Chapter 26

Later? A legitimate job? And a resident ID?!

Alvin immediately performed a classic national art—“changing faces”—smiling broadly as if rubbing his hands together: “You’re serious? You’re going to get me a job?”

It wasn’t his fault for switching so fast; the “bargain” offered was simply too tempting.

A formal job allowing settlement in the Mid-Nest meant he could shed his smuggler status and openly interact with Mid-Nest enforcers, gaining resources impossible to obtain in the Under-Nest.

Taker watched Alvin’s swift transformation, stiffening for half a second before returning to normal: “Of course. My name, Taker, carries some weight.”

He wasn’t lying—Taker the Jackal’s reputation in the Under-Nest was well known; he was famously “a man of his word.”

Yet despite being tempted by Taker’s offer, Alvin still hesitated.

Should he really... tell Taker?

His main concern was this: what if Taker had some unknown connection to the cult?

As Alvin hesitated, Taker spoke slowly: “I assume it’s related to the Blood Axe Gang being wiped out by the Hammer Gang, and the disappearance of over three hundred people in the East District, correct?”

He exhaled a smoke ring, the drifting white mist making him seem inscrutable: “I sent people to investigate the disappearances in the East District. But sadly... I found nothing. Only soil soaked in blood—nothing else. Not even... bodies.”

He emphasized the last two words.

“And then?” Alvin’s face remained calm, unmoved: “How exactly did you conclude I came to the Mid-Nest because of these two events?”

“Simple. I had people investigate you, Alvin Valshus.”

Taker grinned, revealing two rows of tobacco-stained teeth. Beneath his messy, instant-noodle-like hair, his gaze was sharp as a blade, his expression unreadable: “A common scavenger from the Under-Nest would never miss ‘Harvest Day.’ But you weren’t there that day.”

“Mr. Taker, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who didn’t show up,” Alvin said, shrugging.

“Kid, I’m not an enforcer. I don’t need to verify every piece of evidence.”

Taker flicked ash with a smile, studying him with deliberate intent: “I know you weren’t the only one who survived. But my instinct tells me your sudden attempt to smuggle into the Mid-Nest at this moment is tied to these two events.”

He’d almost forgotten—this world didn’t care about evidence... Alvin’s lip twitched. After half a second’s thought, he said: “Mr. Taker, forgive me, but I can’t trust you.”

“You won’t tell me?”

Taker frowned slightly. He’d assumed this offer would be enough to win over a Under-Nest scum.

But the result was far from what he expected—the man had refused. A stable job in the Mid-Nest!

“I really want a stable job. But I can’t trust you.”

Alvin reluctantly turned down Taker’s offer, yet left the door slightly ajar.

“You can’t trust me? That means... these two events are deeply entangled?”

Taker understood the hidden meaning in his words. His expression grew slightly serious: “What would it take for you to tell me?”

Alvin smiled but said nothing, offering no explanation.

Taker read the meaning in Alvin’s eyes: unless he could prove himself, the boy would reveal nothing.

Clever little bastard... he sighed. At this point, he seemed to have no choice.

Events in the Under-Nest had left Taker uneasy—something felt off, not as simple as it appeared. The investigators he sent returned with almost no useful information.

Of the three hundred missing from the East District, only this boy... had not appeared anywhere on Harvest Day!

That was the real reason Taker suspected Alvin.

How could a lowly scavenger possibly miss Harvest Day?

And on that very day, over three hundred people vanished from the East District—could such coincidence truly exist?

After long hesitation, Taker reluctantly pulled something from his inner lining, handling it with delicate care, as if cradling a treasure, and displayed it before Alvin.

“Kid, does this prove I’m trustworthy?”

When Alvin saw what was in Taker’s palm, his pupils shrank sharply—he blurted out: “Holy shit, the Iron Hawk Medal?!”

But the moment he spoke, he realized his mistake.

Sure enough, Taker’s expression turned surprised, then fixed the boy with a piercing, suspicious stare: “How do you know this medal?”

A mere Under-Nest scavenger recognizing a medal issued by the Department of Military Affairs?

It was like asking a homeless man to identify the Iron Cross of the Third Reich—and getting back only the answer: “Medal.”

Alvin’s eyelid twitched, regretting it so much he wanted to slap himself.

But under Taker’s icy gaze, he could only grit his teeth and say: “My mother told me. When I was young, she told me many stories about the Imperial Guard, including various medals.”

The excuse was crude, but Taker seemed unconcerned.

He tucked the Iron Hawk Medal into his chest and said coolly: “If you know it’s the Iron Hawk Medal, you must agree I’m worthy of trust, right?”

The Iron Hawk Medal, also known as the “Madman’s Hawk,”

was a golden semi-circular medal bearing an iron imperial hawk, the most renowned personal honor.

It was typically awarded by the Department of Military Affairs to soldiers who had faced mortal peril, defeated their enemies, and still remained fit for service.

In other words... Taker had once been an Imperial Guard soldier.

No wonder—now it all made sense.

Why Taker could acquire Imperial Guard gear and still command respect from Mid-Nest enforcers.

Because he was a retired Imperial Guard veteran bearing the Iron Hawk Medal—his status within the Hive was extraordinary.

But another question troubled Alvin: “If you have the Iron Hawk Medal, how did you end up in the Under-Nest?”

It made no sense. A soldier awarded the Iron Hawk Medal would almost certainly have held rank and earned great valor. Even nobles in the Hive wouldn’t dare provoke him—how had he fallen so low?

“None of your damn business!” Taker suddenly flew into a rage, like a goblin stepped on: “Don’t change the subject. Tell me what happened in the Under-Nest!”

“May I ask—what was the name of your former regiment?”

Alvin leaned forward curiously, genuinely wondering which regiment Taker had served in.

“Does that relate to what you’re going to tell me?” Taker frowned, clearly reluctant.

“Yes.”

Alvin nodded gravely: “I’m not disrespecting you, but if you weren’t in some elite regiment, knowing the name won’t help.”

Of course, this was pure nonsense—just to manipulate Taker.

Even if Taker refused to speak, his Iron Hawk Medal alone would ensure any report about the cult reached the local Department of Military Affairs—and even the Planetary Viceroy.

He asked purely out of curiosity.

“You wouldn’t know it anyway...”

Taker looked torn, smoking three cigarettes in succession before sighing helplessly: “Do you know Catachan? I’m from there.”