The Assassin's Bargain
About a day later, some twenty new recruits joined the Wolf Mercenary Corps.
They were refugees who had once belonged to village self-defense militias or worked as hunters—men whose homes had been reduced to ash by the undead, leaving them destitute overnight. They could not go on begging forever, so they decided to put their experience with weapons to use and become mercenaries.
With the swelling ranks came a new wagon and a fresh horse, and the corps itself grew larger still.
"These are the recruits who will be traveling with us from now on. I've said it before, but don't haze them too hard."
"Whoa! Fresh meat!"
"Finally, some new blood we can put through the wringer!"
Lillian, still wearing her helmet, issued only that single warning against excessive bullying and left the rest to the veterans.
"And from this point on, we head south—to the Zangeri Kingdom."
"Once we've purchased a sufficient stock of provisions there, we return north to Halrot Kingdom and take on commissions related to the Deadly Wave."
Whenever Lillian set the corps' direction, Fredrick supplied the practical reasons behind it. A few of the mercenaries muttered that the food shortage could not possibly be that severe and stirred a faint current of opposition, but Wolf and Fredrick's judgment had almost never gone far wrong, so most of them simply accepted the plan.
"The new recruits will use the breathing room of the round trip to Zangeri to settle into the corps."
With that, the mercenaries broke camp and prepared to march south toward the Zangeri Kingdom.
Meanwhile Clint—not a recruit, but a man granted a week's stay with the Wolf Mercenary Corps—was quietly making himself useful with odd jobs.
"Th-this goes over there, right?"
"Hey, grab that one on your way."
"Yes, sir!"
He had been given a week, but sitting idle and freeloading would have felt like a betrayal of Kaisent, the boy who had taken him in. So he worked hard in his own way. Being hunted had also taught him that survival demanded sharp instincts; his situational awareness was already keen.
"Kid's got good instincts."
"Yeah. Kaisent was diligent, but he was pretty slow on the uptake at first."
These days Kaisent was sharp at everything, yet when he had first joined the Wolf Mercenary Corps his social radar had been somewhat dull. Raised in the unconditional affection of doting older sisters, he had never needed to read other people's moods. Still, his earnest will and quick mind had let him adapt fast enough.
"Think he might have talent like Kaisent?"
"No chance. Kaisent's the son of an archmage—that's why he throws magic around like that."
They said it, yet a quiet expectation still circulated among the mercenaries: Kaisent had brought the boy in, so he must have something.
"Everyone gather up!"
"Form a circle!"
"Round up tight!"
"Huh?"
"W-what? What are you doing?"
The moment camp was fully broken down, every veteran began herding the recruits into a tight cluster.
"What exactly is this?"
"Just hold still. It's faster than explaining."
⟨ Mass Feather Walk ⟩
While the recruits stood bewildered, Kaisent cast Feather Walk over the entire clustered mass of mercenaries.
"Huh? Whoa—!"
"What the—? My steps feel light as air!"
Men who had been ordinary villagers only days before, tasting magic for the first time, could not hide their wonder at the alien sensation.
"Hey, recruits. Don't look down on Kaisent just because he's small."
"Right. In practical terms he's basically third in the corps hierarchy."
"Another company once tried to hire him for a hundred and eighty gold."
"A hundred and eighty gold?!"
While they had been scolded and put to work striking camp, the boy had done nothing at all—so they had shot him a few sidelong glances. Never once had they imagined he was a mage.
Once the frame of "mage" settled over him, the snow-white hair and eyes, the flawless skin free of a single blemish, suddenly took on an almost mystical allure.
The impact under my feet is softer with every step. Kaisent really is a mage…
When the boy had saved him, Clint's consciousness had been too fogged to notice. Now that he had felt the power of magic for himself, he understood how fortunate he truly was—fortunate enough to have received help from a mage who was also a kind, compassionate friend.
Found him.
The clock tower at the heart of the city. From its summit—high enough for every citizen to see—the tracker, disguised in human form rather than Machinaroid chassis, locked onto Clint.
Through a camera capable of magnifying anywhere from several times to several hundred times, the tracker had scanned every visible human being until the image of Clint walking with the Wolf Mercenary Corps finally resolved.
Had the corps not performed that strange circular gathering, the tracker would have lost him completely.
Clint, believing everything was already settled and letting his guard drop entirely, had no way of knowing that the tracker he thought permanently shut down by Lorentz's bio-bomb had reactivated and was once again on his trail.
