84 - No Rock-Bottom Deals
"That's what I mean—he's not here. How am I supposed to summon someone who isn't even present? If you keep causing a ruckus in the camp, we'll haul you off!"
"Show me what a ruckus looks like, you old geezers?"
Esen, glaring daggers with her warning, didn't seem furious so much as thrilled. Like she was praying for an excuse to flip the whole situation upside down.
The stunned soldiers glanced at our party members one by one. Esen the Tigress who looked ready to rip someone apart at the slightest provocation. Nidroga, whose horns sprouting from her head made her true nature obvious. The rest of the team, armed with scary swords and staves—not to mention Bilena with her blood-red eyes. Once they'd skipped past all that, their eyes landed on me, peacefully petting the silver-furred weasel.
Relief washed over their faces, and they zeroed in on me, boldly proclaiming,
"The soldiers of Linden will never bow to threats from outsiders!"
"...Honestly, isn't reacting like that already bowing?"
You run into clients like this all the time in party work. They write up a request promising fat rewards disproportionate to the difficulty, lure you in, then sing a different tune once you arrive on site. Not like it's rare.
Before continent-spanning train stations popped up everywhere, this happened even more often, or so I'm told. Back then, unlike modern parties sipping coffee in cozy cabins, you'd be trudging across borders on foot with pack animals, shitting blood from exhaustion.
By the time those haggard hero parties arrived, the soldiers would threaten them: "Want travel money for the way back? Do as you're told." We modern folks can just hop on a train and bail if things go south, but back then, those old-school parties risked becoming lost strays in foreign lands.
It was an era where you couldn't survive party life without a taste for romance.
Of course, in that romantic age, the flip side was common too: betrayed hero parties turning bandit on the spot in a blaze of fury. Ironically, from what I knew, the Linden Duchy itself was founded that way. Bandits rising to warlords, eventually carving out a nation and earning autonomy.
With a short history and shaky legitimacy compared to other countries, they were obsessed with the symbols underpinning their rule. Like nouveau riche families clinging harder to pomp and ceremony than actual nobles.
For example... with stuff like this.
I dangled a lump of sugar in front of the weasel's glaring snout. It spat out the item it'd been hoarding in its cheeks onto my palm, then snatched the sugar and darted into its tiny cage.
What the weasel handed off was a hefty gold ring, slathered in saliva. Blunt initials were engraved on it—could double as a seal.
"...Huh?"
"Why's that in your hand...?"
"Picked it up on the way. What does it say, Esen?"
I rolled the ring around in my palm and showed it to her. Esen drawled her response with a grin.
"L.S."
"What did the signature on our request say, Nenya?"
"...Lorenzo Salamanca. And the pattern on that seal stamp... it probably matches the engraving on this ring."
Nenya eyed the ashen-faced soldiers cautiously as she spoke. As Linden soldiers, they couldn't possibly miss their commander's insignia.
The soldiers lunged forward, hands outstretched.
"...Hand it over right now."
"Whoa, hold on. Don't be like that."
I leaned back, extending my finger forward. The soldiers pressed in, faces twisted like they might flip out.
"Hey, civilians aren't allowed to have that! Give it here!"
"We stick to owner-pickup policy. Especially for seals—no proxies."
"...What?"
"Isn't that Lord Salamanca's? I'm a porter, you know. I have my principles when it comes to cargo transport. Can't hand it over without the man himself showing up."
The soldiers gaped in shock. I just calmly backed up a few steps.
Nidroga casually planted herself between me and them, gazing off at distant mountains. From behind, I heard Nenya and Morgan stifling laughs.
"You... insane thief..."
"Do you even know what happens if you steal a seal symbolizing military authority? It's a gift from Grand Duke Lindbor himself to his commanders. Could be high treason! Hand it over now!"
"Thief? Steal? I found it on the road, I said. I'm returning it—why the harsh words?"
I pouted innocently. Without proof, they couldn't win this argument. Sure, they could shove spears in my face and start a fight, but word of a reputable extermination party getting weapons drawn on them? No hero party would touch those soldiers after that.
And it was their demon lair popping up nearby, not ours.
"Besides, how's a foreigner like me supposed to trust you lot and just hand it over? Linden's always paranoid about foreign invasions and spies, right? Worried it might end up in the wrong hands and hurt your homeland."
The grunts and NCOs—sans command authority—could only sweat bullets.
"Time to come clean. He's inside, isn't he?"
"...We'll admit we've been a bit hasty since that massive demon lair sprouted right by the city forest."
"A bit? If a party's rep has tanked into scandal, you figured we'd snap up even unreasonable terms in desperation, right?"
I snatched up a copy of the One Sun lying in the corner of Colonel Lorenzo Salamanca's office tent.
