There were seven of them, all men, all Slayers.
"That's not right. You should've at least logged that you took this job. We wouldn't have rushed here," grumbled the second-in-command, standing closest to the group's leader. "Now what, we clean up after you?"
I smirked at their remarks. What a lively bunch.
"Relax, boys," I grinned, stretching to show my satisfaction and ease. "I cleared it all and even got a decent haul."
At the word "haul," I patted my shoulder bag, where the jellies were stashed.
"Whoa!" the guys whistled, eyeing my loot.
How could they see it? I jiggled the bag—probably guessed by the weight.
They were all around twenty-five, the oldest maybe forty, their leader.
"Got it…" the leader drawled. "We congratulate you, kid, but understand, we can't take your word for it. A Rift's no joke. If you lied about clearing it, innocent people could get hurt. So, let's all go in and check. If I'm wrong, dinner's on me tonight as an apology."
I pondered, donning a friendly mask, and flashed a wide smile.
"Come on, guys, why would I lie? It's my first Rift, I wouldn't…" I started justifying. "I even took a loan for this sword, a few thousand!"
I drew the sword from its sheath and twirled it.
Sure, a tracksuit wasn't ideal for such missions, but Slayer gear drew too much attention.
"So, you're in? We'll celebrate your first time tonight…"
"Nothing to hide, let's go!"
Pretending to be eager, I turned and stepped into the portal.
A brief blindness hit, then my vision normalized.
I darted down one flight of stairs, entered the first room, and created a full-sized illusion of myself.
My illusion stood with its back to the Rift, but Shnyrka showed me what was happening. The group rushed in, all with activated armor. So cautious.
"See, it's empty!" I shouted, sending the illusion deeper. "Let's go to the bottom, I'll show you everything."
"Hey, kid! Slow down, it could be dangerous!" their leader yelled, and they sped up.
They were so careful they missed my room, not noticing it. I'd cast an illusion over the entrance, making it look like a solid wall.
Amateurs…
They chased my illusion, thinking it was me. I wasn't wrong when my naive doppelgänger stopped, back to them, and a lightning bolt—strong enough to fry an Apprentice—hit it. The leader attacked, clearly a Warrior or veteran.
The bolt passed through my illusion, and they froze, stunned. Probably never seen this. I had the illusion turn, look puzzled, and open its mouth as if to speak.
It worked!
They unleashed ranged techniques on it non-stop.
"Take the idiot down!" their leader shouted.
"What kind of Gift is that? Why's he intangible?" someone puzzled.
I wanted to laugh at these fools.
Thought I was an easy mark? Lure me here, where no one's around, kill me, blame monsters, and rob me. They started so friendly!
I noticed oddities at the exit—no soldiers. They likely saw the Rift flicker, signaling it was closed, reported it, and left. Could've stayed in case I was injured, as usual.
Since it was different, I pieced it together. Probably, these idiots were told I closed the portal when they arrived. They dismissed the soldiers, saying they'd watch me and help if needed.
The soldiers left. Why do someone else's job? Contracts clearly state we're responsible for ourselves.
That's the downside of Slayers… Anyone could enter, but these weren't nobles, and they didn't shy from easy money.
That's why decent people used Centers to form proper teams, not like these. Reputation mattered.
"Your time's up…" I said softly, smiling.
Why keep goblin souls? I crafted their illusions and sent them to kill the group.
They were so focused on my illusion they didn't notice goblins—and me—sneaking up.
Per classic tactics, the weakest stood at the back and died first. Then the leader. I beheaded him with one powerful sword strike from behind. Too bad… I broke my sword on his armor, but it did its job. My skills made the difference. I infused the weapon with so much energy its durability dropped to nearly zero, good for two strikes—one for the armor, one for the neck.
I didn't let the rest recover, unleashing a circular fire strike. Not too strong, but enough to scare and weaken their armor. One guy was so spooked he jumped back, fell, and broke his leg.
The goblins, weaponless but with claws and teeth, killed most. Sadly, my attack took out two. Friendly fire, damn it…
"He killed Kirill! How?" a blond guy couldn't process, then took a fist to the jaw.
I didn't hold back, tearing his jaw off. The rest tried to flee. Too late.
They threw lightning? I could too. Not like Henry's, but decent.
I chased, hurling lightning until all were dead.
The fight was easy. They were weak, unable to breach my spiritual armor. My surprise attack ruined their plan, and they'd burned energy on my illusion.
I sat to catch my breath and think.
"F-FREEDOM!" the last goblin croaked, standing behind me.
"You're free…" It was useless now.
The goblin dissolved, shifting from physical to translucent.
The weight of my actions hit me.
Damn! I broke my new sword! But that's not the issue.
I faced a moral choice. If a Slayer group was found dead, protocol offered two paths.
First: drag the bodies out and call a burial team.
Second: if threats still lingered around the bodies, report to the Center, letting them handle the deceased.
Both required a Slayer to report to the Center. Otherwise… problems I didn't need. I realized linking this group to me was easy—checkpoint soldiers saw me, and these thugs were waiting. Not killing soldiers too, haha. Kidding!
I could leave the bodies inside, even without threats. But since normals couldn't enter, some poor Slayer would play corpse-hauler. Plus, the scene looked… suspicious.
Grumbling, I dragged each body out, laying them in a row. After a thought, I placed the leader's head back. Stepping back, I admired my work… Nice!
A normal person might feel guilt, but not me. Looting? Ha! Earned spoils, I call it.
The haul was slim. No one brought money to Rifts. Each had a white jelly—a Slayer's "rainy day" tradition—straight to my bag.
