Mage? Magic Engineer!-Chapter 130 - 127: Mouse King, Scum, and Powder

No one else was here... Aided by his [Dark Vision], Rorschach observed his surroundings carefully. The space, cut off and isolated by his [Stone Shaping Skill], was completely under his control.

For the moment, the Mage ignored the groaning merchant, instead using his [Mage’s Hand] to meticulously search the four thugs. He’d made a careless mistake with Leopold before, so now he was being extra cautious.

Rorschach had been cautious and restrained in his approach and attack. He hadn’t used any flashy spells with sounds or lights, subduing the four men as silently as possible.

At first, Mr. Hasse thought the passing Mage had rescued him on a whim. But now, all he saw was the man Casting spells from within a thick fog, remotely rummaging through the thugs’ clothes, inner pockets, and even... down there.

’A thief robbing thieves? Or... a pervert?’

Hasse, the Empireist, who held certain stereotypes about the Holy Kingdom and Valuva in particular, had succeeded in scaring himself.

Rorschach’s search turned up a "Charming Headscarf" supposedly laced with anesthetic and a bag of unknown powder for each man—with the one who’d been beating the merchant carrying the most. Each man also had one or two crude weapons, some of which even came with a free "tetanus" effect.

This same thug also had several wallets on him and a handful of Copper Coins, though it was unclear if they were pickpocketed or taken by force as they had just attempted. He appeared to be the leader of the small group.

In a corner of the alley lay a bloodstained glass soda bottle.

He glanced over at the merchant again. The man felt his gaze and visibly shuddered. ’Still so responsive,’ Rorschach thought. ’Guess you’re not seriously hurt.’

Rorschach raised a hand, pulling the leader of the thugs toward him with his magic. "What are these two things? Where’d you get them?"

"One is an anesthetic headscarf... You soak it in a potion when you’re not using it, then take it out when you need it. Cover a mark’s nose and mouth, and they’re guaranteed to pass out."

"The second one... Bro—no, master! Please, sir, just give me a little hit first, the rest is all yours! Fuck, I can’t take it anymore..."

Large beads of sweat gathered on his skin, rolling down his trembling body. His only hope for relief was a dose of the powder laid out before the mysterious man.

"You only answered one of my questions." ’Don’t you get it? The first part of a multi-part question is always worth the least amount of points.’

In truth, Rorschach could already guess what both items were. The headscarf’s effectiveness had been proven on the two burly men lying sprawled on the ground. As for the powder... Rorschach had observed the four thugs’ emaciated frames, their inability to focus their eyes, and their unnaturally high tolerance for pain.

They probably didn’t even realize it themselves, but their reactions to having their limbs dislocated were far too "placid" compared to a normal person’s. These men obviously weren’t highly trained warriors who had maxed out their willpower stat; it was much more likely their pain receptors had been dulled for some reason.

The [Qilin Arm] tightened its grip. The thug’s dislocated bones grated against his flesh, and the leader was on the verge of losing the ability to speak.

"It’s Old Red! Red the Mouse King! We buy the stuff at his bar!" The last unlucky bastard who’d tried to flee was in slightly better shape. A champion escape artist, he was now quick to answer. His head was still half-buried in the ground, and he got a mouthful of dirt with every word he spoke, but he still managed to make himself understood.

Rorschach decided to engage in a more productive conversation with the one possessing a stronger will to live. "How do you buy it?"

"If you talk, I’ll—" The thug leader didn’t get to finish before he fell silent. In the darkness, the others couldn’t see the details. All they knew was that his silhouette had suddenly shortened, and then he made no further sound.

The cooperative thug was still partially buried in the ground. His back was to his former leader, so he had no idea what had just happened. He continued talking, ignoring the interrupted threat:

"In a corner of the bar, there’s one of his die-hard loyalists—a guy with a rotten nose. You buy a drink, sit across from him, and ask if he’s selling any Rat Poison."

’The "Mouse King" sells "Rat Poison." What a humorous dealer.’ In folklore across the continent, a "Mouse King" wasn’t the strongest individual rat, but a monstrous creature formed from dozens of rats whose tails were knotted together.

The escape artist’s brain kicked into high gear at this crucial moment. "Even if you know the password, Old Red won’t show his face easily! Only familiar faces can buy the real stuff. Otherwise, you’ll get actual ’rat poison’!"

He wiggled his body and found the pressure on him had lessened, allowing him to lift his head higher and free his valuable mouth from the dirt. ’He’s encouraging me to keep talking!’ The quick-witted thug was overjoyed.

"I used to go with the boss to get our supply, I know the whole process! Sir, if you let me go, with me vouching for you, Old Red will definitely sell you the real stuff!"

His boss was no longer in a position to give his opinion. Amid the groans of the other thugs, a single reply came: "Alright."

