The Frontier City of Varken
Varken, a frontier city on the kingdom's southern border, was the kind of place mercenaries flocked to whenever war broke out — large or small.
And so, once the Great War ended, it became a natural landing spot for defeated soldiers with nowhere left to go, and for veterans who still needed to scrape together a living.
Varken had always been thick with people who'd spent their lives dancing along the edge of life and death. Folks like that carried no shortage of painful memories, which meant the taverns stayed packed around the clock. Even cheap beer was enough to get a man drunk, and once they were thoroughly soused, those addled heads would start denying their own memories.
"Fuck, I'm telling you I saved the Grand Duke's life in the Northern War!"
A claim that would've gotten his head lopped off if the Grand Duke of the North ever heard it — after a snort of contempt, of course.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The patrons at nearby tables offered a smattering of applause. Not that anyone actually believed the tall tale, which looked like pure bluster from every conceivable angle. Still, nobody called him out on it. Playing along was something of an unwritten rule around here — probably because they all had memories of their own they'd rather not face.
And then, just as the tavern lamps were starting to be lit—
BANG!
As usual, the tavern door flew open with enough force to nearly tear it off its hinges.
"Haaah. The usual! You know the drill, right?"
"Tsk. Would it kill you lot to open the door with your hands for once?"
"Huh? Wasn't it built sturdy so we could kick it open?"
"They made it sturdy because it kept breaking when you kicked it, you idiot — not so you'd have something sturdy to kick!"
Whatever the cause and effect, didn't that still mean kicking the door open was fine? The thought crossed his mind, but it was the kind of thing that didn't much matter either way. Rio shrugged and headed for his seat.
He was far too young to drink, but Rio had always enjoyed the raucous atmosphere unique to taverns. The out-of-the-way corner on the second floor was a perfect match for his contradictory nature — a kid who liked the noise but had no interest in actually talking to anyone. It was always empty, which had effectively made it Rio's regular spot. He dropped into it with a thud.
"Ugh. I'm dying. I'm actually dying..."
Rio flung his exhausted body down. It wasn't as if the mercenaries were overflowing with consideration and leaving the seat open for him. Anyone who wanted to nurse a drink in miserable solitude would've gone to a hole-in-the-wall tavern in the first place. And anyone looking to spin their war stories for an audience had no reason to climb all the way up to the second floor.
"...Honey-butter roast chicken and honey milk, coming up. Honey this, honey that... what's so great about honey, anyway? And chairs are for sitting, not lying down. How many times do I have to tell you before it sinks in?"
"Nobody even comes up to the second floor. What's the big deal?"
There was nobody around to complain even if Rio shoved three or four chairs together and stretched out across them.
"Khhh..."
Rio downed the warm milk and let out a lazy groan. At a glance, he looked about ten years old. This was Varken, a city of mercenaries, and even accounting for the generally stunted growth around here, he didn't look a day over fifteen at a generous estimate. And yet the vibe coming off him was that of a middle-aged man who'd just shotgunned a bottle of beer.
The people around him found it strange, sure — but it wasn't actually all that strange.
"Honestly. You're a little old man in a kid's body."
"A kid's a kid and an old man's an old man. What's a 'little old man' supposed to be?"
"It means you act like you've already lived through everything there is to live through, even though you're just a brat."
"I told you, old man. I used to be pushing thirty — then I got transmigrated into this world while I was reading about it in another one."
"If you're about to start spinning that ridiculous yarn again, take it downstairs."
"Ah. Joke, joke."
Romance fantasy. Novels about the love lives of outstanding men clustered around a female protagonist. Rio had been transmigrated into one of those — a rom-fan, for short. Of course, from Rio's perspective, he'd forgotten most of the plot anyway. He hadn't even finished reading it in the first place, so it was all the same to him.
"Get lost, you worthless little brat...!"
"I was already in a bad mood. How about I beat the shit out of you today?"
