2. The Old Alley
"It is all because of human desperation."
Pringle, the resident polymath of Strausga, was speaking in an impassioned voice, veins bulging along his neck. Whenever his speeches reached what he believed to be their most important moment, he always did the same thing—slamming his beer mug onto the table, widening his eyes, and preparing to spray his words in rapid-fire bursts at anyone within range.
"Think about it. A baseball traveling at 160 kilometers per hour, landing squarely on the catcher's chest from a distance of 18.44 meters—doesn't that sound like a miracle? Even within a fraction of a second, the pitcher is constantly harassed by base stealers, by the crowd's jeers. But do you know what the greatest danger of all is?
The human body. What do you think the odds are that a person can repeat the exact same angle and force every single time? Practically zero. Add just a little more strength, let the elbow drop ever so slightly, and the ball ends up somewhere completely different. And yet, pitchers perform that magnificent motion again and again, as if it were nothing.
That's not something physics or neurology can explain. It's… well—something like a miracle."
Pringle could have continued, but his companion Bracket refilled his empty mug, prompting him to rein in his bulging eyes and calm himself for the moment. No one in the bar was particularly agreeing with him or listening attentively—but neither was anyone annoyed enough to stop him. His speech was little more than background noise to them, like a radio droning on in traffic during the commute home.
"In the end, every pitch is the product of a fleeting moment of desperation. That desperate will creates a miraculous chain of strikes. We call this the Law of Attraction. The more vividly you imagine the strike in your mind, the closer it comes to reality. The more specific and repetitive the image, the stronger the pull becomes. Everyone knows this—but few can practice it. It's what you might call… an open secret."
With what seemed like the conclusion of his sermon, Pringle drained his beer in one go, wiping the foam that clung to his coarse beard with the back of his hand, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction. Somewhere in the room, a single, unpleasant clap broke out.
"An excellent speech. Not much different from what my eight-year-old nephew read in a book recently. But tell me, old man—why does it seem like you lack that desperation when it comes to your own job? Every bullet you fire mysteriously misses the Madman's head and heads straight for a human torso instead. Ah! Or is it that your true desperation lies elsewhere? Hah!"
Herman, watching Pringle from a table at the back, wasted no time mocking him the moment the speech ended. Laughter erupted around the room. Pringle's face flushed red as he gulped down his beer, struggling to suppress the anger boiling inside him.
Located at the 127th corner of Strausga, The Old Alley was a sacred place for Hunters after work. Run by a retired man named Banner, it was a gathering spot where Hunters drank and exchanged information. What set it apart from other bars was that it operated 24 hours a day, year-round—and that a menu-like board displaying a Super Hero List hung high on the wall for all to see. Though it served the roughest customers imaginable, not a single fight had ever broken out there.
"Come on, Pringle. Let it go and have another drink. Herman's venom isn't anything new. Don't let it get to you."
Bracket, five years younger than Pringle and on the same team, poured him another beer, wrinkles creasing around his eyes. They were veterans—white-haired elders who had spent longer as Hunters than anyone else present.
"Rude little bastards. All bravado, relying on youthful fire. Back in my day, they wouldn't have even qualified as threats. Damn it. Age really is the enemy."
"Sure. When you're young, you think you can do anything—just because you've got more time than us. But you know what kind of people they are? Even if you give them all the time in the world, they'll still end up crawling back here, lining my pockets."
Banner, the bar's owner, said this as he handed Pringle a freshly poured beer. The free drink softened Pringle's expression, which had been heated moments ago. Perhaps because it was colder and better than the last, his anger seemed to wash away quickly.
"Listen, Anderson. Never get mixed up with that crowd. We old men have lived enough—we could die anytime without regret, even if we're not legends like the Warlord. Just surviving in this profession to our age is an achievement. Guys like Herman? The moment they meet a true rival, they'll panic and run. I've seen plenty like him. What matters isn't how many you kill—it's how you survive."
With his mood restored, Pringle once again launched into philosophy, addressing a young mercenary in a long coat beside him. The man looked startled at being singled out, eyebrows raised in surprise, before offering an embarrassed smile and lifting his beer in response.
"Don't worry about him," Bracket added. "Skill-wise, he's probably the best one here. His name's been on the Super Hero List for months now. And every job he takes is a Burb King case—missions where so many Hunters die that the difficulty rating gets upgraded."
