Chapter 8
Chapter 8
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Hassan is Now a Free Man
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Samaritan sir, we're here. This is the city of pleasure, Sodomora. Folks like you who can throw their weight around all flock to this place."
The carriage pulled by two horses had raced along for a full day before arriving at the city of Sodomora.
My first impression upon entering through the city walls was that it was utterly repulsive and filthy.
Even Calcuta, the city where Elfriede had set up her base, had reeked of the dirt and savagery unique to the medieval era.
But Sodomora was so disgustingly squalid that Calcuta seemed like some impressive new metropolis by comparison.
Trash and filth tossed everywhere was par for the course, of course.
The sewers weren't even properly maintained—sewage backed up everywhere, turning the streets into sticky mud pits.
The roads were so rutted and bumpy that even the carriage struggled to roll along.
Most of the buildings were patched-together shacks of splintery planks, with damp straw mats tangled in laundry lines strung up haphazardly, adding to the grime.
Just standing in the street made my SAN drop.
Fuck, living in a shithole like this would definitely get you sick. Cholera, malaria, the plague, you name it.
But after rolling from one slave pit to another, I wasn't soft enough to complain or wrinkle my nose at this.
"What're you lookin' at, fucker, you moron?"
"Black hair, huh. Bad luck first thing in the morning. Ptooey."
A few passersby spat curses at me. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course. Though in Calcuta, there'd at least been some semblance of rules and common sense.
The rough-looking people shuffling down these streets all looked like they had knives hidden in their clothes, ready to rob you blind. The beggars and homeless had eyes that were anything but ordinary—sharp, predatory stares clearly sizing up easy marks. The vibe was that they'd bash your skull in with a hidden club and strip you clean at the drop of a hat.
Sure enough, down that alley over there, some guys were stomping a homeless dude—or beggar, whatever.
"Ugh, ack! Urk! S-stop, I'm gonna die—!"
"Yeah, die, you bastard! You put pineapple on my pizza!? I put up with the mint beer, but this!?"
"Let's cut off his fingers so he never cooks that shit again!"
What the fuck? Cutting off fingers over that?
I averted my eyes to avoid getting dragged into the mess if our gazes met.
That's when I noticed the coachman—yellowed front teeth gapped wide—grinning at me, which made me jump.
The coachman spoke up.
"Ain't it a cozy town? Long ride, so that'll be 80 coppers. More's fine too."
80 coppers. About what Finley had mentioned for carriage fare. Guess he didn't gouge me just for being a clueless Samaritan.
One silver's worth about 100 coppers, so handing over a single silver should get me change.
I pulled the one silver I'd tucked into my pocket ahead of time and placed it in the coachman's hand.
Taking the coin, the coachman said,
"Silver! Guess I owe you change, then."
"No, forget the change. I've got a question. You said you're from Sodomora, right, sir? You know the city well?"
"You bet. Could find my way blindfolded."
"Then mind telling me where the Adventurer's Guild is?"
I'd spent about a year in Calcuta and knew my way around the outskirts and such. But in Sodomora, I was a total newbie.
No smartphone, no handy maps in this world—you had to ask around to get anywhere.
Better to ask the coachman I'd shared a night of fields and forest roads with than grab some random on the street. And conveniently, he was a local.
"Hmm."
The coachman seemed to get it, scratching his filthy beard with his nails as he replied.
"Adventurer's Guild? 'Course I know it. So, you headin' to the Minerva Guild or the Mars Guild?"
"Two guilds?"
"Yeah. Sodomora's a big city, rivals the capital. Sure, it's trashier than anywhere else. Anyway, if you're registering fresh, pick wisely."
Minerva Guild and Mars Guild. Vaguely familiar, but no details came to mind.
The past two years, my knowledge had been skewed toward catering to Elfriede's moods.
Noticing my silence, the coachman clicked his tongue.
"Samaritan sir, fresh off the farm, huh? You really know jack shit. Won't last a week here. But I took your silver, so listen up—I'll explain."
The coachman glanced around with his jaundiced eyes before continuing.
"Minerva Guild doubles as a temple to the goddess of wisdom and exploration, Minerva. Mars Guild worships Mars, god of strife and valor. Slight differences in vibe."
"Different vibes?"
"Kinda similar, really. Minerva's full of snotty noble bastards and weirdos obsessed with discovering the unknown. Mars is more your rough-and-tumble thugs and gutter rats who can't control their tempers. You're a Samaritan too, so Mars Guild's probably your best bet."
I nodded along. "I see."
Minerva, Mars—felt like déjà vu. Roman gods, right?
The gods, culture, religion, even language in this world had eerie similarities to Earth's—familiar yet not.
Plenty of differences too, of course.
But people are people anywhere, more or less.
"Want a ride to Mars Guild? On the house."
*
"Nice."
Stepping down from the carriage, I smirked at the towering building before me. Not mocking—genuine admiration.
It wasn't exaggeration calling it a temple too.
I'd had low expectations for the guild hall, but this was imposing, majestic even—my jaw dropped on its own.
Picture columns of carved granite and marble topped with a triangular roof, like ancient architecture.
In this barbaric, violent world, who even had the tech for this? Then again, back on Earth, religious sites got the most TLC too.
