Extra's Path To No Harem

"Waaaaaah!!"

Cheers erupted throughout the back alley warehouse as mugs were slammed together and laughter filled the air.

After forcibly uniting all the criminal organizations that lurked in the slums, we ended up throwing what could only be called a grand party—at least by their standards.

The alcohol was cheap, burning my throat on the way down, and the snacks were barely passable. Stale bread. Greasy meat of questionable origin.

Still, the gang members seemed to be having the time of their lives.

They drank, shouted, sang off-key songs, and boasted about how today marked the beginning of a new era for the underworld.

I, on the other hand, simply ate to keep my stomach from growling, my expression completely flat.

For them, this was a feast.

For me, it was barely tolerable.

Having grown used to proper meals—warm plates, seasoned meat, freshly baked bread—this whole spread felt painfully lacking.

…Ah, I want a steak.

A thick one. Medium rare. With sauce.

I really need to get back to the Academy soon and eat something decent before I forget what real food tastes like.

"Hahaha! Boss, I had no idea you were that strong!"

Feiz strode over, his face flushed from drink and excitement, clapping me on the shoulder a bit harder than necessary.

He'd been like this all night—endlessly praising me, replaying the scene from earlier as if it were a heroic legend.

"The way you took them down! That lightning—boom! One swing and they were finished! I swear, Boss, I got chills!"

I chewed on my bread and swallowed before answering.

"…It wasn't anything special."

Feiz blinked, then laughed even louder. "Hah! That's exactly what a real monster would say!"

I didn't bother correcting him.

To be honest, cutting down a few thugs who couldn't even use aura wasn't particularly impressive. If anything, it felt tedious. Like swatting flies that didn't know when to stop buzzing.

Still, the result mattered more than the process.

"But," Feiz continued, lowering his voice slightly as he leaned in, "there's something I don't quite get."

I glanced at him. "What?"

"Why did you spare those two?" he asked. "Wouldn't it be safer to just get rid of them? You know—eliminate potential problems before they come back to bite us."

The common sense of the back alleys was simple.

Don't leave loose ends.

If you do, you'll get stabbed in the back when you least expect it. That was the rule everyone lived by down there. Normally, that would've meant killing them on the spot—no witnesses, no future problems.

But I didn't kill those two.

Not out of mercy. Out of practicality.

They still had value.

"They were dealing in drugs and illegal weapons, right?" I asked.

"That's right," came the answer. "Which is why they had the most money."

Churpa and Jinsipa.

I had no idea what those names were supposed to mean. Probably nonsense—words chosen because they sounded intimidating enough to command fear in the alleys. People like that loved theatrics.

Names aside, what mattered was what they did.

Drug trafficking. Illegal weapons. Smuggling routes that never appeared on any official map.

That meant one thing.

They knew the capital better than almost anyone.

Not the surface—the grand streets, noble districts, or shining plazas—but the parts no one talked about. The narrow passages between buildings, the sewer shortcuts, the abandoned warehouses repurposed as meeting points.

They moved quietly.

Secretly.

Without ever drawing attention.

They had to. Otherwise, they'd have been erased long ago.

And that made them perfect.

I'm searching for Bain's remaining henchmen—people who won't show up in records, people who vanish the moment the authorities get close. Finding them by normal means would take months, maybe years.

But people like Churpa and Jinsipa?

They knew how to find ghosts.

That was why they were still breathing.

Leaving behind the drunken, rowdy gang members sprawled across the floor—laughing, groaning, completely oblivious to how close they'd come to death—I headed upstairs.

The second floor was quieter. Too quiet.

Each step creaked under my boots as I climbed, the noise echoing faintly through the wooden structure. My hand rested loosely on the hilt of my sword, not tense—but ready.

This was the part where negotiations really began.

Downstairs had been a show of force.

Up here would be the real conversation.

"…What do you want, Reaper?"

Sensing my presence, the man lying on the bed slowly opened his eyes.

Kallis—the former leader of Churpa.

The moment the word left his mouth, I frowned.

"…Reaper?"

"That's what everyone calls you now," he said hoarsely. "They say when you show up, the wind of death follows."

So that's how it spread.

I'd never once given my name to anyone. I couldn't afford to. Being identified here would be inconvenient at best—and fatal at worst. Not that it mattered much in a place like this. Everyone here was a criminal anyway.

Still, I was a special case.

And apparently, in the absence of a name, they'd decided to give me a title instead.

A troublesome one.

I stepped closer, my shadow falling over him.

"And you're awfully casual for someone in your position," I said quietly.

"…."

