I Possessed a Broken Academy Instructor

Chapter 55

Three days had passed since Jin Crow arrived in Mercato.

However, due to being detained by Geumyeong on the very first day, he had only two days to explore alone.

“Tsk.”

The system of the Black Market was mostly the same.

Wearing chaotic LED masks wrapped in individuality, they traded without regard for legality or illegality, and surprisingly, there was little of real worth.

“Hey, this is an awakening drug even the Imperial knights use, you know?”

“Forget it. Don’t come back next time.”

No, perhaps he had simply been too lucky on the first day.

The black pill from the old man in the plague doctor mask, its name aside, was undeniably effective.

Today too, having struck out, he made his way to the hotel lobby, feeling the constriction of the black turtleneck he wore, pulling it slightly down.

〔34th floor.〕

Returning to the hotel, he headed for his room.

As he reached the door, just as he was about to swipe his card to enter, he caught sight of something at his feet and couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.

[Han-Sarang Pharmacy]

No matter how you look at it, it’s supposed to be an awakening drug, but sending it like a parcel is a bit much, isn’t it?

He had expected at least some effort to be made to deliver it directly through a person.

With such thoughts, he picked up the box and stepped inside the room.

Clunk-.

After pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and taking a sip, he opened the box he had placed on the table.

Of course, just in case, he was ready to insert the pentacle into the nape of his neck at any moment.

“This is…”

As expected.

As the box was torn open, what lay within was not a ticking time bomb that marked the passage of time…

Of course not. Instead, it contained a small vial of dark brown liquid and a pack of cigarettes.

The cigarettes were unremarkable at a glance.

Just a slightly elongated cigarette wrapped in black paper, devoid of any logo.

However, the dark brown liquid, which could hold no more than 200ml, was entirely unexpected, causing me to tilt my head in confusion.

Swoosh—.

A note that had been stuck to the bottom of the vial fluttered through the air and fell. Picking it up and reading it, I finally understood what this vial contained.

–

Cigarettes: No more than three a day.

The alcohol has been processed into a bitter for easy transport, so be sure to adhere to the proper dosage.

□ Usage

Add 3 to 5 drops to whiskey.

□ Side Effects

Nausea, dizziness, chills, temporary paralysis, temporary blindness…

–

Bitters.

A type of liqueur, often added to whiskey to enhance flavor or increase potency, it is a concentrated spirit.

Originally, it was said to be a kind of medicine infused with herbs, but that detail is of little importance, so let’s move on.

“Ha.”

The personality was eccentric, and the naming sense was horrifically lacking, yet one could not deny the potency of the concoction.

Naturally, it was far more convenient to carry a small vial than to lug around a whole bottle of liquor.

I thought briefly that I should have at least noted the name, but soon shook my head.

Even if I asked, I doubted I would receive an answer, and with what I had on hand, I could manage for a while.

If worse came to worst, I could always rely on Pentaclo.

…Of course, the side effects were a bit concerning, but having experienced it already, I knew they were somewhat exaggerated.

‘It does hurt like hell.’

In a life-or-death situation, what does pain matter?

And the same went for the side effects written on this paper.

I pulled a pack from the carton and tucked it into my coat, placing the bitters among my belongings.

The effect of the cigarettes was said to last about an hour, so I figured I could handle most situations with just that.

‘More than that…’

For a moment, he glanced at the bag where he had stowed his belongings, and suddenly a realization struck him.

The bitter essence was contained within a bottle, and bottles are fragile things.

“…Hmm.”

It might be excessive worry, but perhaps not obtaining the nectar could be the greatest yield of this venture.

Yet the problem lay in the fact that the security of this so-called Free Planet Alliance, no matter how positively one might view it, was far from reassuring.

From the few days he had wandered about, it was almost peculiar that he had yet to encounter any trouble.

And that meant, it wouldn’t be strange if trouble found him at any moment.

“I should buy a case to store it in.”

What he had felt since falling into this world was that misfortune arrives unbidden, more often than one might imagine.

To put it bluntly, who would have expected to race for their life against the Red Hand, the Defense Forces, and creatures in the Atlas Colony?

In the end, Jin Crow shrugged on the coat he had cast aside and reached for the sword he had laid down.

The impending rain was somewhat displeasing, but a short walk from the hotel would lead him to the shopping district, where he could return, have a drink, and sleep it off.

“Cough!”

“Tsk, I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have.”

…There was a time he thought that.

“Damn it.”

Jin Crow pressed his hand against the throbbing pain in his head and soon lit a black cigarette from Han-Sarang Pharmacy, exhaling the smoke with a calm demeanor.

Swoosh…

The rain had dampened it slightly, making it hard to ignite at first, but soon the thick smoke mingled with the scent of rain, masking the heavy stench of blood.

Beneath the brilliantly flickering lights of civilization, in a dark alley steeped in uncivilized chaos and dampness, one could almost feel the oppressive humidity.

“…Cough. Hah.”

A young man in a black suit was gasping for breath, blood pooling in a moldy corner.

The other man in a black suit, who seemed to have caused this state, was smoking a cigarette, his eyes glinting with an unnatural light, as he issued a dry command.

“Regrettable. Kill him.”

Naturally, the target, Jin Crow, was now softly chewing on the filter of a cigarette that was half-burned, murmuring to himself.

“I’m going mad.”

The expression on his face bore a striking resemblance to that of a weary office worker longing for the end of the day.

*

Tat-tat, splat—!

The urgent sound of footsteps echoes through the alley.

“Damn it!”

Is it the pouring rain that drives the heart to race?

