detonated mid-air. For a moment, the feed went white. Static. Then the cameras reestablished. The battlefield was gone. Just a crater. Just ash. And in the middle of it, the Trigger stood, bleeding, guns empty, smoke curling from his body—but standing.

Victory.

The Hall erupted. Bets exchanged hands, people screamed in disbelief, tables overturned in excitement. But in their booth, the trio was quiet.

--

"So what are we gonna do?" Althea asked, her voice low and flat. "It won’t take long before they realize we killed them."

"I should’ve never taken this mission," Akron muttered. "The price was too good to be true. Should’ve picked something simpler."

"Enough with the wallowing." Nioh cut them both off. "The pity party’s over."

His tone snapped like a whip.

"What are they going to do if they find out? We’re Conquerors. Who dares question us? Even if they do figure it out, they’ll be too busy trying to survive what comes next."

"What do you mean?" Althea asked.

Nioh tapped a button on his wristband, displaying the stolen research logs as a holographic screen. Their eyes widened.

"You’re not going to release it," Althea gasped.

"I don’t need to," Nioh said, eyes cold. "We just need the right person to do it for us."

"Who?"

He didn’t need to answer.

Magnus walked into the hall like a walking advertisement for bad taste. Silver vest. Gold chains. Rings stacked up both hands. Every movement he made jangled with wealth and chaos. Behind him, Aquila walked like she owned the entire room. Graceful. Sharp. Dressed in a fitted noble gown with glowing accessories wrapping her wrists like vines of crystal.

Nioh raised a hand.

They saw him. No hesitation. They joined the table.

"What a barbaric place," Aquila muttered, brushing off the seat before she sat.

"I did what you asked and brought her here," Magnus said, already leaning back like he had finished his part of the game. "So now you owe me a favor."

"He said you had sensitive information," Aquila cut in, ignoring Magnus.

"We just came back from a mission in the Stines Region," Nioh said calmly. "Let’s just say... we stumbled onto something interesting."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"The only question is: how much are you willing to pay for it?"

"I need to see the information before I can decide its value."

Nioh didn’t flinch. He reached into his coat and slid a thin metal slate across the table—a redacted version of the research log, with just enough to terrify anyone who knew how to read between the lines.

At that exact moment, their drinks arrived—steaming, cold, and sharp. The kind that hit hard, made for conquerors used to surviving things far worse than alcohol.

Aquila scanned the document while the trio nursed their glasses. Her face stiffened, eyebrows slowly drawing together. By the time she finished, her expression had gone hollow.

"Can you confirm this is absolutely factual?" she asked, her voice a notch lower than before.

"I can attest to it. With evidence," Nioh said. He reached into a small case strapped to his waist and opened it quietly. Inside were two syringes, each filled with a swirling amber serum that seemed to flicker in and out of phase.

Aquila’s eyes widened for a moment. She knew what she was looking at.

"Five million Conqueror Points," she offered.

Nioh leaned back, exhaled.

"I’d rather distribute it online myself."

Her jaw tightened. "How much do you want?"

"Ten million. Not a point less."

Without another word, Aquila stood and walked away, already thumbing her wristband as she made a call.

Magnus chuckled, knocking back his drink with a smirk. "Still as ruthless as I remember."

"As a financial magnate, you should understand."

"Oh, I don’t. If it were me, I’d push for twenty million minimum. You’re still green behind the ears."

Nioh smiled thinly. "You didn’t answer my question. What do you want?"

"I’m managing a Cradle Zone conquest—Zone 17-B, if you’ve heard of it. But there’s a slippery six-star Biocore hiding in the lower veins. It’s delaying everything. I want a contract placed on its head."

Nioh raised an eyebrow. "For free? You’re dreaming."

Magnus held up a hand. "I’ll put five million down. I figure that’s fair, considering I’m the one enduring Aquila’s relentless commentary. Your team gets the difference."

"Talk to Akron," Nioh said, finishing his drink. "He’s in charge of anything mission-related."

"I thought you were the leader."

"I am. But I trust his insight."

Right on cue, Akron stepped in like a shadow, placing a firm hand on Magnus’ shoulder.

"Come on, Magnus. Let’s talk somewhere quieter," he said, guiding him away. As he left, he looked over his shoulder at Nioh and subtly mouthed something. Nioh tried to read his lips, but the lighting distorted the words.

Aquila returned, gaze sharper now.

"The deal has been accepted."

Nioh didn’t react. He extended his wristband casually, like someone tipping a bartender. Aquila mirrored the gesture, and the system confirmed the transaction with a faint chime.

Funds: +10,000,000 Conqueror Points.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Nioh said, sliding the silver box across the table.

Aquila took it, her hands careful, almost reverent. She tucked the syringes and the slate into a black clutch and left the Harvester Hall with her usual elegance—one that hid how shaken she truly was.

For a moment, the table was silent. Then Althea finally spoke, voice low.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Nioh didn’t answer right away. He watched the glowing chandelier above spin ever so slightly, casting fractured reflections across the hall.

"It doesn’t matter," he said at last. "It’s the right thing to do. The victims deserve justice. And no one is better suited than the Aeros Monarchy. Doesn’t hurt to earn some points while doing the right thing."

Althea let out a breath through her nose and raised her glass.

"I need to reevaluate my opinion of you," she muttered, narrowing her eyes with a half-smile. "You might actually be a menace."

Then, without hesitation, she knocked back her drink.