The Imperial Hunter

Strictly speaking, Jay – Calvin Braimlow – was not the contract target. What I promised to the White Chief was the extermination of the “White Guard.” However, the essence of the request was revenge, and if I could put in ten times the effort to reap a hundred times the effect, there was no reason not to.

I needed a submarine for this. The smuggling fleet of terrorism that would set London ablaze.

‘Come to think of it, the [American Front] was also influenced by the [British Front,] wasn’t it?’

The headquarters of devil worship was currently in the UK. Anyway, the most sinister things in the world were all aided by the British.

Then one of the subordinates in the driver’s seat said, 

“We’ve arrived.”

Calvin’s mansion stood facing the San Francisco Art School. A sloping area, with a foundation raised for leveling, blocked the view like a fortress. Thick pine trees even extended their branches, making it impossible to see the inside from the outside.

For an ordinary person, that is.

“No one seems to be inside.”

Kyung-tae tilted his head at my words.

“Really? I thought there would be some subordinates guarding at least.”

Then he frowned and shook his head again.

“Come to think of it, it’s strange that there isn’t even one servant. In a mansion of this size.”

I replied indifferently,

“Maybe he’s a shy guy.”

There were often people of that type. People who obsessively hide their vulnerable areas. Revealing your personal space to such people was similar to showing your naked body to others.

Or maybe he just hated people.

“At any rate, it’s good for us. Let’s go in with just the two of us first. It seems safe enough.”

Kyung-tae nodded without saying anything.

“Yeah. I’ll tell the rest to patrol reasonably.”

This was a residential area. There were many closed circuits and many parked cars. It meant it was difficult to approach by car.

Creak- Clank-!

The small back door’s electronic lock could be easily released with simple magic. What I lacked in my current magic was not sophistication but power, and the

voltage

needed to open the lock was only 1.5 volts. Temporarily stopping the closed circuit was about the same difficulty level.

I led the way with a suitcase on my back. As I walked slowly, I stepped on weeds that had grown through cracks in the paving stones.

“What kind of mansion is this? It’s not even a ruin.”

Kyung-tae’s comment followed.

The garden, which seemed to have been neglected for a long time, even looked yellowed from winter. The twisted branches of thorny bushes clung to the dried-up vines. The decadent garden completely surrounded the mansion. Waiting for Calvin to fall asleep, it would be easy to burn it down with just a spark. A magical arson would leave no clues, and the vengeful chieftain would also be satisfied.

However, if I disposed of him like that, the case would remain a mystery.

To set fire to a mansion like this, you had to scatter a lot of sparks, and that was only feasible. Magic arson wouldn’t leave any evidence, but it would be unnatural for anyone who saw it because it would scatter so many sparks. The black boxes of the cars parked generously in this area would record this unnaturalness, and…

‘Before long, when those with awakened primitive magic abilities start to appear, suspicions may arise that this incident was caused by some kind of superpower.’

Even if the concentration of magic power was high, it was still too early for awakened individuals to appear. Those masters bastards of the Round Table, who were chasing the apprentices, might get involved in this case, and that was a concern.

Above all, the client, White Chief, would have strong suspicions. He probably would already know that the fire was my doing.

So, I wanted to avoid even this small risk on this side.

Kyung-tae and I opened the sliding door and entered the room. The alarm system here wasn’t working either. Whether mechanical or electronic, the locks and security devices in front of me were useless. “The Eye of the Golden Age” recognized wires with electric flow as unique colors, so there was no way it would miss a device that was turned off when I was conscious. It was a function to search for and highlight specific information within sight.

Kyung-tae wrinkled his nose and chuckled. 

“That ‘goods’ I saw from outside seems to have been a homemade bomb, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Of all things, TATP. Isn’t that enough to create an alibi by now?”

“Why. It’s conventional, isn’t it?”

“Well, it is for rookies.”

TATP. Triacetone triperoxide. This explosive was a friend of terrorists that could be produced with just acetone, sulfuric acid, and hydrogen peroxide. Here, even with just three tools, you could make it: a beaker, a mixer, and a filter. With the materials and tools, even an ordinary person could become a bomber in less than an hour. That was why it was nicknamed the “Mother of Satan” because it was too easy to make and produced Satan’s minions.

Kyung-tae, who smelled it and noticed the presence of a bomb, was because this explosive emitted a very artificial fruity scent. Both during the manufacturing process and in the finished product.