On top of that, he'd transmigrated as an orphaned beggar, so survival had been the only thing on his mind. Naturally, he hadn't had the luxury of caring about other people's love stories. Strip the romance out of a romance fantasy, and what you're left with is an ordinary fantasy world. Which is how Rio had ended up making a living as a mercenary.
"Work coming in all right?"
"If it was, you think I'd be sitting here looking this pathetic with a single chicken leg and a glass of milk?"
"Fair point."
"Honestly, at this point I wish a war would just break out somewhere."
Maybe it was because the chicken had been raised in the wild. Rio gnawed on the inevitably tough drumstick and grumbled.
"Peace is a good thing, I suppose... though I imagine it's hard on some people, in more ways than one."
Rio, who'd been sipping what little milk he had left, slammed his cup down on the table hard enough to shatter it.
"Ahh, this is such bullshit! Every last one of them wants experience — so where the hell is a newbie supposed to get experience?!"
"That's my cup."
BANG!
"Ugh! How is it that the world changes and the problems stay exactly the same?"
"I'm telling you, that's my cup. You're drinking milk and acting like a drunk."
That was just how mercenary work went. Being skilled with a sword didn't mean jobs would come rolling in. Being strong didn't mean you'd get paid more, either. Whether it was Earth or this rom-fan world, money was as precious as blood. The reason people still spent that blood-precious money hiring mercenaries was simple: they wanted to buy the certainty that the job they'd entrusted would actually get done.
"In that sense, a rookie mercenary who's only just started making a name for himself... and a solo operator, at that — no matter how skilled he is, he's never going to be an attractive option."
But who didn't already know that? It wasn't like he was lying on a tavern chair out of ignorance. Rio thought of his tab, which had long since spilled over onto a second page, and swallowed the curse that had risen to his throat.
"No experience, no connections, and nobody in the guild willing to put their name on the line to vouch for me."
Rio muttered, gnawing on the remaining chicken.
"Fucking hell. At this point they might as well just tell me not to work at all."
It had been nearly three years since he'd transmigrated into this rom-fan world. He'd been doing mercenary work for almost a year of that. And the jobs he'd taken in that time? Merchant caravan porter. Night watchman. Occasionally driving off a pack of wild dogs that showed up on the outskirts, or dealing with a handful of goblins lurking around a farm.
Calling him a mercenary was generous — "odd-jobber with a sword" was closer to the truth. But given the times, even those menial gigs had fierce competition. And Rio, who could barely cover his own meals, wasn't in any position to be picky.
The tavern owner clicked his tongue, listening to the kid's ongoing litany of complaints.
"Tsk. You won't listen anyway, but I'll ask one more time."
"Don't bother. I'm not quitting mercenary work."
"I honestly don't get it. Why a mercenary, of all things? It's not like you don't value your life — if anything, your will to survive looks more than sufficient."
"..."
"And more than anything, you're too young. On top of that, you've got that pretty face. You think a client looks at a brat like you and wants to hand over their money?"
"...I don't know, I don't know! Another milk!"
The owner shook his head and left shortly after. Of course, neither the owner nor Rio was actually ignorant of the reason.
Fuck. It's because I'm an orphan, that's why...
It had been the same even before he'd transmigrated. Having no proper identity meant you weren't under the protection of the law. If they just stiffed you on pay, you'd be getting off easy, Rio muttered to himself. Work you to death with a whip until the skin of your back stuck to your spine — and if you keeled over? Dump you somewhere out of the way and bury you. After all, you were an orphan. There wouldn't even be anyone looking for you, let alone anyone to punish them.
Rio was gulping down his refilled milk with a bitter expression when—
"—Oy! Listen up!!"
"...What's all the racket?"
A noisy tavern in Varken was nothing out of the ordinary. Taverns weren't quiet places to begin with, and Varken's mercenaries were a peculiar breed who believed the louder you shouted, the more credible your war stories became. Still, this level of noise wasn't an everyday occurrence, so Rio cocked an ear.
