Chapter 400: It Must Be a Misunderstanding
Well, this time there's no escape. Caught with my hand in the cookie jar...
Let's see what kind of acrobatics you'll pull to wriggle out of this one.
Orson hovered nearby, lips curled in a frosty sneer as he watched me crouched by the Wyvern King's corpse. Not content with his little speech, he even conjured a water spell—just to immortalize my 'crime' for the peanut gallery. Lovely.
A branch Merlin with balls this big? Daring enough to paw at the Apocalypse Mercenary Company's loot—does he have a death wish, or just a deficit of brains? In all of Auckland, you could count the lunatics who'd snatch a bite from Apocalypse's jaws on one hand. And that's being generous.
Figures. Just another cousin who’s never seen anything beyond his own backyard...
Anyone with half a brain would know better than to play chicken with the Apocalypse Mercenaries. And Leon Merlin, that insufferable bastard, struts around like he owns the place—doing shady business in broad daylight, as if nobody here could squash him flat. Forget Archmages and Title Archmages; even the Grand Mages and Swordmasters could drown him in spit if they felt like it.
Now that I've caught him myself, I owe it to the universe to hand out a proper thrashing. Time to teach him how to spell 'death.'
"I've always known you were a snake—greedy, shameless, willing to do anything for a scrap of profit... but I never thought you'd slither this low!" Orson jabbed a finger at me, face flushed and neck bulging as he bellowed, "Back at the edge of the Doomscar, if I hadn't roasted that Duskmire Python, you'd be worm food by now! As for your little scheme to pocket its magical materials, let's not pretend—we both know exactly what happened."
"Irene twisted the facts just to protect your pitiful dignity, even tried to cover for you. Hah, don't tell me you actually believe Irene fell for your lies... That's rich. Only a complete idiot would swallow such a pathetic excuse."
"Here's the deal: I'm feeling generous, so you get two choices. One—drop the stolen loot and crawl out of camp. Best if you disappear from the Apocalypse Mercenary Company's sight for the rest of your miserable life. Two—keep playing dumb and become our enemy. Of course, if you have more than two brain cells, you'll ignore the second option, because if you pick that path, there's no way you'll leave here alive..."
Orson's face was icy, his eyes dancing with mockery as he stared at Leon.
Everything was playing out exactly as he'd planned.
Even if that damned Leon Merlin decided to confess and hand over the stolen spoils, there was no way he’d let him off easy. With evidence in hand, Orson had at least a hundred ways to make him pay...
"Heh..."
Leon acted as if Orson's words were gibberish, quickly stashing away the Wyvern King's blood before rising slowly to his feet. He only responded with a single 'heh,' not bothering to say more. Wasting breath on a fool was beneath him—especially one who loved to interrupt. With manners like that, who knew if Orson would butt in again if Leon tried to explain himself? Besides, he was only taking what was rightfully his. Even the Vice-Captain, a Title Archmage, hadn't said a word. So why should this idiot get to boss him around?
"Leon Merlin, what the hell is that supposed to mean...?"
Orson nearly choked on his own rage, staring at Leon in disbelief. That bastard actually 'heh'ed at him.
How could he just brush it off like that...?
He held all the evidence. Wasn’t Leon supposed to be begging for mercy?