130. Foreign Worker Young Jeonghoon
130. Foreign Worker Young Jeonghoon
It had been almost three years since I came to this world.
As a mere Foreign Worker, I'd gotten close to being recognized as a Hero after my adventuring days. Ironically, when I first arrived in this world, becoming an adventurer had never even crossed my mind.
After all, everything was so unfamiliar back then that I had no choice but to tread carefully.
Even if it didn't suit my nature, the priority was to adapt step by step, build some kind of foundation, and only then think about doing something more.
I worked as a porter to adapt, back when I was toiling in a factory. Naturally, I was always alongside other laborers who had come to this world before me or at the same time.
'Whoa, is that a watermelon or a cow's udder?'
'It's a frickin' sweatshop, you dumbass!!!!'
Every damn day, that kind of outburst kicked off the morning, and the daily routine was nothing but pouring molten metal or hammering iron inside the factory.
The workplaces barely observed any labor laws, so overtime or weekends off were out of the question, and you counted yourself lucky if you even got your wages properly.
There were places that provided room and board, sure, but even those just gave you pig slop and unfiltered water full of impurities and called it a meal.
You had to spend your own money to eat properly, but your pathetic salary would go toward food and renting a bed at an inn, and all that was left was debt—brutal conditions like that were common.
The most cost-efficient option was to mix leftover milk with sugar to load up on calories, then gather a bunch of newspapers nobles had thrown out, find a windless alley near the factory, and sleep on those.
Looking back, it really wasn't fit for human beings. Still, being a porter meant you got treated as little more than disposable by most Heroes, so it was hard to say which was worse.
'If you don't wanna work, then quit! There's plenty of guys who'll do it besides you!'
Whether it was employers or Heroes, they all spouted that like a mantra. I was constantly reminded just how oppressed Foreign Workers were in this world.
The only ways to escape a laborer's life in that situation were to scrape together money and start a business, to slip into adventuring like I did, or to somehow keep up appearances and catch a noble's eye, maybe becoming a servant in some lord's mansion.
Obviously, all of those required a fair amount of cash.
That's why Foreign Workers who weren't satisfied with their lot generally got by on milk tea and newspapers, aiming to save up even pennies and invest in their future.
'Yo~ Woo Hyo~! Lend me some cash~!'
On the other hand, there were those who crumbled under the harsh reality and blew every coin they earned in a day on booze and brothels.
One of the most memorable among them was a fellow Foreign Worker named 'Yeong Jeong-hun'.
The bastard would borrow money from me every single time, and even now, after nearly three years, he hadn't paid back a single cent.
'Did you forget that money you borrowed last time?'
'Ah come on, I'll pay that back later with interest, so just lend me a little more~'
'... Sigh. You covered for that screw-up last time, so I'm lending it to you for that.'
Still, at the time he was quick-witted and skilled at the job. He had covered for me and the other coworkers' mistakes more than once, saving us from the employer's glare.
Because I considered that a debt, whenever he asked to borrow money, I'd grudgingly lend him enough for a few drinks.
'Heh-hah~! I knew it, Woo-hyo, you're the only one I can trust!'
'Quit it with that Woo-hyo crap. How many times do I have to tell you, it's not Woo-hyo, it's Woo Hyosung?'
'Aah, whatever... Hey, Woo-hyo, I'm about to go have some fun—wanna come along? There's this new woman at the bar, absolutely insane~'
'I'm fine, go on your own and play all you want.'
If he had money, he'd spend it first and think later. That was his motto. After work, it was always booze, and then women...
Even for that, his earnings weren't enough, so he constantly hit up his fellow workers for loans. He was trash, sure. But actually thinking back on him, I just found him aggravating—I didn't think he was purely a bad guy.
Everyone lent him money even though they knew his conduct was poor, because having at least one idiot who partied like that every day somehow helped lighten the crushing grind of labor.
Yeah, because of that unpleasant connection, I came to this so-called funeral hall as his letter said... but...
"...What the hell is this?"
When I actually arrived at the tent where the funeral was taking place, the first thing that slipped out of my mouth was sheer bewilderment.
Because the funeral happening right in front of me was nothing like the typical ceremony in this world.
Generally, a funeral for the poor meant clergy, out of charity, would set out a single urn, and the few visitors would offer a prayer—that kind of modest, modest affair was the norm.
"Aigooh, Jeong-hun-ahhh~~!!"
People collapsed on the ground, wailing in grief.
And placed before them was a framed portrait of that bastard Yeong Jeong-hun, modeled exactly after what we'd call a 'funeral portrait' back in our original world.
"Excuse me, you're the person in charge of the funeral, right?"
As I stared at that sight in disbelief, my eye happened to catch a man in mourning clothes.
I approached him to figure out the situation, and he immediately bowed his head to me with a practiced air and said,
"Yes, as arranged beforehand with Mr. Jeong-hun, I am the one overseeing the funeral proceedings. Here is my card."
"Ah, yes. Thank you."
On the card was written the title of director of a certain errand service center, along with an official seal stamped directly by the Empire.
And not some half-baked operation either—this was a place prominent enough that even I had heard the name.
So, what was it? The bastard had, before he kicked the bucket, commissioned an errand center to handle his funeral proceedings?
The reason that letter was sent out of the blue to the address of a friend I hadn't been in touch with for years was because he'd had this guy track down the friends he remembered?
"... Um, I'm having a little trouble understanding."
Even just that much was mind-boggling, but then again, he'd always been an eccentric son of a bitch.
I decided to throw him a few of the questions that were immediately popping into my head.
