Spirit Hunting Union

The question here was, why did they send him this money?

A wage, of course. And that only meant they already, in a way, knew those who failed the mission. And those who passed it.

This again went against Quinn's earlier belief that the dimension was not under the Union's control.

Because, if not, how would they have known the survivors?

Assuming he says they really do know, then why kill their own hunters? Wasn't that just pure cruelty wrapped in responsibility?

Quinn had no idea. Or so he didn't want to think too much about it.

As soon as the bus arrived at the city centre's station, everyone off-boarded it. That was when Quinn recalled he didn't know the way to their damned house. Not even an idea of the neighborhood.

He almost tried calling the team leader. But then, he realised it was something he could easily find on his own. So, he checked his phone's map for his previous locations.

And he found it. Thundermouth - turned out it was some town he had heard before.

Well, was he supposed to just go back home like that? It's too early for that. Even thinking about it now, he hadn't had time for himself since he became a Hunter.

Thus, it won't kill to try something new.

Something that the old Quinn didn't have the nerve to do.

So, he headed to a pub nearby. To try taking his first drink.

Everywhere was noisy as you'd expect, filled with mindless drinkers. As if that was not even much of a concern. The scent of unflushed urine and slop reeked from the toilet all over the pub.

Quinn kept breathing loudly while he moved to the bartender.

What stood out most about that guy - the bartender - was the dragon tattoo on his neck. Quinn won't draw one on his skin. But he still thought it was cool.

He paced much closer and finally reached.

The bartender addressed him almost immediately, smiling widely,

"Oh-oh, we have got a real dawg in here. What would you like to drink, sir?"

Dawg? Ah, the social media slang for "dude". That reminded Quinn he hadn't even checked his socials in a while.

Well, not that anyone would care to message him. But, anyway…

Quinn knew about some first-timer-friendly drinks. So, he said,

"I'd like some sake."

The bartender nodded, going over to the shelf and grabbing a black bottle. Placing it before Quinn, he bent down to fetch a glass for him.

"There you go, sir."

Quinn read the label on the bottle.

It said the drink has got twelve percent alcohol by volume.

He nodded. If he could tolerate that much, then he'd know maybe he could go for a bigger shot.

Right then, the bartender's voice cascaded to his ears:

"Don't mind me asking. But, is this your first time drinking, man?"

Quinn slowly looked at him.

Actually, no offence. It was just a question.

Then he nodded.

"Yeah. What about it?"

Surprisingly, the guy groaned in disappointment. Faintly hitting his hand on the table. What was he on about?

He grunted,

"Damn it."

"Hm?"

He cared to explain himself - excellent.

"I always reserve strong shots for men like you. Now that you're a first-timer, we're selling one less today. What a disappointmenttttttt." He crossed his arms, giving Quinn one kind of side stare.

Quinn blinked.

Seriously trying to bait him into buying strong alcohol to make more money?

But you know what? He should ask a question.

"Say… how many shots can you chug?"

The guy immediately uncrossed his arms. Holding the table tightly.

He responded with frankness, but also with a bit of cheekiness,

"Well, it was six, I think." Then he chuckled. "No way you wanna challenge me. Jokes apart, I'd say you shouldn't. Drop the guts, my brother. Five shots? Do you know how dangerous that can be for first timers?"

Quinn raised his brows.

"Try me. If I take six and a half, then you owe me a drink."

The bartender didn't argue anymore. He just went over to the shelf again. And took out two Vodkas.

He continued to fill his cups and chug the drink down quickly. But on the third shot, his speed seemed to slow down. Quinn could see the desperation in him when he forced himself to continue drinking.

When he was done with six shots, he gasped out loud. Hitting the glass cup hard against the table. His face had turned red, eyes swollen.

Swallowing down, he handed the cup over to Quinn.

He said amidst non-stop pants,

"Go ahead."

Quinn's chest pounded a little. But he filled the cup with the colourless drink. It was actually odourless when he brought it close to his nose.

Colourless and odourless? Hell, what was he about to drink?

Anyway, he gulped down the first shot.

Immediately, it burned down his throat. Quinn jerked back, hitting the cup down on the table. His head buzzed with every passing second.

The bartender mockingly laughed.

"I told ya, didn't I? It is-"

But the words froze in his throat when Quinn filled another cup.

Anyways, he said,

"Go on, then."

Quinn chugged the second cup. Same reaction.

Burning in the throat. A slight buzz in the head.

But that's all that was to it. He didn't feel dizzy or anything. Which made him drink the third one.

Quinn stopped right then and rechecked if this was really vodka. Yes, it was. It even had a ninety-six per cent alcohol by volume (ABV).

If so, how come it had no tangible effect on him?

'Another superhuman privilege?' Quinn thought as he gulped the fourth shot.

The bartender's jaws dropped.

"What the fuck, man! You ain't no first-time drinker. Liar!" That held a bit of hostility.

But on the fifth shot, Quinn dropped the cup. He looked the guy in the eye and said,

"You win. I can't take more than five."

As if.

The bartender started laughing, thinking that was really true. Quinn wanted to chuckle at his dumbness. But he held back. You can't judge the actions of a drunk man.

So, Quinn paid for the vodkas. On his way out, he bought a soda.

Sipping it as he walked down the alley to his right after leaving the pub.

With how not even five shots of the vodka affected him at all, he could probably drink more. But if he did, people would be surprised and maybe have some stupid suspicions. Life has leaned more into social media now. So, before he knew it, he might be all over the news.

Drinking vodka wasn't supposed to be that serious. But it's just that the world has never seen someone who could probably drink twenty shots. Of a ninety-six percent alcohol drink.

…. Suddenly, Quinn stopped in his tracks.

He lowered the soda slowly and stared right. To the source of the indistinct sound he heard now…

Over there in the backstreet were a set of guys kicking someone who looked small as hell. Not actually small, but frail… he would say.

Quinn turned towards them, continuing to sip the soda.

After watching for a bit, he realised that the third-person view of bullying was kind of fun. The weak curl in fear, unable to protect themselves anywhere but their head.

While the strong continue to pound them like crazy.

Yes, to Quinn, it was relaxing to watch. After all the stress today.

But something in him refused to just walk away. It was as if that thing was alive in him, taking over and changing his earlier mindset.

As much as Quinn didn't want to remember the past, he did. The view of himself being in the same position as the frail guy appeared fresh in his head.

Yet, Quinn began to walk away.

This is none of his concern.

… Just at that moment, someone new breezed past him…

Quinn stopped in his tracks.

'Hm…'

Luke Andrew?

….

Quinn suddenly chuckled.

And turned back towards the backstreet, where the new guy walked in. He heard him say:

"He still won't say anything?"

Someone down there answered him,

"Not at all."

Quinn grinned wide. Wider.

He then said out loud,

"Well, well, well… what a fancy seeing you here, Luke Andrew."

His voice echoed through the alley.

Luke suddenly stopped walking. And spun around.

"Do I know you, rude fucker?"

Quinn chuckled, back straight. He started walking closer.

"You spineless pile of Jett Cole's lackey. Always cocky as hell."

Luke tilted his head.

"Go home, man. You do not want trouble."

"No, I do." He tapped his temple. "If Quinn Vale rings a bell, then you know I really do."