Guardian: Derek Walker 6

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So much silver spilled from the pouch that it couldn't be contained in both hands. Drobin's eyes widened as he grilled Gibs.

"Isn't this silver coin!? And so much of it... Where on earth did you get this from?"

"Th-that's my savings from my salary, accumulated bit by bit!"

"Cut the nonsense! No village chief could amass this fortune on his stipend alone, right? Don't tell me... Village Chief! It can't be, can it? You didn't touch the village's communal fund..."

"No! Absolutely not! It's my own savings!"

Gibs flailed his arms in excuse, but in this situation, no such defense would fly. He'd already lost all trust from Drobin.

"Jeez, are you negotiating or fighting? Why so damn noisy?"

The commotion from the chief's house grew too loud to ignore, and Walker finally threw open the door and stepped inside. What met his eyes was Drobin clutching a pouch brimming with silver coins and Gibs sprawled on his ass. Clearly, the two were in the midst of a brawl.

"What the hell's going on here?"

Walker cocked his head, demanding an explanation from the pair.

This Gibs bastard was a real fucking scumbag. In real-world terms, he was on par with some fund manager who'd embezzled the kitty and fled overseas.

No, worse—a total dogshit villain. The money he'd skimmed was the communal fund meant for buying village weapons. In other words, his stunt was straight-up military procurement corruption.

"If word of this gets out, you'll be beaten to death."

At my words, the bastard Gibs trembled like a leaf. He racked his brain desperately for excuses, but they were so lame it made me question how he'd even become chief. Drobin seethed at the man's antics.

"We should kill him! This old coot isn't fit to be chief!"

"Urgh! I-I'm sorry! Drobin! I lost my head to greed and made a bad choice! So please, keep this quiet! Half! I'll give you half the money! What do you say!?"

"This fucker still hasn't learned."

Gibs was scrambling to buy Drobin off. It was clearly his only shot at survival.

But he wasn't the only one who knew his dirty secret. I'd sniffed it out too.

"Forget it! I don't want your filthy money! Once the orc invasion ends, I'll tell everyone in the village! I want to report your crimes right now, but with the village in ruins from the orcs, bad news like this would tank morale."

"Drobin! Please, anything but that..."

Gibs begged with the world's most pitiful face. But Drobin stood firm.

"Be grateful I'm not beating you to death on the spot!"

"Hey, Drobin. Let me give you some advice. Vermin like this? Kill 'em quick. A cornered rat ain't dangerous, but it's a pain in the ass."

"Sir Walker! Please pretend you saw nothing this time."

Gibs groveled at me too.

"Eh, whatever. I don't care. I'm not even from this village. I'll be gone soon anyway."

At my words, Drobin handed me the money pouch and dropped to his knees, pleading.

"Sir Walker! Please take this money and protect our village. This is what we all scraped together to defend it. Save us, please!"

I checked the pouch Drobin offered. By the weight, about 10 gold. Not bad for a rural village haul. This chief bastard had siphoned it off real tidy.

"Honestly, I don't wanna waste my time on pocket change like this."

What I wanted wasn't money—it was beauties. These guys still hadn't gotten the memo.

"Drobin! Over here!? We've got a badly bleeding patient! Need you to check him out!"

Suddenly, a clear, crisp woman's voice rang out from outside. My radar pinged. The voice passed muster, at least. Virgin? Hard to say. Even my top-tier virginity radar couldn't confirm that from audio alone.

"Eh, it's chump change, but some things in this world are worth more than gold. Fine. I'll guard you till reinforcements arrive."

Where there's a witch, there's me. I pocketed the pouch and spoke. Drobin's face lit up like the sun.

"Thank you! Sir Walker!"

He bowed deeply. Gibs, who'd been ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠scowling like a sack of rice dumped on the floor, freaked out as I took the pouch.

"Th-that's my money...!"

What a sight. The face of a villain from a comic or movie, ruined by the hero.

"Drobin, this fucker's talking shit."

"Gibs! From now on, no more respect for you as an elder! The village is chaos right now, so I won't spread it around yet, but you'll pay for your crimes."

"Wouldn't it be better to just kill him now? I've said it before—this guy's the backstabbing type."

"I'd love to, but killing the chief now would split his followers from us. Division in this situation means we self-destruct."

Whatever, their call. If Drobin got stabbed in the back by the chief, not my problem. If the bastard tried it on me, I'd end him then.

"Gibs! Any funny business, and my arrow goes right through your forehead. Remember that."

