Kays Translations
Just another Isekai Lover~
Chapter 5: A Natural Born Mind Sorcerer
Marlon Lister—he was, after all, not some overbearing, ruthless real estate tycoon. The word “forcible eviction” could never be imagined passing his lips.
So, after roughly half an hour had passed, Marlon and Trist Rem finally appeared at the place where twenty-eight households stubbornly resisted the demolition of their shantytown homes.
If one were to compare it to the district where Marlon had lived before, there had at least been hints of a steam-powered modern civilization—the steel tracks of tramlines, pipes constantly hissing and leaking steam, all carrying a faint sense of magical modernity.
But here, in this decayed shantytown Marlon now stepped into, there was nothing to suggest progress or civilization. It was a scene ripped straight from a dark Gothic European medieval film:
Mud-slicked roads with stagnant, fetid water, low and crumbling wooden shacks, residents clothed in nothing but tattered rags, their faces smudged with grime and despair.
“This place… it’s absolutely vile! The air itself reeks of rot! Damn it, I smell wolf dung!”
The words came from none other than Nikola Chuk Smoteg, the journalist whose two explosive articles had sent White Sand Morning News sales skyrocketing. Since then, he had practically camped outside Marlon’s villa twenty-four hours a day, waiting for the next scoop.
Ever since Marlon—the reclusive genius writer who hadn’t stepped outside in months—suddenly appeared here, it was only natural that the ever-dedicated Nikola would tail him, eager for news.
But now, the problem was that Nikola was no ordinary journalist. He was a beastman of the Spirit Cat clan, renowned for his acute sense of smell.
“Be careful. These guys… they’re all low-class half-wolves.”
Bernard, the district police chief who had accompanied them, spoke quietly as he placed a deliberate hand on the holster at his thigh. Being the local authority in the slum, he knew the stakes.
And indeed, Bernard was right. These twenty-eight households were almost all low-class half-wolves, about eighty percent wolf, twenty percent human. In this strange world, the intelligence and social standing of hybrid species correlated directly to their resemblance to humans.
Any hybrid less than fifty percent human was almost universally synonymous with stupidity, ugliness, savagery, and aggression.
These eighty-twenty half-wolves represented the bottom tier of the bottom tier.
Even from Bernard’s instinctive hand reaching for his weapon at the sight of nearly a hundred low-class half-wolves, it was clear that—despite the Loring Republic’s proclaimed lack of racial discrimination—these low-intelligence, low-class species were not accorded the slightest respect.
After all, no sane human would respect a monkey that could lash out and attack at any moment, right?
“I am Marlon Lister. Standing beside me is the merciful old paladin, Andrew Carnegie. Who among you believes you can speak for all the others—step forward and negotiate with us!”
Marlon’s gaze swept across the crooked, dilapidated shacks and the near hundred half-wolves haphazardly assembled in front of him, finally resting on one unmistakably tall, robust, young male half-wolf wearing a brand-new plaid robe.
This was clearly Scar-Twison—the ringleader of this disturbance.
As soon as Marlon revealed his identity, the burly half-wolf in his striking new robe charged forward with menacing aggression.
Standing before Marlon, Scar jabbed a finger at his own nose and snarled, “Kid, remember this! In this place, only I—only I, Scar-Twison—have the authority to speak!”
Honestly, this towering figure, with jagged yellow canine teeth, exuded an air of danger that instinctively made Marlon feel cornered.
Yet a glance with his peripheral vision at Bernard, whose holster strap had subtly unclasped, and at the impassive old Trist, reassured him. Danger? Perhaps not. The tension in Marlon’s chest eased.
“Speak. State your terms.”
Marlon’s voice was light, almost casual, as he regained calm.
Nikola, the Spirit Cat journalist, blinked, pupils narrowing into vertical slits as surprise flickered in his eyes.
Wait… did I see that right?
Just now, the wolfish stench radiating from Scar-Twison seemed to be accompanied by a single-target fear spell!
Why, then, was Marlon—our genius young writer Marlon Lister—completely unfazed, showing not the slightest hint of intimidation?
No… it must have been my imagination! That disgusting low-class half-wolf, reeking of dung, could not possibly wield magical power only high-class species could access. Not even a pseudo-spell or innate ability would be possible for such a low-class hybrid!
Thinking this, Nikola’s astonishment slowly faded back into composure.
“Kid, why aren’t you afraid of me?”
The towering Scar suddenly froze, staring dumbfounded at Marlon and uttering these words.
And in that instant, Nikola realized with a chill:
I get it now! Marlon Lister—the prodigy author—must have an innate resistance to mental magic!
This… this is the legendary phenomenon, one appearing in perhaps one in a million—a natural born mind sorcerer!
This is big news! Absolutely huge!
Thanks, sincerely, to you, esteemed ancestor wizard who recorded countless oddities and miracles—your descendant is immensely grateful!
While Nikola mentally plotted how to turn this discovery into a sensational article, he suddenly felt a chilling gaze upon him, coming from somewhere behind. His fur bristled.
Turning instinctively, he saw an elf, tall and elegant, with the collar of his black coat raised high, standing beneath a blackened tree—a stark anomaly in the lush greenery of the season—staring coldly at Nikola.
“Smart journalists know which stories can be reported and which will bring trouble upon themselves and their families. Nikola Chuk Smoteg… do you understand what that means?”
The icy words echoed inside Nikola’s mind.
Then, an even louder roar poured into his already terror-stricken ears:
“Enough! Kid, hear me clearly! My terms: each family gets a new house triple the size of their old one, permanent ownership, and an additional ten thousand Warrant! No concessions! If you refuse, forget about moving them! Forget it!”
Marlon’s voice, as ever, remained calm and understated:
“In that case… negotiations are over.”
“Mr. Carnegie, kindly inform our fine fellows… they may begin work.”