There was a separate locking device on the door leading to the underground. I easily unlocked it again, and when we went down the stairs, the pungent smell became even stronger. Kyung-tae, who saw Calvin’s basement, exclaimed, 

“Wow. Impressive, very impressive.”

In the center of the basement, there were workbenches for making bombs and new initiates. The surrounding area was cluttered with car batteries that were likely used to extract sulfuric acid.

‘A trivial hobby.’

That’s right. It was a hobby. There was no reason for someone with so much money to make handmade bombs. Just buying a finished product would suffice.

Therefore, the workbench in front of me was filled with aesthetics and ecstasy. The aesthetics of a revolutionary and the childish ecstasy of a dreamer who dreams of struggle. Extracting sulfuric acid from batteries was also in the same context. It also had the meaning of avoiding suspicion, but it seemed like watching a rich person consume poverty as fashion.

“Hyungnim, did you happen to see this too?”

Kyung-tae, who approached the bookshelf, pulled out a book with gloved hands. The title was “The Anarchist’s Cookbook.” It contained various bomb-making methods, and it was a banned book that had to be republished with the content modified due to an FBI ban.

Regardless of its fame, it was more of an entry-level book in this field. In reality, it was a book with greater value as a collector’s item than its contents.

“Put it on the road. Detectives will probably like it.”

“What a waste. It’s hard to come by such clean copies.”

I brushed off Kyung-tae’s unnecessary regret and sat down at Calvin’s workbench, checking the soldering iron’s power. Since Calvin had a newly made initiate, I decided to complete it and put it to good use. Kyung-tae scratched his cheek.

“Do you do it yourself?”

“Yeah.”

According to the confession of Calvin’s errand boy, Calvin was expected to return home shortly. However, completing this initiate took only a few minutes. For someone like me who had been in this business for a long time, making a deliberately “flawed” initiate wasn’t difficult at all.

I quickly completed the initiate, then opened the door to a small refrigerator in one corner of the workshop, holding the finished product. Inside, there was a bomb that Calvin had been diligently crafting. It weighed roughly around 15 kilograms.

15 kilograms, yes, 15 kilograms…

Considering quickly in my head, with an error margin, the explosive pressure would be around 30 to 40psi (pounds per square inch) at a distance of 5 meters, and considering an enclosed environment, it would become even more powerful. With this level of power, even without shrapnel, it would create a 100% fatality zone up to the distance of the workbench.

I set the initiate on the bomb, closed the fridge door, and stroked my chin in thought.

“It feels somewhat empty.”

“Is that so?”

“At the very least, shouldn’t this be someone’s revenge?”

In a capitalist society, money equated to status and power. Despite his sinister inner self, Calvin Braimlow was contributing to the local community, or more precisely, the marginalized white community. He was making an effort to expand his connections among the residents of this affluent neighborhood.

It was natural for self-proclaimed revolutionaries of this era to dream of becoming influencers.

Therefore, the excruciating death that the client ordered was practically impossible for Calvin. The final moments of this wealthy white supremacist had to be carried out in a way that left no room for doubt, after all.

Above all, the San Francisco police had a generous budget. Unlike neighboring Oakland.

So, the client should understand this inevitable leniency.

I ripped a short sentence from the notebook that Calvin had used to write recipes on the table. Then, I stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. Since I had removed all the other magnets, it couldn’t help but stand out.

[Those who seek revenge must dig two graves.]

A Chinese proverb about revenge. One for the enemy and one for oneself.

The reason I wrote it like this was that the real motivation of this guy Calvin was his hatred toward people of color.

I turned my body and gazed at the front of the workbench for a moment. Most of the newspaper clippings pinned to the corkboard on the wall were about institutional discrimination against white people and the criminal acts of people of color. At the center of it all was a case where a mother and daughter were brutally murdered in broad daylight on the street by a black man. The last name of the two victims was Braimlow.

The perpetrator who killed the mother and daughter was a self-proclaimed “radical black civil rights activist.” In court, he reportedly spouted nonsense like, “White people, as the privileged class, can never be victims of black people.” “White people are synonymous with sinners.” “My murder was not a crime but a righteous act.” “If white people disappear, all problems will be solved,” and so on.

It sounded somewhat similar to the “Black Guerrilla Family.” The black supremacists of white supremacy, consuming the legitimacy passed down by their ancestors through blood, with no value.

