Don't Touch My Outlander
"From this moment on, everyone is to disarm completely, strip down, and check each other — nicely — for any bleeding or wounds on the skin. Check inside the nose and mouth as well."
Has he lost his mind?
That was the first thought that crossed every mercenary's mind. But the moment they heard the reason, they started peeling off their clothes without ceremony. This was a matter of life and death.
"This place is insane. So if anyone bleeds, a monster wave starts?"
"This is beyond all common sense, this place..."
"Let's just do what Messi says. He's not the type to set us up to die."
Live the mercenary life long enough and you see all kinds of things. But a strangeness that defied common sense like this — that was a first.
Stripping down among a bunch of men to inspect each other's flesh and wounds, as a requirement for survival...
There was, at least, one consolation they could all share.
"...What are you looking at!!! Enjoying the show?!"
Captain Ayla — the sole woman among them.
"Heh heh, Captain! I'll check you over. You can't see your own b-back, can you? Let me see that back...! The back!"
"Gaston, get the hell away from me!"
Ayla, finding herself in a tight spot, glanced around as if searching for someone, then called out at once.
"Messi! Where's Messi!"
"Wait... you're giving Messi the chance to see the Captain's bo— I mean, check her wounds?!"
"Why are you getting pissed! Is it your body or mine? Messi's an otherworlder, so it's fine!"
And so, leaving a wake of bitter disappointment behind them, the two of them ended up face to face behind a very thick tree.
Messi let out a long sigh, then gestured to Ayla.
"Alright then. Go ahead and strip."
"What was that sigh just now! That was the sigh of a husband who's been married twenty years watching his wife take her clothes off!"
"You're the one who picked me. You'll find fault with anything, won't you. If you're going to do it, hurry up."
"Nngh."
Ayla began slowly unfastening her leather armor. Her hands were clumsy — taking off her gear in front of someone else was clearly unfamiliar work. Fair enough. Until now, she would have always stripped her armor alone, even surrounded by men.
"At this rate we'll be here forever. The longer this takes, the more the people outside are going to get the wrong idea, don't you think? I'll help."
"Euh—!"
What was that sound just now.
Messi decided to help her undo the armor and peel off the guards. It wasn't to carry on Gaston's crusade to see her back — but he did step behind her to unfasten the securing straps and metal clasps.
The armor slid down by degrees, and the neck guard came away with it. Her pale nape and the reddish-blonde hair that bloomed against it like down made a strangely perfect pairing.
The moment her skin was laid bare in earnest, a faint flush of heat blossomed across it, as if embarrassment had brought the blood up.
"Why so shy. After all that bragging about how Young Master is unmatched in bed at night."
"Th-that's business... this isn't the same..."
Well, she had a point there. Messi had to concede that one.
Awkward silence settled over them again. The only sound was the tick, tick of armor clasps coming undone.
Ayla was the one who spoke first.
"And... Young Master. He's not actually that good."
"Pardon?"
"He thinks he's incredible, you know. Pfft. He's a rabbit — done in a heartbeat."
"...Pardon?"
"I almost actually had to go into Sir Ramang's bedchamber and go two rounds, just like that bastard told me to."
"Haha!"
Nothing broke the awkwardness between a man and a woman quite like a well-timed dirty joke.
But even that lost its effect soon enough.
Green brush. A fine, persistent rain. Air and earth heavy with moisture. And in the middle of it, a grown woman, fully undressed. Light seemed to catch on her voluptuous body.
She had already shed her rain cloak, and the droplets falling from the sky struck her skin, rolled along her curves, then beaded and dripped from the place where the swell tucked inward.
"...You have a lot of scars."
"...I'm a mercenary."
"No open wounds, though. Inside of your mouth looks fine too."
"When did you even check there?"
Ayla had her protective gear back on in moments, rain cloak and all. That much, at least, she didn't need Messi's hands for.
"Done?"
"Yes. Looks good."
"Looks good, he says....."
