Herrscher of Reason's Arknights

The hunting genes have kicked in.

However...

"Of course, it's less about recognizing quality..."

A hint of mockery flashed in his scarlet eyes, and Pianna spoke with a strange smile.

"It's more accurate to say they're very ambitious and daring..."

"—Hedley's head is worth quite a bit of money."

The silver-haired girl's hand visibly trembled as she picked up the item because of those words.

However, after trembling, the girl still chose to peel off the clothes from the corpse piece by piece.

She didn't care about Pianna, who was right next to her.

It's as if they've completely resigned themselves to their fate, or perhaps it's a simple compromise.

You can't stop her from doing whatever you want, but as long as Pianna hasn't made a move, she'll continue doing what she's doing.

"Hedley is valuable, but you alone can't kill her."

"...Then why don't you do it?"

Suddenly, the girl finally spoke.

Instead of looking at Pianna, he simply put on the somewhat oversized clothes.

To be honest, although it doesn't look quite right, it doesn't hinder physical activity at all.

Some of the heavy equipment was put back on the girl's body.

"Because it's unnecessary. Mercenaries only act for profit, don't they?"

After the girl in front of him finished dressing, bianna simply pressed the notebook in his hand against her chest.

"Take this, this person has a name. What about you?"

"A name? I don't have such a thing."

"Really? Then from now on..."

—You are the new W.

P.S.: Third update! W has finally made his appearance!!!

Chapter 129, Section 134: [The Captain, the Fortress, the Past, and That War]

"A fortress? Never heard of it."

Dusk, the Scar Market.

This place was originally a canyon, but due to ancient wars, the mountain range was completely hollowed out, and defensive castles were built here.

It was then completely abandoned after the war ended.

The soldiers who stayed behind gradually integrated with the locals, eventually turning the area into a gathering place for mercenaries.

There are no laws here, no specific rules; everything operates based on the concept of "mercenaries."

Wars are bought and sold, lives are bought and sold, rights and conspiracies are traded.

Without hatred and conflict, anyone can cooperate, anyone can be exploited, and anyone can betray.

Everything is based on self-interest.

Mercenaries have no banners, no beliefs; they act solely for profit.

However, even mercenaries need to relax sometimes, and transactions always involve communication.

Thus, the "tavern" came into being.

While alcoholic beverages are indeed sold here, most of the time, what is sold here is information and psychotropic drugs with a certain degree of addictiveness.

And today, business is still going strong.

The man was wiping the glasses. Under the bar, a well-maintained but somewhat old shotgun sat close to the cabinet, which could be easily lifted up to fire with a simple downward motion.

There's no atmosphere like you'd find in a normal bar here; no music, no unnecessary conversation.

There was only silence, and the sound of ancient coins rolling on the wooden table.

A figure suddenly pushed open the wooden door and walked in, the black soles and heels of boots creaking against the wooden floor.

He was a rather tall person, his black robes shrouding him in shadow, with only the two white horns on his hat revealing that he was a Sarkaz.

However, that horn also became the biggest proof of the other party's identity, as well as the white double-breasted uniform hidden under the rather old and tattered black robe on that person's body.

Although it is also old, and even the hem has broken jagged edges, you can still see the splendor of its former smooth and intact state.

In Kazdel, mercenaries do not wear, nor can they possess, clothing made of that material.

The white chitinous horns on their heads are also something that normal Sarkaz people do not have.

That was proof of belonging to royalty.

Is it that group of people?

The regent's guards were not called by any name.

That group of people called themselves...

—The Master of Pardons.

Pardon and Conviction, though it claims to be a medical organization for the Sarkaz, and indeed there are church members practicing medicine in this land.

However, the fact that the Absolution Master was a member of the royal guard was an open secret.

Just as no one calls him by his name, this is the rule of the trade.

Pardoners are a dangerous group of people, but the person in front of me clearly has something to do with her, but she may not necessarily still be one of the pardoners.

Her clothes were old and worn, and although her face was shrouded in shadow, making it impossible to see her features, she was not wearing the golden sheep bone mask.