"Urgent hire! We're hiring urgently!"
"Urgent hire? Why come to a tavern instead of the guild?"
"We need to leave right now, and the guild's already closed for the night..."
"How many people? What's the pay?"
"Five people, eight silver coins a head! Anyone who can leave tonight?!"
The going rate for odd jobs averaged one silver coin — sometimes even less. Compared to that, the pay wasn't half bad. But any mercenary in Varken who jumped at a job based on pay alone had already gotten themselves killed, their bodies dumped in some forgotten hole without even a corpse to find. For all the war stories they'd been bragging about moments ago, not a single person stepped forward.
Rio stroked his chin as he listened to the terms.
"Don't."
"What? When did you get here?"
"They're scraping together people by hitting taverns this late at night? The reason's obvious."
"The danger rating came in higher than expected, or someone dropped out... something like that."
"Or it could be a job that no mercenary with any sense would take in the first place."
The guild, at its core, existed less for the clients and more for the mercenaries themselves. Jobs that were far too dangerous for your skill level. Jobs where the client or the work itself was shady. They filtered out the requests that would get a mercenary killed, for one reason or another.
"And taking a job without going through the guild means—"
"There's a reason for it. I know, I know."
"...Anyway. Mercenaries are a stubborn lot as a rule, but you really take the cake. If you didn't at least have talent, you'd have been dead a long time ago."
"Spare me the lecture. Hey!"
Rio leaned over the railing and called down. The man on the first floor looked up.
"...Huh?"
"So what's the job, then?"
Silence fell over the tavern as if on cue. It was a reaction he'd gotten used to, so Rio didn't particularly care. He came down the stairs.
"...Fuck, even so, isn't that kid way too young?"
"People dying on mercenary jobs is nothing new... but looking at that face, he could pass for some noble's brat."
"Tsk. Must be new in Varken."
"...What's that supposed to mean?"
"Some idiot tried to mess with that kid once. Every bone in his body is powder now — just a pile of mush. There's not a soul in Varken who doesn't know that story."
Whispers rose from every direction. Of course, "whispering" was a relative term — relative to mercenaries, that is. Which was probably why, even if they thought they were being quiet, every word reached Rio's ears with perfect clarity.
"...Ahem. It's nothing grand. Just a simple job escorting a merchant company's cargo."
The man looked thoroughly dubious, but whether he wasn't in a position to be picky or he wanted the others to hear, he answered readily enough.
"It's a simple mission. Just escort the merchant company's goods."
"If that's all it is, wouldn't it have been better to go through the guild?"
"We need to leave immediately, and the mercenaries who were supposed to come suddenly said they had personal circumstances and didn't show..."
Rio snorted inwardly at that.
Bullshit. How does a mercenary who can't even keep a basic appointment get hired for a job like that?
If he'd said they were injured or in critical condition and that's why things had gone sideways — Rio still would've thought it was bullshit, but he could've at least pretended to buy it. But a mercenary who'd blown a scheduled job citing "personal circumstances" implied two things. One: the desperate-looking man was lying through his teeth without batting an eye. Two: this guy knew absolutely nothing about how the mercenary business worked.
"...That's really all it is?"
Still, the long war had ended and work had dried up, leaving plenty of people with empty pockets. A tiny fraction of them had started justifying it to themselves — mercenary work meant putting your life on the line anyway. Of course, the vast majority who actually valued their own lives wouldn't give it a second glance...
...I really don't have a single copper to my name.
And that "tiny fraction" included one boy currently double-checking a wallet that produced nothing but dust no matter how hard he shook it.
And then.
"Ah, fucking hell. I knew it."
The sack that had supposedly held a merchant company's cargo was, sure enough, twitching — in a strange, steady rhythm. Even if he'd wanted to pretend otherwise, there was no way he couldn't tell—
"Let's go. Let's get moving!"
A person.
It was a person.