Mob No. 125: “I never should’ve bought that sterilization cleansing capsule……”
After escaping the clutches of Grandma’s demonic hands (?) and returning from the nursing home, I found that the two old hags from the neighborhood—the ones Mom had supposedly silenced before—had come to the house.
These were the same women who’d badmouthed me endlessly in the past, calling me barbaric, a quasi-criminal, a failure in life, all because I worked as a mercenary.
Naturally, they weren’t Mom’s friends, and they barely interacted with us otherwise.
So, what did they want? Well, after dancing around with lines like “Prices these days are so…” and “Investing is the way to go with such an uncertain future…”, their real motive became clear—they were here to demand money.
Asking for cash from my mom, who wasn’t even their friend—let alone after spreading nasty rumors about me—was beyond shameless.
When I politely refused, they started with the usual: “Who do you think you are, some kinda criminal—”, “We’d put it to better use than you!”—the same crap I’d heard from that pink-haired woman before.
So, I shut it down:
“Leave my property immediately. If you don’t, I’ll report you for trespassing and extortion. Push me too far, and I will resort to force. After all, I am a mercenary—brutality’s part of the job. And trust me, I came prepared.”
I let my gaze flick to the gun at my hip, and the hags scrambled out in a panic.
“Sorry, Mom. Guess I just gave them fresh ammo for more rumors.”
“Don’t worry about it. Those two are already the neighborhood’s most notorious pests.”
Turns out, they’d spent years badmouthing everyone, spinning lies left and right, so the whole village despised them.
Despite the trouble, I spent the next two days relaxing before deciding to head back on the morning of my fifth day in the countryside.
On the day of my return, Dad and Mom came to see me off at Valbis Central Station.
“Take care of yourself.”
“Call us if anything happens.”
No tearful farewells—just a simple goodbye. From there, I reached Tabl’s spaceport without incident, boarded a liner, and after a two-day trip, arrived safely back on planet Itz.
Like on the way here, docking at the spaceport felt oddly refreshing since I usually park my ship at the Mercenary Guild’s hangar.
I took the orbital elevator down to the surface, then the high-speed maglev to Parvea Station, arriving close to 11 p.m.
A taxi later, I collapsed into bed without even unpacking.
The next morning, after breakfast and cleaning, I dropped off souvenirs with my landlord, then headed straight to the guild.
Before hitting the counter, I checked the job board—my usual routine.
At a glance, the requests had skewed heavily toward one type during my 12-day break.
“Hey. How was the vacation? Saw your folks?”
Old Man Roans flashed me an unnecessarily cheerful grin.
“No debts, no troubles. Should be smooth sailing now. More importantly—why’s every job pirate-related? Weren’t most of those fallen nobles already captured or wiped out? And since when do we get solo patrol requests?”
His expression shifted when I voiced my confusion.
“Intel says these so-called ‘pirates’ are running around in what’s clearly military-grade ships. Consensus is they’re doing commerce raiding for Nekirelma—no doubt about it.”
Ah. That explained the surge in pirate hunts.
Technically, these weren’t just pirates—they were privateers. Ships licensed by a government at war to attack enemy vessels and seize cargo.
But given how blatantly militarized they were, “state-sponsored pirates” felt more accurate.
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“Shouldn’t that be the military’s job?”
“Oh, they’re stretched thin. Hence the solo patrol gigs.”
Patrols were usually part of long-term security contracts.
For them to be standalone jobs meant the pirate infestation was worse than ever.
“So, what’re you taking?”
“Gonna think on it. Need to dig deeper first.”
“Figures. That’s your style.”
With that, Roans cracked open a plastic bottle of coffee and chugged it.
After leaving the guild, I headed to the black market district—specifically, Patterson Pharmacy.
Of course, I needed intel, and info brokers were the way to go.
The place oozed its usual shady vibe, but the fact I’d grown numb to it left me weirdly bitter.
The shops themselves were peaceful, if drowning in sketchiness. The butcher’s stall, for once, wasn’t pushing pre-made dishes—just a sign:
[“TODAY ONLY: MINOTAUR MEAT SALE! STEAKS • SUKIYAKI • SHABU-SHABU—MEGA DISCOUNTS!”]
Soon, I reached the pharmacy. Unusually, a patient was inside—
an old man getting a very one-sided “explanation” from Gonzalez.
“Seriously, Guiluth-san, must you always grab my hand?”
“Can’t help it, lass! Yer skin’s just too soft!”
Yep. Sexual harassment from a senior citizen.
Gonzalez, unable to punch the guy, wore a smile that screamed “I’m chewing on a bug.”
Then, an old woman stormed in.
“Enough outta you, you rotten geezer!”
WHACK! A plastic bottle met the man’s skull.
“The hell was—?! Oh. Oh no. Granny?!”
“Stop bothering the doctor!”
“I wasn’t botherin’ any—”
She yanked him out by the ear, her voice suddenly honeyed as she bowed.
“Our apologies, Doctor. This fool won’t trouble you again.”
The couple left,
and Gonzalez exhaled like she’d run a marathon.
“That guy always like that?”
“…Yeah.”
She looked exhausted, so I’d save my business for later.
“I never should’ve bought that sterilization cleansing capsule……
Back when I hated the idea of reverting to male, the Association’s old men marked me, and now I’m desperate to change back—but thanks to the damn capsule, I can’t afford the brain-restoration surgery.”
“Too late for regrets. Besides, if you turned back, this place might lose all its patients.”
I meant it as a joke, but—
“I was already like this when I became a pharmacist… so maybe?”
The owner replied dead serious.
Turns out, even in medicine, personal connections matter—who knew?
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