Chapter Thirteen: Transfer

“Deliver a message?” Upon hearing the Butcher speak, Faren couldn’t help but look up, his gaze tinged with curiosity as he glanced at the polar bear beside him. The Butcher gave a dismissive snort before finally answering.

“That’s right. Tell me, kid—did you get into a fight with someone just now?”

“Please don’t use such vulgar terms. If someone ignorant overheard, they’d think I’d done something unspeakable. I merely treated a few patients, nothing more. That’s my job, after all.”

“Sure, you ‘treated’ them. And then you left that pile of meat for someone else to clean up, without a thought for the people who’d have to deal with the mess. But that’s not the issue. The problem is, the guy you took out was trouble.”

At these words, Faren’s hand finally stilled, ceasing its slow rotation of his wineglass.

“Trouble?”

“Exactly. The man you killed today was a member of the Wilds Alliance—an important one, at that.”

“Never heard of them…”

Faren frowned, pondering the Butcher’s words for a moment before shaking his head. The Butcher sneered, placing his bottle on the table.

“Of course you haven’t. To put it bluntly, they’re just a pack of wild dogs sticking together for warmth—walking beasts. Honestly, on any other day, you could do as you pleased; you know our rules. But not now. The Old Man asked me to bring you a message: ‘Even a pack of wild dogs should die with purpose. I’d rather use them as cannon fodder than see them slaughtered meaninglessly.’ I trust you’re smart enough to understand what he means.”

This time, Faren said nothing, merely setting his glass down as the cat-eared maid beside him silently refilled it to the brim.

“Those wild dogs sent someone to protest to the Old Man. Naturally, you know Blackstone Group won’t interfere. But if we don’t do something, next time those bastards will come after you themselves. They may be idiots, but right now, we need them as our minesweepers. If you kill them all, it’s a waste. Bait is for catching fish, not feeding them. So the Old Man hopes you’ll keep calm and follow instructions—for now, stick with the main force. Don’t stray, or those idiots might think they can take you down. I know you don’t care, but for now… just rein it in a little.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

Faren set his wineglass down, inquiring further. The Butcher gave a sly grin in response.

“As it happens, during today’s battle, the Black Dog Mercenaries—hired by the Old Man—lost their leader. So, the Old Man’s recommending you take temporary command, lead those men in the front-line sweeps. How about it? Not an unreasonable request, is it?”

“You want me to go?”

Faren frowned slightly at the suggestion, but the Butcher only laughed, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder.

“I know this isn’t your thing, but it’s the only option. Sure, the Black Dogs are in the most dangerous zone, but because of that, the place is crawling with Blackstone Group people. Those wild idiots won’t dare make a move. Take it as part of the job. Besides, the Old Man promises you won’t be shortchanged; if you accept, there’s extra payment in it for you.”

“…Alright.”

After a brief consideration, Faren agreed. He didn’t care about those wild dogs, but since Blackstone Group had hired them for this mission, he would see it through. In this, at least, Faren was a professional.

“That’s more like it.” The Butcher guffawed, leaning back—so heavily that the once-sturdy chair let out a tortured groan. Ignoring the poor chair, the Butcher reached inside his coat and tossed Faren an ID card.

“Take this. It’s your identification. With it, you’ll have authority over those men.”

The black ID card spun through the air, landing in Faren’s hand. He narrowed his eyes, examining the nearly jet-black card, no larger than a standard credit card, save for a blood-red chip embedded where a normal card’s chip would be. Seeing that chip, a faint, fleeting smile crossed Faren’s lips.

“So, they’re hounds, then…”

The so-called “Hounds” were peripheral forces kept by various organizations, not unlike covert agents from before the Cataclysm. Their job was to gather intelligence on the wasteland or carry out the organizations’ orders—ambushes, assassinations, whatever was needed. This ID card was the key to controlling these “Hounds.” The red chip contained the Hounds’ biometric data, and if any of them dared betray the organization, the holder of the card could activate it, seizing control of their minds and turning them into mindless puppets. Their fate—self-destruction or something worse—would be decided by whoever held the card.

“Hence the name ‘Black Dogs,’ right?”

The Butcher clearly enjoyed his own joke, chuckling as he cut a cigar and placed it in his mouth.

“During the operation, this squad is yours to lead. Do as you like; I’m sure you’ll have a great time. And when it’s all over, if you want, you can keep them. With your skills, you won’t be long in gathering a force of your own. Go on, kid—unite the wasteland and found an everlasting empire!”

“That’s a lovely future, but unfortunately, I have little interest in it.”

Despite the Butcher’s enthusiastic vision, Faren showed no particular excitement. He simply pocketed the ID card and turned his attention back to his wine, prompting a resigned sigh from the Butcher.

“Yeah, you’re only interested in women. Other than your little sweetheart, you’d never bother with this nonsense. Sometimes, I envy you. Come and go as you please, do whatever you want, answer to no one. Look at me—my crew of useless idiots needs me for everything, from eating and drinking to cleaning up their messes—even chasing after women, I’m left to clean up after them. Damn! Back when I was your age, I dreamed of raising a squad and ruling the wasteland. Now, it was all bullshit! This broken little patch of land—more dogs than people! Keeping a pack of men? I’d be better off keeping dogs!”

As he spoke, the Butcher seemed to lose his enthusiasm. He stood, waving at Faren.

“Well, that’s the message. My job’s done. Sitting with a pretty boy like you is no fun—back in the day, I was a real heartbreaker myself… Bah, the more I look at you, the more annoyed I get. I’m outta here!”

With that, the Butcher strode away. Neither Faren nor Delin seemed the least bit bothered by his rudeness. The Seven Warlords were, after all, a band of madmen, each with his own quirks. If Faren’s passion was doing good deeds, the Butcher’s was drinking and getting into brawls for no reason at all. Only among the other Warlords did the Butcher show a hint of restraint—otherwise, he’d probably be off somewhere looking for a fight right now.

“Irritability is a sign of calcium deficiency. He could use some treatment himself,” Faren said with a soft chuckle, watching the Butcher’s retreating figure. He picked up the card, tapped it lightly, and a cascade of data appeared before his eyes.

[Activation request detected. Verifying.]
[User ID: Doctor]
[Verification complete… Control system activated.]
[Querying squad status… Query complete.]
[ID: Tulip (Alive)]
[ID: Lily (Alive)]
[ID: Rose (Deceased)]
[ID: Narcissus (Critically injured)]

“So I’m to be a gardener now? Well, it’s no great matter. Let’s go, Delin.”

With a wry remark at the information before him, Faren drained his wine and stood. Seeing this, Delin, who had been quietly at his side, asked curiously, “Master, where are we going?”

Faren turned, smiling as he waved the ID card in his hand.

“Why, to check on the quality of the flowers in my garden, of course.”