Exposing the Mercenary's Trick
Whenever people gather, conflicts of opinion are bound to arise.
Even more so if they are young, hot-blooded warriors.
That is when the presence of a leader becomes necessary.
When differing voices clash, someone is needed to unite and command them.
This is no different for a band of mercenaries; in missions like this, a leader naturally emerges to guide the group.
And typically, the leader of the mercenaries is whoever has the highest level or commands the largest faction.
In that sense, a man named Richman, the captain of a small-scale mercenary group, was the perfect fit to lead this caravan escort mission.
...Or so goes the textbook theory, I thought.
I glanced sideways, sizing up the mercenary captain as he approached.
It was a vital skill for any veteran player of Velheim: estimating an opponent's strength solely by their gear.
And the mercenary captain's attire exuded a strange sense of incongruity.
Pointed Poulaine-style sabatons, a tattered chainmail shirt torn in places, and a lavish, aristocratic gambeson—his equipment lacked any semblance of unity.
Judging by his longsword, he seems like a typical Strength- or Agility-based warrior... but why is he wearing an arm guard when he doesn't even carry a bow? And that ring is useless to anyone but a mage...
From a veteran's perspective, it was the height of baffling inefficiency!
Still, it wasn't entirely incomprehensible.
In a medieval-Renaissance setting, a full suit of plate armor cost as much as a house. It was common for a wandering mercenary to scrape together coins to buy gear piece by piece.
Though prioritizing low-priority sabatons over vital protection like a helmet or breastplate was still an incredibly foolish choice.
As I finished my analysis, the mercenary captain walked straight up to me.
"I am Richman, captain of the Bluebird Mercenaries. And you?"
"Nice to meet you. I'm Doran. I only recently arrived in the capital, so I don't belong to any guild. I apologize for rushing out on my own earlier..."
"Forget that. ...You're the client who hired us for the escort, right? I didn't expect much since they said you were a non-combatant, but you fought surprisingly well. What's your level?"
The mercenary captain cut me off, asking in an abruptly authoritative tone.
What kind of etiquette dictates demanding someone's level the moment you meet them?
But then, I caught a strange vibe from his expression.
The mercenary captain is watching you with sharp, wary eyes!
Why?
Why would a man of his standing be keeping such a close eye on me?
I didn't know, but my mouth was already moving.
"Thre—"
"What was that?"
"My level is around 3. I've dealt with Kobolds a few times back in my hometown, so I stepped up. I'm just glad I could be of help to you, sir."
"Ah, is that so... You did pretty well for a low-level brat with unlucky black hair. ...Don't go rushing off like that again. Cleaning up corpses is a pain in the ass."
Upon hearing my level, the mercenary captain waved his hand as if he had wasted his time and walked back to where his group was waiting.
After all, it wasn't unusual for a young man raised in an isolated village to have a single-digit level.
You can never be too careful.
Malton's eyebrow twitched at my lie, but he kept his mouth shut.
It had already been three days since we left the port town with the mercenaries.
As we finally emerged from the dense forest onto the open plains, the exhausted mercenaries collapsed onto the grass one by one.
By now, we should have been able to see the city walls in the distance, but we had yet to arrive.
The reason being...
You have successfully survived today's fourth monster raid!
It is extremely rare for monsters to attack this relentlessly! What on earth is happening here?
Because ever since we left the port town, we had been under constant attack by monsters.
"Are these damn monsters out of their minds...? How many times has it been already?"
"That was the fourth time today. They're throwing themselves at us with bloodshot eyes, like we murdered their parents."
"No, but does this many of them even make sense? The knights usually patrol and subjugate this area regularly. You'd have to scrape together every single monster in the region just to reach these numbers..."
"Maybe they saw your face and mistook you for one of their own, so they came to rescue you?"
Dry chuckles rippled through the mercenaries.
They were laughing, but they couldn't hide the deep fatigue etched into their faces.
