My Grim Reaper Class: I can kill anything.

Chapter 30: It’s the One Brenwick Wants to Believe

Applying the substance to the man took approximately thirty seconds.

Nathan lowered him from the cart with Selene’s help, laid him on the ground in the inner courtyard, and applied a drop of the blue liquid directly to his lower lip. The man absorbed it through passive inhalation. His breathing changed rhythm almost immediately, deepening to a constant cadence that Soul Sense confirmed as total induced sleep.

"How much does he weigh?" Nathan asked, assessing.

"Approximately sixty-five kilograms. Lighter than the average male. Heavier than Liaraen by a significant margin."

"It’s going to show in the box’s weight."

"It’s going to show, yes. But Brenwick wasn’t specifically expecting sedated merchandise weighing exactly sixty-five kilograms. He was expecting sedated merchandise in general. The weight falls within tolerance margin."

"Good."

They carried the man to the box, which Selene had had brought from the alley where Nathan had abandoned it the previous day. Selene had an efficient network. The box had been recovered during the early morning and stored in the basement. Now it was in the courtyard, ready to receive its contents.

Nathan placed him inside. Adjusted the padding. Made sure the man was in an upright position, as the original contract specified.

Then he closed the lid.

He took the original lock from his jacket’s inner pocket. Placed it on the hasp.

And applied Tactile Entropy in reverse.

Mana flowed from his finger into the metal. Forty seconds. The lock, which had been restored to its original state yesterday and stored, was now restored again to the exact state Brenwick had first sealed it in at the North Road Inn. The wax seal with the circle and diagonal was intact. The internal mechanism was functional. The structural integrity was identical to the original delivery.

Selene observed everything in silence.

When Nathan finished, she approached. Handed him the Restoration Core.

"Apply it now," she said. "Activation is through skin contact. Hold the crystal against your chest, over your heart, for forty seconds. Don’t let go during the process, or the transfer will be interrupted and you’ll lose the crystal’s remaining mana."

Nathan opened his jacket collar. Pressed the crystal against his bare chest, against the skin, over his sternum. Closed his fist around it.

He held it.

At first he felt nothing. Then, gradually, a specific sensation of warmth began to expand from the center of his chest outward. It wasn’t pleasant or unpleasant. It was a sensation of filling—as if an empty vessel was being filled with a thick liquid under controlled pressure.

Forty seconds.

Soul Sense confirmed the restoration. His internal mana had risen from six hundred to approximately seventeen hundred. Eighty percent of his maximum reserve. Restoration successful.

Nathan removed the crystal. Looked at it. The interior, which had been dark blue nearly black with bright light veins, was now a matte opaque blue. Empty.

He returned it to Selene.

"Three weeks," Nathan said. "For it to recharge."

"Three weeks." Selene stored it carefully in a small cloth pouch. "If you come back sooner and need another one, I’ll have to source it from elsewhere. That requires preparation. Give me two days’ notice if you anticipate it."

"Noted."

"One last thing."

"Yes?"

"Liaraen can’t go with you to the delivery."

"I know."

"Did you tell her?"

"Not yet."

"Tell her now."

---

## IV.

Liaraen was in the room with Roen.

The guide had partially regained consciousness under the Sareth healer’s care—enough to recognize Liaraen beside him and to weakly squeeze her hand before falling back asleep. The healer was preparing an infusion for him to take when he woke more fully.

Liaraen looked up when Nathan entered.

"Hunter Voss."

"Sprout."

"When are you leaving?"

"In about twenty minutes." Pause. "You’re staying here."

"I assumed that."

"You’re not going to argue?"

"No."

"That’s new."

"It is new, yes." Liaraen looked at him with that specifically neutral expression. "The presence of a daughter of House Sael’thoryn in a transaction with a trafficking merchant would be catastrophically counterproductive. My aristocratic instruction is clear enough on that point that even my personal pride can’t argue it. I’m staying. I’ll care for Roen while he recovers. I’ll wait for you to return."

"Thank you."

"Hunter Voss."

"Yes?"

"If you don’t come back."

Nathan looked at her.

"I’m coming back, Sprout."