Once a person's face can be seen, it loses its sacred meaning.

The other party might be a mercenary, or they might be nothing at all. But it doesn't matter.

For the man, the other woman was just another customer of hers.

"What do you want?"

Dull and lifeless, the service industry in Kazdel has no attitude whatsoever.

The woman took out several ancient coins from her bosom and placed them on the table.

"The fortress, please tell me where it is."

A clear voice echoed in the store.

Ancient coins are the special currency used for transactions here.

Normal currency is not used here, simply because weapons here have no production numbers or place of origin, all transactions are anonymous, and only those with connections will possess these special ancient coins. Having them is considered to open the door to the Scar Market.

Similarly, one must possess a multiple number of ancient coins to request services that meet that quantity requirement.

As for where this thing came from.

There's no need to know, and no one would want to know.

The more you know, the faster you die.

——Dead silence.

No one answered. The already quiet bar seemed to have fallen into an abyss, with only the sound of breathing audible.

The bartender stopped wiping the glasses and stared at the woman in front of him.

Everyone here, including the mercenary patrons, stared at the woman who had just entered the shop with strange looks.

After a while, the muscular man put down his wine glass. His large hands, calloused from years of wielding weapons, picked up the ancient coins on the table one by one, stacked them, and pushed them back in front of the Sarkaz woman.

"...You wouldn't want to know."

The atmosphere in the bar returned to its usual dullness because of the man's words, as if the eerie silence that had just occurred had never existed.

Normal customers would naturally know better and leave to find another place where they can gather information.

However, the person in front of them was not a normal guest.

"Captain Carlisle, formerly of the 13th Infantry Battalion stationed at the 'Fortress,' was dismissed for disobeying orders during 'that war'..."

Nobody knows where Carlisle went...

Later, some people said he became a mercenary and gradually amassed a considerable fortune.

As she spoke, the woman took off her hat, revealing long, silver hair that resembled snowflakes in winter, serene and without a trace of impurity, as pure as the most sacred flower blooming on a dark and desolate earth.

That head of silver hair seemed to illuminate everything around it in the dim space, and even eyes that had long been adapted to the darkness felt a little glaring.

"After that, he bought his own shop in the scar market..."

Am I right, Captain Claire?

The woman's words were like sharp blades, tearing away the original protection into shreds.

Humans are creatures that need to believe in something to survive, and similarly, they need to forget something in order to live with a clear conscience.

However, when the past is reopened, the scars can be more painful than when the wounds were inflicted.

His brown eyes seemed to reveal all the twisted darkness within a person's heart, making it impossible to look directly at him.

"...Knowing too much will make one sleepy, guest."

The man lowered his eyes and put his hands down, but one of his hands was already touching the pistol under the counter.

He didn't want to have any further connection with his past.

The best approach is to eliminate any trouble that tries to find its way back from the past.

The other drinkers also reached into their pockets.

Everyone here is a mercenary, but many of them have another identity.

The captain's former subordinate.

"I just want to know the location of the 'fortress' because I hate situations where I need to use a sword."

The woman's thumb rested lightly on the hilt of the sword as she spoke calmly.

P.S.: The plot deviates slightly from the original setting; consider it a plot hole created for the sake of story arrangement. [Shrug and laugh]

Chapter 130, Section 135: [The Sword Divides Dawn and Dusk]

Rewind to several tens of minutes earlier.

"So why am I with you...?"

Why this annoying guy...?

"In such a vast area, it's inefficient not to split up and act, and don't forget..."

The doctor pulled his scarf up, hiding himself in the shadow of his trench coat, an outfit that would make him look more like a local.

After all, not all Sarkaz mercenaries are actually Sarkaz people.

Beside her, Solana was dressed similarly, in all black, with a short knife tucked into her back and sleeves.

"Relax. We are newcomers here and should relax instead of looking around like Ursus police officers trying to catch suspects."

Besides, there are suspects everywhere here; you won't find what you're looking for.

The girl whispered from the side.

"Tch, aren't you a psychologist? You talk as if you know more about behavioral rules than I do."