Ch.2828. Cyberpunk and Mercenaries

# Morning as the sun creeps up over the horizon.

Tada-ran♩♪

In a highway rest area where soft music played,

A man covered in tattoos tapped the shoulder of the dreadlocked man sitting next to him.

“What?”

“Hey, look at that.”

The dreadlocked man turned his head in the direction the tattooed man was pointing.

The news was playing on the television mounted at the bar.

<The Dungeon Management Association has named the dungeon that appeared in Colorado state as ‘White Dawn’.>

Interest filled the dreadlocked man’s eyes as he watched the news.

The tattooed man, as if reading his thoughts, flashed a combative smile.

“Want to go there?”

“That dungeon belonged to Higgjen Group, right?”

“Yeah. They say Three Dollar Meat took everything, but there should still be plenty of useful stuff left.”

“Then let’s hurry.”

The dreadlocked man stuffed the hot dog he was holding into his mouth and immediately stood up.

<Ding! Payment received.>

After paying for their food with a flick of their fingers, the two men promptly left the bar.

Amon, who had been listening to their conversation from the table right behind them, put down the newspaper he’d been reading while sipping his coffee.

‘They say all the mercenaries are heading to Colorado.’

The two men who just left seemed to be such people.

The reason was obviously the dungeon.

‘It’s a Megacorp dungeon that appeared after a long time.’

Dungeons themselves weren’t that rare since they were being created all over the world.

Sometimes mid-sized companies that ignored safety protocols while experimenting would turn into dungeons, or they’d form when major corporations sabotaged each other,

So dungeons appeared steadily in each state, about one every two years.

But it was rare for a mega-corporation to become a dungeon.

From what Amon had researched, it was the first time in 10 years in America.

The larger the company that becomes a dungeon, the more dangerous it is, but the rewards are that much sweeter.

That’s why as soon as people heard Higgjen Group had become a dungeon, mercenaries from as far as California were heading to Colorado.

‘I’ve already cleared that dungeon, but… no. Did clearing it actually increase the demand?’

There are various types of dungeons in the world, each with their own characteristics.

This is why there’s a field of study called dungeon science to classify them, but that’s not important right now.

What’s important was the news that the White Dawn dungeon he had cleared was the type where the dungeon remains even after the boss dies.

‘Well, the demon was summoned, and the monsters are executives who received divine punishment.’

The news reported it was the type of dungeon where there’s no boss but monsters continue to respawn.

In other words, it was an unappealing dungeon for mercenaries aiming for the top, but infinitely attractive to beginners or mid-level mercenaries seeking stable growth.

Moreover, although the Three Dollar Meat group had taken all the important items, what companies want and what mercenaries want are completely different.

Companies want information and data, but mercenaries want the leftover scraps and equipment in the building.

Even dungeons reportedly cleaned out by the Three Dollar Meat group hadn’t lost any value to ordinary mercenaries.

Perhaps that’s why.

Mercenaries were gathering in Colorado from not just America but all over the world.

Amid this flow, Amon and Sonia were heading in the exact opposite direction of the mercenaries.

Sip.

At a rest area on the highway from Colorado to California, Amon sipped his coffee.

The artificial flavoring and caffeine meant to mimic coffee left a stale taste in his mouth.

Even Amon, who didn’t know much about coffee beans, could tell how cheap this coffee was.

But since he was drinking it to stay awake rather than for taste, he could tolerate this much.

Sip.

“Father, please take care of us on the way.”

With his upper lip drooping from the disgustingly bad coffee, Amon spoke to the priest sitting across from him.

The priest, still half-asleep, barely managed to nod toward Amon.

On Amon’s journey to California, Sonia wasn’t his only companion.

The squinty-eyed priest had also been “dragged along” with the two.

Of course, formally, he was “coincidentally” being dispatched to California and was simply taking the two along.

But looking at yet another coincidence—that the priest had suddenly become Sonia’s theology school professor starting next year—it was impossible to pretend not to notice.

‘It’s too obvious…’

Anyone could see he was both a guardian and a monitor.

After all, the fact that Amon had single-handedly cleared White Dawn was known only to the Vatican.

In such a situation, it would be too unfortunate to sever ties with the two.

So they dispatched the priest, who already had a connection with the two and whose position allowed for relatively free movement.

Amon clearly remembered the priest’s expression when he received the dispatch document along with the professor appointment letter.

It was the same expression his workplace senior in his previous life had when transferred to a provincial office—a powerless office worker with much to say but forced to hold back in front of others.