I, too, was utterly astonished by the monsters' persistence.
"Are these damn monsters out of their minds...?"
This is absolutely brilliant!
Could there be a better opportunity to level up?
I don't even have to go through the trouble of hunting them down; they're delivering themselves right to my doorstep!
Even if I get surrounded, Malton is there to reliably watch my back, and if things get too dangerous, I can just slip away and dump the aggro on the mercenaries.
Best of all, because different types of monsters keep attacking, I don't have to worry about diminishing experience returns from farming the same mob repeatedly.
The mercenaries seem to be suffering a bit, but that's none of my business.
Thanks to this, my level, which had been 8, skyrocketed to 13 in no time.
It was a crazy growth rate, to the point where I felt slightly dizzy from the rapid leveling.
Furthermore, building a rapport with Malton was excellent progress.
After wiping away my sweat and grime with a damp cloth, I set up a makeshift shelter using Malton's waterproof tarp. He stretched his back and spoke.
"Hmm... I am rather famished. I was thinking of having dinner before it gets any later. What about you?"
"I'll prepare it again today. Let's eat together."
"Oh...! Would you truly?"
"You're letting me use your tent, so this is the least I can do. Do you happen to have any leftover spices or herbs?"
"I had a feeling you might ask, so I plucked some along the way. Will this suffice?"
"Yes, just give me a moment."
I built a campfire and took the aromatic herbs and meat Malton had gathered from the forest.
Tonight's menu: Lesser Rat skewers.
An ordinary person would probably recoil at the thought of eating rat meat, but in Velheim, such squeamishness was a luxury.
Let's see... I can use these twigs as skewers...
I skewered the Lesser Rat meat—which I had already gutted and drained of blood on the way—and placed them over the campfire.
Rat meat is lean and mild, so the key is to cook it quickly to lock in as much juice as possible.
First, sear the outside over high heat, then let the heat penetrate to the center.
Finally, sprinkle finely chopped herbs and a pinch of salt...
"Oh...! What is this fantastic dish?! To think mere Lesser Rat roasted over a fire could taste like this... The smoky charcoal flavor has infused it beautifully. This is delicious!"
"How is it? Good enough to rival any street stall, wouldn't you say?"
"Without a doubt! To draw out such flavor with such simple ingredients... Is your mother perhaps a chef?"
"...Does one's mother have to be a chef to cook a decent meal?"
"Then your father must be a chef!"
"No, that's... whatever. Let's just go with that."
Honestly, this was an incredibly lavish meal for outdoor dining.
It was infinitely better than the mercenaries' cooking, which consisted of tossing unbled meat into a pot and boiling it into an unidentifiable stew.
Do those guys only know how to burn things or boil them to death?
As I endured the envious stares of the mercenaries, who looked utterly hypnotized by the sizzling, mouthwatering aroma of the skewers, I suddenly sensed someone approaching.
I slowly looked up to see the mercenary captain walking over from the center of the camp.
He had a forced, unnatural smile plastered on his face—a look that didn't suit him at all.
Reflexively, I hid my skewer behind my back, but he didn't even spare me a glance. He walked straight past me to Malton.
"Apologies for interrupting your meal. Do you have a moment?"
"Of course. ...Would you prefer to speak elsewhere?"
"No, that won't be necessary. ...I've heard rumors of a famous elven adventurer in these parts, and you certainly live up to the reputation. Your combat skills are superb. I'd always heard elves were rude and selfish, so you were a pleasant surprise."
"Haha, it is true that elves tend to be highly individualistic. And as I have accepted this commission, I am merely doing my duty. There is no need for thanks."
Malton replied with a good-natured smile.
The fact that his brow didn't even twitch at the rude remarks of a greenhorn mercenary showed the depth of his tolerance.
Having spent ten years by Malton's side in my past life, however, I knew he actually found the mercenary captain utterly pathetic.
Unaware of this, the mercenary captain continued.