She snorted a little laugh and walked on ahead. She seemed to have taken his words in an entirely different sense, but Messi didn't correct her.
It had looked good, after all.
Messi returned to the mercenary column. He ignored the looks of jealousy and envy and set about treating anyone who had a problem.
It was a profession that involved a great deal of travel, and festering feet were the most common complaint. Some of the wounds were so bad he wondered how anyone had been walking on them — but the patients themselves were indifferent. Once he'd treated them, though, they felt the difference, and he received their thanks.
There was, however, one man whose injuries were an exception.
"Why is he hurt this badly? I don't remember anyone like this before."
"This idiot got drunk and took a tumble yesterday. Rookies, you know. A bit stupid."
A mercenary named Den had brought over a new recruit, and the young man was covered in bruises and wounds from his face to every corner of his body. The inside of his mouth was torn up, and dried blood was crusted inside his nose.
"...Those are clearly blunt-force injuries. Who did he fight yesterday?"
"What's with the questions. Just heal him, yeah?"
The beaten recruit fidgeted and said nothing, while this Den fellow spoke with a sneer. Even if Messi had wanted to let it go, something about it was off.
"Injuries this bad... Captain Ayla knows about this, I assume?"
"...!"
"And they're beatings, at that? The Red Fox Mercenary Group isn't some street-corner gang... was this even reported?"
"...Look at this pathetic otherworlder bastard getting full of himself again."
The words were thick with aggression. Messi's eyes left his patient and settled on Den.
In Den's gaze was an unmistakable malice that hadn't been there before — and underneath it, a bedrock of disgust and loathing for otherworlders.
Figures.
Even if the mercenaries had crowded around calling him their lifesaver and thanking him, Messi had never believed that was the opinion of the whole. Kindness was wasted on men like this. To them, he would only look "pathetic" and full of himself — just as Den had said.
"Why don't you just quietly heal him?"
"I'd rather not."
"I said heal him."
"I'd rather not."
"You son of a bitch! Just shut up and heal him!!"
Den rounded on him instead, seizing Messi by the collar. The volume of it drew eyes from all around.
"Fuck, you're dead. I was already itching for this, and now you've gone and handed it to me. You think I haven't killed one or two otherworlder bastards in my time as a mercenary? Huh? You wanna die? Trash like you just does what we tell you. Don't get clever, you little shit!"
Drunkard Den — the nickname was a simple one. It wasn't just that he had a bottle at his lips every day. His temper was so foul you couldn't tell whether he was drunk or sober.
Even under Den's blood-chilling threats, nobody around them made a move to stop him. If anything, they watched with interest, as if a good show had just started.
Messi studied their faces. One thing in common: they were the men who had been near Durek yesterday — the ones Gaston had pointed out. Durek himself was a little further off, whispering with the man beside him, spectating.
So that's how it is. A faction's formed, has it? Ayla's influence must have slipped...
Even as the situation turned ugly, Messi's mind never stopped turning. If Den had been able to read thoughts, he might have felt a chill.
Five years he had lived in the Forest of Resentment with his master. Monsters so thick you'd trip over them. A man like Den was never going to shake him.
Even when Den drew a dagger and waved it in Messi's face, nothing changed.
"How about it, huh? You getting the picture now? You understand your place? You're such a great healer, yeah? Wonder if you'll still heal that well with this stuck through your gut and out the other side, huh?"
The dagger isn't even properly sharpened. He's so worked up he can't grip it right. And this is supposed to be a threat? An attendant just saw this and ran, so the knights will be here any moment — which means my safety is as good as guaranteed. In other words, this is a fight I literally cannot lose... isn't this a chance to gain real combat experience?
The accounting in his head was finished.
Conclusion.
This was a fight worth taking.
I've been wondering whether the body work has actually settled in, anyway.
Messi slowly raised both arms. It looked for all the world like a man terrified of the blade, surrendering on the spot. Snickers rippled through the onlookers, and Den's swagger swelled to match.
