Chapter 90 - The Porter on the Battlefield
As Garam and Morgan's side kicks folded my waist and slammed me into the wall, Esen realized two things in that instant. First, her little sister—who'd always been a fun punching bag that highlighted their power gap every time she tried to climb the ranks—had become a formidable beast in the time they hadn't seen each other. Second, the corridor that had looked like a narrow, frustrating single-file path was actually riddled with branches like an ant colony.
The stone wall that Esen crashed into didn't bounce her back. Instead, it slid away like a toy wooden block, pulling her down along with the separated stone slab. She tumbled several meters to land with a crash on another path below.
"Duck!"
The first arrival down there grabbed Esen's head and shoved it down. The crudely built demon lair corridors delayed the slab's fall just enough that it grazed them by a hair's breadth before plummeting into the abyss. Esen stared blankly at the receding debris, then shook her head.
"What the hell is this demon lair even shaped like?"
"How should I know? We came in here to find out by bumping into it ourselves. At least the silver lining is..."
Morgan, panting hard, hauled Esen to her feet and pointed at the trap corridor trapping them on both sides. Recognizing the path with its six rows of tiles, Esen rubbed her face in dismay.
"We dropped into that path our porter once told us how to clear. What was the trap again? It was a six-digit number."
"Mouth... teeth... something like that..."
"When this is over, I'm cracking open your skull to see what's inside, you empty-headed idiot."
"Try getting clocked in the jaw by Garam yourself. Damn, feels like whatever brain cells I had are all dead now."
Pressing their heads together, they barely recalled the number 142857. But knowing that wasn't enough to beat the trap. The drop had been too far to jump out easily, and Morgan had twisted her ankle on the way down, so climbing was out too. One wrong step, and the trap would spew flames that melted flesh. All they could do was listen dumbly to their comrades' cursing voices echoing from afar.
"We're screwed."
— Reni, Nenya, Islune
Morgan and Esen weren't the only ones in dire straits. Some faced mortal peril even more directly. Take Reni, Nenya, and Islune, for instance...
"I once served as a swordsmanship instructor for the Party Alliance, back when I was donating my talents."
"Shut up."
"Each of these golems is worth at least an A-rank vanguard."
"No need to tell us."
"To barely defeat such mighty foes, only to face these powerhouses next—it's thrilling—"
"Ah, just stop already!"
Her patience exhausted, Reni bellowed at Islune. As Islune flinched and wiped the grin off her face, the Tigres clearing the fallen golems burst into laughter.
"You're outnumbered and still fighting each other? Isn't that too disadvantageous?"
"Six men ganging up on three women—aren't you embarrassed?"
Nenya hurled her barb while gasping from spell overuse, and a groaning voice replied.
"Seven. Damn, my eyes are burned; I can't see."
"...Didn't you surrender after Reni laid you out earlier? You trying again?"
"That was round one. This is round two. If it was a courtship loss, maybe, but we're paid mercs—we can't back down. Yagil and Borgar, target the mage. The rest of you, with me against the sword-wielders."
"You gonna say that loud enough for us to hear, Tigres uncle?"
"Seven men against three women—hiding intent would be too cowardly."
"I was gonna praise your honesty, but you scratch my pride. I'll make you regret those words."
Islune gritted her teeth, thrusting her hero sword Brilliance forward. The Tigres admired her spirit with impressed looks. But soon, Islune and Reni began doubting if they should've shown such fighting spirit. They were sensing crisis in a direction far removed from survival.
"I like that fire in her eyes. Makes me wanna take her as a bride."
"Yeah. A hero or special-rank party member? Even the elder sticklers would approve her as wife material."
"Shut your stupid mouths, you morons. Turn your eyes away, and our clan's women will rip you apart."
Garam, staggering up from the shock of clashing with Esen, wiped her nosebleed and snapped sharply. Reni and Islune sighed.
"Now it's not even 7-to-1; it's 8-to-1. Better to die fighting or get kidnapped for some Tigres marriage rite and beaten to death by their women?"
"...You treating me like a pussy and ignoring me, or are my pleas to stop yapping useless crap falling on deaf ears?"
— Monica, Bilena, Nidroga
While Reni and Islune bickered over communication issues, someone else was facing enemies beyond communication. The problem Monica's sisters and Bilena faced was simpler—and more dangerous for it. They didn't speak the language.
Hundreds of mordborgs, hungry for revenge after our party's javelin barrage drove them off.
"Scram! Get lost!"
Monica, who had fallen into the opposite corridor from Esen and Morgan, wasn't great with athletics either. Pouring her healing powers into Bilena's fractures after she landed later was the best she could do before passing out from pain. Bilena shielded her sister's body completely, swinging her flamethrower in desperate resistance. The ratlings craving intruder flesh advanced three steps whenever the flames died, retreating two when her machine spat fire. But fuel tanks had limits, and her sister's healing couldn't fix the precise machinery's damage. Soon, with a sputtering hiss, Bilena's weapon began to die.
Maybe she shouldn't have stubbornly followed, thinking she could at least protect herself. Maybe she shouldn't have risked her life just to avoid feeling left behind in the affection race.
As pale-faced Bilena shed tears, the mordborgs bared their ugly incisors and charged. Nidroga, who had leaped onto the ceiling hauling dozens of golems, heard it all but couldn't help. Monstrous artificial muscles gripped her body, tormenting her like they meant to tear her apart. She couldn't transform recklessly. The whole complex structure would collapse, sweeping away enemies and allies alike. But the moment of forced choice was closing in. The instant Bilena screamed, Nidroga steeled herself with grim resolve and began turning her skin to scales.
