Winter

Balrus was a greenhorn adventurer.

But unlike most adventurers, he hadn't turned to the life because he was desperate to eat or starry-eyed about heroes. From birth he'd been big-boned, strong enough that even if you gathered every able-bodied man from the neighboring villages they wouldn't outdo him, and he'd realized he had a knack for picking up physical work and applying it. After a long, careful deliberation, it was more like he'd chosen a profession that fit his talents. The lord's castle had even taken notice of him and hinted at hiring him as a private soldier, so he'd made his decision with a fair bit of confidence.

He figured that as long as he learned proper skills and didn't let greed get the better of him, adventuring was a perfectly viable line of work.

Every job had its process, he reasoned—this one just came with more dangerous situations than the other trades in the village, and because of that, more opportunities to get his hands on serious money. Hell, he hadn't even been naive enough to blindly believe he'd hog all those fat stacks for himself, so you could at least say his thinking was genuinely constructive.

Balrus had left the village chasing a chance at money he'd never so much as sniff if he spent his life following his father as the lord's mill-keeper—not as a mill-keeper who skimmed grain to get by, but as a man who wanted a mill of his own. He'd planted his dream somewhere between grand ambition and humble practicality, taking on requests others shunned and scraping together coin until he finally made his way up to the capital.

Even that wasn't because he had illusions about the capital, but for a perfectly sound reason: for novices like him, it was the most stable proving ground. The fact that he'd hurried north before winter fully set in was likewise a move born of the thought that if requests were going to get harder in winter anyway, the capital would at least be better. And indeed, compared to the provinces, which were lately noisy and precarious with talk of monster outbreaks and Demonfolk, the capital was genuinely safe, and Balrus felt relieved that his judgment hadn't been wrong.

But there was one thing he'd overlooked: it wasn't that he wasn't interested in tales of heroes—it was that he'd simply never properly heard one grounded in reality.

The heroic tales he'd grown up hearing had all been nothing but hot air. Swordsmen who could split the sky with a swing, mages who could crack an ogre's skull with a single incantation, a lone knight who faced down hundreds of soldiers—that sort of thing.

To Balrus, who'd always been a little quicker on the uptake than most, all those stories were just preposterous fiction, and he'd never been one to let fiction make his heart race. But for him, the hero stories coming out of the capital weren't fiction—they were reality, the footprints of heroes breathing and living right next door.

It wasn't until he was eighteen that Balrus finally learned what a heart-pounding hero story really was, and he got carried away without even realizing it. And that was how he made a colossal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mistake.

He'd swallowed whole the words of a man who claimed to be none other than Eldmia Ega, the capital's most famous hero of late.

"Y-you're the famous Guillotine of Levien...!"

"Whoa, whoa—keep it down. A man's got to have some dignity."

Wasn't there a saying that even the wildest rumors held a grain of truth? The man who'd beheaded a traitor with a single stroke and even bested the Empire's Hero in a spar had a face full of terrifying scars, and he kept a sleek hunting dog at his side.

Rumors flying in every direction had him pegged as a monster of muscle, but this guy, while reasonably built, was no giant. In fact, he was even a little shorter than Balrus.

"This scar here? Got it when I went into the traitor Envelde's manor. Didn't even notice I'd been cut until I'd already taken on more than ten knights."

The way he touched the scar that slashed across his face, as if lost in memory, gave off the seasoned depth of a veteran warrior. No—Balrus had deluded himself into thinking he felt that depth.

Balrus had met him at a tavern, swapped stories, listened to boastful nothings dressed as advice, and tipped back his cup. He didn't come to his senses until the next morning.

"You fucking bastard!"

By then, not only his drinking money but his pockets had been wrung completely dry—his meager seed money gone. Actually, he still hadn't come to his senses even after that; it wasn't until he asked the owner that Balrus could finally face reality.

"Good heavens, I wondered what you two were whispering about so giddily in the corner. That bastard's a washed-up adventurer, apparently. Showed up with some dog a while back and started spinning that crap."

The owner clicked his tongue but took pity on Balrus and gave him a free bowl of stew. Under the warmth of that kindness, Balrus felt like the tears he'd been barely holding back were about to burst. He wolfed down the stew and immediately headed for the adventurer's guild to earn at least enough for a night's lodging.

He was far too consumed by indignation to read the owner's real motive—namely, that the fraud had boosted sales, so best to hush it up and move on.

"Goddamn son of a bitch. They weren't kidding when they said city folk don't know how to do anything but run their mouths and lie!"

One of the chief reasons was that his head was full of hot thoughts about giving the bastard a taste of hell the moment he ran into the fake Eldmia.

And then, as if by some cruel joke of fate, another scumbag doing the exact same thing showed up right in front of him and started shoving people aside. Of course he lost it. This wasn't the same piece of shit who'd swindled him, but to Balrus—who was already furious up to his eyebrows—one shithead looked like any other.

So he threw a punch, spouted off about something, and then his memory went black.

That was the moment his recollection returned, and Balrus's upper body sprang up like a coiled spring—except someone was pressing him down hard and stopped him from getting up.

"Easy, friend. Stay still. If you jolt up now you might end up puking or blacking out again. Just calm down."

It wasn't just one person pinning his shoulders with a firm hand. Balrus felt a surge of terror as he registered five or six grown men sitting around him, staring down at him where he lay. He asked urgently,

"Wha, what's going on? Wait. Where am I?"

But contrary to his desperate reaction, only easygoing laughter and nonchalance flowed around him.

"Whoa, he really went flying, didn't he. So, how far back do you remember?"

"Definitely... that guy said something about it making a difference... I laughed at him, and then..."

