Pay Up

"···Let's get out of here before they appeal to our sympathy. I hate this kind of thing. Forget whether it makes sense or not—it just gives me the chills, like nails on a chalkboard."

"We've already made eye contact, Esen. Sorry, but I think it's too late for you."

"We're at the station too. She probably gets that we're about to leave. She's pitiful, sure, but let's at least hear her out. If we don't like it, we can just go."

Reni whispered coldly over her shoulder, then suddenly plastered on a bright smile and bowed politely.

"Yes, we're the Hero Party. Come closer and talk. What can we do for you?"

The auntie poked the old man's side, and the doddering geezer snapped to attention, shuffling forward. He thrust a heavy pouch toward Reni, who was at the front.

Reni responded with silky grace. "What's this?"

"Well, you see, as an advance payment..."

"You mean the down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠payment, right?"

"···Ah, yes. Exactly. 3,000 gold coins as the down payment."

Each coin was about 12 grams, so 3,000 made a whopping 36 kilograms. An insane amount. As the party members gazed wistfully at what must have been scraped together from the villagers' pooled savings, my occupational instinct kicked in, and I marveled at the old man's veiny, sinewy forearms, forged by a lifetime of labor.

Reni asked in an innocently naive tone. "Oh, and how much have you prepared for the balance?"

The villagers flinched. It seemed the down payment was all they had on hand. The old man pursed his lips with grim resolve.

"···We'll, we'll somehow convince the villagers and scrape it together. So please, stay and—"

Reni let out a pitying sigh and clasped the old man's hand. He looked up at her with a glimmer of hope.

"240,000."

"···Pardon?"

"Even a million gold wouldn't cut it. At the bare minimum, it's 240,000."

"Reni." Nenya called her name in a low voice. But Reni just shook her head slightly at Nenya and pressed on coldly.

"A dragon, a knight from Small Elan, a Tigress fighter, and a tree mage from Great Elan. Every one of us is a Special-rank combatant, officially recognized as such. We even have three support roles—handpicked experts without a single flaw, the best of the best. You won't find alchemists, healers, or porters like these anywhere in the world."

Bilena, who craved recognition, couldn't even openly bask in the praise. It wasn't said to flatter.

Reni fixed her gaze on the old man, whose pupils were starting to tremble, and spoke even more firmly. "Sorry, but if we took that price, our fellow adventurers who risk their lives fighting monsters would get unfairly branded as greedy. Maybe not you all, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but others would curse us for it. That's just how the world works."

"If we pool it with the money from the state, couldn't we make it work somehow?"

"No. From the start, your state and its representative, Colonel Lorenzo Salamanca, tried to lowball us. Let me say it again: we can't accept that price."

Reni took a breath, then delivered the hammer blow. "Instead of trying to hold us here, consider evacuating the territory."

"···Reni, that's too harsh! Reject us if you want, but telling them to abandon their home—"

"It's not harsh—it's experience talking, Nenya! If a country can't protect its people with money or soldiers, isn't it wiser to just run?"

The party members' eyes went wide. I wasn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the only one seeing Reni and Nenya yell at each other for the first time, apparently.

"Say we take the cheap deal and die clearing the demon lair for you. What happens when another one pops up? Dig up our corpses and resurrect us?"

···Was that part of her experience too? Her words cut like a sharpened blade. The sisters seemed to sense it too, glancing cautiously, while Nenya bowed her head without a word.

Reni turned away from Nenya as if dismissing her. Even Islune couldn't muster the words to suggest helping out amid that momentum.

"We're leaving. If no other party comes to subjugate the lair, don't blame us—take it up with that Colonel Lorenzo Salamanca."

"The chief didn't do anything wrong."

The girl from earlier tugged at Reni's hem. Reni sighed and looked down at her.

"This gentleman here is the chief?"

"No. It's old man Boro's son, Uncle Lorenzo."

"···What?"

"That's how it went down."

Lorenzo Salamanca shouted with a forced expression of gloom he was trying—and failing—to hide. For that to work, he'd have needed to live a less guileless life.

Hidden in the bushes, we glanced at Islune. She looked on the verge of tears.

Unaware of our eyes on him, Lorenzo's solemn speech continued. "If the country were sane··· Sorry, that was a slip. In normal times, a humble farmer like me wouldn't be handed such a glorious public office."

The conscripted volunteers—young folks scraped from nearby villages—shouted back that it wasn't true at all. Lorenzo was exactly who they trusted with the job, they insisted. Less an army, more like a rural solidarity rally. The esteemed farmer Lorenzo seemed slightly comforted by his neighbors' cheers. Though the real NCOs watching nearby looked sour as lemons.

