The Boss Wants to Die - Chapter 42

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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The boss wants to die.
42
The Receptionist spoke with cold precision.
“Aren’t a Player’s abilities boundless? We NPCs trapped in roles like mine operate on an entirely different level, don’t we?”
……
“If you put your mind to it, you could swallow a baron-class noble in one gulp and claim them as your own.”
The NPC Receptionist suddenly burst into bitter laughter—the kind that mocked herself.
“Isn’t this just a modern cursed mansion? The entire Village is haunted by ghosts!”
“What’s the reason behind all this?”
“Ah, well. Probably wanted to experience life as a noble.”
As if bored by the tiresome, predictable tale, the Receptionist yawned and fished a Peppermint Candy from the shelf attached to her desk, sucking on it thoughtfully.
Michael, who had half-risen in excitement, slumped back into his chair.
A hollow sigh escaped his lips like a departing spirit.
“Just for that reason……”
“Isn’t it common? The inequality between Players and NPCs—such trifles are hardly rare.”
Michael shut his mouth entirely after that.
Akt exhaled, rubbing his eye sockets with the exhaustion of a man worn thin.
“But how did you learn of this? Even our Branch only received word quite recently.”
“You mentioned the Village of NPCs.”
Akt bared his canines in a crooked smile.
“That place was already gone long ago. A Player killed every NPC there.”
“Ah yes, that’s right. The Village of NPCs never became a topic of conversation, so it’s impressive you knew of it.”
As the conversation deepened, the Receptionist began studying Akt more carefully, struck by his unexpected depth.
He appeared utterly indifferent to all worldly matters.
Those half-lidded, languid eyes bore it, as did his carelessly sprawled posture.
He carried the arrogance of someone born noble, yet an unmistakable vulgarity seeped through.
‘Like someone who’s fallen into hell and seen everything worth seeing.’
His Level wasn’t particularly high, yet he radiated an oppressive presence nonetheless.
The Receptionist tapped through the stack of documents on her desk, organizing them briskly.
“In any case, I’ll tell you where the undertaker Erithman is. Only—don’t mention us to Baron Roman. Better yet, kill him for us.”
“Is there a successor lord?”
“His son is still alive.”
Life returned to Michael’s eyes, which had been sitting there listlessly.
“His son? Where is he?”
“Erithman is protecting him.”
The Receptionist, having received a Ruby the color of blood, gazed at it intently before recalling eyes of the same hue and spoke.
“Speaking of which, isn’t there one more person in your party? Someone with those brilliant red eyes? There were whispers that she resembled the Demon God.”
Akt’s gaze fixed on the Receptionist.
Unaware of that lethal stare, the Receptionist continued.
“Many Players try to imitate the Demon God because of her beauty, but that one was so remarkably similar that she became quite popular.”
“Why are you bringing that up?”
“A word of caution.”
The Receptionist spoke as if offering a kindness.
“Baron Roman is a worshipper of the Demon God.”
“……What did you just say?”
The Receptionist twirled her index finger around her temple.
“Don’t you understand? A fanatic, a fanatic. So devoted it’s embarrassing to even call him a worshipper…… Aah!”
When the massive Akt abruptly rose from his seat, the Receptionist gasped and recoiled.
“W-Why are you suddenly—? You’re scaring the person on watch!”
“No need to worry, Akt. She’s strong enough.”
Despite Michael’s question of what was wrong, Akt didn’t sit back down.
Instead, cold sweat beaded across his pale face as he clenched empty air with brutal force.
An invisible leash took shape, extending translucently out of the building.
Akt yanked the leash hard.
He was summoning the Demon God.
***
“So it really is you.”
Roman leaned his back against a brick wall covered with rotting moss, and laughter—bright with elation—burst from him.
It was a joy untouched by the fact that his expensive beige suit was now filthy with the refuse of the back alley.
I narrowed my eyes.
It was the unsettling gleam of madness I saw burning in Roman the Marquis’s eyes.
“What?”
“I can’t pull up your information.”
Roman rolled his eyes, searching the space around me for a hologram that should have been there.
I remembered the first time I’d met Roman.
He’d looked me over the same way then.
The tiara, the black hair, the blood-red eyes—nothing escaped him.
That crawling gaze had felt like insects on my skin, and I’d loathed it.
I bared my teeth and let out a growl.
Roman’s breath quickened, his excitement unmistakable.
“A Player whose basic information won’t even display to other Players? Impossible! Everyone’s been saying you just happen to look alike, but my eyes don’t lie. You can’t be this identical. You’re a Demonic God.”
He leaned forward eagerly, his upper body thrusting ahead.