Thanks to Feather Walk, even the recruits unaccustomed to long marches managed to keep something close to the veterans' pace, and the journey proceeded smoothly. Undead occasionally blocked the road, but Mingming—still under Kaisent's command—let them detour just enough to avoid unnecessary fights. When the numbers looked manageable, the veterans pulled the recruits into combat so they could build experience against the undead.
When evening came and they made camp, the veterans carefully deflated the recruits' swelling confidence under the polite name of "training." A handful of sluggish undead was nothing; if the newcomers grew too full of themselves, there was no telling what reckless stunt they might attempt. Few things were harder to manage than a recruit drunk on his own courage.
"But, uh… sir?"
"Hm?"
"There might be undead nearby. Isn't the watch a little thin?"
"Ah, that? Don't worry. Kaisent's laid magic traps all around the perimeter. The moment any undead get close—"
Jingle-jingle-jingle-jingle-jingle!
As if on cue, one of Kaisent's magical snares triggered. Yet even with the cheerful ringing filling the air, the mercenaries rose with deliberate, unhurried calm. Even Fredrick, who normally carried himself like a sharp soldier, approached Kaisent in a voice utterly free of tension.
"Kaisent. Roughly how many?"
"One moment… that's odd. They're definitely all in the traps, but…"
"We'll go check. You heard him. Recruits! Grab the oil casks!"
The newcomers could only stare in confusion as the veterans, still hearing the alarm, calmly collected oil and nothing else. They lit torches and walked toward the sound—and found undead thrashing at the bottom of pits, arms stretched upward as they tried to claw their way free.
"This is work you'll be doing yourselves soon enough. Spread it evenly. That way they burn faster."
"Y-yes, sir. Right away."
After the undead had been reduced to ash with almost insulting ease, one of the recruits ventured a careful question.
"When did you dig these holes? Digging something like this would take forever."
"Kaisent, obviously. He excavated them with magic and then layered alarm traps on top. Bad luck this time—the undead dropped their weapons as they fell in."
The veterans confirmed that a discarded weapon had tripped the alarm and reacted with mild disappointment, the tension already gone.
"So this is what a real mage looks like?"
"Nothing like the potion-peddling hedge wizards who used to wander through our village."
"Not even close. Completely different league."
For the first time the recruits understood why these rough, hard-bitten veterans treated Kaisent with careful respect and never crossed a certain line.
And the tracker who had been shadowing the Wolf Mercenary Corps in secret witnessed it as well.
If that mage is present, eliminating the target will be difficult.
The power called magic in this world remained incomprehensible—but one fact was clear.
Kill him before he can use it.
The mage who had once tried to study the tracker's body had been dealt with just as simply: neck snapped before a single spell could form. Kaisent looked small of frame. Get close enough, and disposal would be trivial.
The tracker began rapidly assembling a plan to assassinate Clint.
I still cannot understand where that alarm originates or how it functions.
Thermal imaging, vibration sensors, sonar—every available sensory suite failed to explain the principle behind the alarm magic. Therefore the assault would proceed on the assumption of triggering it. Torches and sentries would be handled with thrown stones; the moment chaos erupted, the tracker would strike. After that—improvisation.
As time passed and every mercenary except the watch drifted into sleep, the tracker prepared to move. Then, mid-motion, the figure froze, adjusted optical magnification, and fixed on one side of the camp.
There, the mage who would be the greatest obstacle to the assassination was walking away somewhere with a human carrying a greatsword.
Opportunity.
If the mage removed himself, the difficulty of the kill dropped dramatically. All that remained was to eliminate the future last hope of humanity—the commander who possessed the strange power to subjugate machines—and the mission would be complete.
The tracker began to move through the darkness, then paused for one final confirmation of the mage's position.
Gone?
In the bare instant the tracker's gaze had shifted, the mage had vanished completely. Even thermal vision found nothing.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
"?!"
A violent tremor surged up from beneath the tracker's feet. The figure leapt skyward at once, trying to secure a full field of view—
THUD-THUD-THUD!
—only for arrows faster than bullets to slam into the tracker's body as if they had anticipated every motion.
Where?
The direction of fire was clear, yet no presence registered. Then a spinning arrow punched into the back of the tracker's skull. It failed to pierce the ceramic plating, skittered across the surface, and fell away limp.
