Light Bringer: New World[LitRPG, Fantasy, a very crazy idea]

The red-brick depot of the Permit Bureau was even noisier than the day before.

The stench of reheated coffee in iron kettles mingled with the acrid reek of weapon grease and twist tobacco. Over fifty mercenaries and hunters jostled before the service counters, shouting docket numbers at clerks who could barely stamp the manifests in time.

Dante and Maria entered through the side door, walking straight to wicket number two.

The clerk with the clockwork brass eye was just filing away a thick leather ledger when Dante tapped their brass identity token against the wooden counter.

”Permit one-oh-eight,” Dante said plainly, without preamble. ”Hot Slag Gallery. We came to collect the contract.”

The clerk clicked the magnifying lens of his mechanical eye into focus, glanced at the slip on the bench, and let out a short, raspy chuckle.

”Too late, kid,” the man shoved the ledger onto the shelf behind him. ”A five-man crew of Slag Guard veterans claimed permit one-oh-eight twenty minutes ago. Marched out of here packing three heavy rifles and two shock lances.”

Maria braced both fists against the edge of the iron counter, her jaw setting into a hard line.

”We told you to hold the ticket yesterday afternoon,” she said, her voice dropping into a low vibration that made the glass inkwell on the desk rattle.

”Verbal holds don’t mean spit at this station, girl,” the clerk replied, unfazed, though he slid his hands back from the counter. ”Regulations say first come, first served to any Tier Two badge with the issuance fee in hand. If you want to hunt today, there’s a scrap rat infestation in pipe four for eight hundred scrip.”

”Eight hundred scrip doesn’t even cover whetstones for my blade,” she turned her back with an irritated click of her tongue, tugging the strap of her leather jacket. ”I told you not to drag our feet over breakfast, Dante.”

”Eight hundred scrip is a waste of Mana,” Dante agreed with a nod, following her toward the side exit. ”The experience yield in pipe four is negligible. We head back to the townhouse, gear up, and hunt on our own past the mire.”

They descended the three stone steps of the exit, stepping out onto the wide sidewalk leading to the elevated rail plaza.

”You’re the pair from the South Sluice, right?”

The voice came from the shadow of a square cast-iron pylon supporting the tram tracks fifteen feet away.

Dante halted mid-stride that very millisecond.

Maria turned her torso slowly, her right hand dropping on pure reflex toward the hilt of the forty-pound greatsword strapped across her back.

The person who stepped out from the pylon’s shadow was a girl.

She looked to be about their age, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, standing five-foot-seven with a lithe, wiry frame, lacking Maria’s dense muscular bulk, but carrying the coiled grace of someone who moved effortlessly through tight spaces.

She wore a tailored coat of black lizard hide with fine scales that swallowed the glare of the arc lamps, buckled across the chest and waist with matte brass hardware. At the left flank of her belt hung twin long daggers with straight blades sheathed in dark iron, and strapped to her right thigh sat a quick-draw holster holding a five-shot repeating mechanical crossbow.

Her hair was dark, cropped close to the nape, revealing two small rounded horn buds curving just above pointed ears.

Yet what arrested the eye were her eyes.

They had vertical slit pupils set within pale amber irises, flecked with gold specks that caught the street’s illumination with unnatural brilliance.

And then there was her presence.

The second the girl took her first two paces from the shadow, the hair on Maria’s forearms stood on end beneath her rawhide jacket.

It wasn’t fear. It was an ancient biological warning, the same predatory instinct that set guard hounds growling at the dark before laying eyes on the wolf. Maria’s muscles coiled involuntarily, [Reactive Impact Carapace] arming itself beneath her skin without a conscious command.

Dante felt a sharp prickle in the center of his chest.

With thirty-four Intelligence and twenty-six Wisdom, his environmental awareness was near surgical.

The girl did not smell of coal soot, scorched oil, or boiler runoff like every other hunter in this district. She smelled of cold metal and the dry tang of concentrated ozone, completely devoid of that dense thrum of free ether carried in the lungs of every denizen of the First Great Continent.

Dante pulled up his mental interface with discreet intent, scanning the stranger.

[Target: Nicole.]

[Level: 22 (Trench Huntress).]

[Attribute and Bloodline Data: Masked by High-Tier Obfuscation Talisman.]

Dante kept his expression neutral, but his mind flagged the warning immediately.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

High-tier obfuscation talismans ran over ten thousand scrip in the gated jewelers of the Military Citadel. No independent hunter in the Third District strolled around with data-shielding hardware of that caliber around their neck while loitering outside a permit bureau.

”Who’s asking?” Maria demanded, her tone carrying its habitual abrasive edge. Her hand never left the greatsword’s hilt.

The girl called Nicole gave a faint, lopsided smirk, revealing teeth a shade too white and too sharp for a common plain demon.

”My name is Nicole,” she said with smooth calm, her diction crisp, entirely free of the foundry drawl. ”I watched you turn in four crocks of burrower venom yesterday afternoon at wicket two. Three hours to scour out a Greater Tier Two nest without a dent in your plate. You have method.”

”We have business to attend to,” Dante stepped in, taking half a pace forward to draw level with Maria. ”If you’re looking for hands to split a scrap rat contract, check the back hall.”

”I don’t hunt scrap rats, kid.” Nicole slid her right hand into the inside pocket of her black-scaled coat in slow, unhurried movements, retrieving a thick, gold-bordered parchment sealed with red military wax. ”I hold a special reconnaissance grant for restricted perimeters. Issued directly by the Fourth Division ministry in the Citadel.”