The spot where he crouched was scattered with unidentifiable waste and garbage.
Yet Roman showed no hesitation whatsoever.
His face was utterly absorbed in the moment of discovery—a Demonic God found at last.
‘He’s lost his mind.’
I stepped back.
An indescribable revulsion welled up at this unwelcome attention.
“Level unknown, Job unknown, bearing the very form of the Demonic God Helord—even if you’d simply transplanted him here, I’d believe it. Who else could be a Demonic God? Especially now, when Demonic Nature lies dormant?”
I bit my lower lip and checked his information.
‘What kind of bug is this?’
The hologram window that should have read NPC flickered like a corrupted screen, clearing and blurring in turn.
Behind the fractured static, I could see a transparent window overlaid.
Could it be…
“You’re not an NPC?”
“Sharp. It’s remarkable you’d see a Monster as anything but that.”
Roman let out a breath of admiration.
“I’ll tell you plainly, O King of Monsters. I am a Player. I hold a special Job.”
In that instant, his information window blurred, and his Job details began to stutter into view.
With a Demonic God’s sight, I caught what flickered past in that brief moment and read his Job.
“Monster Tamer?”
“Impressive, that you could read it.”
He pressed a hand to his chest and laughed theatrically.
“I don’t just tame Monsters—I can steal the skills they use. Taming a Slime and copying some of its techniques is nothing.”
Above Roman’s unstable information window, a special effect appeared—a sheet of paper peeling away.
Graphics fractured into squares like a broken computer screen, turned a deep moss green, and crumbled away in the shape of paper.
This was no error—it was a deliberate animation.
The system announced it at once.
[Roman the Marquis’s hidden information has been revealed!]
The green paper that fell to the ground collapsed from its crisp form, crumbling into nothing.
I scanned the information hastily before the paper item vanished completely.
[Perfect Polymorph Slime Paper.
Overlays not only the character’s appearance but also their information.
Can deceive even fellow Players seamlessly.
But beware!
Slime Paper affixed to character information falls off easily with even minor impact!
※ Exclusive item for Monster Tamers. Cannot be obtained without the Monster Taming Skill.]
‘Interesting.’
I mulled over his information.
Perhaps I could make use of him after all.
‘His name is Egilpid Golzbein, and his level is…?’
My face twisted immediately.
‘153? Merely?’
I’d pinned my hopes on his unusual Job, but it came to nothing.
Raising his Affection would be a waste of time better spent manipulating Michael instead.
‘A complete waste of time.’
I clicked my tongue and planted my weight on one leg.
“So you’re going to try taming me with that celebrated Taming Skill of yours?”
If he wasn’t strong enough to kill me, there was no further reason to waste words on him.
I confirmed the Alley was empty of people, then unleashed the Malice bound to my body head-on.
“Don’t get cocky.”
Whoooosh―!
Malice tore through the alley like a storm.
The Malice that had been churning inward, unable to escape until now, erupted with a sense of liberation, unleashing a vicious gust.
An old dented trash can that had guarded this alley for years spilled its contents, slamming hard against the wall.
Clang―!
Egilpid, battered by the debris like rain, clung to the wall and wheezed.
The Malice’s density was high, and the wind was strong enough to strip flesh from bone.
His face was turning sallow from lack of breath.
‘Oops, can’t kill him.’
I seized the raging Malice by the scruff and dragged it back inside me.
The Malice, dense enough to see, reached outward like a violet phantom, writhing and surging.
As if pleading to be let out.
Egilpid’s hair whipped frantically whenever it came near, dancing on the edge of contact.
Terror-stricken, Egilpid pressed himself flat against the wall.
“Ack, gasp, huff!”
Still, he was the one who’d posted the party quest.
Killing him here would only hurt me.
I wound up the last wisp of Malice completely and stored it back inside.
‘Though I wonder—can Players actually post quests?’
“Ugh, cough! Cough, cough, cough!”
Egilpid clutched his throat and hacked violently.
I stood with my hands on my hips, watching Egilpid curled up like a snail.
His legs trembled so badly you’d think he’d lost bladder control—though miraculously he hadn’t.
Both hands remained clenched tight, consumed by terror.
The way his clothes clung to his chest showed just what a pathetic coward he was.
‘Not much use, this one.’
Even the thought of cultivating and exploiting him evaporated.
I clicked my tongue in disapproval and was about to turn away.
Then something like a muffled whimper reached me from the bowed Egilpid.
“I… I’m sorry…”
“What?”
I narrowed my eyes and looked at him.
Egilpid, not hearing my question, merely muttered to himself.
‘What’s he saying?’

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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