Pyramids, Greek temples, my dad's ancestral altar every holiday.
"Alright, I'm off. Mars's luck to ya, Samaritan sir. If you need to head to another city, look for Guryo!"
"Guryo?"
"Like the messenger god—easy to remember, eh? Good luck! Hya— Speed Wagon, go!"
Neigh!
With a crack of the whip, the horses clattered off, carriage in tow.
Standing alone before the Adventurer's Guild, I straightened my grubby beard, tangled hair, and near-ragged leather clothes as reflected in a puddle, then stepped inside the massive building.
The interior matched the exterior—vast open space stretching out.
Rows of counters like bank tellers, neat-haired women handling business.
Unlike the chaotic streets crawling with vagrants, this place had an orderliness, a refinement that tickled my 21st-century civilized soul.
A temple indeed.
My filthy getup made me a bit self-conscious.
But the bearded guys and burly bruisers milling about were in similar states, boosting my confidence a touch.
Men and women alike, armored up with shields, swords, bows—strange sight, a bit tense-making.
I cleared my throat—"Ahem, ahem"—and approached an empty counter. A green-haired woman with slightly pointed ears looked up, her voice soft.
"What can I do for you?"
"Uh, well, I'd like to register as an adventurer with the guild."
"New registrant?"
"Yes, yep."
How long since I'd had a proper procedural chat like this? Nothing major, but my ass cheeks were sweating anyway.
"Got the fee?"
"Huh?"
"New adventurer registration costs 20 silver. See there?"
She twisted at the waist, pointing to a spot on the wall.
Following her slender fingernail, sure enough—a big wooden sign: Reception Fee: 20 Silver - Mars Guild.
"Oh, but you can read, right?"
"Oh, yeah, I can read."
"Ahh."
She raised her brows, surprised. In this illiterate world, a savage-looking guy like me reading was apparently a shocker.
Hell, it shocked me that I could read this world's script.
Anyway.
First I'd heard that registering with the guild cost 20 silver—a joining fee, basically?
But 20 silver wasn't chump change, and it stung.
"Cheaper than Minerva Guild. They charge 40 silver, including 'culture classes' and 'training'—just basic swordplay. Total bandits."
"Y-yeah."
Sensing my hesitation, she reeled me in smoothly. 40 silver blanked my mind.
Fuck, I'd have been broke and bounced from Minerva. Thank fuck that forgettable coachman steered me here.
Thanks, info-dump coachman.
"So, you can read—check the rules here, thumbprint, done. No refunds, so think it over."
Thud.
She slid a thick bundle of scrolls across.
Crappy parchment and paper mashed together in a crude booklet.
The wriggly, worm-like script—either this world's illiterate scrawl or just faded bad handwriting, hard to tell.
"Formalities. Just thumbprint."
"Ah, okay."
Squish.
"Now for payment. 20 silver."
I fished 20 silvers from my pouch and handed them over. How many bowls of soup could this buy?
As I hesitated, regretting it, she snatched them from my hand.
"Hm, 20 silver, spot on. Confirmed. Name?"
Counting them one by one, she met my eyes. Up close, she was prettier than expected—got me a little tense.
Ever since Dusar's Curse lifted, eye contact alone had my dick stirring.
"H-Hassan."
"Haak Sanda-nim."
"No, Hassan. Hassan."
"Ah, Hassan-nim. Mind fingerprinting here? Might sting a bit."
She held out what looked like a fancy fountain pen, tip needle-sharp. Yeah, that'd hurt.
"Which finger?"
"Any. Pick one that hurts less."
What even was a less-painful finger?
Reluctantly, I jabbed my left thumb against the edge. Sharp sting, blood beading onto the nib.
"Hand it back."
Taking the pen, she pulled blank parchment and scrawled something in red.
Scratch, scratch.
『Name: Hassan
Strength: 2
Agility: 2
Vitality: 3
Grace: Amateur Handiwork』
"What's that?"
She answered flatly to my question.
"Copied your karma from the blood. This paper and pen read it. Strength 2, Agility 2, Vitality 3. Not bad overall. Total 7—very healthy. No disqualifiers."
"Disqualifiers?"
"Average healthy adult male's about 1 per stat, total 3. Below that, issues arise—hard to register."
So 1 was one person's worth. My stats weren't half bad, then.
I said,
"No mistakes in recording? Nothing missed?"
"By Mars's name, no errors. This appraiser's a saga-grade relic. Anyway, physical check passed..."
News to me that guilds had disqualifiers.
But as I eyed the odd lines, she swallowed hard and continued quietly.
"More importantly, you've got a grace: Amateur Handiwork. First time I've seen it... Hold on, please."
Scrape.
She shoved back her chair and dashed off. I shifted from her back to the paper.
Then, in a whisper no one could hear, I recited the mangled chant from that crumpled pamphlet long ago.
"Chaos Eternal."
Ding.
Cheesy sound effect, text floating up.
『Name: Hassan Lv. 7
Strength: 2
Agility: 2
Vitality: 3
Karma: 307
Grace: Blessing of Chaos, Amateur Handiwork』
Something's definitely fucked up here.