And so the priest was dragged along by Amon and Sonia.

With his own will thoroughly excluded.

To reduce travel time, they took turns driving in three shifts toward California.

The priest, massaging his eye bags, said to Amon:

“Where’s Sonia?”

“She says she has trouble sleeping after eating, so she’s sleeping on an empty stomach.”

“You’ve had a tough time driving in the early morning, Amon.”

Until they reached this rest area, Amon had been driving with Sonia in the passenger seat.

Now as they leave, the priest would take the wheel with Amon in the passenger seat.

Sonia needed to rest as the next driver, but Amon needed to stay awake beside the priest to keep him alert.

In any world, it was proper etiquette for the passenger to stay awake with the driver.

“Father, have some coffee.”

As part of his passenger duties, Amon offered coffee for the priest to drink.

Whether due to the caffeine or its terrible taste,

The priest’s eyes snapped wide open after one sip.

The previously drowsy priest was now ready to take the wheel.

“Should we buy some snacks for the road?”

The priest declined Amon’s suggestion.

His reason was that spilling anything in the rental car would be a headache.

So they just grabbed some zero-calorie cola to drink along the way and left the rest area.

– “No to exhaust fumes! Love the environment!”

Passing by environmental activists holding picket signs in front of the highway rest area, the two got into the car.

Gripping the ignition key, the priest spoke as if in prayer:

“Please, please…”

Vroom.

Fortunately, the engine started well.

“Oh, thank you.”

With gratitude to no one in particular, the priest stepped on the accelerator.

The car left the rest area and entered the highway.

With Sonia in the back seat, the car headed toward California.

In the uncomfortable silence, Amon tried to fulfill his passenger duty by starting a conversation.

“Father, how did you end up becoming a priest?”

At his question, the priest creased the area around his lips while keeping his eyes on the road.

After a brief silence, the priest finally answered.

“Because it’s safe.”

“Pardon?”

“In this miserable world, the Vatican is the safest place for someone with Divine Power.”

“Uh…”

Faced with an unexpected answer, Amon’s eyes darted around as he wondered how to respond.

The priest Amon knew was… despite his somewhat suspicious appearance, a sufficiently good person.

Setting aside whether he was trustworthy, he was a good person and a good priest.

Not exactly a saint, but a kind person?

That’s about how he’d describe him.

Amon never imagined such an answer would come from someone like that.

The priest, guessing from Amon’s silence what he might be curious about, offered an explanation.

“You seem to misunderstand. I don’t particularly like the Vatican either. I’m just an employee working at the Vatican, not a member of the Vatican.”

“Huh? Are you allowed to say things like that, Father?”

“I didn’t start this job out of a sense of calling. In the world of exorcism, it feels like walking a tightrope with your life. In such circumstances, one naturally gravitates toward something more stable and safe.”

The priest’s answer was quite understandable.

There are people who can risk their lives for faith, and there are also those who prioritize their lives while not betraying their faith.

It’s not an area where one can judge right or wrong, and it was quite relatable.

If it hadn’t been the priest who said these words.

“But still…”

Amon recalled what the Mother Superior had told him.

The priest was determined to bring Amon and Sonia to the Vatican.

For such a person to claim he wasn’t particularly loyal to the Vatican…

It was hard to believe.

In Amon’s silence, the squinty-eyed priest, as if reading his mind, chuckled and said:

“Then why did I try to bring you two to the Vatican, you wonder? From my perspective, it’s much safer for you to be at the Vatican, so I recommended it. And it would count toward my performance too.”

“…That’s very worldly.”

“If good intentions come with rewards, why not?”

Amon was left speechless.

It was a very practical reason.

‘The more I see him, the more mysterious Father becomes.’

Amon revised his assessment of the squinty-eyed priest and continued chatting from the passenger seat.

This conversation took place when they still had 12 hours left to California.

***

The journey to California, which took several days, ended with Sonia’s turn at the wheel.

The three parted ways after dropping off their luggage at the pre-arranged house.

The priest headed to the center to return the rental car,

Sonia went to the university for enrollment procedures.

And Amon headed to the mercenary brokerage as planned.

‘There are more mercenaries left than I expected.’

Despite a Megacorp-level dungeon appearing in Colorado and numerous mercenaries moving there,

California still had plenty of mercenaries.

Thinking about it, it made sense.

No matter how many dungeons appeared in Colorado, the fundamental hub that was California wouldn’t become deserted.

‘This is the original hub.’

California was the setting for Punk City 3.

