My Grim Reaper Class: I can kill anything.

Chapter 8: The Box

The North Road Inn was where the paper said it would be, right at Greywall’s northern exit, on the very edge of the road that led out into the city’s outskirts. It was bigger than The Black Barley, with a more cared-for facade, cleaner windows, and a sign painted in blue and gold that simply said *North Road Inn* in letters that someone had clearly paid to look good.

Nathan stopped in front of the entrance for a moment.

*This inn isn’t frequented by ordinary people. This inn is frequented by people with enough money to care about a clean facade.*

*Good indicator to start with.*

He pushed the door open and went inside.

The interior confirmed the impression. Tables of well-polished dark wood, oil lamps hanging from the ceiling on bronze chains, a clean floor without the usual layer of sawdust that covered the floors of cheap inns. There were a few early diners, all dressed with the specific quality of mid-route merchants—men and women who traveled between cities with goods valuable enough to need decent shelter but not valuable enough to stay somewhere truly luxurious.

And at the back, at a secluded table near a window, sat a lone man.

Nathan noticed him even before he consciously looked for him.

He was tall, around fifty years old, dressed in a long traveling tunic in deep burgundy tones that clearly cost considerably more than all the new clothes Nathan had just bought. He had gray hair slicked back with oil, rings on three fingers of his left hand, and a silver brooch at his collar holding the tunic closed. He was drinking something from a crystal glass with the specific calm of someone who had arrived early on purpose because he wanted to see everyone who came in after him.

He looked up when Nathan entered.

And smiled.

The smile was immediate, warm, perfectly practiced.

*Shit.*

*I don’t like that smile. I don’t like that smile at all. That smile was triggered as quickly as a lock mechanism, which means it’s a professional smile, which means this man makes a living getting people to trust him, which is a very specific and very useful skill for very few professions.*

"Hunter," the man said, raising his glass slightly in greeting. "Please, come over."

Nathan approached the table.

"Nathan Voss. Mission acceptance from the Greywall guild."

"Brenwick," the man replied, without getting up. "Take a seat, please. Something to drink?"

"I’m fine, thanks."

"I insist."

"I’m still fine."

There was a small pause. The man’s smile didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. A minimal readjustment—the kind of adjustment sellers make when a customer rejects the first offer and they have to recalibrate their strategy.

"As you prefer," Brenwick said. He drank from his glass again. "I see from your gear that you’re a relatively new Hunter. First transport mission?"

"Second mission total."

"Excellent. So you’re still learning how the trade works."

*That was a specifically chosen phrase. "How the trade works" doesn’t mean "how missions are done." It means "how deals are handled in this world."*

"I’m learning," Nathan said, neutrally. "Where’s the package?"

Brenwick pointed with his glass toward a corner of the dining room near the back wall.

Nathan turned his head.

And stared.

In the corner, leaning against the wall, was a box made of dark wood reinforced with metal strips. The box measured approximately one meter sixty in height, sixty centimeters wide, and another sixty deep. It had a heavy padlock on the front, two reinforced handles on the sides, and a leather tag tied to the right handle with a careful knot.

Nathan stared at the box for a full moment.

Then he slowly turned back to Brenwick.

"In the paper," Nathan said, in a perfectly conversational tone, "it says *package*."

"Correct."

"That’s a box."

"A box is a type of package."

"That box is one meter sixty tall."

"A standard size for delicate merchandise."

"What kind of merchandise requires a box one meter sixty tall?"

Brenwick smiled again. The same warm, practiced smile as before.

"Delicate merchandise," he repeated, slightly more slowly. "The guild was informed of the approximate volume when the order was registered. If the paper didn’t specify the dimensions, that’s a guild matter, not ours."

*No, it isn’t. The guild specifies dimensions precisely so a Hunter can choose whether to accept or not. The omission is deliberate. This was designed so that an F-Rank Hunter—too new to ask questions and too poor to refuse the payment—would find the box already at the inn with no real option to back out.*

*Well played. Dirty, but well played.*

Nathan walked slowly toward the box. Brenwick watched him without moving from the table.

The box had a new padlock. The wood was clean, without scratches or stains. The metal strips were riveted with professional care. The leather tag simply said *Brenwick — Main Office* in firm handwriting.

Nathan moved a little closer and, careful that Brenwick wouldn’t notice from the table, placed his hand against the wood and activated Soul Sense.

The skill responded.

Inside the box was a living presence.

Not-noble in its mana signature, not-large, not-moving. Still. But alive. Human warmth classified by Soul Sense as a single conscious entity, likely sedated or bound or both.

Nathan removed his hand from the box very slowly.

He turned toward Brenwick’s table.

Walked back at a normal pace.

Sat down across from the merchant without being invited this time.

"What exactly is the contents of this box?" Nathan asked, in a voice exactly as calm as before.

Brenwick raised his eyebrows, as if surprised the question was being asked again.

"As I mentioned, delicate merchandise."

"That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only answer my agreement with the guild requires. Private transport orders do not require disclosure of contents to the carrier. That’s in the guild regulations. Section four, paragraph seven. You can look it up."

*He knows the regulation by heart. That confirms he uses it regularly. That confirms he knows exactly what information he has to hide and under what legal cover.*

"Is it a valuable object?" Nathan asked.

"It is."

"Alive?"

Pause.

Small. Almost imperceptible. But enough.