Cameraman Never Dies

Judge started to seriously ponder over what the man had just said, He says that it is another him, which most probably translates to a person who can transform. Another "him"? Really? The guy said it like it was some magical rarity. And sure, transformation was supposed to be rare...except he'd already seen two people pulling it off this week alone. "Come on," he muttered under his breath. "At least try to act scarce."

But fine, he had other things to consider. For instance: why on Ether would the commissioner pop in as some common worker? That was practically an open letter saying, "I can shapeshift!" Either the commissioner was screaming it to the world on purpose, or...he had a very odd sense of self-importance.

There seem to be two reasons, at least as far as I can deduce— one is that there are some limitations to his principle, giving him no choice but to appear in the other party's form. The other possible reason would be that he wanted the other party, not just the worker but anyone who interrogates him, to know that he could transform. So as to say, it is futile to chase after me. Or it could be just both.

Judge smiled, the commissioner was smart. He had won this time, but one way or the other Judge would catch him. There was only one way to catch that guy, and that was something he had left.

If one takes the whole empire of Eldris— excluding the dragons, there could barely be about fifty people who know and mastered transformation other than the racial transformation. Many dragons have created their own transformation principle (Yes the dumb species did) all stemmed from the principle of transforming into a wyvern.

Judge leaned back in his seat, the high-backed throne he'd chosen for his latest bout of deep thinking giving way into a strange, squishy softness as the room warped around him. Just after the distortion, he was lying on his bed in a rather expensive hotel.

One blink later, he was lying on a plush hotel bed that had eaten up 2 whole sen a night. "Pricey place for a guy planning to save the empire," he mused, though he didn't pause to reconsider. A that would cost him that much amount for a night was considered very expensive.

He wondered how much the dress altogether had cost him. His compulsive buying disorder was acting up and he had spent a large sum of 28 sten for it plus 2 sten tip, an amount that could get him a whole luxury dinner was spent just as a tip, and all of that for what? Just for the worker's bemused expression. Was it satisfying? Absolutely, more people should try it if they can afford it.

It wasn't like he was low on funds, anyway. He had more than 5,000 sten socked away, a sum that could make even a wealthy family's year. Let them marvel. Let them gawk. He was a Drakonis, and that meant excess spending was an expectation, not an exception.

He did not have much thought on his decreasing wallet size, because to be precise, he had about 5800, which turned to 5300 after his initial withdrawals. And then it was turned to 5180 after he took out another 120 when he had put his whole money inside the bank.

Currently, in his hand, he had 118 sten, 6 sen, and 3 nen. which was already a huge sum of money, most middle-class families who had occasional luxuries averaged around 150 sten as their yearly savings.

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To put more into perspective, one could buy an entire estate with just 1000-2000 stens, so yeah, 5000 stens were definitely an overkill, but the Drakonis never cared about such an amount since in the family's eyes, it was a cheap sum.

Judge closed his eyes, with the blue moon shining on the patterned wall through the half-closed curtain.

———

Mr. and Mrs. Rivet were caught up in a long-overdue reunion, clung to each other like young lovebirds. Sure, they had their quirks. Noel, the assassin with a soft heart, could crumble at the sight of his wife shedding even one tear, while Isadora, the ever-dramatic lady, often considered life itself a long, drawn-out sigh. She had some nihilistic charm about her, where she'd ponder mortality just as someone else might ponder a coffee refill.

In fact, she was still suicidal, but the thought of her husband crying over her death did not give her enough strength to do so. But if he were to die, she would probably try to die too.

She cuddled her husband and held him close, wearing a dark pink, almost red nightgown. "Who are you supposed to kill this time, love?" Isadora murmured with the same nonchalance one might reserve for asking about weekend plans, brushing his hair with a distant smile.

"The young miss of the Drakonis family." He answered as if confirming he'd remembered to pick up milk. They were not scared of anyone hearing since they had enough confidence that no one could sneak into their place unnoticed.

But they had a slight mishap in their thought, the recorders had no qualms about being found out— since there was no way that they could be found out, unless it was a god or something. And there was Asmodeus, the sin of lust. By courtesy of orders from Lucifer.

Lucifer had put her in charge after it turned night and things turned... well... romantic. After all, she was into anything that was a little... fervent.

She recorded the whole couple's exchange without batting an eye or any concern about whether her master would be concerned about her mental well-being.

"So, did you finish the job?" Isadora asked in a weak, monotonous tone, as if she was asking if he had a good breakfast.

"Poor girl," Noel answered as if answering that he had a good breakfast.

———

It was morning, and Judge had the best nap after a peaceful night of psychopathic murderings of several assassins and workers. He had created a fine blend of the corpses, literally.

Today, though, he wasn't donning his usual clown attire; no, today, he was a man of mystery and wealth— a respectable (cough, cough) mercenary with a story as unknown as it was unverified. And he was going to take any commission that was going get him some attention so he could establish some ties that could become useful.

He leisurely entered the mercenary guild in his normal merc attire. The entrance was like a two-storied tavern, with the second story being a platform that wrapped around the inside edges of the hall, making it more of a viewing platform for any ongoing fights on the floor below.

Bustling halls were nothing new to Judge, after all, he had spent a long '45 minutes' inside the bank. But this place was not just bustling, every nook and cranny was filled with people, they were sitting beside the tables, and some were chatting while leaning against a wall. In short, the place was a resthouse for mercenaries who always took on dangerous jobs.

He saw many veterans sharing stories about their adventures with a few rookies were eagerly listening in. Judge wanted to join in and learn more about the world, but decided against it since he was not a rookie but an experienced one.@@novelbin@@

Looking around, he spotted a woman furiously punching the keys of a typewriter behind a counter. She was engrossed, probably typing up some intense report, or maybe a spicy office romance. He gave a polite cough to get her attention, only to realize— whoops, that was more "aristocratic" than "mercenary."

So he did what any other respectable mercenary would do (if that line of profession could be called "respectable"), he rang the bell on the high counter, causing the woman to look up to see the dark figure.

The woman looked up, adjusted her glasses, and gave him a once-over. "New here?" she asked, her tone as dry as stale toast. She didn't bother with polite smiles or formalities, which was fine by Judge—the guild was less "customer service" and more "good luck, don't die."

Unlike most organizations that needed their employees to be respectful toward their clients, the mercenary guild had no such restrictions. And the client also liked the more informal tone, making them feel more at ease in the life-or-death profession.

"I would like to register, and do some missions if available," Judge said in a young but cold voice.

"Sir," The green-haired woman said with a questioning tone, "before you take on any missions we would need to confirm your level of skill, which would done via tests that you can choose according to your specialty." The worker wore brown leather armor, possibly enchanted, and her hair was tied up neatly to the back. She had a sword that was kept hanging on the thin wooden separation, kept in a position that was easy to draw. Surely, the guild was not a place to wear pretty, fights could break out at any moment if one was not careful.