Chapter 4: Survival instinct(4)
When I turned my head, sure enough, Cynel was holding onto my collar, looking at me.
“If there’s a bounty, what should I do with it?”
“…”
“What should I do?”
“Keep it all.”
“Percival, you’re a generous guy.”
As expected, it was about money.
Before I ended up in this body, my mother always used to say:
“You’re the kind of person who’d survive even if you were stranded on a deserted island.”
I thought I was pretty good at handling crises myself.
Sure, I wasn’t always perfect, but I usually managed to pick at least a decent option.
People around me called it being “street-smart.”
But calling my knack for quick thinking “street-smart” made me feel a bit like a small-time schemer.
So, I gave my real-world tactics a different name.
I called it my “survival instinct” for protecting myself from danger.
“Who are you looking for?”
That’s why I came to this four-story building in the outer district today.
Cross Network.
This company, with its grandiose name, made its business connecting people.
Linking mercenaries with clients was their bread and butter, but they didn’t hesitate to connect you with information brokers or even shadier figures if needed.
Cross Network was a place that straddled the blurry line between legal and illegal.
“I’d like to see Lehman.”
“You mean Mr. Lehman? Do you have an appointment?”
“No appointment.”
“No appointment, I see. Alright.”
The reason I came here today was to meet a man named Lehman, who operated out of Cross Network.
The receptionist nodded and picked up the phone to make a call, likely checking Lehman’s schedule directly.
Lehman was a well-known information broker, even within Cross Network.
Chances were high he’d be booked with other appointments.
“I’m sorry, but he’s swamped today and can’t meet.”
“How long’s the wait? I don’t mind sticking around.”
“If it’s urgent, his assistant can meet you instead. Shall I arrange that?”
Lehman’s assistant, huh?
Lehman’s operation wasn’t small by any means.
An assistant would likely have some access to his information network, so it wasn’t a bad option.
Besides, what I had to discuss wasn’t exactly critical for Lehman.
“Let’s do that. Where do I go?”
“I’ve registered you. Head to Meeting Room B24.”
“Too much popularity can be a headache.”
I took the card key from the receptionist and started walking.
The letters on the meeting rooms indicated their floor: A01 for the first floor, B01 for the second, C01 for the third.
The B24 meeting room on my card key meant I needed to take the escalator to the second floor.
When I reached B24 and swiped the card, a soft mechanical chime sounded, and the door opened.
Inside, a man in a suit sat with hollow eyes.
“Young client, huh? Must be in a hurry.”
“The faster, the better.”
Across from the man was an empty chair.
I pulled it out, sat down, and responded to him.
Information brokers in War City were generally a rough bunch.
They dealt with dangerous clients all the time, and their posturing often tied directly to their reputation.
Of course, if trouble broke out here, Cross Network would step in immediately.
“What kind of information do you want?”
The man, having sized me up, got straight to the point.
But I hadn’t come here to buy information.
I was here to sell it to Lehman.
Information brokers sometimes bought valuable intel, after all.
“I don’t want information. I’m here to sell some.”
“Information? Sure, we do buy intel. What kind are you selling?”
The information I was selling—
it was critical for this city and my future.
“I’ll sell information on Percival Smith.”
“Percival Smith… Wait, what’s your name?”
“Percival Smith.”
The man’s eyes went blank as he processed my words.
“Are you crazy?”
“Guess so.”