Where Is This Place, and Who Am I?
The inside of the field tent was dim. It was the hour when the pale moon hung high in the sky, with only the flickering candlelight providing scant illumination to the interior.
In that setting, the recruiter in charge of managing the mercenaries spoke in a listless tone.
"...So you're quitting?"
His mustache, which seemed meticulously maintained with fine oil, twitched this way and that. He was trying to keep his composure, but he couldn't quite hide his flustered air.
The recruiter's eyes flicked forward.
"Mind giving me a reason? Uh...."
He glanced at the paper on the table. It was the roster listing the names of all the mercenaries who had fought.
"Hmm."
But no matter how much time passed, the name he was looking for didn't appear.
The recruiter quickly pieced together what had happened. Leaving illiterate mercenaries' names off the roster to skim their pay was a common practice on any battlefield. He turned a blind eye to it himself—up to a point.
...Keep it reasonable, damn it.
There were easier marks to cheat. Frowning, the recruiter sighed softly as he pictured the faces of likely culprits.
In the end, he referred to the 'barbarian' in front of him by the most common nickname—or name—used for his kind.
"...A renowned Barbarian like you wouldn't dream of fleeing the battlefield, after all."
The recruiter winced inwardly the moment the words left his mouth. This could turn him into the victim in one of those gruesome tales about an illiterate barbarian splitting his superior's skull.
He hastily added,
"Of course, I don't mean you, of course not. From the look of you, you seem like one of those infamous northerners from Torgard... No, and your feats on this very battlefield have been impressive, to say the least."
After rambling through his disjointed excuse, the recruiter cleared his throat shortly.
"Ahem, anyway, that was a slip of the tongue. My apologies."
Fortunately, the two axes the barbarian carried didn't end up embedded in the recruiter's head.
"......"
"......"
An awkward silence stretched on.
The recruiter brushed away his unease. There were guards posted around the tent. But against the barbarian before him, they hardly seemed reassuring.
...It's like having a bear in here.
A bead of cold sweat trickled down the recruiter's neck. The man's size was enormous. Even compared to the other guards inside the tent, his head towered a full head above. His bulging muscles twitched as if ready to erupt into battle at any moment, and the scars covering his body—save for his face—told the story of how he'd survived this long.
He didn't look like the type to run from a fight.
Gulp. In the heavy quiet, someone swallowed hard, the sound echoing faintly.
The recruiter couldn't tell if it came from his own throat or one of the guards'. He simply waited silently for the barbarian's response.
What felt like minutes but was mere seconds passed. Just as the recruiter wondered inwardly, Does he even speak our language...? the silent barbarian finally spoke.
"Simply put, I have no more reason to fight."
"...?"
It was a calm tone, uncharacteristic of a barbarian. A bit forceful, perhaps, but his pronunciation and phrasing were flawless. Considering how some barbarians on the battlefield grunted single syllables like 'oo' or 'ah' or strung together mere words, this was impressive.
The recruiter breathed a silent sigh of relief. No need to call in the soldiers or barbarian war slaves waiting outside, then.
But.
...No more reason to fight?
It was the kind of claim even the town drunk wouldn't buy. A Barbarian avoiding battle? He'd always said he fought for a reason before. It made no sense.
The recruiter opened his mouth to press further, but the barbarian continued first.
"I'm at Max Level."
"...What does that—"
"That's all there is to it."
The recruiter couldn't make sense of the answer. Which was only natural. The man before him wasn't a barbarian.
Nor was he from this world.
— ...Sir Recruiter! Is this for real?!
— No choice. His name was just omitted, but the contract itself is intact. Hah, a literate barbarian? World's full of wonders.
— But still! Reaching the level cap? That means his body has been strengthened to the absolute limit too.
Thus, even after leaving the tent, Eden could hear their chatter clearly from inside. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. It just carried that far.
— Fifty silver coins...!
— Factoring in the separate bonuses for mercenaries, that's what it comes to.
— That's over ten times what others get!!
Loud voice. It was a conversation with some quartermaster or paymaster who had just entered the tent late.
Eden walked on leisurely.
The crackle of dying campfires. Soldiers sneaking swigs of fruit wine and chattering away. The crunch of grasshoppers under his thick leather boots.
Amid all that noise, their exchange came through sharp and clear.
— Didn't I warn you beforehand? Just send soldiers after him now...
— Enough!! What are you saying?!
— But...
He couldn't see it, but it sounded like the furious recruiter was jabbing a finger at the man.
— You only say that because you haven't seen that barbarian swing his axes!
— He's just one man!
— Consider this a warning. If you send soldiers after him, I won't let it slide!
