Chapter 69
Chapter 69
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>Translator: Ryuma
>Chapter: 69
>Chapter Title: Ah, So That's How It Is?
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Near the 3rd Base Camp.
On the thick branch of a towering tree.
In the Hamern Great Forest, where midday food chain battles raged fiercely, Belroc sat with his eyes closed, deep in concentration.
Beneath his closed eyelids, his eyeballs darted ceaselessly. It wasn't long before his eyes snapped open.
“……Hmm.”
Belroc half-lidded his eyes and let out a faint groan.
“Well, now.”
His voice carried clear traces of bewilderment.
“A monster like that exists?”
Belroc had only recently become aware of the masked mage.
The old war mage.
To lure and capture that monster, he'd set up several traps.
The Swamp Ruler.
He was the one who'd relocated that ancient beast, guardian of the Death Swamp for centuries, to the wetlands.
‘If the wetlands are blocked, they'll have no choice but to change course.’
He'd planned to wait patiently and swallow the weary bait whole.
“But to think he'd actually catch the Swamp Ruler.”
It was utterly unexpected.
The Swamp Ruler.
What kind of monster was it!
He'd phrased it lightly as "relocating it for the hunt," but moving that ancient beast, stubborn defender of its domain, had taken no small amount of Belroc's effort.
In the process, he'd gotten a clear look at the powers of the ancient beast called the Swamp Ruler.
If someone ordered him to capture it...
‘I could do it. I could, sure.’
A scene of battle flashed through his mind.
The images sent by the familiar he'd released to track the bait were, without exaggeration—
Sheer astonishment!
Ripping out the Swamp Ruler's eyes, then engaging in brutal close-quarters combat.
A mage, no less, trading blows without yielding an inch on the surface.
Truly.
‘A rare breed of madman.’
His face was hidden by the mask, but Belroc knew it instantly.
The bastard...
Was smiling.
Even as he was sent flying by the Swamp Ruler's brutish fist, ripping into its flesh, he smiled.
Surely, beneath that mask, his face bore a brilliantly radiant grin, one rarely seen.
But the truly shocking part was something else.
- Now, let's end this. Thanks to you, it was fun—so I'll show you something fun in return.
A wild surge of mana sparking in his grasp.
Magic? No.
Belroc was a gold demon mage, but his knowledge of magic ran deep.
No—deeper than most mages, with insights honed sharper still.
That was what a gold demon mage was.
Not some half-baked talent who turned to black magic out of inadequacy, but lunatics who willingly corrupted themselves, seduced by the forbidden!
‘There's no spell that can produce that kind of power with such a modest amount of mana.’
A grand mage might manage it.
But among the fewer than ten grand mages on the Eastern Continent, none matched the masked one.
Anyway, that wasn't the point...
- Whiiiiiinnnng.
An explosion that erased all sound in an instant.
After a flash of light, all that remained was the Swamp Ruler's corpse, looking as if it'd been devoured by some massive beast.
A true explosion of annihilation.
Belroc, thinking that far, unconsciously stroked his own forearm.
Goosebumps prickled the skin hidden beneath his robe—that's when he jolted in surprise.
“Well, me...?”
He realized the emotion behind his instinctive physical reaction.
It was none other than...
“......fear?”
Fear. Or terror, as it's called.
But why?
“Heh.”
A chuckle burst out.
“Heh heh. Ha ha ha ha!”
Belroc threw his head back and laughed heartily at the sky.
His laughter echoed wide across the Hamern Great Forest.
After a moment.
“Hah, ha ha ha. This is just... perfect.”
Belroc calmed his laughter, clutching his stomach.
How long had it been since he laughed like this?
His abs ached from the force of it, but it was a pain that brought no displeasure.
“Really, truly fun. Where did a guy like that even come from?”
Sometimes, fools spout lines like this.
‘The world is wide, and there are many strong ones.’
Bullshit.
The world was wide, sure—but prey... no, opponents worthy of satisfying Belroc weren't exactly common.
Especially not ones as lethally thrilling as this masked bastard, enough to make his skin tingle!
To confess...
“This one's gonna be fun.”
The old war mage was, if anything, for show.
A trophy to brag about: Look at the caliber of game I hunted!
But this one was different.
‘I want to hunt him.’
The old war mage might be superior for show, but separately—this one ignited his hunting urge.
No, wait.
‘Not prey...’
Right. This wasn't the feeling of a hunter facing prey.
More like...
‘He's a hunter too.’
He didn't know what the guy hunted.
But one thing was clear: he was a hunter.
Whether mages, knights, monsters, or something else—it didn't matter. At their core, they were the same.
‘This is... right.’
A kindred spirit who could share the thrill of the hunt.
That's why he wanted to hunt him all the more.
Among fellow hunters, what kind was he? Him and this bastard—who was the superior hunter?
“Sssp.”
Belroc licked his parched lips.
‘I’ll... prepare something special.’
He was curious.
What face hid beneath that mask?
At the moment of death, what expression would the hunter wear? What light in his eyes?
“Heh heh, heh heh heh—”
Like a doll with broken emotional circuits.
Belroc stood rigid, shoulders shaking as he let out a hollow, wheezing laugh.
Soon, he picked up the communication orb.
Moments after sending the signal, a voice came through from the other side.
[I see you... progenitor.]
Was it the saturated mana density of the Hamern Great Forest?