Found you!
The tracker whipped around toward the rear attack and, through the thermal camera, finally locked onto a human figure moving at high speed. Landing hard, the tracker broke into a full sprint straight at the attacker.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
"!!"
The instant the tracker prepared to counter, massive vines erupted from the earth and coiled around the mechanical body. The tracker thrashed desperately, trying to tear free—but before that could happen, the attacker leveled a blade forged from mechanical gauntlets at the tracker's head.
"So it was you. The machine that came to the past to kill Clint."
Kaisent dropped his invisibility while still wearing a magic item that erased sound, and the sight of the mechanical human he had once seen filled his face with self-reproach. If he had not ignored the figure back then, Clint would never have been left alone. When Mingming first reported a pursuer, Kaisent had half-dismissed it—only for that half-doubt to return in the worst possible form.
"Kaisent. Did you get it?"
"Yes. I've got it."
A moment later Lillian appeared and confirmed the assassin tangled in the vines. She, too, was briefly startled to realize that the mechanical human they had once encountered was the very assassin hunting Clint.
"I have a proposal, organic beings."
"Organic?"
"It means living creatures. Machine intelligences refer to humans that way."
"You seem rather familiar with beings like me."
The tracker regarded Kaisent with open interest—someone who knew its nature and even understood the vocabulary of machine intelligence.
"I will say it once more. I have a proposal."
"What is it."
Kaisent, who normally used polite speech with nearly everyone except Clint and enemies of similar age, answered flatly and without courtesy.
"First, an exchange of designations. My unit designation is AT-900."
"My name is Jin Resili Caisent. Call me Kaisent. What do you want to propose?"
"Yes, Kaisent. My proposal is this: give me the life of Clint Garfield."
"…"
"Should you accept, I will serve you until the day my functions cease. How does that sound?"
"A machine bent on wiping out humanity talks a good game."
"You misunderstand, Kaisent. My mission is the elimination of Clint Garfield—not the extermination of humanity. That task belongs to the machines of our world once Clint is gone."
In other words: kill Clint, and the rest was irrelevant.
"Well? Clint's world has nothing to do with any of you, does it? Do not concern yourselves with the affairs of other worlds. Is that not the rule of this one?"
"I refuse."
"Hm. An interesting refusal. Why? For the sake of Clint's world?"
"No. Worlds and all that nonsense don't matter to me. Because Clint is my friend."
"A line straight out of a Japanese-style shonen manga protagonist from the world I came from. In that case, allow me to answer thus: drop dead, idiot."
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
In an instant the tracker shed its human guise, shifted into full Machinaroid form, ripped free of the vines, and swung an arm. The entire negotiation had been a ruse—feigning capture so the opponents would misjudge their control.
A knife-hand thrust aimed at Kaisent's face—only for Lillian's greatsword, already poised to strike, to smash down across AT-900's arm.
"Then I'll answer like this."
Defensive lightning magic — inner energy fully poured in
CRACKLE-CRACKLE-CRACKLE-CRACKLE!!
"You really think I didn't see this coming?"
With Lillian's support, Kaisent seized AT-900's head and flooded the defensive spell Electric Grasp with a ferocious surge of inner energy. Ordinary machinery would have failed under such a shock, yet AT-900's nanoparticle-reinforced ceramic withstood even that violent current. Minor circuit disruption occurred, but killing a single human at point-blank range remained trivial.
Then the body locked rigid.
"…Huh?"
Mid-lunge for a second strike, AT-900 suddenly froze solid.
Why has a shutdown command been issued?
"Wondering why the shutdown order came through, aren't you."
"What did you do, Kaisent."
"Nothing much. I analyzed the system you carry and used the electrical shock to rewrite the command string—issuing a full stop."
"Impossible! A bare human, without any hacking tools, performing high-difficulty intrusion of that caliber—that cannot exist!"
For the first time AT-900 felt the twin emotions of shock and denial, and tried to refute Kaisent's words.
"Hacking tools? I had those from the start."
While conversing with AT-900, Kaisent had been reading the unit's system data through a bio-device only he could see. An ordinary bio-device could never have managed it—but the custom model crafted by his family also contained the distilled technical essence of Skynet. Remote data intrusion and analysis of any program, of any kind.
It was possible only because Skynet had been born in a world far further into the future than AT-900's own—and because that intelligence had chosen to live alongside humanity.