"If you don’t come back." Liaraen maintained her formal diction with an effort Nathan could see. "I’ll coordinate a different exit with Selene. I’ll reach home eventually. I’ll convey to my father your name, your rank, and the facts of your intervention. Your memory will be honored at court. I promise you that personally."

"Liaraen."

"Yes?"

"I’m coming back."

"Say it twice to make it more likely."

"I’m coming back."

"Three times if possible."

"I’m coming back."

There was a silence.

Liaraen looked at him for a moment.

And for the first time since he’d met her, she let her aristocratic posture drop completely. It wasn’t a dramatic fall. It was a small lowering of the shoulders, a minimal relaxation of the jaw, a change in her eyes that wasn’t specifically vulnerability but was recognition of vulnerability.

"Be careful, Nathan," she said, without the formal "Hunter Voss," without even "Hunter," just the name.

"I will be, Liaraen."

"Good."

She immediately recomposed her aristocratic expression. The drop had lasted approximately two seconds. But it had happened. And they both knew it had happened.

Nathan turned toward the door.

Before leaving, he stopped.

Without turning around, he said:

"Sprout."

"Yes?"

"You never officially authorized the nickname, did you?"

"Not formally."

"Do you want to authorize it now?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Accepted."

"But only you. No one else."

"Also accepted."

Nathan left.

---

## V.

The box on his shoulder weighed approximately fifteen kilograms more than the first time he’d carried it.

Nathan walked through Greywall’s streets with the same controlled posture as always, adjusting the weight on his shoulder every few steps. He wore his leather jacket properly fastened, his cloak over his shoulders, a small bandage on his left forearm he’d applied himself to sell the story of recent combat, and a few additional patches of dirt and dried blood on the side of his trousers that Selene had deliberately applied to add visual credibility to his narrative.

Soul Sense was active in passive state.

Brenwick’s search teams were still in the city but no longer in active encirclement patterns. They were in observation positions, waiting for information. Nathan was visible to them. That was exactly the situation he wanted.

He reached Five Anvils Street.

Walked to number fourteen.

Pushed the door open.

---

Brenwick’s office was exactly what Nathan had imagined. Spacious, with dark walls, a large desk at the back, two leather chairs facing the desk, and a secondary desk to the side where a young man—clearly Larian—was writing something when Nathan entered.

Larian looked up.

He saw Nathan.

He saw the box.

His pen stopped mid-page.

"...Hunter Voss," Larian said, after exactly two seconds of processing.

"Larian." Nathan looked at him with the expression of someone who’s had the hardest morning of his life and is too tired to fake cheerfulness. "I’ve brought the package."

"I’ll call Mr. Brenwick."

"Yes. Please."

Larian stood up. Walked through a side door. Returned thirty seconds later followed by Brenwick.

Brenwick emerged from his office with his usual professional calm. The burgundy tunic. The rings on three fingers. The silver brooch at his collar. But his eyes weren’t the same as at the North Road Inn. They were more focused. More attentive. More cautious.

He saw the box on Nathan’s shoulder.

His face didn’t change.

But Soul Sense, in passive state, registered that the merchant’s heart rate had accelerated.

"Hunter Voss." Brenwick walked to the main desk. "Please. Have a seat. Your arrival is... unexpected."

"I apologize for the delay, sir." Nathan lowered the box carefully beside the chair. Sat down. Maintained his exhausted posture with the naturalness of someone who’d been exactly like this for hours. "The delivery encountered significant complications on the road."

"Tell me."

"On the way back from the North Road Inn, I was intercepted by a group of bandits. At least six. Some with visible Seals. They made me a reasonable offer: leave the box and walk back to Greywall without further conflict." Pause. "I declined the offer."

Brenwick looked at him.

"You declined the offer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"Because I accepted the job." Nathan looked at him with a specifically tired expression. "I’m a newly registered Hunter at the Greywall Guild. This was my second mission. My professional reputation depends on fulfilling what I accept. If I drop the package at the first roadside ambush, no client will ever hire me again. I decided I’d rather risk combat."

"That’s... admirable. And statistically irrational for an F-Rank."

"I’m aware, sir."

"How did you survive, exactly?"