Drobin shot the chief a cold warning and stormed out. Gibs reached out in despair. That old fucker was definitely plotting something.

'Gotta put a tail on him.'

I followed Drobin out of the chief's house. And there she was—the owner of that lovely voice.

'Oh ho! Pure country girl! And a stunner! Nailing the tough combo!'

A breathtaking beauty with a face as fresh as her voice beamed at Drobin. She'd look perfect with a flower crown. Top-tier woman.

"Sis! Hurry, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠over here!"

Another girl, seemingly her little sister, waved frantically at the beauty, her voice urgent. Like her sister, a fresh-faced cutie with promise.

Sis screamed innocent purity; the sister had a sharper edge—not prickly, but calm and intellectual. While sis fit the rustic village vibe, the sister seemed more city-bound.

'Excellent!'

I swallowed my admiration. Had to bag those sisters somehow—and right on cue, a notification popped up before my eyes.

Rita was Allen Village's undisputed top beauty. Only her two-years-younger sister Bianca could rival her. Bianca's looks were still budding, so Rita monopolized the young men's proposals as the village's prime fiancée.

Her straight hair reached her hips, gleaming like molten gold, and her skin was strikingly snow-white.

Among country folk spending half their day under the direct sun, no woman boasted skin as pale as Rita's. Even her sister Bianca had a light tan; Rita alone seemed spared by the sun.

Her appeal went beyond looks. Her voice—universally acclaimed as heavenly choir material—was the villagers' fatigue cure-all.

She embodied the warmth and kindness a pure country girl should have, her speech sweet as birdsong, refreshing as a forest stream. Rita's voice was loved as much as her face.

"Hurry! Hergen is critical!"

And she had an angel's warm heart. Heaven surely had her choir spot reserved.

"Don't worry!"

Drobin calmed the fidgety Rita. With a hunter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠father, he'd learned healing from childhood. Now, he was the village's top hunter and top doctor.

"Will Hergen be okay...?"

Bianca, who'd followed her sister, looked grim. To her, Hergen was done for—massive blood loss, no potions left.

With the youth squad's stock depleted, only crappy herbs remained. Too weak for his wounds.

The trio reached the village hall—makeshift wounded barracks.

A redheaded youth clutched his chest, collapsed amid the injured. He looked the worst.

"Hergen! Hang on!"

Drobin rushed over. A chunk of his side was gone. Blood loss near lethal. Unconscious, convulsing. Hypovolemic shock loomed. Bad sign.

"Damn! Any potions left?"

"All gone!"

Even Rita's voice shook with urgency. In Allen Village, everyone was neighbor, friend. Hergen ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had grown up with Drobin and Rita—a brave pal. Their eyes quivered at losing him.

"This much blood... gotta staunch it fast. Damn! Even herbs..."

Drobin checked remnants: only fever reducers. Nothing for bleeding.

"Brother Drobin! Is Brother Hergen gonna die!?"

Bianca teared up. She and Hergen were close—haughty her, brave him; perfect match, shared interests.

Faced with her tears, Drobin dreaded the truth. He knew it was hopeless but pressed the wound with clean cloth anyway. Primitive, futile, but he tried.

"This place is a total shitshow."

A fat man entered the hall of groaning wounded. His shady vibe sharpened Bianca's glare.

"Who's that?"

"Ah. Our village benefactor."

Drobin quickly clarified, fearing her slip-up.

"Benefactor? The sister who massacred those orcs?"

"She's his guard knight. Agreed to protect us till reinforcements."

Bianca frowned at Drobin's words.

To her, letting this sketchy guy in was unwise. He screamed greedy landlord, not righteous hero.

Judging by looks was wrong, but looks gave the rawest read. Her instincts flagged Walker.

"That guy looks dangerous. You think he'll really help? I don't buy it."

Drobin nearly mentioned the cash but shut up. It'd spill the chief's embezzlement.

Bad timing—village needed unity. Chief's buddies would cry conspiracy; haters would riot for his head.

Humans were fools. Even with orcs, infighting brewed easy. No wonder Drobin stayed mum on Gibs. Post-invasion, though, judgment day.

"Bianca, don't badmouth our savior!"

Drobin rarely scolded her. If Walker overheard and bailed, disaster. He diverted her.

"Focus on treating Hergen now."

"Right... How's our Hergen? He gonna make it?"

"No hope."

Walker, who'd scanned the room, stood before Hergen and declared it flat.