"You seem to be an elf who actually knows some manners. I like that. Ah, and please accept this humble gift."
The mercenary captain pulled a bottle from his breast pocket, dumped out the water in Malton's canteen, and filled it with the alcohol.
Judging by the elegant label, it looked like a very expensive liquor...
And he's just giving it away?
I eyed the mercenary captain suspiciously, but Malton laughed heartily and shook the canteen in thanks.
Once the captain walked away, satisfied, I asked in a hushed, urgent whisper.
"Mr. Malton, what were you thinking, accepting that alcohol? Anyone could see that was incredibly suspicious..."
"Haha... Well, one can hardly call themselves an adventurer if they turn down free alcohol, can they? I'll share some with you, so have a drink!"
Malton laughed boisterously, raising his voice so that every mercenary in the camp could hear him.
But in stark contrast to his cheerful tone, his cold eyes watched as he stealthily poured the liquor onto the grass.
"Shh..."
Malton placed an index finger to his lips and offered me a knowing smile.
In the dead of night.
I, who had been lying quietly in bed, bolted upright.
I thought I had heard a faint rustling outside...
...Did they leave?
As I crept out of the makeshift tent, a dreamlike night sky welcomed me.
The dazzlingly brilliant moonlight, the dark blue sweep of the Milky Way, and the melancholy chirping of crickets...
It was a scene straight out of a fantasy game trailer.
But the blistered palms from swinging my sword, the aching muscles, and the headache from the rapid level-ups quickly dragged me back to reality.
"...Now is not the time to be getting sentimental."
I drank some cold water to shake off the sleepiness and surveyed our surroundings.
Ever since I noticed the mercenary captain's bizarre behavior and mismatched gear, my honed instincts had been ringing alarm bells.
Sure enough, something was immediately off.
...Why is it so dark?
The area was far too dark.
Looking around the camp, there were no campfires, torches, or lanterns from the sentries on watch.
Moreover, several people had clearly vanished from the camp.
The tents that should have been occupied were completely empty.
We have deserters...!
A cold dread washed over me.
I rushed back to the tent, shook Malton awake, and explained the situation. He grasped the gravity of it instantly.
"I see. The mercenaries vanished without a word... That is indeed highly unusual."
"You don't seem very surprised... Did you expect this?"
"From the moment the captain offered that drink, I sensed he was plotting something. Did you not feel the same?"
"......"
"...Then let us move immediately. Do you have any idea where they went?"
"No, not exactly..."
"Then let us search together."
Malton stepped out of the tent, lit a lantern, and scanned the campsite.
However, finding where the missing men had gone wasn't difficult.
After investigating the area around the empty tents, we quickly discovered footprints leading into the nearby forest.
"...Judging by the footprints, there are three? If we include the missing sentries, that makes five. Quite a crowd."
"The mud on the grass blades hasn't dried yet, so they left recently. Is there any chance they left in a hurry due to some emergency? Like fleeing from something?"
"If that were the case, they would have made a racket, and we surely would have noticed. Furthermore, their narrow strides suggest they were sneaking around to avoid waking anyone."
"Just as I thought..."
"...And one of these footprints belongs to the mercenary captain. Do you recall the sabatons he wore? When the metal plating is larger than the actual boot size, the decorative pointed toe leaves this exact pattern on the ground."
Malton pointed to a sharp, wedge-shaped indentation at the front of one of the footprints.
I, too, remembered the captain's sabatons vividly.
It was gear rarely used by anyone other than cavalry, who were highly vulnerable to leg attacks.
So he really did plunder it from a knight...?
If so, his mismatched equipment made perfect sense.
"What should we do now? It feels too unsettling to just ignore this and move on..."
"We had best follow them. Slipping away quietly after extinguishing the campfires suggests they have some underhanded motive."
"I'll go with you."
"Very well. It is safer to stick together than to stay behind. However, we should wake the others first, just to be prepared."
I headed toward the center of the sleeping camp alongside Malton.