Or perhaps the weight of knowing something one should not, the shock that sends tremors through the chest?

Most likely, it is both.

One thing is certain.

“I must, I must inform the Consigliere!”

Lucky Anubis, who currently leads the Zenolua family, has lost his mind.

No, it is clear that the owners leading the council are all consumed by power, having lost even the barest semblance of humanity.

“To use a monster, those madmen…!”

He spurs his weary body onward, urgency gnawing at him.

Boom!

Tat-tat-tat!

The only sounds that occasionally reach him are dull thuds and the rush of someone sprinting, yet this only heightens his fear.

To wander the night in silence is proof that they have sent not just ordinary operatives, but professional hitmen to hunt him down.

“First, I’ll blend into the crowd on the main street and head to District 17.”

The alleys of the Free Planet Alliance twist and turn like a labyrinth, but if Lucky Anubis has personally trained a hitman, the alleys become even more perilous.

“There’s not much time left.”

Fortunately, after gathering information and securing evidence, he had managed to flee before they caught on, and he felt he could evade them long enough.

He just needed to navigate the alleys.

Yes, just the alleys.

As he thought this, just as he turned a corner, it happened.

“There you are, rat.”

A chilling voice split the narrow alley, and the man, who had been racing toward the distant bustling street, suddenly felt a wave of dread wash over him, forcing him to look up at the sky.

“Gah!”

He halted, instinctively freezing mid-step.

His legs twitched from the sudden explosive movement, and a bitter taste filled his mouth, but without hesitation, he aimed the gun he held into the void.

Bang!

The muzzle flared, and the bullet struck true, piercing the enemy’s brow, but soon he realized.

What he had shot at was merely an afterimage, and the foe had already marked him from behind.

“Wait, just a moment—!”

A heavy pain surged through his spine, shaking his mind in an instant.

“Cough!”

Boom!

With the sound of a balloon bursting, the crack of bone echoed from within.

He was slammed against the wall, struggling to lift the revolver that still had bullets left, but the trembling muzzle found it hard to aim at the man standing still before him.

His insides were surely ruptured, and one eye, as if shattered by the impact, could not focus.

The man with the glinting blue gaze stepped forward, as if he longed to grasp his nape and twist it.

But then.

“Not so fast.”

As a familiar voice brushed against his ear, the advancing man halted his movements mechanically.

Then, a middle-aged figure with a black umbrella approached, slowly raising it to reveal his shadowed face to the battered man.

“…Cough, M-Miller.”

“You know the price for breaking Omertà, don’t you?”

A voice colder than ever uttered the ‘Code of Silence.’

Swoosh…

A brief sound of rain mixed between them, and the man called Miller merely stared at him silently, as if to ask if he had any last words.

Perhaps it was thanks to that.

The fleeing man, biting his lip against the now-familiar pain, sneered at him.

“…To pledge loyalty to the one who killed the Don. Do you have no honor?”

“Honor. Is there a more hollow word than that?”

“Do not call yourself a mafia, Miller. The day will soon come when Lucky, that greedy Judas, will find a knife in his back.”

A symbol of punishing the one who killed the boss.

Three hundred dollars lodged in the anus.

The hatred he harbored was real enough to bring forth that old, worn symbol.

Did he sense it?

Or had he lost even the slightest sense of honor?

The man called Miller exhaled a low sigh, looking down at him with eyes colder than ice.

Thud—

No, he was about to speak.

“Hmm?”

If it hadn’t been for that low, heavy voice that escaped into the air.

The gazes of the three men turned sharply toward the source of the sound, and soon, at the end of their collective stare, a man emerged.

Over six feet tall.

A thin man clad in a black coat.

Miller, upon spotting him, clicked his tongue and muttered softly.

“Tsk. I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have.”

Had his words struck a nerve?

The slightly revealed jaw twitched for a moment, and soon, as he lowered his umbrella, he calmly retrieved a cigarette from his coat and placed it between his lips.

“…Cough. Hah.”

Even as a life was fading before his eyes, he remained disturbingly composed.

As if such a sight were all too familiar to him.

Did Miller sense that subtle dissonance as well?

He unconsciously displayed a hint of discomfort and commanded the hitman, who had been standing silently until now.

“Too bad. Kill him.”

Did he take a liking to that command?

The man’s blue eyes gleamed, and only then did he realize that his opponent was a cyborg, fully modified, and he parted his cracked lips to warn the man standing in the alley.

“…Run.”

But at that very moment.

“I’m going mad.”

A low murmur slipped through the man’s lips, who was chewing on a half-burned cigarette, and he soon placed a hand on the sword at his waist, then swiftly reached across to draw a dagger, gripping it in reverse.

Not a bad choice.

In a narrow alley, even a longsword in the hands of a skilled fighter would only serve to create unnecessary vulnerabilities.

But the opponent was formidable.

A cyborg bred solely for the purpose of killing, rivaling even the most seasoned triple gear superhumans.

“Phew.”

Perhaps it was confidence in his victory.

Miller calmly took a drag from his cigarette, and soon the cyborg emitted a brief mechanical sound before charging straight at the man in the coat.

The man, anticipating yet another innocent death, closed his eyes.

“W-what?”

But in that moment.

The unexpected, disconcerting voice of Miller brushed against his ear, and the man who soon opened his eyes could do nothing but forget his wounds and gape at the reality unfolding before him.

“…Good heavens.”

Thud, clatter.

With a short and succinct sound, something the size of a watermelon rolled to a stop at Miller’s shoe tip.

“…This, in one blow.”

It was, unmistakably, the head of an unknown cyborg hitman.