Port City Hafen
It was common enough for slash-and-burn farmers to turn into bandits.
At least, that was what my knowledge told me.
The ones who had just ambushed our caravan likely carried that same past.
When I came back to myself, the man who had charged at me was already rolling across the ground. Blood stained my blade, and more of it poured from the fallen man’s throat.
That was all.
There was no room to dwell on the feelings of a first kill—not with the situation still so desperate. Attacks kept coming at me even now.
A man came roaring as if to cast off his fear, swinging a sickle caked thick with dirt. His movements lacked any real training, yet the raw power behind them and the reach of those long arms made him a genuine threat.
I scrambled backward. He never stopped. With ragged breaths he kept slashing at empty air, wild swings that drained a body’s strength in no time. He was tiring; I was still whole.
By the time the hot blood began to stiffen in the cold winter wind, I took one long step forward and swung.
There were only two sword forms I could call on at will: the downward cut and the thrust. For slipping into an opening, the thrust was the right choice. From low to high I drove the blade upward, as if fallen moonlight were rising once more into the sky.
The sensation through the hilt was crystal clear. An instant later blood sprayed out.
“Haa…”
Drenched in hot blood, I looked around. Those who had been poised to rush me began edging away. Their gazes wavered; the eyes fixed on me were filled with fear.
My own breathing was rough—not from physical exhaustion, but from the excitement that kept my lungs from settling. As I forced the ragged breaths under control, the tunnel vision of adrenaline slowly widened.
Even at a glance, more than ten corpses littered the ground. Especially where Agul had passed, bodies lay split open like firewood, and no bandit dared approach that stretch of ground.
A brief lull settled over the fight. The remaining bandits no longer charged; a few sword strokes that had cut down their comrades had shattered their morale.
“Waaaaaah!!!”
Agul’s roar thundered out once more, and the last of the bandits broke and fled. The adventurers did not bother to chase them. Even after the bandits were gone they kept their weapons raised, still panting hard as if trying to bleed off the rush of battle.
I glanced down and realized the hand gripping my sword was trembling. I had clenched too hard. I tried to open my fingers and let the blade go, but they would not obey. So I simply sat down somewhere convenient and waited until the strength drained from my hand.
After a while the caravan staff who had hidden inside the wagons emerged. They moved about with the ease of people who had seen this before, handing the adventurers cloths soaked in warm water, or just plain water. The adventurers collected the weapons of the bandits they had felled—though “weapons” was a generous word for farm tools.
No one was laughing or chatting the way they had before. It did not look like guilt so much as excitement that refused to fade. Agul especially kept flexing the swollen muscles of his chest, gulping water in great noisy swallows. No one approached him.
Verde, the caravan master, handed every adventurer a bottle of liquor that night. The faint fruit fragrance rising from it suggested it was not cheap. The adventurers accepted the bottles as if it were only natural, and drank them on the spot just as naturally—covering the high of killing with a different kind of high.
The mind of a modern man living inside a young girl’s body told her that alcohol was still too early. After a moment’s hesitation, Ceris drank it down anyway.
The liquor hit fast. A thirteen-year-old girl’s body was far too vulnerable to it.
I did not come to until the next morning.
The adventurers had always looked at me with a faint undercurrent of mockery. Even though I carried a bronze plate, even though Verde himself had hired me, that attitude had lingered. After the bandit attack it vanished. They had finally understood that I could pull my own weight—and that my sword could take their lives just as easily as anyone else’s.
Nothing especially noteworthy happened after that. I stood night watch and drilled my sword forms, then climbed into a wagon and slept. Now and then we found a frozen pond; we broke the ice and boiled it for bathwater. Time slipped by quickly.
By the time the long journey had blurred my sense of dates, I noticed the wind growing colder still. It was not a simple change of weather. The air carried on that wind held the sharp salt tang unique to the sea.
We had reached the port city of Hafen. The end of a thirty-day journey was finally in sight.
The moment the Dawn’s Breath caravan entered Hafen, they paid the adventurers the promised reward. Then Verde made an additional offer.
“Anyone who wishes to extend the contract, please remain here.”
