Chapter 71: Urban Legend

“Hey, you ever heard of Boy A?”

“You mean when the media says ‘no comment’ because the criminal was underage, right?”

Sitting at the counter in the Doggie House, I answered the question from Search Dog beside me as he swirled the liquor in his glass.

“Ahh… yeah, that’s what it meant in your time, huh? Guess you’re older than me after all.”

“…Can I call you big brother, then?”

“Don’t you dare.”

Search Dog gave a short, dry laugh. That suited me fine. I wouldn’t have known how to react if he’d said yes.

“In my time,” he went on, “Boy A was an urban legend. Some human experiment that escaped a research facility—half kid, half bug. Something like that.”

He chuckled at his own story. The punchline wasn’t exactly funny.

“Turns out it was one of the early Tooth models,” he added.

That, at least, explained the joke—though not whether I was supposed to laugh.

“So,” I said, taking a light sip of my drink—orange juice cut with the weakest alcohol they had, “what does any of this have to do with that organization Abacus?”

“I’m saying they’ve got the same roots.”

“…Go on.”

I poured him another glass, amber liquid catching the dim light, and waited for him to continue.

“Boy A’s an urban legend. Abacus is an urban legend. They don’t exist.”

“So it was a waste of time.”

“Nah. Didn’t you hear me? Same as Boy A—they’re a myth, officially. But they do exist. They’re just buried deep.”

He tossed me a memory chip. I caught it, handed it off to Rat Unit, and waited while it ran a virus scan and decrypted the data. The contents began to stream to my terminal. I’d go over it later. For now, I focused on the scruffy man drinking beside me.

“What kind of organization are they?”

“Mm… let’s see.” He took another sip, thinking. “Tell me, Hound—when you hear ‘organization of justice,’ what comes to mind? You know, the kind of dark, morally grey stories that would’ve been popular with guys your age or a bit younger.”

“…Something like ‘sacrifice the few for the many,’ I guess?”

“Exactly. Cold-blooded heroes of justice. Righteous saviors with resolve. Fighters for humanity’s sake. That’s Abacus.”

“So they’re not merchants after all?”

“They’re merchants of justice. They sell weapons, or heroes, in the name of righteousness.”

“Ah.”

“What? You thought of something?”

“They once said they wanted to ‘acquire’ me as a product.”

“You’re kidding.” He let out a whistle. “Damn. Future hero, huh? Sign my bottle, would ya?”

I didn’t share his enthusiasm. Being noticed by some shady, self-proclaimed righteous organization wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time.

And besides, he had to know this—I had every intention of standing against those people.

If I did… what would happen? Would they come after me?

Would they cut off my supplies? Stop me from shopping altogether?

…Well, whatever.

Enemy of humanity.

It had a nice ring to it. Might as well lean into it. In a world like this, a little posturing helps you survive.

“Thanks, Search Dog. I’ll—”

“Hold up!” He slammed his hand down on the counter, cutting me off. “That’s what you get for the payment we agreed on. Now for a little bonus round. I’ll give you something extra on Abacus’s next move if you sell me something in return. Information. On the Tooth tribe you worked with.”

I had already started to rise, but at that, I sank back onto the stool.

“There’s gonna be a war soon,” he said. “Between the Tooth and the humans.”

“…Is that so.”

I kept my face still, my tone flat. But that kind of discipline doesn’t work on a professional sniffer.

The scruffy-bearded man looked at me the way someone might look at a clever dog trying to hide a stolen treat—amused, indulgent.

I scratched my head, fingertips brushing the bone necklace at my throat.

So. I’d been made

.

Then what?

What could I afford to give away? What had to be protected?

And what could I sell for the right price?

The bone dug into my palm as my thoughts sharpened. Right. Step one—

“I’ll hear what you’ve got first.”

“No deal, Hound. You go first.”

“I can’t know if what you’re offering is actually worth it.”

“Trust me. I’m a pro.”

“Then it shouldn’t matter who talks first, should it?”

“Huh?” He gave me a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” I shrugged. “If you’re really a pro, you should be able to get what you want out of me anyway. The least you can do is let me have first pick.”

Search Dog chuckled. “Oh-ho. Cute little growl you’ve got there, puppy. But sorry, big brother doesn’t bite on cheap provocations.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“…”

“…”

We emptied our glasses in silence.

Then he leaned back and said, “You know the rule among men, Hound? No, of course you don’t. So let your kind, patient older brother teach you: the strong one is the one who’s right.”

There was no killing intent in his voice. Even so, the air crackled.

“Well, isn’t that… logical,” I said, smiling in a way that showed teeth.

“Potato Man! Bring the booze!”

Search Dog shouted across the bar, flagging down Potato Man and ordering a round.

Ah. So that’s what he meant by “the strong one is right.”

The crowd caught the scent of entertainment and began to gather.