"With luck, sir. Honestly." Nathan allowed himself a small pause, as if processing a difficult memory. "The terrain favored me. The bandits were more interested in the merchandise than in me. I managed to escape with the box via a side route. I received a minor wound on the forearm." He raised his left arm slightly where the bandage was visible. "I spent the night hidden in the nearby forest. This morning, when I was sure the group had dispersed, I resumed the road to Greywall. I arrived in the city around noon. I came immediately to deliver."

"And the box."

"Intact, sir. The original lock remains sealed. The contents, as far as I can verify without opening it, remain present. I noticed no significant changes in weight or response during the journey."

Brenwick looked at the box for a moment.

Then, without looking up, he made a gesture to Larian. Larian approached. Brenwick pointed at the lock. Larian leaned in. Examined the wax seal. Verified the lock’s integrity. Nodded slightly toward Brenwick.

"The lock is intact," Larian confirmed.

Brenwick looked at Nathan again.

"Hunter Voss. I’m going to open the box to verify the contents. It’s standard procedure before final payment."

"Of course, sir."

"Do you have any problem with that?"

"None, sir."

Brenwick looked at Larian.

Larian took a small key from a drawer in the secondary desk. Approached the box. Inserted the key into the lock. Turned.

The lock opened.

Larian removed the lock. Lifted the lid.

And stared inside for exactly three full seconds without moving.

"...Sir."

"What is it?"

"The contents."

"What about the contents?"

"It’s not the original contents."

Brenwick rose from the desk. Walked to the box. Leaned in. Looked inside.

His face, which had maintained professionalism throughout the conversation, went completely expressionless.

He stared inside for several seconds.

Then straightened up.

He looked at Nathan.

Nathan looked back with the specifically confused expression of someone who clearly doesn’t understand what’s happening.

"Sir," Nathan said, his voice carefully neutral. "Is everything alright?"

Brenwick didn’t respond immediately.

He looked at him for a full moment.

And Nathan, watching his face, saw exactly what Selene had predicted. Brenwick’s gradual realization of what had happened. His merchandise intercepted by his own organization. His organization betraying him internally. The F-Rank Hunter delivering, by chance or not, exactly the physical evidence of that betrayal.

Brenwick closed his eyes for half a second.

When he opened them, he’d recomposed his professional expression.

"Hunter Voss," he said. "This is going to take a moment of additional analysis. Larian, pay the Hunter the full mission balance plus a bonus of ten silver coins for the road complications. Hunter, I deeply appreciate your persistence. You fulfilled your contract. The discrepancy in contents is an internal matter that doesn’t concern you. Please leave peacefully. Your work is complete."

"Sir—"

"Please."

Nathan nodded. Accepted the coins Larian handed him. Stood up. Walked toward the door.

Before he left, Brenwick spoke again.

"Hunter Voss."

Nathan stopped.

"Yes, sir?"

"If at any point you decide to change clients. If you decide to seek more stable work, better paid, with a consistent patron. Please consider my office as an option. I very much appreciate Hunters who follow through on their promises, even under adverse circumstances."

Nathan looked at him for a moment.

*He just offered me a job. He just processed everything that happened this week, just realized I’m probably someone much more dangerous than my rank suggests, and the conclusion he reached was to offer me employment.*

*Selene was right. She told me not to overdo it. I’m not going to overdo it. I’m leaving now.*

"I’ll consider it, sir," Nathan said. "Thank you very much."

He left the office.

Closed the door behind him.

Walked down Five Anvils Street at the normal pace of someone who’d just finished a workday.

About a hundred meters in, he turned down a side street.

About two hundred in, he turned down another.

About three hundred in, when Soul Sense confirmed no one was following him and none of Brenwick’s teams had been activated to tail him yet, he finally allowed himself to exhale.

*It worked.*

*It worked completely.*

*Liaraen is safe. Brenwick is going to be busy for days with his internal problem. And I have the full mission balance plus a bonus—which is exactly fifteen additional silver coins to what I already had.*

*I also have a permanent employment offer from a human trafficker.*

*I’m going to decline that later. Much later. But formally. In writing.*

He began walking back toward Selene’s house.

Where Liaraen was waiting for him.

And where the big conversation was finally going to happen.