Only three adventurers stayed. Verde had clearly hoped Agul would be among them, but the half-orc took his pay and vanished into the city at once. I had no further business either. Meetings among adventurers were light; so were the partings. No one bothered with formal goodbyes. That was simply the life of an adventurer.
Alone again, I began touring the city. I wandered the streets the sailors favored and watched the harbor where many ships lay at anchor. By the time I had spent the whole day sightseeing, night had fallen. I found a suitable inn and took a room.
Naturally the inn’s menu was mostly fish dishes. For thirteen-year-old Ceris it was the first time tasting truly fresh seafood. The meal was excellent.
The next morning I rose at a leisurely pace, savoring the rare sense of ease. No one in this city was hunting for me. I no longer needed to hide my face and scurry about like a criminal. The psychological pressure that had weighed on me for so long had finally lifted. Smiling, I left the inn.
A port city offered plenty to see. Exotic goods brought across the sea and curious magical tools delighted the eyes, while the occasional brawl among sailors made the best free entertainment.
On the third morning in the port city I went down to the beach and began collecting seashells. I planned to make a keepsake someday—something to remember the path I had walked. While I was picking out the prettiest shells, someone approached across the hard-frozen sand. The light footsteps carried a strange, unshakable confidence.
“Tourist?”
I turned my head slightly to size him up. A sturdy build, a face still a little boyish. Dark-skinned, dressed in a sailor’s clothes. The emotion in his gaze was so familiar it was almost boring.
I almost drove him off, then stopped. Having a willing helper while I quietly gathered shells would be better than working alone. Besides, he was a sailor who traveled by ship; he would have seen and heard a great deal, so he probably knew many things. The simple calculation finished itself.
I nodded.
The boy launched into a stream of unasked-for stories. He even threw in exaggerated gestures to win my favor and interest. The sight was so ridiculous I let out a small laugh, and his cheeks flushed red. I wiped the smile away at once.
The nameless boy told me some rather interesting things. This winter was especially harsh, he said, and it would last longer than usual.
“Winter’s going to last longer?”
“Yeah. Looks like you haven’t heard the rumors. The Empire woke the dragon sleeping in the snowy mountains—Kashipa.”
“A dragon…?”
He nodded and launched into an explanation of how magnificent dragons were. Kashipa’s cold fury had brought winter early and punished human folly with merciless cold. When he beat his wings, fierce blizzards poured down; when his massive tail struck the earth, earthquakes and avalanches followed. The dragon Kashipa the boy described was a being out of myth.
“So the Empire, to calm Kashipa’s anger—”
I brushed the sand from my hands and stood. I had gathered all the shells I needed. All that remained was to return to the inn, clean the dirt from them, and turn them into a necklace. The tale of the dragon Kashipa was interesting enough, but I saw no further need to stay with the boy.
“H-hey, where are you going?”
His voice came from behind me, but I did not stop. He trailed after me with a look of regret until I rested a hand on the sword at my back; then he recoiled in alarm and fell away.
On the fifth morning in the port city I left the inn, eyeing my steadily thinning purse. Even Hafen had a guild for adventurers, though it was smaller than the one in the capital.
“Here to take a request?”
The receptionist spoke the moment I stepped inside. Perhaps my small frame made it hard to guess I was an adventurer at a glance. I shook my head and produced the bronze plate I kept close to my chest.
“Oh…”
His expression turned thoroughly surprised. He turned the plate this way and that, examining it carefully.
“My apologies.”
As with every other adventurer guild, the requests one could accept were limited by rank. While scanning the board I tore off a request that looked suitable and carried it to the counter. I would have preferred to take several at once, but there were not many posted.
“Hmm… this one…?”
The receptionist studied the paper I handed him with a complicated look. Was there some problem? When I tilted my head he explained.
“The client’s temperament is rather… difficult. You may be turned away. Are you all right with that?”
“The client can refuse?”
“Everyone who has gone so far to take the job has been rejected.”
“What kind of person does that…”
Still, I would go and see for myself. I took the note the receptionist gave me and left the guild.
The address led to a high-class inn—more than twice as expensive as the one I was using.
“Hnn…”
I sniffed and headed for the room written on the note. The door opened and a woman emerged, a large witch’s hat pulled low over her head.