The voice from the orb was noisy, not smooth.
But Belroc paid it no mind and issued his command.
“I'll send the location via spirit message. You have two days.”
[As you... command.]
It was a demanding order.
Even the stealthiest couldn't easily penetrate the chaotic Hamern Great Forest.
Yet Belroc, the one commanding, and the black mage responding both ended the call as if it were natural.
Such was the relationship between gold demon mage and black mage.
Like a hunter commanding his hounds at will, absolute obedience regardless of circumstance.
‘Now... the hounds are ready. What stage should I prepare?’
Heh heh.
Belroc's flushed face, brimming with excitement just from imagining it, twisted into a smile.
* * *
We arrived at the 1st Base Camp around the time thick darkness had settled in.
Despite being midnight, not a single torch lit the camp. Railly knocked on one of the tents' flaps, navigating the gloom with ease.
“Base camps usually don't light fires after dusk. Monsters might be drawn to the light...”
We could afford fires during our campsites thanks to Obern's barrier magic.
Base camps had mages or equivalent artifacts, but protocol favored no lights for efficiency.
“We should stay here for now.”
Railly had secured a tent from the base camp keeper and led us there.
Pitch black, impossible to see ahead—but Railly entered a tent with practiced familiarity.
Snap.
Lighting a candle brightened the space.
Railly quickly checked for light leaks, sealed the tent, and sat down.
“Hmm, as expected—it's awfully quiet.”
“Quiet?”
My mana let me pierce the dark, but not Railly.
Yet he knew.
“There's a vibe to these places. Nights at base camps should be dead silent like a graveyard, but there's zero sign of life. Looks like... everyone bolted except the keepers?”
His senses somewhat recovered.
Indeed, as Railly said, the presences nearby were few.
Excluding tiny bugs and small animals, maybe a dozen people at most.
Generously, twenty.
“But the base camp keepers?”
“Oh, right. The mercenary band that owns the camp. They take scraps from users as payment. Bandits, basically...”
Like feudal lords, sort of.
That's when the tent flap opened, and a voice rang out.
“Bandits... Railly. You've grown bold since last time.”
“......!”
The uninvited guest inside.
A burly mercenary with a voice like rumbling thunder.
Railly was no small fry himself, but this guy made him look puny—a walking muscle mountain.
I stared blankly at the man. Then Obern, who'd been silent, spoke.
“......The Chief who rules the 1st Base Camp. His band's name is...”
“Abiot. Abiot.”
The man cut Obern off, grabbed a chair, and sat.
With that build—would the chair hold?
It looked pitiful.
‘Chief, huh?’
I scanned the middle-aged man.
Graying beard, thinning white hair—transitioning from middle age to old.
Yet his eyes burned with a youthful sharpness.
That's when the Chief extended a hand to me.
“......?”
“Just shaking hands. You don't know that?”
“Ah, so that's how it is?”
I'd had plenty of this experience.
You know how it goes in a group of rough men— the ritual power play.
I grinned and gripped his hand. The Chief's face twisted instantly.
“Wh-what the hell are you doing?”
“......?”
Image-conscious, maybe.
Jaw clenched against the pain. His voice feigned calm, but agony leaked through.
His eyes brimmed with shock—though I was the confused one.
“......This wrong?”
The Chief didn't reply.
Just shot a glance at Railly.
“......You brought every lunatic out there.”
“Haha, well...”
“Enough.”
The Chief shook off his hand and eyed me.
“Mage sir, mind my age. Too old for childish arm-wrestling.”
“Didn't know.”
“......Tch.”
Fine, whatever.
He glares.
Tempted to sock him in the eye socket, but I held back.
I was a refined mage, after all.
But that aside.
“So, what brings a venerable gentleman like you here?”
“What else? Business. Heard you're heading back to the 4th Base Camp.”
“How did you...?”
Obern reacted to the Chief's words.
Makes sense—we'd just arrived at the 1st.
But the Chief glanced at those innocent eyes, then stared pityingly at Railly.
“Your own Pathfinder's got a loose tongue and you don't even know. Last visit, he blabbed nonstop. Probably spilled the plan to fleece that naive mage too?”
“......!”
“Anyway... looks like it failed spectacularly.”
Railly's already pale face drained to corpse-like white.
Obern either didn't get it or dismissed it as old news.
He just stared calmly at the Chief.
I broke the silence.
“So, Chief—what's your business?”
“Simple...”
Creak.
Leaning forward, the already shaky chair groaned.
His muscles seemed to swell massively.
“Take us to the 4th Base Camp too.”
“Huh?”
As I let out a baffled laugh at the unexpected request, the Chief continued.
“You see us loudmouths as mere bandits, but even bandits cherish their turf.”
“So...”
“I know roughly what's going down. Chiefs have a network.”
Meaning he knew about Destrow approaching from deeper in.
The Chief spoke then.
“If the 4th falls, we won't be safe. We'll fight too.”
In other words.
Nicely put: risking life to defend his domain.
Harshly: asking us to lead them to their suicide spot.
Not a bad deal, though.
‘More hands, the better.’
You might doubt mercenaries' usefulness, but it wasn't just Destrow.
The surrounding undead flood would be no pushovers either.
But why?
“No.”
A firm voice.
“......?”
I turned puzzled toward the source.
There stood Obern, face unusually tense, glaring at the Chief.