Under such conditions, describe the proper role of a porter. If I ever retire and become a personnel officer at the Porters' Guild, maybe I'll pose that question to members undergoing rank review.
Someone would say the obvious: 'Run away. If the combatants can't handle it, what can we do?' True in one sense, utterly wrong in another. Sure, our role in the party is support. Forget Tigres or mordborgs—even beating a street thug is beyond the average non-combat aptitude holder. Porters are weak. That's an axiom.
"Esen—! Morgan—!"
But the moment you acknowledge that weakness and hurl it into the crisis instead of fleeing... that's when the weakling's potential to screw over the strong unfolds.
"Run to the block where Morgan's standing! From the left: 3, 5, 4, 2, 1!"
I sprint desperately along the corridor overhead, clutching a megaphone in one hand and yelling while racking my brain with the trap manual in the other. The instant they hear me, Esen scoops up the limping Morgan in a flash and charges through the trap without hesitation.
"Step on the far right block and go straight! Up to three rows from the safe spot!"
"All the way?!"
"I don't know the last six! Just jump it—!"
If I were as smart as Bilena, great—but my forcibly honed math skills from dancing on the edge of death only go so far. Esen, aiming to leap the whole trap section in one go, grimaced clutching her gut the moment her feet left the ground. Wobbling balance. A slightly short jump. Morgan on her back goes pale and squeezes her eyes shut. But that's enough. Esen snags the grappling hook I'd fired just in time. Adrenaline surges. Two bodies feel weightless. Morgan and Esen shoot skyward light as hooked minnows.
"Islune! Reni—!"
Acknowledging weakness is miles from meekly accepting incompetence and letting go. Take that Garam Taiga trying to knee Islune and smash a fist into her—even if Tan Bantai died and revived a thousand times, he couldn't win. Bare-handed, she'd laugh off a hundred of me and stomp them flat. The moment No. 1 Tan Bantai's nose bleeds, Nos. 2 and 3 would surrender in terror. But even that Tan Bantai has his moves. Like dropping a morningstar from above. The 250g orb I lift like a baseball turns into a deadly 2.5kg iron ball the instant it falls. Porter aptitude guarantees steady aim. In the split second she flinches at the whistling air, Garam can't even look up before it smashes her crown.
Before Garam can roll her eyes back from the morningstar embedded in her skull, Islune snatches the flail handle and cracks the shin of a Tigres trying to help the dazed Garam.
The sturdy-chested Tigres cries out valiantly.
"Kyaaah—!"
"What a girly scream. Why not make her one of your brides—?!"
In front of Reni, struggling with a broken sword after dropping her shield to punches, a hefty hammer and shield drop from above. Backup arms for foes swords can't handle—heavy to carry but perfect for porters. Warriors with porters have an edge. They save stamina by offloading weapon weight, and it's like having an armory at your side. The Tigres flinch and retreat from the ground-shattering hammer fall, only to reel from Reni yanking it free and smashing their skulls.
Nenya, blankly watching Tigres tear out her lingering roots, gets her gift too. A heavy flask sloshing with blue liquid lands in her arms. Nenya winces at her numb wrist but glares at the paling Tigres and chugs the potion in one go.
And the highlight...
"Pinch your noses—!"
Esen thunders down yelling. The Tigres battling tougher roots from bludgeon blows tense at her fearsome return. Then they panic seeing the wax plugs in her nose.
"What's that?"
"Hell."
A hunter's keen nose can drag them to hell too. Esen solemnly smashes the flask I gave her in her palm. The imperfect scent amplifier erupts in intense aroma everywhere. The silver-furred weasel, yanked from pleasant sleep to urgent shit, glares at me like 'This the best you got?' No time for sugar lumps—I shove its head in the cage and slam the door. If it's hell for my nose, imagine for the Tigres. Leaving Garam staggering up, clutching her nose and shrieking miserably, I leap down to Monica's sisters and Bilena.
Those damn rats must've been gutted. Right before staining Bilena's white skin with filthy bites, I snagged their prey with a ceiling grappling hook. The moment Reni shoves the last dazed Tigres with her shield and cracks its skull hard, I land amid the party and set down Monica's sisters and Bilena.
"We were worried when you vanished... what a flashy comeback."
No time to respond to exhausted Islune's smile. I spit, and a tooth clatters out. Carried Monica's sisters tucked in my side, Bilena by her collar in my teeth. Pain's brutal, but it's not important. Bilena fumbles out a strength potion with trembling hands and pours it into Monica's mouth. Her broken arm and ribs make her convulse in agony upon waking.
"I'm right here."
"Tan."
"It's okay, sister. We're all safe. Now it's your turn."
I grab her shoulders to keep shock at bay post-trauma, soothing her. Monica steadies her breath at my whispers and pours healing into herself. As her bruised side and arm slowly regain color, we sigh in relief.
"...If even the healer's fine, we'll end without landing a scratch."
One Tigres giggles, face twisted from stench and beatings. Reni looms her hammer menacingly over his head, but he babbles on undaunted.
"Got last words."
"Eulogy?"
"Tigres men are drawn to strong females. We met ugly like this, but one date—"
"Pass."
Reni shudders in mock horror and slams her iron boot sole into his jaw. Literally kicked flying, the Tigres grins into deep sleep. Esen mutters about tossing the bastard down, gathering herself. I grab her scruff quick.
"Before that—what about Nidroga?"