Kallis didn't answer. He kept speaking to me like an equal—as if he'd forgotten who was standing in front of him.

I found that irritating.

Without another word, I placed my foot lightly against his chest and applied pressure.

"Ghk—! I-I'm sorry! I apologize!!"

The reaction was immediate.

Too immediate.

His body stiffened, his breath hitched, and panic flooded his eyes. His tone flipped instantly, dripping with respect and fear.

Honestly… what a drama queen.

I withdrew my foot and clicked my tongue.

"I barely touched you."

It had been nothing more than a shallow cut, hardly worth calling an injury. And yet he reacted like I'd stabbed him through the heart.

I'll never understand people like this.

They butcher others without hesitation. Tear organs from living bodies. Sell human lives like livestock.

But when pain is directed at them?

They crumble.

"Get up," I said coldly. "Who told you you could lie there so comfortably?"

"…Y-Yes."

At least he was perceptive. If he lacked pride, he made up for it with survival instincts.

I watched as Kallis struggled to sit up, then staggered to his feet, swaying slightly as if the room itself had turned against him. He avoided my gaze, sweat dripping down his temple.

Pathetic.

I crossed my arms and looked him over, taking my time.

"Curious why I kept you alive?"

"Um… yes. Actually, I am."

Kallis had gotten back on his feet, but his body remained tense. His eyes tracked my every movement, sharp and wary, like a cornered animal waiting for the slightest mistake.

"You deal in drugs," I said calmly. "That means you know the capital better than most people. The back alleys. The slums. The places even guards don't bother checking."

"That's right," he answered quickly. "The stuff we distribute is cheap factory-made junk. Our customers are mostly poor people. If you want information, there's nowhere I can't reach."

I nodded slowly.

"Then if I asked you to catch a few people for me—how long would it take?"

For a brief moment, he didn't answer.

Then I saw it.

The shift in his eyes.

Understanding.

"Well…" he said carefully, choosing his words, "it depends on how many people you're talking about. But if it's just a handful… I could do it within a day. At most."

"Within a day?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," he said firmly now, confidence creeping into his voice. "If I focus only on that, it's doable."

Of course it was.

This was his world. His territory. For the first time since I'd met him, we were speaking on ground where he had the advantage.

And he knew it.

Now that his value was clear, he could see a thin lifeline stretching out in front of him.

Hope.

"I'll give you exactly one day," I said. "I'll provide the names and descriptions. You bring them all in. Alive."

Kallis swallowed, then nodded. "Understood."

There was a brief pause.

Then, hesitantly—

"Then… may I ask," he said, "is there any sort of reward?"

I let out a quiet laugh.

"A reward?" I repeated.

His shoulders stiffened, as if he feared he'd overstepped. "I-I'm not asking for much. Just… something to make it worth the risk."

I stepped closer—close enough that he had no choice but to tilt his head back to meet my gaze.

Handling men like this was simple.

Give them hope.

Then make sure they cling to it.

"There is a way out," I said calmly. "If the results are satisfactory, I'll spare your life. Not only that—I'll give you a position in the organization. Do your job well, and you won't have to live like this anymore."

"R-Really?!" His eyes widened, fear instantly replaced by desperate excitement. "I'll do it! I'll do anything—I'll work hard, I swear!"

"Good." I turned away slightly. "Come to my room later. I'll give you the details then."

"Yes!"

The way his eyes sparkled almost made me laugh.

Perfect.

Now Kallis would throw himself into the mission with everything he had. Fear had kept him obedient—but hope would make him efficient.

I stood and turned toward the other man, who had been watching the exchange in tense silence. His jaw was tight, his eyes flicking between me and Kallis as if trying to decide whether this was salvation or another trap.

I took a step toward him.

"By the way, Mr. Reaper…?"

I stopped. Slowly turned my head.

"Fuck," I said flatly. "Call me that one more time and I'll cut your throat."

"A-Ah—! I'm sorry!" He stiffened instantly. "Then—then what should I call you…?"

"Boss."

"U-Understood, Boss!"

The change was immediate. His posture straightened. His voice sharpened. Gone was the sluggish resignation—replaced by alertness and resolve.

Hope really was a powerful thing.

To him, this was a chance at survival.

A chance to crawl out of the gutter and stand on solid ground again.

Whether he succeeded or failed was up to him.

I glanced at both of them, silently assessing their expressions, their breathing, the subtle shifts in their stances.

Fear, ambition, desperation—good raw materials.

Now all the pieces were in place.

I turned toward the door.

"Well then," I said, my voice steady and cold, "let's begin."

The real work was about to start.