Year One, Spring: Villagers 2+1 (1)

A person came falling out of the sky.

There was a cliff to the west of our village, true — but it sat far enough off that we never worried about anything dropping in from above. Even a stone hurled from its rim could hardly reach this spot, and now a person was going to fall?

CRACK!

I did think about catching the poor soul or lending a hand, but before I could even move, the figure was already bouncing off tree branches on the way down.

"Ugh! Ack! Uwagh!!"

The youthful voice screamed as it drew nearer and nearer, and moments later a branch snapped and the body dropped, landing five paces or so from where I stood.

Thud.

The battered wreck sprawled there was a red-haired boy who still looked young in the face.

I held my gaze on him for a moment, and just as it had when I'd analyzed Elena that way, his information surfaced.

To fall from that height and come away without a single broken bone — talk about lucky.

"Not this one."

I focused my gaze again, and this time the information I actually wanted revealed itself.

The stats weren't bad. No — for a starter villager, this was exceptionally good. The body might be frail, but I could simply keep him off work that needed muscle and leave the odd jobs to him instead.

"We're taking him."

Given the [Urgent] tag attached, there was probably a related quest somewhere down the line, but early on, accepting whatever villagers you're given is simply the default play. Unless it was a trait like [Blood Berserker] — fearsome in combat, and infamous as the worst trait a villager can roll — or the [Artist of Flames] that arsonists carried, you took them in first and sorted out the rest later.

That's what the strategy guides said, and honestly?

Every single day was a hassle. Cooking every day — hassle. Hunting — hassle. Cleaning the house — hassle. However I split the chores with Elena, there was a limit to what one person could get through, and the remainder fell to me no matter what. With wood as the only building material, I couldn't even put up a sealed kitchen, so every meal meant another half hour of hammering away at flint. One more pair of hands, and the workload shrank at a stroke. At minimum the drudgery would thin out — and judging by his Farming and Cooking stats, I could hand both over to him outright.

Even so, as I pulled out vines and bound the boy's limbs, I didn't let my guard slip.

"Not once in End of World have I ever been handed a perfectly fine villager for free."

Probably a plague ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my low Medicine skill couldn't detect — or a betrayal waiting somewhere down the road. There were variables, sure, but the fact remained that I needed the labor, so I trussed him up in vines and hauled him back to the village.

Scrape, scrape, scrape... thump.

"Mmgh......"

He groaned when I snagged him on a stone root along the way, but with no warning popping up, it clearly wasn't anything critical.

Back at the village, I found Elena crouched and yanking at the ground, apparently with no idea whether she was pulling weeds or tearing up the sorghum we were trying to grow.

"Chief. What's that?"

"Found him on the way."

It wasn't a lie. I truly had picked him up along the road.

I set the boy I'd dragged all this way down on the ground, then picked up a length of the lumber that had piled up thanks to Elena's overenthusiastic digging. Then, with skill worthy of a Construction stat of 4, I threw up walls in short order, fitted a door, and built a wooden bed for the interior. A proper wooden bed is supposed to get a cushioning layer of soft straw, but he was still out cold, so I simply dumped him on it and checked his status.

He's inside the village now — a warning should have appeared by now.

Apparently, then, not a plague.

Which would make him a traitor-in-waiting after all?

If so, that was actually the easy scenario. The comfortable one, even — there were thoroughly ungentle ways of handling a person so that they never got the chance to betray you from within.

I fished out a few medicinal herbs, crushed them to a paste in my hand, worked it into his mouth, then stepped outside and shut the door.

"Elena. Keep watch in case this one wakes up."

"What about the farm?"

"That can wait. If he tries anything funny..."

With a sharp kek, I drew a finger across my throat, and Elena, setting aside the weeds she'd been holding, gave a meaningful nod.

Today's hunt was a lost cause anyway, so with my Magic stat just shy of 3, I stepped into the refrigerator to meditate in Manual Combat Mode and grind out the last of it.

I'd thought I needed a little more, but apparently only a sliver had remained. The frost magic that had once done no more than chill my fingertips could now sheathe my entire hand like a glove of ice, or fire a burst of cold from my palm.

"So I've upgraded from ice-water purifier to air conditioner?"

Though even among air conditioners it was the small sort — the kind rated for a room of maybe thirteen square meters. And my ice output had grown as well: I could now conjure genuine ice arrows instead of mere icicle slivers. Formed over my fingers and launched without ever touching a bowstring, they flew and buried themselves more than halfway into the wooden wall. Watching that, I felt every hour I'd spent training Archery and Magic side by side had been worth it.

Training done, I stepped outside to find Elena sitting in front of the cauldron, waiting for dinner.

"What about that boy from earlier? Up yet?"

She shook her head.

It wasn't the sort of injury that should keep anyone out for hours, but perhaps because of his frail constitution, the boy wasn't coming around easily. I was watching Elena sit meekly at her place, wooden bowl in hand, waiting for me — and had just picked up the flint again to fix our meal when it came.

Of course. I'd figured this wouldn't come free and clean.