"This friend's a real piece of work. He gets socked into next week and still has the word 'that guy' in his mouth?"

"Isn't that just proof he hasn't fully come around yet? Hey, do you remember who you threw that punch at?"

"I-it was an impersonator, right? Pretending to be Eldmia Ega..."

And not even a fierce hunting dog—it was some dopey, cute-looking sheepdog the bastard was cradling in his arms, which was just absurd... Sure, the guy was taller than him and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠built like a damn ox... but... still...

"Pff! Oh man, looks like our friend got his pockets picked by some con artist. You haven't been in the capital long, have you?"

"What, he's a rookie? A winter fledgling—so, gonna be a big shot or a flash in the pan?"

"He missed his chance to flash out, so maybe he's gonna be big? Heh heh heh."

No matter how dazed Balrus was, he could understand from the reactions around him. And at the same time, goosebumps broke out all over his body.

It was the real Eldmia Ega.

The adventurer who'd beaten a Hero in a spar, who—despite only having been temporarily hired—had committed a massacre inside the detention center for the honor of the Margrave of Levien and not only been acquitted but had ultimately stormed the traitor Envelde's mansion alone, razed the place, and taken the man's head.

And at the same time, the figure known as the Guillotine because he didn't go easy on anyone who bared their fangs at him.

"Uh, uh, wh-what... what do I..."

"Ah, don't be so scared, youngster. You took one hit and it's over. So it's over. Just be careful from now on."

"What... huh? What do you mean..."

Balrus felt a rough hand touch his face, checking his eyeballs out of nowhere and turning his head this way and that. He belatedly realized they were looking for other abnormal signs, and he stayed still while the men's explanation continued.

"If he'd wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead. You remember the conversation just now? When you asked what difference it would make if you had a grudge?"

"...Yes. I remember."

"Eldmia told you, didn't he? That it would make a big difference. This is the result."

You're in one piece. Your jaw might be sore, but it's been set back nice and tight—so don't worry.

After hearing the man's boisterous laughter and the thumping pat on his back, Balrus began to vaguely grasp ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the situation.

He had no grudge, so it ended with a beating. If there'd been a grudge...

"Among adventurers, the only ones who got their heads cut off by Eldmia were that idiot Dantel and the bastards mixed up with him. Most people just get... uh, rep-reprimand and release? Something like that—just a warning."

"Reprimand and release, you illiterate shit. Means the offense is light, so they give you a warning and let you go."

"Fuck, this is why you don't use words you don't know."

The sight of them nagging and cussing each other out and then cackling about it might have been comical, but none of that mattered to Balrus, whose mind had gone completely blank. Because he'd just spotted Eldmia walking down from the second floor in the distance.

The moment he saw Eldmia coming down just as before with the sheepdog cradled in his arms, Balrus shot to his feet this time for real, scrambled over, bowed his head to Eldmia who was glaring at him, and shouted,

"I'm sorry! I thought you were the impersonator!"

That alone started a faint hush spreading through the guild. The men behind him who'd looked him over were saying things like, "Ooh, maybe he really is gonna be a big shot?" but none of it properly reached Balrus's ears.

"...Impersonating? Me?"

A voice and face that had been nothing but insufferably smug moments ago now carried a genuine oppressive weight. Cold sweat ran down his spine, but Balrus squeezed his eyes shut and forced out the rest.

"Last night I ran into a con man pretending to be you, Eldmia, and he cleaned me out. I was blinded by anger—I'm truly sorry!"

His hands and feet were shaking, but he had to apologize. Screwing up and then pretending he hadn't just because he'd gotten hit in return—that was something he couldn't stomach.

"...What did he look like?"

"H-he was a little shorter than me, uh, had a big scar on his face, and, uh, he had a hunting dog with him!"

"Fuck, just all fucking sorts, huh. And you fell for it?"

"...Yes."

A small laugh came from above his head, but Balrus caught that it wasn't born of amusement or mockery.

That was rage. But the prickling anger subsided like a lie along with the short laughter.

"Well, I guess that could happen. How much did he take you for?"

"T-ten silver coins."

"Damn, imagine getting impersonated by some piece of shit who'd steal a kid's pocket change."

Eldmia sighed and rummaged for a moment, then grabbed Balrus's shoulder with just one hand and hauled him upright. Startled, Balrus followed the touch and straightened his back. Eldmia briefly met his eyes and pressed something into his hand.

"Consider it as me having found him first and squeezed compensation out of him. Forget about it—when I find that bastard, I'll kill him myself."

'If by any chance you learn where he is, tell me. I'll make it worth your trouble.' Eldmia spoke lightly, as if it were nothing, gave Balrus's shoulder a couple of pats, and walked right out of the guild.

Balrus looked back and forth between the fifteen silver coins in his hand and Eldmia's receding back without a further word, so overwhelmed with emotion that he couldn't even manage a proper word of thanks. The fact that the impersonator would definitely die once he met the real Eldmia stirred no particular ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠feeling in him. A bastard who smeared the good name of a hero that cool deserved to die.

I want to become like that person. Watching Eldmia's retreating back as he faded into the distance with his bouncing sheepdog, Balrus thought that from the bottom of his heart.

"Eldi! I know you go looking for trouble, but this time the gap was way too short!"

"How long has it even been since we told you to stay put, and you're moving again?! No! You're not going! If you go, you're taking me with you!!"

"You pull that kind of stunt and have the nerve to act completely unbothered. Is that why you left our house?"

But the very man Balrus had set his sights on—as soon as he got home and brought up the request, he found himself kneeling before two more women than he'd expected, getting chewed to pieces and shrinking into himself. Balrus, however, had no way of knowing that.