Thanks to the protagonist who became a legend among mercenaries in the true ending, California had become something of a holy land for mercenaries.

Moreover, it had far more Megacorp-level dungeons compared to other regions.

With so many Megacorps gathered, they often got greedy or sabotaged each other, resulting in multiple Megacorp-level dungeons.

Though it had been quiet for the past 10 years, there was once a chaotic era when a Megacorp dungeon would appear every year.

And there were still many unconquered Megacorp dungeons remaining.

It wasn’t called the holy land of mercenaries for nothing.

‘It’s been a while. How is this place still not bankrupt?’

Amon rummaged through his game knowledge as he headed to the brokerage.

The scenery on the way had changed so drastically that he needed navigation help, but the destination, the mercenary brokerage, remained unchanged.

<Pabaloma>

He didn’t know what it meant.

The brokerage owner who had promised to explain the meaning of Pabaloma upon return was assassinated, so he never learned it by the end of the game.

According to the epilogue, the owner’s son took over the brokerage, and it seemed that tradition continued even now, 50 years later.

‘This is the original of originals.’

In the game, Pabaloma was California’s top brokerage.

According to the internet, it had fallen to third place after 50 years, but for Amon, a traditionalist, that was fine.

What mattered to him was feeling the nostalgia of the past.

He checked the two swords at his waist and headed toward the automatic door next to the bodyguard.

Ignoring the bodyguard who was subtly distancing himself, Amon entered the brokerage.

Whirr

As the door opened, the smell of alcohol and grease welcomed him.

He crossed the brokerage toward the reception desk.

The mercenaries’ gazes converged on him.

Normally he would have assumed they were captivated by his appearance, but this time was different.

Amon was wearing a mask, and people’s gazes reflected fear rather than curiosity or goodwill.

– “…Isn’t that…?”

– “I think it is.”

Amon walked through the people’s stares toward the receptionist.

In any world, it was standard for receptionists to be pretty ladies.

Amon’s assigned receptionist was also beautiful, though he couldn’t be certain of their original face or even if they were female.

After staring at the computer screen for a while, she turned her gaze toward Amon.

“Gasp!”

…And nearly fell backward in surprise.

Amon couldn’t understand.

What had he done to make people so afraid?

Setting aside his confusion for now, Amon stated his business.

Despite her nervousness, the receptionist was professional enough to complete her duties while keeping an eye on Amon.

Eventually, an official mercenary license was issued in Amon’s name.

“Thank you.”

Amon tucked the colored card into his inner pocket.

His business for today ended there.

He had only planned to register today, so he had no intention of going to a dungeon or fulfilling requests.

Then suddenly, the question he had set aside came back to him.

He asked the receptionist, the only person in this space who wasn’t avoiding him—or more precisely, couldn’t run away:

“Why do people keep being afraid of me? Is my face on some wanted poster?”

At Amon’s question, the trembling receptionist took out her phone.

Click.

She took a photo of Amon and showed it to him.

In the screen, a strange figure wearing a blue skull motorcycle helmet stared back at Amon.

Seeing the photo, Amon tilted his head.

‘What’s the problem?’

Each piece of Amon’s clothing had a purpose.

A motorcycle helmet to protect against direct head impacts, whether in dungeons or on missions.

A red bike suit, excellent in both mobility and heat resistance, modified to insert bulletproof plates with extra metal plating on the crucial chest area.

A yellow raincoat worn over it to protect against acidic substances or blood, and army-green pants used by bomb disposal units to guard against mines on the lower body.

For his hands, he compromised with fingered gloves for dexterity rather than protection, and white military boots for his feet.

For weapons, he carried both a Japanese sword and an arming sword to expand his tactical options.

In Amon’s view, his equipment was perfect.

‘I really got the best cost-effectiveness.’

Amon was proud of his meticulously calculated outfit that prioritized efficiency per cost.

Claiming his instincts hadn’t died even after reincarnation.

Of course, the impressions of those who saw him were completely different.

‘Isn’t that guy a pervert?’

It was the kind of fashion only a madman who might suddenly go berserk would wear.

But the person himself seemed to feel nothing unusual about his fashion.

The receptionist, realizing that Amon’s fashion sense was seriously damaged, quickly gave up trying to convince him.

“No, it’s nothing…”

Amon left for the street again, still puzzled and wearing the same outfit.

Like the parting of the Red Sea, the crowd split to make way for him.

This dense individual wouldn’t realize people’s true feelings until he got home and received a scolding from his partner.