"Dinner's going to have to wait."

"......?"

"Grab your weapons and hide near the fence."

Elena pushed her lips out in a faint pout, but she picked up her dagger and axe and headed for the picket at the village entrance. Picket was a grand name for the timber fence I'd built, but I'd laid it out so that anyone entering the village across the river had to pass through it, no exceptions. I grabbed my crude shortbow and wooden arrows and waited at the fence — and before long I caught sight of five or so figures in the distance, torches in hand, sweeping the area as they closed in on the village.

Three with clubs. One with a bow. One dressed like a merchant.

With the sharpened senses of Manual Combat Mode, I read their traits, and the chains they carried filled in the rest.

Slave traders.

It was common enough in this world. Abducting people to sell them on elsewhere. Turning human beings themselves into merchandise. I'd done my share, after all — snatching the occasional passerby or raider and selling them off regularly to stock up on early supplies. Lose here, and we'd be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠killed on the spot or carted off and sold in their place.

A little tiring... but this is about the right level.

My senses weren't oversharpened, and the faint fatigue was actually keeping my edge keen, holding me alert. This — exactly this — was the best condition for a fight.

And they're just the right opponents to try my new magic on.

I didn't even have [Blood Berserker] — so why did the coming fight feel, of all things, fun?

"Mgh... ughk!"

Coming to in the dark room, the boy scrambled to raise himself — and froze as a jolt of shooting pain flared from the back of his skull.

"Ow... what on earth...?"

He ran his fingers over the lump swelling at the back of his head and concluded that he must have struck something hard while he was out. He'd cast a lightening spell midair on the way down, then dropped it in a panic the moment an arrow came streaking at him — and that was how he'd ended up plummeting. If all it cost him was a bump on the head, he'd gotten off cheap.

"Wait — those guys...!"

The slave traders who'd been chasing him. They'd introduced themselves as mercenaries hired to protect the merchants traveling this treacherous world. It hadn't been a complete lie. It was just that the merchant in question happened to be a slave trader. They'd been coaxing the naive boy gently along toward their home base when a loose-lipped mercenary let something slip by mistake, and the boy had caught on.

Have they already caught me?

He took stock of the narrow room holding him: not one window, and when he tried the door handle, the lock held fast. Fortunately it wasn't metal — so he used his fire magic to burn through part of the wooden hinge, then pressed close to listen for sounds outside and waited for his chance.

"One... two!"

Eyes screwed shut, he pushed the door open and stepped out — and what the boy wizard saw was a scene he could never have imagined.

Those people...?

The mercenaries who'd hunted him were locked in battle with someone. Every time the silver-haired maiden flickered into motion — so fast she was nearly invisible — her dagger flashed, and a mercenary's fingers went flying in a spray of blood.

"AAAAAGH! My hand! MY HAND!!"

"You idiots! All she's got is a dagger — watch your hands and she can't touch us!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when the silver flash flickered once more, and the mercenary who had lost an arm had his throat carved open in a gout of blood.

"Urk!"

"You little bastard!"

But that was the end of it. From there, even the silver maiden could no longer close the distance with ease. Fast as she was, one dagger couldn't take on three mercenaries at once — least of all when they refused to concede an inch of ground, holding her off from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠range with their clubs and long staves.

"Got her now!"

"That sniveling little witch!"

The mercenaries, vicious with rage over their fallen comrade, pressed her back step by step, careful even in their dominant position. Two held their long staves low to check her movements while the third kept his bow trained on her — and that was the mark of true veterans. They'd taken countless slaves and watched comrades get maimed or killed by last-gasp struggling and final acts of defiance; they did not let their guard down easily.

"Now you'll pay for what you've do— damn it, who the hell is that...!"

At least until someone burst out of the underbrush and cleanly took the head off the one holding the bow.

"A mage!"

"Oh, for— what's a mage doing out here in the sticks... AGH!"

With their formation shattered by the ambush from behind, the silver maiden surged in again, severing another mercenary's fingers and sending his weapon clattering to the ground — and the last man standing had no choice but to choose. Face the silver maiden, who had just taken his comrade's hand and was already bearing down on him? Or face the silver-haired young man walking toward him, unhurried, a finger leveled at his head?

He never got to make the choice. The outcome chose for him: an ice arrow sank into his chest, a blade opened the back of his neck, and he dropped.

Thud.

Four mercenaries down in the space of a breath. The young man collected the dead man's bow, drew the string once to test it, gathered the cold in his own breath to form a fresh arrow — and took aim into the darkness.

Thwip.

The boy wizard couldn't see a thing in the black of the forest, but he knew with absolute certainty that one more person had just fallen.

"P-please, spare me... ghk!"

The silver-haired woman caught the fallen mercenary's hand ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and drove her blade into the nape of his neck without a flicker of hesitation; the silver-haired young man came on without so much as a glance at the corpses. Watching them both, the boy wizard's legs simply gave out beneath him.

The young man looked down at the boy slumped on the ground, eyes cold, and made his declaration.

"Your name, from this moment on, is Choonsik."