"Oh ho ho, young man, you're really impatient. What, afraid this old geezer might eat you alive?"
(Not really afraid… I just think dealing with someone like you is bound to be troublesome.)
The old man's identity wasn't exactly a secret. He was the regional director of Crisis Contract's Leithanien Division, mainly responsible for overseeing the operations and logistics of contract execution. Typically, he didn't involve himself directly with missions.
It was similar to the old medieval separation of military and ecclesiastical power—interconnected, but with clear boundaries. It also ensured a certain independence in how Crisis Contract operated.
Because of prior collaborations, Revy had interacted with this man before. In fact, a major piece of intelligence he'd acquired earlier—on credit—had passed through this man's hands.
So, if this meeting weren't initiated by the old man himself, Revy could have just walked away. But if even someone at this level was permitted to get directly involved, then this mission either involved extremely delicate political or religious implications—or it was absurdly difficult.
"I'll take a glass of milk… but I want it served in a skull mug."
Revy's voice wasn't loud. He didn't seem to care whether the café's invisible waiter could hear him or not.
"Hahaha, young people these days really know how to joke," the old man chuckled, lips curling slightly. "This isn't some pirate town in Iberia—where would I get a skull mug from? Just bring him regular milk."
"Whatever. Just a joke. I don't usually drink anything when I'm discussing business."
Revy didn't rise to the old man's teasing. He spoke flatly, "I owe you this one favor, and that's all. Now—time, location, objective. Tell me whatever details you're allowed to disclose."
"Ah… I was hoping to lighten the mood a bit…"
The old man sighed and then straightened his posture.
"This mission… is to escort a child."
Revy's eyebrows twitched slightly.
"If there are any details you're hiding, I suggest you tell me now. It'll help me plan the route, assess the threats, and prepare accordingly."
Truthfully, Revy didn't believe this was just about "a child."
There were countless organizations that took on protection contracts. Whether it was Blacksteel International, the delivery-slash-pirate group Penguin Logistics, or even rogue Sarkaz mercenaries, they'd all take similar jobs—provided the price was right.
But if Crisis Contract was the one issuing the request, then there had to be something more beneath the surface.
"Take a look at this first."
The old man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photo, sliding it across the table face-down toward Revy.
"Hm... Ursus nationals. So what?"
The photo showed a pair of young siblings, no older than ten. Both had pale gray hair and the characteristic bear ears of Ursus bloodlines. They were huddled together clutching a plush toy.
"That photo was taken three years ago, so she should be a bit older now," the old man added. "Your mission is to escort the girl in the picture—from northern Ursus, Siberia, all the way to Lungmen."
"Siberia…?"
"Yes. Originally, the mission would've included a 'rescue from the mines' phase, but that part's already been completed," the old man said quietly. "However… while we managed to rescue her, we couldn't get her out."
"You couldn't extract her?"
"I've already lost six of my best operatives trying."
"So what you're saying is—she's still in Siberia, but unable to get past the city border, right?"
Revy's eyes narrowed as the old man offered a bitter smile.
"Yes. Siberia itself is a massive prison. Add the eternal blizzards that serve as natural barriers, and it becomes nearly impossible to escape—especially with an injured child in tow."
"Injured? She's hurt?"
"You think a convict child from a black coal mine in Siberia would be in peak condition? She's lucky to be alive."
"…"
Revy fell into brief silence. If this had just been a test of personal skill, he would have immediately drawn up a flawless plan and executed it with confidence. But clearly, this case defied such conventional approaches.
The old man, however, didn't rush him. He calmly sipped his coffee.
"If you don't mind me asking—what did Crisis Contract get in return for accepting a mission this suicidal—?"
"…Your milk, sir."
A server interrupted Revy mid-sentence, gently placing a cup in front of him. At Revy's glance, the coffee was also placed on the table. With a slight bow, the server left without a word.
"…A contract," Revy muttered. "I mean… if it's reached this point, is it really worth it?"
"I can't tell you the exact details. But you can probably guess."
The old man's tone deepened.
"After losing six elite operatives—and now cashing in a personal favor from the 'Prophet' himself—you must understand what kind of stakes we're dealing with."
Revy said nothing. He simply closed his eyes.
"In less than two weeks, Ursus enters deep winter. If you don't succeed—or choose not to accept—the mission will be deemed a failure. The target… will die."
The old man's gaze was bitter as he looked at the young Sarkaz before him.
Anyone unfamiliar with Crisis Contract might think this was some veiled threat. But both men knew exactly what the words "mission failure" meant when spoken by Crisis Contract.
"…Fine. You've said this much—how could I possibly say no?"
Revy picked up the photo and stood from his seat, not even bothering to look back.
"Oh, and one last thing—what's the name of the kid?"
Finally, the old man allowed a faint smile to reach his eyes.
"Misha. Her name is Misha—cute, isn't it?"
Of course, no response came.
The chair across from the old man was already empty.
Only a cup of untouched milk remained, steaming softly in its ceramic skull mug.