"Normally, isn't a funeral conducted by a church? Why would he go so far as to hire an errand center employee to run his funeral?"
"He said that, even as he went, he wanted to be remembered at the very end. And he was confident that if it were people from the same world, holding a funeral in the style of his original home would make it impossible for them to ever forget him."
"... Then what about those people over there?"
"Actors hired from a theater troupe for money. They were commissioned to cry in front of the portrait during the funeral."
"Aigooh, Jeong-hun-ahhh~ Aigooh-hoh-hoh~!"
Again, the bereaved family wailing sorrowfully in front of the funeral portrait... No, actors pretending to be bereaved.
Once I realized that the sincerity in those tears was the rotten fruit of capitalism, a single word unconsciously popped out of my mouth.
"... Crazy bastard."
To pull off a funeral culture that doesn't exist in this world, he'd have had to build the whole setup from scratch. On top of that, hiring a big-name errand center director, recruiting employees with top acting skills...
Was that seriously the kind of financial power a guy could throw around when all he ever did was borrow money to guzzle booze?
No, come to think of it, maybe he died because he racked up loan shark debts, refused to pay, and played dead. If he somehow scraped up money, maybe he got shit-faced one day, fell and cracked his skull open, or fooled around with the wrong person down below and caught syphilis.
"Hmm, so this is a funeral from their world, is it?"
Whatever the case, the sheer patheticness had reached the level of art worthy of a museum exhibit. Just as that thought crossed my mind, a faint voice reached my ears.
Belatedly realizing it was Marilyn, who'd come with me, I tore my gaze away from the funeral portrait for a moment to look at her.
She was watching the funeral unfold with half-lidded, languid eyes.
"Not much to see after all. Seems pretty pointless."
"... Ms. Marilyn?"
"Oh, right. A funeral means you need time to pay your respects, right, Mr. Hyosung?"
A chilly undertone in her muttering.
That bothered me, and I was about to ask, but before I could, Marilyn brought her hands together and flashed a full smile.
"In that case, as an outsider, I'll excuse myself for a while. When you're done, please come to the streetlamp in that alley over there."
"Ah, yes. Then..."
With that, Marilyn—who'd bothered to come all this way—slipped out of the tent and vanished into the street, making the whole thing feel a bit pointless.
Her departing footsteps were utterly light, but watching her go, what I felt was a strange sense of dissonance.
Because lately, whenever she'd left her home, there had always been a fairly heavy atmosphere about her.
'I'll be out for a bit.'
'You've been going out often lately?'
'Yes, there's something I need to look into...'
Given that her main profession is a bard, wandering the streets collecting stories is understandable.
But lately, she'd noticeably lost a fair amount of her usual lively spark.
Was the reason that atmosphere felt so faint this morning simply because whatever worries she'd had recently were resolved?
****
Well, anyway. After spending a moment at the funeral and then eating my meal, I left the place and headed for where Marilyn was waiting.
It had only been a brief visit to check things out, but what happened there was so deeply seared into my brain that I was sure I'd never forget it for the rest of my life.
Damn bastard, if you were going to blow all your money on opening a funeral, you should've at least treated us to a decent meal.
What the hell is this, serving that pig slop we ate back in our factory days and calling it a meal?
"Seriously, a deadbeat who wouldn't pay back money—even dead, he's got a real talent for screwing people over."
Having skipped breakfast, I couldn't help but get pissed off.
But still, to say absolutely nothing good came of it would be a lie.
For one, I wasn't the only one who'd come to the funeral. Fellow Foreign Workers who had known him at the time had shown up too.
Among them were people I was acquainted with, so for those moments of catching up with them, I could really soak in a sense of nostalgia, almost like a class reunion.
Yeah, whatever. What's the point of being annoyed at a dead guy?
I'm not strapped for cash nowadays anyway. I should be grateful that he gave me a chance to hear how some friends I wouldn't normally run into were doing.
"Ah, Mr. Hyosung. Are you finished?"
"Yes, I've taken care of things."
"Hehe, shall we go straight back home, then? Here, Mr. Hyosung, this way~"
As soon as I stepped out onto the street, Marilyn revealed herself as if she'd been waiting.
When she smiled brightly and took the lead walking ahead, I felt that same sense of wrongness I'd felt earlier wash over me all over again.
"Is something wrong?"
"... No, it's nothing."
Was I just worrying over nothing? I thought as I followed behind her, walking through the streets. How long had it been?
Even in a situation where we normally would've exchanged a few words of small talk, Marilyn kept her mouth firmly shut and focused only on walking.
Until we'd entered a deserted alley, and then a spot hidden from anyone's eyes.
"Ms. Marilyn. This path isn't the way home, is it?"
"Oh my, Mr. Hyosung, didn't you know? Actually, this here is a shortcut..."
-Shhhk!!
A blade of magical power formed as I swept my hand.
The moment I aimed its point at her back, Marilyn finally stopped walking and spoke to me in a stiff voice.
"... Mr. Hyosung, why are you suddenly doing this?"
"Shut up and answer my questions."
No, this person is not Marilyn.
That was something I'd sensed ever since we met on the street this morning.
And as my suspicion grew, behavior that Marilyn would never have shown began to prick at my notice more and more.
"What the hell are you? Where did you hide Ms. Marilyn?!"
Maybe this damn bastard had done something to her.
"Haa, honestly. I thought I'd hidden myself pretty well..."
The moment that sense of danger hit, the bastard flung off the dark cloak she'd wrapped around herself and revealed her true appearance.
"This is why I hate perceptive little punks~♡"
Along with that sultry voice.
And the form of a woman whose alluring figure was concealed beneath her fluttering red hair.