Knives, short swords—most relied on Gifts, using spells. None suited me, except the leader's hefty two-handed sword, better steel than mine. I swung it twice, testing. Meh… Nothing special. I was skilled with it, but it was clunky. Wielding this beast in tight dungeon corridors was a hassle. I put it back by the body.
Their armor—burned, pierced, blood-soaked—was even less appealing. Maybe if it was legendary black dragon scale from my past life. This was rags. I wasn't sure I could sell it. Archip seemed sharp, but I'd need to confirm.
I checked their rings. The leader was 5th Class, four were 6th, two were rookies with clear stones.
Slayers didn't reinvent the wheel, issuing metal tags like soldiers for identifying mangled bodies.
Scanning the leader's tag on my tablet, I pulled his file. Let's see…
Semyon Mukhin. No Lineage, as expected. "Current Assignment" was blank. They didn't log their mission, not unusual.
Next, "Reputation." Negative… Expelled from the Center for… insubordination… actions causing raid member deaths… questionable morals… A pariah! Not enough to lose his ring, but no self-respecting Slayer would touch him. The rest were either similar "trash" or fools.
I knew such people. They called themselves "free," often human dregs. Some were just individualists, ditching the Center. I'd heard they had a hub in Irkutsk for gathering, chatting, and deals.
Their "Current Group" was also blank. Center groups were official; these guys worked on a handshake.
This worked in my favor. Their deaths would face a cursory investigation—"free" Slayers were disliked for… everything!
Decision made. I took one sturdy, simple dagger from a body—just to not be weaponless, and knives are handy. For slicing sausage, say.
Then I pulled my numbered plaque on a short stake, etched with my Slayer ID, from my backpack. I wrote the date and time with a permanent marker and planted it in the ground with satisfaction.
Tradition, what can you do? I'd notify the Center about the Rift closure, and the plaque was for passersby to avoid wasting time. Soldiers would see the date and know when the Rift would "dissolve."
I trekked to the checkpoint, whistling cheerfully, blessed by good weather.
At the checkpoint, I borrowed their radio and called the Center's dispatcher, explaining. Came, saw, extracted. 5th-Class Slayer Galaktionov. Model Slayer and life of the party. My tablet pinged, confirming the report.
I checked and saw two new "Reputation" notifications:
- Clearing Rift #38575732.
- Discovery of deceased Slayer group.
Both marked "Under Review." Standard procedure—my reputation would rise or fall after. For now, it sat at a proud zero.
The soldiers rushed to the Rift to guard the bodies until the "corpse wagon" arrived. I called a taxi and headed back to the city.
A Center armored convoy sped past, quick to respond to my call with a duty team. They wouldn't be stopped at the checkpoint. That was the one perk I regretted. Forming a Center raid group let you rent their transport, speeding you to the Rift. With enough cash, even an APC or tank.
At the city entrance, the driver turned to confirm my destination. I had options, but evening neared, and… I was burning with sexual desire. A Soulcatcher's side effect—soul energy overflowed, and the easiest release was sex.
"Hotel, and wait," I said.
After a quick shower and change, I got back in the taxi.
"Where's a good place to cut loose?"
"Cut loose?" The elderly driver squinted. "Lord Slayer wants to drink? Eat? Paid love?"
"Haha!" I laughed. "Drink—yes! Eat—yes! Paid love—no. How about a club for the first two, plus some quality female company… a bit classier?"
"Lord wants an aristocrat club?"
"Not necessarily," I nodded. With their dumb rules, I might not score. "Something public… pricey… prestigious…"
"Got it, done!" The driver weaved through streets, soon dropping me by bright neon lights glowing like a Christmas tree in the dusk. "Club Imperial," the sign boasted. A queue, mostly young, attractive non-noble women, eyed me instantly.
I approached the security and smiled.
"Hey! What's it take to get in?"
"Greetings, Lord Slayer!" the burly guard grinned, lifting the red rope barrier. "Nothing. We always welcome Slayers!"
As expected. Inside, an administrator, likely tipped off by the guard, rushed over.
"Good evening, Lord Slayer! An honor to host you! Your wishes?"
I scanned the place. Nothing new. Standard club. In Europe, I wasn't big on these, though I visited higher-end ones occasionally. My father would've disapproved of his wayward son hitting a "public" club.
A dance floor, sparse due to the early hour, had go-go dancers at poles. Tables, booths in the back, and a second tier overlooking the floor. I wasn't dancing, but I needed a good view.
"Second tier, corner table!" I decided.
"Done, my lord! This way!"
The food was mediocre—people came to… ahem… dance. I nibbled, avoiding a full stomach, and sipped a couple of whiskeys, scoping the scene and picking.
Plenty to choose from. Seventy percent were women, all types. I spotted two bored friends—a brunette and a blonde—glancing my way. I flagged the waiter and slipped him a five.
"Those two girls? Working… or?"
"No, my lord. Party girls. Regulars, but… ahem… not seen with ulterior motives! They love noble lords!" he spilled.
"Then, a bottle of champagne for them. Say they can join me if they want. And… sell it right," I added another five.
"Consider it done!" He nodded and vanished.
He lingered at their table with an ice bucket and my bottle, talking over the loud music. I bet he was painting me as a "Grand Prince incognito, mighty Slayer, slaying dragons between managing vast wealth."
It worked. Instead of pouring their glasses, he brought the bucket to my table, the two women gliding behind, flaunting their assets.
"May we?" the blonde smiled. "I'm… and this is my friend…"
Embarrassing, but I missed their names. As old Mac said, "A one-night stand's no reason to get acquainted!"
I eyed them. They looked… sturdy enough for my plan. Because I wasn't sleeping tonight…