"But I've been given the ducal seal of the military ring. So—"

"It's military authority, not 'military dog,' Colonel."

"Sorry··· Ah, no. My mistake. Anyway. Where was I?"

"You said you'd received the ring of the military commander overseeing six nearby communes. And just to remind you—don't lose it again. You'll face a court-martial!"

"What's a commune···?"

I couldn't watch. I wanted to apologize for taking him seriously earlier. Not because he was ridiculous. Beyond his worries about us, he must have been crushed under a mountain of burdens.

"It's an administrative unit. Please, Colonel!"

"···Ah. Anyway, we can't just hand our homeland over to the monsters invading this town."

Lorenzo sighed, his face gaunt. "The capital will send troops soon. Let's hold out a few days. Set up palisades, prepare torches. The NCOs will help."

"Wh-what about the Hero Party?"

"···They're not coming. Like I said, the capital will send troops."

Lorenzo waved them off dismissively, signaling dispersal. Some youths lingered hesitantly; others looked relieved at real soldiers coming and scattered. The NCOs who should have formed them up just sighed at the sky.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo trudged slowly toward a mountain path behind an alley. The moment he thought he was out of sight, he collapsed to his knees behind a tree.

"They're not coming. The one party that replied, I let slip away with my blunder. No way to hold them."

"I see."

"It's my fault. My fault. Oh, Enrica. Enrica. I'm sorry···."

"You're sorry, huh."

Only on my second reply did Lorenzo notice us lurking on the hillside. He yelped and toppled backward in shock. Foreseeing it, I swiftly supported him to prevent a hard fall on his ass.

"But we didn't leave."

"···You didn't?"

Hauled upright by a porter's strength, Lorenzo nodded in bewilderment. Then he realized he was surrounded by combatants. This wasn't his tent—it was the woods. He eyed the extermination party tensely.

"···What do you want from me?"

"Ditching the forced dignity suits you much better. Nah, we don't want anything."

I glanced around at the party for agreement. From Esen to Islune, they all wore conspiratorial grins.

Lorenzo swallowed hard. "Then why···?"

"It's not what we want from you—it's about what you want from us."

"Pardon?"

"We'll do the job. Infiltrate the demon lair's heart, smash the lair lord like a dog if we can reach it, or at least stir up enough chaos inside to stem the evil aura's outflow."

Lorenzo gasped deeply. At my follow-up, he let out a choked, wistful wheeze.

"Of course, we'll charge what the work's worth. Double the quoted price."

"···You saw my clumsy mess just now, so I'll be straight: we're dirt-poor farmers. The gold from the state barely buys low-grade mercs. The NCOs gave up on help early and suggested melting farm tools for weapons. Point is, we don't have the cash to pay your best."

"There's a way to get the money without emptying your pockets."

I flashed a sly grin. Lorenzo—who'd probably read the articles about the pervert porter—suddenly shielded his body and backed away a few steps. To clear the gross misunderstanding, I quickly pointed at his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hand.

"I know how to use that thing properly."

"I'm a married man who loves his wife!"

"···You're covering it awfully protectively right now. No, not that. I mean···the ring on that hand you're shielding."

"Th-this? The military authority ring?"

"Yeah. The one you lost without knowing what it was, and I got back for you."

More precisely, the one the weasel stole. I silently apologized to him for the heartache.

Lorenzo nodded, then fell into a new kind of terror. "Melting this gets me hanged···!"

"···Melting it yields what, a few bronze coins? Nah."

Suppressing a laugh, I pulled out a sheet of paper. "Let's do promissory notes."

"Is this okay?"

Bilena asked in a terrified whisper. I shook my head.

"Nope."

"If it's not okay, why do it···?"

"We can do it, but human decency says we shouldn't. One of the duchy's bigwigs might be too frail-hearted—could scare them to death."

"Same question again. So why are you doing it?"

Nidroga teased playfully, so I returned a satisfied smile. "To piss them off."

We knew Lorenzo hadn't meant to lowball us out of malice, so the blame was clear.

That old Hero Lindborg, who grew from bandit to warlord and declared independence, clashed endlessly with neighbors until striking a deal: recognition as a nation in exchange for monster extermination expeditions. His bandit-honed troops became a massive mercenary force, and his descendants danced on piles of coin from ancient thefts and modern merc work.

Having such power, yet skimping on protecting their own people? Ridiculous. If you've got the money, spend a little. People are dying.

Nidroga stifled a laugh, stroking her mouth a few times before unhooking a decoration from her horn and handing it to me. It bore an engraved crest like the duke's ring on Lorenzo—enough to chill any powerbroker's blood.

Beneath the colonel's seal in the creditor field, I stamped the lord's seal.