A few weeks back, the commentary pages were packed with mocking editorials about our party.
Hero parties run on market logic too. No clients trusting you—whether due to skill or bad press—means no sponsorships, no mission rewards. Fewer noble backers or requesters willing to touch a laughingstock means the party's size and record shrivel up.
Anyone would try to exploit that.
Colonel Lorenzo stiffened. Probably because I'd hit the nail on the head—and maybe because Esen let out a low, ominous growl.
"We hoped you'd step up to restore your honor. But we never meant to disrespect the 'Petal Guardian' of Great Elan or the daughter of the Dragon Lord."
I glanced at Nenya, puzzled by "Petal Guardian," but she just coldly glared at our client.
Speaking for the silent Nenya, I pressed on.
"You hired the Special Monster Extermination Unit but didn't expect their special-rank combatants? Sounds fishy."
"...Ladies. Is this female porter your leader? I'd like to speak to the person in charge."
Apparently, chatting with a mere porter irked the good commander. No big deal for me, used to discrimination. But not for my teammates.
Lorenzo, openly uncomfortable, soon paled and leaped back two steps in his chair.
"You son of a bitch."
"Say that again. What'd you call me?"
Esen rose, hand on her sword hilt and gun. Morgan fumed too, reaching for her pistol—only to realize Esen held it, looking flustered.
The sisters quickly waved them down into their seats.
"Colonel, Ran Bantai is one of our party members."
"...I know. I've read the One Sun."
"Then you know better. Disrespecting the porter who defended our honor is as good as insulting us all. Didn't you just say you had no intention of offending the Dragon Lord's daughter?"
At the sisters' point, the colonel flicked a glance at Nidroga, lounging long across the sofa. She stared back with a faint smile that eerily evoked her Dragon Lord mother.
He gulped hard.
"Sorry if I came off dismissive. I apologize sincerely."
"I'll accept that. I'm fine, sisters. Thanks for having my back, everyone."
I flashed a thumbs-up to my teammates. Everyone smiled back—except Nenya, still icy.
I turned back to the colonel.
"The One Sun publicly cleared us, so we can say this with confidence: no need to grovel for clients. Your turn, Colonel."
"Say what?"
"How urgent is it?"
I pointed to the demon lair on the map. His face darkened. That said it all.
"Truth be told, the royals are stingy with budgets for hiring parties. With such a massive lair popping up, we can't just throw our hundred local troops in recklessly."
"Ah."
"By the time central forces deploy, the nearby farmlands will be toast. The toxic miasma's already turning forests and fields into monster nests. We desperately need a hero party."
"I see."
"Our founding Grand Duke Lindbor never hesitated to lend his hero aptitude to struggling neighbors. I just hope you'll show mercy to the common folk."
A warlord-turned-mercenary spinning it like that. Heavy distortion, but Linden folk might buy it. Not me, though. After a long pause, I drawled at the colonel, whose face had turned pitiful,
"No thanks."
Back at the station, Esen wandered dazedly, scanning the tracks and ticket booth. She poked at the heaviest pack on my back.
"We're really heading home?"
"Why not?" came Reni's sharp retort from her direction.
"Doesn't it piss you off? They saw their chance to lowball us. Same as kicking a man when he's down."
"Agreed. Parties risk their lives fighting monsters. No matter how urgent, overlooking cheap tricks hurts every party out there. What era do they think this is?"
Morgan chimed in, and Esen tilted her head.
"Wouldn't it be smarter to haggle for more first?"
"Fair point, but..."
I gave a wry smile.
"Useless back there. They never even mentioned negotiating pay. Trying to shove special-rank fighters into a demon lair for scout-and-cleanup rates? Straight-up malicious. Honestly, I think you all got dissed worse than me."
"True, but..."
Islune glanced awkwardly at us, seeking permission before the unpopular take.
"We should consider it. Demon lairs can be scarier than typhoons or droughts for farmers. Monster swarms and dried-up soil from miasma ruin a year's harvest—plenty starve come winter."
"But when sending us into typhoons or droughts, at least pay proper respect with fair rates. Last time I went into one, my wings snapped. Not doing that for free again."
Nidroga laughed merrily, patting Islune's back. Islune nodded, but didn't seem fully convinced.
"Fair enough. But the 'scout and area cleanup' on the request could buy time for the locals until the army arrives. Yes, the colonel—not for him, for the people here."
"...Hero through and through. Worse than Tena."
Esen shuddered like she'd touched a live wire.
Then a childish voice piped up from somewhere.
"Heroes?"
We turned to the kid who'd asked. Behind the sniffling boy, a few farmers hovered, shy and fearful. Emboldened by the adults' reluctance, the local kid—who was old enough safety meant grown-ups nearby—shouted again on their behalf.
"Are you heroes?"