Most of them were already placing bets on who’d win. The bookmaker was the ninja hound—his Monoz, marked with painted shuriken, was scurrying around collecting crystal chips. Judging by their odds, I was the underdog. Fair enough. Compared to Search Dog—who wasn’t exactly a heavy drinker but could hold his own—I rarely drank anything stronger than juice, milk, or a mild cocktail.

“…”

I took two seconds to think.

“Potato Man!”

He turned, halfway through pouring a drink for me. I held up a hand to stop him.

“You’ve got Spirytus, don’t you? …Good. Bring that.”

I changed the order. Even I knew that name—the kind of liquor that could catch fire if you breathed wrong. Over seventy distillations, nearly pure ethanol.

“…”

Search dog blinked at me, stunned.

He clearly hadn’t seen that coming. Probably assumed I was the soft-drink type, or maybe he’d just underestimated me. Either way, I was going to use that.

“My apologies,” I said smoothly, “that you’ll have to share a drink meant for cute little puppies… big brother.”

The deliberate jab sent a wave of laughter and cheers through the crowd. Whistles cut the air, boots thudded against the floor.

“F-fine by me!” he barked, bristling. “I’ll show you what real liquor tastes like, since all you drink are kiddie cocktails!”

“Oh, I see,” I murmured, tapping my chin in mock realization. “That’s why you thought I was weak to alcohol.”

Then I leaned in slightly, let the moment hang, and smiled.

“My mistake, Search Dog. It’s true I’ve got the palate of a child—”

My eyes met his.

“—but when it comes to alcohol, I’m strong.”

I grinned.

***

Of course, it was a lie.

Even if I were good with alcohol, could any human being survive drinking something that literally catches fire? No. And in my personal categorization of humanity, anyone who can would be immediately disqualified as human. Unrecognized. Rejected. Expelled from the species.

My head hurt. My stomach turned. My chest felt sour. And if this was supposed to be love, then I swore—I’d never fall in love again.

“—”

When I came to, I was lying on a floor littered with bodies.

I turned my head with effort.

Search Dog was sprawled nearby, just as unconscious as I’d been.

Rat Unit noticed I was awake and rolled closer. It said nothing, its glassy eyes blinking softly in silent inquiry.

Ah—he was being careful. Even the smallest noise might carry in this still room.

I appreciated the thought. Appreciated it, but couldn’t afford to honor it.

“…Did… you get it?”

My voice was barely a whisper, but Rat Unit nodded.

Good. It worked.

I managed a weak smile.

Truth be told, I was even weaker to alcohol than Search Dog. So, to level the playing field, I made the alcohol stronger. If I couldn’t win on tolerance, I’d win by escalation. The sheer potency would erase the difference.

Before passing out, I’d focused on just three phrases: “What’s wrong?” “I win.” “Talk.”

And once I blacked out, I’d kept repeating “Talk” at any sound, letting it double as both acknowledgment and victory declaration.

Apparently, it worked. Search Dog, too drunk to realize what was happening, took it as my triumph and started spilling everything he knew.

Whether any of it was true was questionable—but I could confirm that later.

The point was, I’d won.

I had no memory of it… and I was naked.

But I’d won.

“…”

Wait.

Hold on.

Why was I naked?

“You awake, Hound?”

The sudden voice made me jolt.

I looked up—Potato Man. For a second, I was sure he’d come to assault me.

“If you’re awake, get dressed. I can’t open the bar like this.”

Ah. Not an assault. Thank God.

Groaning, I sat up. My head throbbed like a kicked drum.

“So,” he said, “what are you going to do?”

“?”

I gave him a look that said, about what?

“Ah. Guess you were drunker than you looked.” He sighed. “Yesterday, Search Dog passed you some info. The Tooth are planning an attack soon and Abacus is getting involved on the human side.”

“…And?”

He stared at me, incredulous. “What do you mean ‘and’?”

I tilted my head slightly.

“They’re recruiting soldiers on the human side. Naturally, we’ve been approached too. You joining?”

“That day…”

“That day?”

“…My head will hurt.”

“That’s today, idiot. I’ll ask again later.”

Please do. I’d appreciate that. Because right now…

“…Potato Man. Bag.”

Something inside me was rising fast—something fierce, sour, and unstoppable.

So this was what it felt like when your chest filled with something bittersweet.

No. Not love. Gastric acid.

“Bathroom. Go to the damn bathroom.”

“Even if I do… the area of effect will spread.”

In other words, the contamination radius of my path would be catastrophic.

“Fine! Hold on, I’ll grab a bucket!”

Potato Man rushed off, the floor shaking under his massive frame.

Ah.

“—…”

My eyes met those of Ox Unit.

It looked alarmed.

Then I remembered—Monoz had internal manufacturing chambers.

I beckoned for help.

It didn’t move. Not even an inch.

In fact, the moment it realized what was about to happen, every single one of them evacuated the area.

Cold-hearted machines. I was on my own again.