The thought of being casually obliterated by a passing bald man—or accidentally crushed like a radish while Tatsumaki was "harvesting"—sent an actual shiver down Jack's spine.
Gulp.
He swallowed hard, his expression sharpening.
No. I need intel. I need power. And I need them fast.
Jack was the type who, once motivated, went from zero to full throttle in an instant.
No more lingering. He oriented himself and strode back the way he came.
In moments, his dark figure—crimson patterns flickering faintly—vanished into the passage's gloom.
The return trip was smooth. No encounters.
Made sense. Rover's territory was an absolute no-go zone for ordinary monsters. They'd rather starve than become an accidental snack.
The deeper he walked, the stronger the stench became. Sewage. Rot. And something else—a nauseating sourness. Excrement. Undigested flesh.
Light grew ahead. Soon, an underground space the size of a football field opened before him.
The lower-level monster hub. Task distribution. Gathering point.
Hundreds of monsters milled about in the cavernous space. Most were Wolf-level. Grotesque. Deformed.
Giant insects. Mutated beasts. Twisted amalgamations of flesh and discarded machinery. Some were simply unidentifiable piles of meat.
Flickering light cast dancing shadows across the chaos.
A few Tiger-level aura-bearers had staked out territories, basking in the fearful glances of their Wolf-level underlings.
Demon-level? Dragon-level? None present. The real powerhouses had their own domains. They didn't mingle with this rabble.
Life in the Monster Association's underbelly unfolded before him:
In one corner, hyena-like monsters tore at a rotting organ, snarling and fighting over every scrap.
In the center, a Mantis monster and a Scorpion monster brawled—primitive, vicious. Severed limbs flew. Bodily fluids sprayed.
A fly-eyed monster regaled trembling subordinates with tales of tortured humans...
Chaos. Barbarism. Evil.
The Monster Association, distilled.
Jack's emergence shifted everything.
Not his Tiger-level aura—though that drew some eyes. It was the trace of Dragon-level pressure clinging to him.
Rover's scent. Rover's power.
Silence.
The clamor died instantly.
Dozens of eyes—murky, bloodshot, greedy, fearful—swiveled toward the figure emerging from Pochi's passage.
Suspicion. Scrutiny. Confusion. Greed.
Fear.
Jack noted it clinically. Pochi's deterrent power works better than expected.
Movement in the corner. A Mantis monster recovered first from the shock. It raised a bladed arm and pierced a trembling Rabbit monster beside it. Lifted the twitching body high.
CRUNCH.
Bit its head off. Dragged the still-spasming corpse into the shadows. Quiet feast.
Jack: "..."
So that's the ultimate form of workplace bullying here.
Eating colleagues alive.
His mouth twitched. Absurd. But instructive. The Monster Association's rules were becoming clearer.
A wet, gurgling sound broke the silence.
"Weird...?!"
A surprised voice from a crude stone throne at the back.
"Why isn't this trash dead?!"
The crowd parted instantly. Monsters scrambled out of the way—one too slow was sent flying by a massive tentacle.
The speaker emerged.
Three meters tall. A massive octopus head, dripping translucent slime. Beneath it, a bloated humanoid body. Eight slick tentacles covered in disgusting suckers writhed like pythons.
Jack's gaze cooled.
He remembered this one. The local strongman. Tiger-level.
Slime Octopus.
According to the rules set by Gyoro Gyoro, different levels had different roles. Dragon-level were cadres. Demon-level and above could be combatants, researchers.
Lower-levels handled logistics. Resource gathering. Construction. They served the upper echelons.
Slime Octopus's assignment? Logistics. Specifically: feeding Rover.
It was his casual remark that had sent Jack and five others to die.
Jack's eyes narrowed dangerously. The crimson patterns on his dark face mask pulsed faintly—like breathing.
"Who are you calling trash?"
"Trash? I'm calling you tr—uh...?"
Slime Octopus's reflexive retort died halfway.
Something felt wrong.
But thinking wasn't Slime Octopus's strong suit. Lack of intelligence was an epidemic among lower-level monsters.
Sure, Tiger-levels could theoretically withstand modern weaponry. Hard for human forces to eliminate.
In the monster world, though? Still cannon fodder. Bottom-feeders. Pyramid base-dwellers.
Slime Octopus didn't dwell on such complexities. His eight slippery tentacles coiled with wet, squelching sounds. He sneered.
"Hehehe! Brat. Lucky you survived Lord Pochi."
He stepped forward. Tentacles writhed slowly, deliberately. His three-meter frame loomed. Tiger-level aura pressed down—attempting to crush, to intimidate.
"Since you're back, stay put!"
One tentacle snatched a severed arm from the ground—leftover from some forgotten victim—and stuffed it into the mouthparts beneath his head. Chewed noisily. Juice splattered.
"Tomorrow's delivery? Hehehe... You're still going."
The casual command. The undisguised malice.
Jack's eyes turned to ice.
This wasn't just ignoring the Monster Cell reward from the previous mission. This was actively pushing him back to die. Treating him as disposable. All while hoarding the reward for himself.
"Heh."
A low chuckle escaped Jack's masked mouth. It carried heat—like it might ignite the very air.
"What're you laughing at?!"
Slime Octopus's face darkened. Being mocked by trash? Insulting.
His eight tentacles flared—suction cups gaping open, revealing the dense rings of sharp fangs within. Enough to trigger trypophobia in anyone human. Dangerous. Threatening.
"You got a problem with my arrangements?!"
BOOM.
Tiger-level aura exploded outward. A wave of stench—fishy, rotting—slammed into the surrounding monsters.
They scattered eagerly, clearing a space. Eyes gleamed with anticipation. Bloodthirst.
A show. A fight. Entertainment.
Behind the scenes, sure, Psykos managed things. But among lower-level monsters? Unwritten rules applied.
Which meant: no rules.
Pure jungle law. Strong eat the weak. Strong dominate everything.
Psykos didn't care how many low-levels died in a day. She could always make more.
So—snatching food. fighting for turf. killing each other over nothing.
Standard operating procedure.