She angled the document toward them.

Maria skimmed the heavy black lettering:

Military Extermination Permit No. 042 - Pipe Seven Fissure Sector.

Primary Target: Armored Slag Serpent (Level 28 - Lesser Tier 3).

Matrix Bounty Value: 12,000 scrip backed by military quartermasters.

Operational Requirement: Minimum strike team of three full Tier Two operators.

Twelve thousand scrip.

The figure struck Maria’s mind with the weight of a forge hammer.

Six thousand scrip for their cut of the contract. More than enough to walk into Korgan’s shop this very afternoon, slap forty-five hundred in clean paper across the counter, and march down the avenue holding that black boiler steel greatsword in her hands, with over a thousand scrip left over for real food and ale.

Yet suspicion remained coiled in the gut of both youths.

Dante studied the red wax seal of the Fourth Division.

”Why us?” Dante asked, his tone cold and cutting. ”Dozens of Level 25 veterans are downing ale in that hall right behind us. Men carrying military rifles and full plate armor who would take this contract for a third of the cut.”

”Those veterans are clumsy, slow, and burn thirty heavy rounds just to put down a common slag lizard,” Nicole replied without hesitation, amber eyes pinned to Dante’s. ”The Serpent of Pipe Seven spans sixty-five feet long with a carapace of ferrite bonded to naval plate. Put a rifle round into that hull, the slug ricochets and cores the soldier next to you.”

She pointed an index finger at the forty-pound slab across Maria’s back.

”I need someone with raw kinetic mass to anchor the serpent’s striking jaws without getting batted across the conduit.” She shifted her gaze to the brass ring on Dante’s hand. ”And I need a caster who can strip its mobility without five minutes of prayer to set down a chalk circle.”

Maria took a heavy step forward.

Her eight-inch height advantage and the broad expanse of her shoulders threw a dark shadow over Nicole’s lithe frame.

”You talk mighty smooth for someone walking the muck of the Third District, girl,” Maria loomed over her, face inches away. ”What are you hiding under that lizard leather?”

Nicole didn’t yield an inch.

She met Maria’s stormy glare with a cold poise alien to someone her age. Her amber eyes didn’t blink once.

”Everyone in this city hides something, big girl,” Nicole murmured, the sharp smirk reappearing on her lips. ”You two walk around with tags Goran forged around your necks, carry zero birth records in any foundry parish, and you pack a blade hijacked off a Legion freight car last year. We’re square on the secret front.”

Silence fell over the plaza sidewalk.

Dante processed the telemetry.

The girl knew about the forged tokens. She knew where Maria’s greatsword originated, and she had tracked their venom delivery at the South Sluice. She was dangerous, had access to intelligence networks inside the Citadel, and that talisman at her throat indicated she answered to someone far above a local hunting syndicate.

Yet the operational math still favored the gamble.

Twelve thousand scrip. A Level 28 beast that would feed them a massive harvest of combat experience, shoving Dante to Level 21 and Maria to Level 22 in a single hunt.

They had more than enough counter-measures to manage a double-cross: Maria boasted a hundred and sixty hit points with [Liquid Lead Stance] primed to nullify dagger strikes, Dante wielded [Forced Transposition] to relocate any of the three within fifty feet, and he held his ivory wings sealed across his back for an aerial egress if the subterranean ceiling caved in.

Dante stepped forward, falling in beside Maria.

”Fifty percent split,” Dante dictated the terms, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. ”Six thousand scrip to our side upon surrender of the seal at the military quartermaster. We retain the creature’s energy core, and you take the scales and venom.”

Nicole offered her gloved right hand in black lizard leather.

”Done deal.”

Maria eyed the extended hand, then looked at Dante. She did not take Nicole’s hand.

”You walk in front of us the entire run,” Maria warned, her voice dropping like a military ultimatum. ”No lingering behind my back or Dante’s in the dark of that conduit. If your hand touches the hilt of those daggers without a monster in the room, I’ll split you in two before you can draw breath to scream.”

Nicole drew her hand back with smooth ease, venting a silent chuckle through her nose.

”You’re paranoid to the bone. I like that.” The girl adjusted the collar of her black-scaled coat, stepping back half a pace toward the corner. ”Conduit Seven sits at the entrance of the west wall cooling complex. I’ll meet you there two hours from now. Bring light that doesn’t run on kerosene, the conduit atmosphere is flammable.”

The girl pivoted with soundless agility and melted into the stream of laborers crossing the tram avenue, vanishing into the crowd as if she had never stood there.

Maria stared at the empty iron pylon for five full seconds, her jaw clamped tight.

”Something is off with that girl, Dante,” Maria murmured, turning her face to him. ”Her scent... isn’t demon, and it isn’t a damned soul either. The air around her raises the hair on my arms.”

”I know,” Dante answered, his gray eyes lingering where Nicole had dissolved into the throng. ”Her talisman blinded my interface scan. She isn’t an independent scavenger who stumbled onto a contract by chance.”

He pivoted toward the Boilermakers’ Village with brisk strides.

”We head back to the townhouse now. Grab your brigandine, the greatsword, every vial of healing sap, and the copper-chalk kit.”

Maria matched his pace, her heavy boots cracking the road gravel with renewed purpose.

”We’re killing that sixty-foot serpent, Dante,” she said, hitching the harness across her back. ”And if that girl blinks wrong in the dark of that pipe, she’s going to find out the exact weight of forty pounds of black boiler steel across her skull.”