"A modest fellow. Yes… I remember someone like that once. Quiet, always handling the big jobs alone… what was his name… Cal—right. Cal Breaker. That's it. He liked to work alone too. Everyone thought he'd follow the Warlord and enter the Hall of Fame. Then one day, he vanished without a trace. Well… that was over twenty years ago now. Banner! The drinks were excellent tonight!"
Gathering his gear, Pringle left the bar. The chilly wind reddened his face as he stepped outside.
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About one beer's worth of time after Pringle's departure, a strong gust blew through as a massive man entered the bar. Standing well over two meters tall, he nearly brushed the ceiling. His closely cropped hair gave him the look of a soldier. Even Herman's group watched him warily from their corner.
Striding up to the bar, he greeted Banner with a nod and raised one finger, ordering his usual. Under the lights, a deep scar could be seen running from his left eyebrow across to his right cheek. Banner placed a 500cc mug in front of him, which he emptied in a single second.
"Feels like some bastard keeps stealing my jobs. I do all the prep, but somehow the last bullet's never mine. Damn it. Hey—aren't these yours?"
He slammed his massive hand onto the table. Three bloodstained silver bullets and an empty shell casing lay where his hand had been. Anderson glanced at them briefly and took another sip of his beer. The man frowned at him, picked up one casing, and examined it closely. Engraved around the primer on the brass base were the words:
'Nuckle Bomb.'
"And get this—my backup rifle's acting up. I fire it, but I can't see the bullet at all. Where the hell is it going?"
He pulled out a long, silver firearm from his right side, about twenty centimeters in length, gleaming under the lights. The barrel bore the same engraved name: Nuckle Bomb. Tilting the gun, he removed the cylinder—three of the six chambers were empty.
"Huh? Exactly three bullets missing. Then that means… these were mine? So I got the kill after all! No wonder the bullets looked familiar. Hah!"
Mac—known as the Brawler of Bilben—slapped his forehead and laughed heartily. Two years earlier, he had come to Pramo from Bilben, Germany, introduced by Campbell Friedmann. His debut mission, where he engaged a Nephilim—a massively built Madman—in brutal hand-to-hand combat, left a strong impression on everyone. Though many Hunters invited him to join their teams, he continued to work alone, seeing no need for partners.
"Hey, Anderson. Haven't you been getting sloppy lately? At this rate, you'll fall off the Super Hero List. You don't have to beat me—but don't drag me down either, partner."
Mac smacked Anderson hard on the back, splashing beer onto his shirt. Anderson said nothing, accepting the tissues Banner handed him and wiping himself off. Mac considered Anderson his only true partner. A year ago, during a brutal fight with a Madman on Pyotr Street, Anderson's bullet had pierced the creature's skull at the last second, saving Mac's life. Though Mac joked that Anderson had stolen his kill, he didn't truly resent him.
It was already 10 p.m. One by one, the patrons who had been drinking since early evening began to leave. Herman's group was long gone. Mac was thoroughly drunk, finishing his twenty-fourth glass. A night bartender replaced Banner, pulling bottles from the shelf and wiping off the dust.
"The phrase 'end of the century' feels oddly fitting. Killing someone who was human just hours ago and getting paid per head… it's no different from Roman gladiators. Well—at least now we have the noble excuse of protecting survivors.
But Madmen were human once too. Do their friends and families feel safer because of their deaths? Don't humans deserve a dignified death? Hiring people to hunt others like rabid dogs—can that really be called dignity? Humanity has advanced medicine for centuries, cured countless incurable diseases—yet declares there is no answer for the Madmen. Maybe there are simply more people who need to die than be saved. Or perhaps… they already have the answer."
The quiet voice of a lone drinker watching TV in the corner echoed through the now-silent bar. Mac finished his twenty-fifth drink and fell asleep right there.
"If lies are not questioned, they become truth. The few who know the truth monopolize happiness—it's human nature, unchanged through time. Doubting to protect that happiness is also a human right. But standing against power is never easy. The foolish majority despises doubt as mere noise, unaware their happiness is being stolen. Thus lies use indifference as a shield to brutally murder truth—leaving only mockery behind."
Anderson, too, had sunk into thought after a few drinks. He didn't mind time passing quietly like this—only the inevitability of having to leave, to step back into the cold wind and go home like everyone else, felt bothersome.
The stillness broke when a faint vibration buzzed from the phone in his pocket. The sound spread across the tables like an emergency alert.
[Incident]
Location: Paul Street Intersection
Subject: Male, 30s
Anderson stood, leaving money for the drinks. Mac was completely passed out, unmoving. Following the Hunters heading toward the incident site, Anderson opened the door and stepped out into the night.