Hero (9)
Even after entering the inn, Cross kept replaying Sera's words from earlier in his mind.
'I don't want to let the people who worry about me and tell me to run away... die. There must be a reason Luminaris chose me. If I bail, they might end up dead. That... I can't stand.'
Ha...
Cross flopped onto the bed and let out a deep sigh.
She didn't want to run because of the people worrying about her.
Normally, someone would use their concern as an excuse to flee even faster.
'She hates the idea of the people who care about her dying more than her own death?'
Cross stared at the ceiling and let out a mocking sneer.
But that sneer held no ridicule—only a bitter self-reflection.
'If... just suppose I'd grown up in the same place as Sera did as a kid, could I have developed beliefs like hers?'
"Hilarious, me thinking like that."
Cross had been born and raised in the Elterion Kingdom.
What Elterion was most famous for was the deadly gladiatorial combats in the arenas.
The place where nobles and royals delighted in the stench of blood-soaked slaughter.
And Cross had been born to one such gladiator mother.
He could barely remember her face.
She'd died in the arena not long after giving birth to him.
Not because she'd lost a match, but because her body had weakened from childbirth, and she'd pushed it too far.
He didn't even know who his father was.
Maybe another gladiator. Maybe some noble in the stands.
What mattered was that no one wanted him.
'I... was a slave from the moment I was born.'
A cold iron collar was always around his neck.
Engraved on it was a number: 731.
That was his name.
The adults around him treated him not as a human, but as merchandise.
Whippings and starvation were daily life, and to survive, he had to trample other kids underfoot.
'The moment I turned ten, they threw me into the arena.'
Matches between young gladiators.
The crowd applauded it as "cute entertainment," but for Cross, real death waited for the first time.
He survived hundreds of brushes with death.
Covered in the blood of kids who'd been his comrades, listening to their final screams, Cross endured to the end.
No matter the situation, no matter the opponent, he showed he would never die.
The arena managers, who had their eyes on him, decided to throw him into adult matches for bigger profits.
'They probably wanted to see me die pathetically there.'
Cross gave a wry smile.
Their intentions were obvious.
They figured the crowd would go wild watching a kid get torn to shreds among adults.
Tailored to the nobles' tastes for more stimulating, brutal spectacles.
But against their expectations, at fifteen, Cross kept racking up victories in the adult bouts.
Winning consistently at that age wasn't just raw skill—it was thanks to his special Supernatural Ability.
Skyground.
True to its name—firm as the sky, solid as the earth—the more attacks he took, the tougher and stronger his body became.
At first, a wooden stick would leave bruises, but after countless fights, he shrugged off rocks like nothing, and eventually, even steel swords couldn't scratch him.
'The arena... was the perfect place to grow my ability.'
Of course, life there had never been good.
So at twenty, he finally scraped together 300 gold, bought his freedom, and escaped that hellhole.
What Cross learned in the arena was that only money could save him.
Not love, not friendship, not pity—just money brought freedom.
After that, he became a mercenary, living for nothing but coin.
He took any job if it paid, always putting his own gain first, no matter the situation.
'And now someone like me... a hero?'
Cross laughed self-deprecatingly.
There was a vast chasm between the hero Sera described and himself.
She was someone who could sacrifice for others; he was the opposite.
'But...'
Sera's trembling voice echoed in his ears again.
That line about not wanting the people who worried about her to die.
For some reason, it kept resonating in his heart.
"Guess I'm getting old. Too many stray thoughts."
Cross forced a grin and muttered to himself.
"Tomorrow, I'll just be the mercenary taking jobs for money again. That's all it needs to be."
With that, Cross shoved the thoughts aside and finally drifted off just before dawn.
* * *
"Tch, knew it would come to this."
"Yeah, why piss off the royals?"
In the dead of night while everyone slept, two masked figures slipped quietly into the inn where Cross was staying.
With black masks covering their faces, they moved like shadows, utterly silent.
The gait of seasoned mercenaries honed by long experience.
"Remember this: money matters when taking jobs, but if no one's touched it, there's a reason. Who'd guess killing bandits was Prince Alberto's commission?"
The lead mercenary muttered.
His voice carried the cynicism of a grizzled veteran.
"Shoulda just not taken the pay. Who goes to the castle to collect? Cross was the idiot."
His partner replied.
There was a hint of pity in his tone.
They were mercenaries hired for Prince Alberto's personal request.
Both gold-rank veterans who'd succeeded in countless dangerous missions.
Which made them pros at "cleanup" jobs like this.
"Prince Alberto too... coulda just not paid. No need for this."
"Quiet. We don't question the client's intent. We just do as ordered."
The first mercenary hushed his partner.
The order was already in: "Deal with Cross quietly."
They paused at Cross's door.
"Shame, really. Most talented guy I've seen."
"Yeah. Who'd think he'd hit gold-rank with us in under a month?"
Even they, who handled the dirty work, felt it was a waste for someone like Cross to die here.
He had the chops to reach diamond-rank, the highest tier, someday.
But the mercenary world was one where even comrades sharing meals and drinks would drop sentiment and draw blades if it was a job.
"Curse the brains that couldn't back up the talent, Cross."
They opened the door and entered. Cross lay soundly asleep on the bed.
"Even Cross won't wake."
"Obviously. No beast senses can pierce the relic from the prince. We tested it."
The first mercenary touched the small pendant around his neck.
A faint magical aura emanated from it.
A high-grade relic that completely blocked presence.
"Alright, let's do this. Quiet and clean."
The lead mercenary drew his sword, channeling mana. It began to glow green.
His Supernatural Ability: Venom Infusion.
It imbued the blade with poison.
Not strong enough for instant death on Cross, of course.
But the poison was insurance—if he couldn't stab the heart clean, it would cover.
Even if he survived the strike, he'd be too poisoned to fight back.
He carefully aimed the venom-laced blade at Cross's chest.
Green poison fumes faintly rose from the edge.
His partner readied his weapon too, just in case.
'Sorry, Cross. But this is a mercenary's fate.'
The blade plunged toward the heart.
Pfuk—
Normally, it would've pierced flesh with that sound. But...
Thud!
The sword stopped dead against Cross's body with a dull thunk.
The mana-infused blade couldn't penetrate one human frame.
"What the—"
As the first mercenary panicked and pushed harder,
The hand of the supposedly sleeping Cross grabbed the blade.
The mercenary tried shoving it in, but it wouldn't budge.
In that moment, locking eyes with Cross, an overwhelming chill shot through him.
'What the hell...'
The mercenary jerked back.
The pressure from Cross's gaze was too intense—like facing a predator.
"What... are you?"
"Yeah, Sera's the weird one. Plenty more like her out there. I'm not the oddity."
Cross rose slowly from the bed, crushing the sword in his grip.
Kriiiik... Crack!
The blade shattered into fragments, scattering across the floor.
The two mercenaries stared in disbelief.
"Doesn't matter who sent you. You're mercenaries on a job—I get it."
Cross kicked the broken shards as he spoke.
"But you know what happens to mercenaries who fail an assassination..."
The second mercenary muttered in a trembling voice.
"How is this a gold-rank mercenary..."