The Mad Priest of the Slums

I made my decision, and since our temporary secretary had no valid reason to object, they eventually drove the car toward Zone 12.

“The atmosphere changes instantly.”

From the point where Zone 13 started beyond the boundary of Zone 14, the street vibe transformed into a completely different world.

In Zone 14, the patrol members of Mad Dog’s organization generally maintained a friendly atmosphere, mingling with the merchants and residents as if they were part of the community.

But the members stationed at the boundaries were different.

Each wore a wide-brimmed fedora that barely concealed their eyes, and even through the thick sedan windows, the tension they exuded was palpable.

As we moved further away from the boundary, people gradually appeared on the streets.

Their ages, genders, and clothing varied, but they all shared one common trait.

“They’re tense.”

Even those in well-dressed attire looked edgy, while those who were shivering from the cold in ragged clothes seemed no better off.

All of them wore expressions as if they were constantly being chased.

“Zone 13 is relatively safe.”

“Since you put it that way, I’m even more curious about Zone 12.”

“……”

The secretary glanced at me briefly through the rearview mirror, and I recognized that gaze—it was the same look Vishua and Vivian had given me when I said I wanted to visit the slums.

It seemed that even a professional secretary found it hard to understand my mindset.

“Oh.”

While quietly gazing out the window, a peculiar scene caught my attention.

A man in a long coat was walking with a hunched posture when, suddenly, a chunk of metal fell from the upper floor of a nearby building and smashed his head.

A middle-aged man following him quickly rummaged through the fallen man’s clothes, grabbed what seemed to be a wallet and a handgun, and fled.

Bang!

Even with the car muffling the sound, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang out. The man who had just stolen the items collapsed, rolling on the ground.

Then, three homeless-looking individuals emerged from a nearby alley and dragged the man into the shadows.

“Now I understand why people here don’t have a moment to relax.”

Even the beggars here carried guns—an insane place where sudden gunfire didn’t even raise eyebrows. It was like walking on thin ice, unsure when it would crack. Relaxation here would indeed be odd.

“As I mentioned earlier, Zone 13 is relatively better.”

“I can see that. Despite everything, it seems there’s a certain order here.”

Two people had just died less than a minute ago, but the scene made me realize that Zone 13, in its own chaotic way, was still under some semblance of control.

“It seems people here are relatively well-off because this area borders Zone 14.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

My initial shock at witnessing the brutal scene had delayed my assessment, but as things quieted after the gunshot, I observed the people again and noticed something interesting.

The health of those dressed well seemed worse than that of those in ragged clothing.

It seemed that the well-dressed individuals invested their earnings in personal safety, while those in poorer attire spent their money on food or other indulgences.

“Where do people in the slums earn their income?”

“There are various means, but in Zone 13, many venture into dungeons.”

Dungeons.

With magic and gods existing, it was only fitting for dungeons to be part of the world too.

“There’s always a backdoor somewhere.”

“Exactly.”

Though there was supposedly only one main entrance to the central dungeon in the city, numerous smaller entryways existed.

“Have you ever faced monsters yourself?”

“In the slums or outside, the best place to prove yourself is in the dungeon.”

I understood what she meant. But it raised a question.

“May I ask your age?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Really.”

She looked no older than her mid-twenties at most. Yet she was a decade older—truly a youthful appearance.

“I became a Mad Dog executive five years ago and retired from dungeon work around that time. So, I hunted monsters for about 20 years.”

Twenty years—more than enough time to become a veteran at anything.

For context, firearms didn’t work on monsters.

This meant the muskets hidden beneath her suit were not her real weapons.

“There it is.”

While pondering what weapon she used to fight monsters, we arrived at the boundary of Zone 12.

The moment I looked beyond the boundary, I immediately understood why she had said Zone 13 was “relatively safe.”

The thin line separating the two zones was all that marked the transition into Zone 12, where chaos ruled from the very entrance.

“Were you reluctant to enter Zone 12 because the car would get dirty?”

“That’s part of it.”

Broken bottles, mysterious bags, and other trash littered the streets. It was hard to believe the car could pass through without damage, but she drove the luxury sedan into Zone 12 without hesitation.

“Those are the most common addicts in this slum.”

Slowing down, she pointed to a group of people staggering and banging their heads against a wall.

“They’re hooked on a cheap drug called Red Copper. It’s easy to find and inexpensive, but highly addictive with severe side effects, as you can see.”

“Judging by their state, the high must be incredible.”

“I hear it makes you feel like you own the world.”

I’d never had such desires, so I couldn’t understand the sensation from her description.

“Is that a drug too?”

I pointed at someone walking with a cigarette in their mouth, puffing out clouds of smoke.

“No, that’s just regular cannabis.”

“‘Just’ cannabis.”

Apparently, cannabis wasn’t even considered a drug here.

“But it’s not as dangerous as I expected.”

“Pardon me, but your voice sounds disappointed.”

Since it was true, I didn’t respond.

“Zone 12 is full of addicts, but not everyone here is one.”

“If everyone were addicted, the zone wouldn’t even function.”

Despite its apocalyptic appearance, there were still some functioning shops here and there.

“As you can see, the addicts aren’t much of a threat. And it seems those we should be wary of have already heard about you.”

Following her gaze, I saw some men leaning against a wall, holding bottles and murmuring as they glanced in our direction.

“Has news spread already? It hasn’t even been a day.”

“In the slums, being slow to hear news equals death. Anyone of note keeps a source in every zone.”

“A source.”

Yesterday, the only place I’d visited was a closed establishment, but given how extravagantly Benjamin had greeted me, it made sense that word spread fast.

Besides, this world had telephones for long-distance communication.

“Let’s head back.”

“Understood.”

She quickly turned the car around.

Although I was curious about the western slum boundary, it seemed wiser to visit later after I’d properly assessed the area.

As we re-entered Zone 13, I asked a necessary question for future plans.

“How do residential transactions work here?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached behind her back and pulled out a musket, showing it to me.