CHAPTER 87: CHAPTER 87

A massive explosion shook the entire area, the deafening blast echoing across the sky.

A towering mushroom cloud surged upward, releasing a shockwave that sent violent winds spiraling in every direction. The powerful gusts swept through the surroundings, toppling buildings and reducing the landscape to ruin.

The terrifying phenomenon lasted only moments—but its impact was irreversible.

When the dust began to settle, what was once a vibrant, living area had been reduced to a desolate wasteland. Roads and structures were obliterated, leaving no trace behind. To any passerby, it would seem like an entirely different place—unrecognizable.

As the smoke and haze lifted, the true scale of the destruction became clear.

At the epicenter of the blast was a massive, charred crater—deep, wide, and lifeless. Not even insects remained.

One of the pickpockets, who had been watching from a distance, was caught by the edge of the explosion. He struggled to stay on his feet, staggering from the force of the shockwave.

Once he regained his balance, he looked toward the center of the blast—only to find it completely empty.

No sign of Clayton. No sign of his boss.

Both of them had vanished.

The pickpocket stood in stunned silence. The man he hated—Clayton—was probably vaporized. And his boss, who had triggered the explosion, had likely died in the blast.

He felt... nothing. Or maybe too much.

They had chased Clayton all this time, risked everything to kill him. Now their target was gone, and his boss—his strongest ally—was dead.

Was it even worth it?

He had lost both hands. His boss was gone. His crew was scattered. And now? How was he supposed to survive—let alone pick pockets—without hands?

Despair settled over him like a fog. He was staring into the void of unemployment—and possibly starvation.

But then—

Crack!

A strange sound echoed from the center of the crater. The pickpocket frowned. It was faint—but unmistakable.

Suddenly, a bloodied hand burst from beneath the dirt like something out of a nightmare. His eyes widened in horror.

Moments later, a battered figure crawled out of the earth, followed by a yellow dog.

The man collapsed, gasping for breath.

The pickpocket recognized him instantly.

Clayton.

Still alive.

As it turned out, when the explosion began, Clayton had been caught completely off guard. But Dingo—his loyal dog—barked and signaled for him to dive underground. Panicked, Clayton obeyed.

Underground, he felt suffocated and disoriented but kept digging deeper. When his back began to burn, he knew the explosion had reached its peak. Wrapping his arms around Dingo, he shielded the dog with his body.

Thanks to that, Dingo survived with only a mild concussion. Clayton, however, suffered serious burns across his back, arms, and legs.

The sight of him alive filled the pickpocket with disbelief... and then rage.

He had wanted revenge—wanted to be the one to kill Clayton. And now, fate had given him a second chance.

Limping forward, he approached the weakened Clayton. With every step, his grin grew wider.

He began to chant a spell, a faint glow forming around his broken body.

But just before he could finish—

"Grrrr!"

Dingo lunged, teeth bared.

Caught off guard, the pickpocket tumbled to the ground as Dingo sank his jaws into his ribs. He screamed and tried to pry the dog off, but before he could—

Bang!

A hard strike to the head. Through the pain, he saw Clayton standing again, having hit him with what strength he had left.

The pickpocket tried to retaliate—but Dingo blocked him. Every spell, every move—countered. The relentless duo didn’t give him an inch.

The pickpocket finally realized the truth: if he kept this up, he would die here.

Torn between pride and survival, he gritted his teeth, shoved Clayton and Dingo back, and fled—staggering and bleeding.

Clayton and Dingo stumbled from the push, but Dingo, less injured, immediately gave chase.

He nipped at the pickpocket’s heels, relentless and unforgiving.

"Grrr..."

The pickpocket grew more and more frustrated. But he had no strength left. No spells. No weapons.

In desperation, he whistled loudly—again and again—hoping his crew would hear and come to his rescue.

Surely someone would respond.

But no one came.

Not a single ally answered.

Even after such a massive explosion... no one appeared.

Where the hell are they? he thought, panic rising. How could they not hear this?!

His heart pounded as realization crept in.

No one’s coming.

Finally, exhausted, he collapsed face-first in the dirt.

Clayton limped over slowly.

The pickpocket was still trying to whistle, his lips moving even as the rest of his body failed him.

Clayton gave him a wry smile.

The pickpocket looked up, confused—and annoyed.

Clayton tilted his head, amused.

"Wondering why I’m smiling?"

The pickpocket didn’t answer, but his eyes burned with curiosity.

Clayton reached into his spatial pouch.

"Waiting for your friends?" he asked casually, pulling out five small cylindrical objects and tossing them in front of the man.

The pickpocket blinked—then froze.

They were whistles.

His crew’s whistles.

"Y-you... how...?"

Clayton smirked.

"Obviously, I killed them all."

The pickpocket’s world stopped.

Even before being ambushed by the boss, Clayton had already encountered—and eliminated—three of their team.

There were no reinforcements. No rescue.

No hope.

The pickpocket stared at the whistles, spirit shattered.

Clayton looked down at him—expression flat.

Then, without hesitation—

Bang!

The pickpocket’s body burst apart. Nothing remained.

Clayton searched the remains and found two spatial pouches. With his injuries worsening, he didn’t linger. He left the scene quickly, wary of drawing more attention after such a large explosion.

His mini skeletons had been destroyed. He leaned on Dingo for support as they slowly made their way back toward the farm.

Step by painful step, they pressed forward.

Once home, Clayton cleaned his wounds, ate a small meal to regain strength, and began checking the loot from the pouches.

He pulled out about ten spatial bags, excitement building in his chest. Surely, he thought, pickpockets would carry stolen treasures—gold, crystals, maybe even rare items.

He opened the first bag.

Only 100 low-grade mana crystals.

The second?

110... and some worthless junk.

Clayton sighed, deflated.

So much for hitting the jackpot.

But then—he found one bag that looked different. Older. Worn, but clearly well-used.

He opened it—and froze.

His eyes widened in disbelief.

"...What the hell is this?!"