— ...Tch.
That ended the talk.
Hmm. At least no ambushes coming.
One truth you'd learn living in a medieval fantasy world: everyone had the potential to turn bandit. Beggars in the streets, merchants in caravans—even knights in fancy armor. All blinded by gold and silver, slaves to greed.
Anyway.
Eden passed even the barracks where the soldiers bunked. Soon the scattered torches faded, and enveloping darkness greeted him.
Walking a dark mountain path at midnight was dangerous. But game-system wise, as a Max Level Barbarian at level 10, Eden's character—WarriorSuperStar—had transcended humanity.
He wasn't even wearing a blindfold.
Thus, the dark posed no issue.
The night had deepened to where no bird calls sounded. Eden mulled over the same worries he'd revisited dozens of times.
How the hell did this happen?
He'd just been playing a game.
The game was called Ascending Hero. He'd snagged it on a 75% discount from some platform and enjoyed it enough to see multiple endings. He'd planned to level one last character before moving on...
Then suddenly.
Eden had become the character he'd created.
If he'd known, he'd have picked a rich, handsome noble character... Nah, he probably wouldn't have played at all.
"...Fuck."
Why a Barbarian, of all things?
He figured it was some subconscious desire to play mindlessly. At least he'd customized the face decently compared to his other characters. Not some blue-skinned undead or a freak-faced weirdo.
Regret came quick, but the reality of being trapped in the game didn't change.
Thankfully, the Korean patch meant no issues with dialogue or reading.
But a fundamental problem remained.
This world was decades past the game Eden had played.
(He didn't know the exact date.)
Meaning most of what he knew was useless now. And seeing the original endings to return home? Off the table.
Naturally, he'd despaired.
He liked fantasy games, sure. But not living among monsters, demons, and medieval folk with shattered morals, getting racially profiled as a barbarian.
Thus, his only remaining hope was levels.
No main story endings? Fine, maybe hitting Max Level would trigger something.
...That's over now too.
Eden slowly closed his eyes. Walking the dark path, it felt perfectly natural.
In his blackened vision, red streaks extended like spiderwebs. They resembled tree roots or pulsing veins. At each root's end, different letters glowed.
Not Korean, but Eden read them effortlessly. All the traits he'd acquired so far. They'd let him survive as a barbarian in this brutal world.
And at the apex of every branch shone the last one he'd taken.
[Transcendent]
A grandiose name, but in the game, it was just a simple stat boost. Common to any class at the final level.
Thought it'd change something.
Even after taking it, nothing happened. He was still stuck in this musclebound body, the world still crawling with medieval filth and fleas.
...Game, game, goddamn game.
Eden ground his teeth without realizing.
...Man, I miss Mom's kimchi.
That was when it snagged in his spiderweb senses. Rage flared in his mind like fire.
As Eden clenched his fist, thick veins bulged along his muscles.
"This shitty dog-eat-dog world won't even give me time alone."
In the game, 'Barbarians' got 2 points in senses per level-up. Probably because they wore little armor. Meaning razor-sharp senses.
Thwip.
A faint wind stopped right before him. The crossbow bolt clutched in Eden's hand trembled, unable to advance further.
"......Did it hit?"
A mutter came from the darkness. Eden turned toward the sound.
A middle-aged man in a thick robe stood there. Even in the gloom, his ashen face was starkly visible.
Fired with that accuracy? Meant he'd done this before—many times.
Thud.
Eden dropped the bolt and strode toward him.
"...W-Wait! I'm just the supply officer for the—"
He recognized the voice. The one chatting with the recruiter earlier.
Before the man could say more, Eden clamped his jaw shut.
Crunch—.
The sound of crushing thick rubber echoed through Eden's grip.
What the hell did silver matter to the bastard?
From his view, it'd been like picking up dropped coins. Blocking or dodging a dark-shot bolt was impossible for most.
"Mmph...!! Mmph!"
Lots to say, no doubt. But Eden had no interest in excuses. Hearing pleas for mercy would only haunt his dreams.
Especially now, with no way home.
Crack.
A small sound and the ache in his fingers. That was all he left behind.
Murder was a grave sin in medieval times—but only if caught.
Possible pursuit via the recruiter he'd spoken to? Leaving the area would solve it. No one nearby knew his name anyway.
Feeling how accustomed he'd grown to this world, Eden sighed away the faint guilt.
"Hoo."
He rifled the corpse, taking a clinking pouch and a gold ring from his finger.
Take what you can.
Eden resumed walking the night path. No set destination.
Just letting his steps carry him, as always.
An ordinary night.
"...Where the hell am I now?"
And so Eden got lost.