There was no backstory, no unmarked graves, and no reason for the hatred. Group hatred as a social phenomenon, whether it was the hatred of any group, usually had its own reasons, but they were often unknown to me, except when they were related to my work. In a world full of people who need two graves, understanding hatred was just a matter of business etiquette for me.

The tragedy of the Braimlow family would no longer be my concern once this moment passed.

I looked outside as I descended the slope from the garden. When I came into the mansion, the garage door was opening, and a car was entering.

“Finally, the landlord has arrived.”

“Shall we go?”

“Of course.”

I strolled out of the mansion just as casually as when I entered. The landlord was coming in through the front gate while the intruder was making their exit through the back gate. We moved in opposite directions, ensuring we wouldn’t cross paths in this spacious house. As I descended the slope from the garden outside, I observed the inside of the mansion from the car.

Since he had just arrived home, there was no rush for him to head straight for his workstation. I would need to wait a bit longer until Calvin entered the zone of the intended crime.

“Hyungnim.”

“What is it?”

“Do you happen to crave some sweet donuts?”

“…Why on earth are you bringing that up out of the blue?”

“Well, we are in the USA, and Donuts are a staple here. It’s considered courteous to enjoy some donuts while on stakeout duty in your car.”

“… “

Wasn’t that a stereotype of the police? I glanced at Kyung-tae, who seemed genuinely hungry rather than motivated by any particular stereotype. Given that he hadn’t had a proper meal throughout our operation, his hunger was likely to catch up with him soon.

‘No, this is him being considerate.’

I decided to fill up on some calories briefly and then return to the hotel for some rest. I felt like my mind wasn’t working properly due to sleep deprivation. Although there was a saying that the job wasn’t done until it was done, I hoped this would be over soon.

“…Alright, go order some.”

“Yes, sir!”

Kyung-tae radioed the team responsible for securing the exit via a simulated escape. He gave them an oddly specific instruction to bring in donuts from a nearby place highly rated on Yelp, matching the quantity with the number of people by type. It seemed like an unnecessarily detailed order.

A while later, I observed Calvin’s movements while savoring a glazed donut with overly sweet milk tea by my side. The guy who had just finished his dinner had now stumbled upon the basement door that I had deliberately left open. He froze like a deer caught in headlights, then swallowed hard, and with a cautious step, he descended the stairs after retrieving a gun from the secret compartment of the fireplace.

In this place without major interference, much like the “President’s”

stronghold

, my control field could momentarily expand to encompass the entire mansion and extend slightly beyond. Within that range, I could remotely execute spells. I was prepared to upload my algorithms into the circuits.

“Would you like one more?”

“Hmm.”

This time from the box Kyung-tae presented, I chose a chocolate iced donut. Surprisingly, it tasted better than I expected. Just as Calvin, who had been moving like a puppet, finally stood in front of the fridge. He read the note I had left and his eyes widened. In an attempt to react swiftly—

My spell first caused a spark in the fuse.

Tic.

Kugugugugu-thud!

A powerful explosion shook the ground. The shockwave tore Calvin’s body to shreds, and a portion of the ceiling collapsed, creating an instant ashen tomb. The police examining the debris would likely conclude that a malfunctioning sanctuary caused the mishap.

Kyung-tae asked, 

“Is it over?”

“Just a moment.”

I initiated one more algorithm within the circuit. It was a very small and simple ignition spell. The target was the fragments of the note I left behind. Removing a few conspicuous large pieces would be sufficient to ensure the destruction of the evidence. It would make handwriting analysis impossible.

“Done. Let’s go.”

At my command, one of the subordinates in the driver’s seat pressed on the accelerator. The car sped away, leaving the upscale neighborhood behind. However, the road back to the hotel during rush hour wasn’t exactly smooth sailing.

In that time, I had devoured three more donuts.

Disclaimer:

This novel is a work of fiction! While it may incorporate elements inspired by our "real" historical world, including historical events, settings, and cultures, it is important to note that the story and characters are entirely products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, or actual events is purely coincidental. This work should be enjoyed and interpreted as a work of fiction and not as a representation of historical facts or reality.

Also, if you find some error in translation please do let me know by tagging me (@_dawn24) in our Discord server. Since this series is kinda hard to translate. But I'll try my best to make it at least readable :)

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