With the interrogation over, Rorschach freed up his attention to heal the merchant. In truth, his injuries likely weren’t serious—just multiple bruises and nothing life-threatening. At worst, he’d have some black-and-blue marks to keep him company for a while and serve as a reminder: having Bodyguards doesn’t mean you can just take shortcuts through any dark alley.

"Sir, thank you for saving me... I... I’m willing to give you everything I have to show my gratitude..."

Rorschach dispersed the fog. A ball of light flared to life, illuminating his face. The young man did his best to put on a bright smile. "My dear partner, we just met. How could you mistake me for a robber as well?"

"You! You’re a Mage!"

"And a classmate of the eldest son of the Balderom Clan. My name is Rorschach. I was just at the tavern hoping to ask after a friend, but unfortunately, there was a rather chatty stock manager at my table."

He extended his hand. "Pardon my forwardness, but since you’re a Middle Level partner, I assume you’re one of the Empire People? It’s really not wise to be taking shortcuts through alleys in Valuva."

Despite the pain, the merchant forced himself to take the offered hand. He didn’t dare show the slightest disrespect now. "Hassan. I am a business representative to the Holy Kingdom. Ah, it’s all my fault. I had a bit too much to drink, and I brought these two fools with me..."

Huh? A blue fluorescent light surged from their clasped hands and flowed into Hassan’s body. He suddenly felt light, all his pain gone. His hunched-over body naturally straightened.

The white light illuminated a messy, balding merchant. Even by the fashion standards of the Empire, he was just a boring, middle-aged man in an outdated wool-lined shirt. His first instinct was to anxiously pat down his trench coat, tugging the hem in a futile attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. The dirt and stains, however, had already set them in place.

"What should be done with these thugs?"

"Whatever you say, sir. Whatever you say."

"Alright." Rorschach picked up the bloodstained glass soda bottle and walked over to the still-conscious escape artist.

The man saw a pair of leather boots appear before him. Then, the bottle was placed right in the center of his vision. The white light from [Lighting Skill] refracted through the glass, making the bloodstains on it stand out starkly.

He could have looked up, but he didn’t dare. The cleverest rat in this little pack already knew his chances were slim—his captor wasn’t being cautious at all, freely revealing his own identity and talking about his connections.

’Dammit, I have to piss,’ he thought. ’But there’s a pebble in this hardened Earth pressing right against the... opening.’

The Mage’s second multipart question came. "Recognize this bottle? Where’s it from?"

’This question was worth zero points, because the test-taker was doomed to fail. He decided to just stay silent and forfeit the exam. Taking that beggar’s money tonight had just been the boss’s whim. He was the one who’d brought this very bottle down on the old geezer’s head. Since soda bottles are pressurized, they’re much thicker than wine bottles, with a smaller diameter. Heavy. Felt good in the hand when you swung it.’

’An old man’s skull isn’t as tough as a soda bottle. That was the failed escapee’s discovery of the day.’

’The street wasn’t far from the riverbank. The gang had found a sack discarded from a kitchen, stuffed the beggar inside, and swaggered down the street. After feeding the fish in the Seine River, they had sauntered back, only to immediately run into a big fish on their own turf.’

’What a lucky night! Worth celebrating with an extra pinch or two of "Rat Poison." That had been his plan, anyway.’

The earth softened again. As for this "Mouse King," Rorschach wasn’t some common rat; he didn’t need a "Guide" or to "request an audience." He watched as the fourth thug sank slowly into Hell, his dazed, bloodshot eyes staring straight ahead—straight at Rorschach.

Four small mounds now stood in the alley. Rorschach told the merchant to wait. "One moment, Mr. Hasse. I just need to even out the pavement." His [Stone Shaping Skill] went to work again, compressing and tamping down the earth until the final traces vanished completely. He’d buried them deep and packed the ground flat, all to avoid startling any passersby.

They were laid to rest. Which is to say, with four pieces of trash buried, the peace in Valuva had improved just a little.

Rorschach gathered up the collected powder, the "Charming Headscarf," and the small vial used to soak it. "Mr. Hasse, you can wake your Bodyguards now."

"Right, right." Hasse slapped one of the drooling brutes across the face. When the man didn’t stir, he slapped him again. The sight, tinged with a hint of personal vengeance, reminded Rorschach of an old acquaintance who had also been a "partner."

"Sir?" The bodyguard, now conscious, saw his employer, scrambled to his feet, and warily took a fighting stance aimed at Rorschach.

"I’m a classmate of your guild’s young master," Rorschach said. "I happened upon you being mugged and just lent a small hand."

"Let me, I’ll explain!" Hasse quickly started explaining to his two Bodyguards, growing more and more agitated until his explanation turned into a lecture.

Finally, Hasse rubbed his hands together and sought Rorschach’s opinion. "They’ve recognized their mistake. Are you satisfied, sir?"

Rorschach: ?

’I’m not your perverted supervisor,’ Rorschach thought. ’Why are you yelling at them for my benefit? Is there a satisfaction survey to fill out now?’