He'd just publicly humiliated the upstart who'd been making such a scene. The others' opinion of him would only rise. Den was thoroughly pleased. He'd lost his temper and picked a fight, but it had worked out perfectly.
He was utterly at ease. Smiling, he opened his mouth to continue the threat.
...Huh?
Den thought. What?
Suddenly Messi's forehead filled his vision. Far too close.
What? What? Wait—
And then a savage pain exploded through his face.
Crack!
"Kh— kyaaaaagh!"
It had started from Messi's posture of surrender. From there he locked his hands together, formed a loop, and brought it down hard across the arm Den was using to hold his collar.
The sudden shock to the joint folded the arm. Den's body was pulled naturally forward. It wasn't that Messi had come closer — Den's face had.
All that remained was a single, devastating blow to steal the man's wits.
Messi showed no mercy. He snapped his head forward with everything he had. Den's nasal bone collapsed on impact, and that wasn't all — his front teeth went flying. Den clutched his face, unable to collect himself, staggering backward, blood pouring. He flailed one hand wildly, as if drowning on dry land.
"Wha—!"
The situation had reversed in an instant. The mercenaries around them went blank. Messi used that gap and closed on Den without a wasted step.
A click — he unfastened the clasp of his sword belt. Then he swung the blade, scabbard and all.
A clean lateral cut, driven from a heavy, rooted lower body.
Anyone watching would have said Messi's movement was a page torn from a swordsmanship manual. It was Gaston's form — the fruit of that man's effort and talent. Messi had taken it and made it his own.
Gaston had undervalued his own gifts, and so he had at least tried to make the motion itself perfect. He had swung a sword tens of thousands of times and tempered himself against it. Because the form was so exemplary, its effect was tremendous.
Crunch!
The end of the scabbard struck just below Den's temple — the jaw joint. It smashed through the jawbone and the joint and kept going. The shock carried all the way to the brain. The sound of it was enough to crawl up the spine.
A wet, heavy slap — Den's body folded onto the soaked ground. He looked like a dead frog. That single blow had snuffed his consciousness out cold.
Patter. Patter.
The rain was the only sound left. The world around them had gone that quiet.
A click.
Messi fastened his sword back in place, then looked at the new recruit.
"I seem to have stolen your share without meaning to. Sorry about that."
"Ah.. n-no... I... thank you..?"
The recruit, still dazed, had just unconsciously confessed that Den was the one who'd beaten him. A truly green one. Messi started treating him.
"Whoa, what the hell just happened?"
"Did you see that?"
"Drunkard Den just got wrecked in the blink of an eye?"
If Den had lost after a hard fight, they might have been angry. This wasn't even that.
A veteran mercenary, overwhelmed in an instant.
He'd let his guard down — but that was no excuse. Every defeat has a reason. All that remains is the result.
The mercenaries knew that.
The shockwave slowly ate its way through the gathered crowd.
The knights arrived in short order. Unexpectedly, Ereb was at their head, and the look on his face was extremely ugly.
"Which bastard... dared try to kill my otherworlder? Dared!!"
Before he knew it, Messi had come to occupy the most critical position in his plans. If Messi were to die, it would be a fatal blow.
That said...
My otherworlder? That's going too far.
Messi shook his head. He almost felt sorry for Den, who was about to take Ereb's rage head-on.
Den came to, saw Ereb standing over him, and began to tremble violently with fear.
"Was it you?"
"Uh... uh... that's...."
"...Never seen such a worthless piece of shit."
He didn't wait for an answer. The kicks came anyway. Den curled into a ball the way the recruit he'd beaten last night had done, but it was useless.
Ereb was a power incomparably beyond him.
Every time that steel-clad foot swung, it sank into Den's body, over and over. There was the sound of blood bursting and bone giving way, and at times something inside him ruptured.
It was a sight that crawled up the spine.
"Uh.... uhh......"
"Boyle! Boyle! Where the hell are you!"
"Y-yes! You called, Young Master!"
At his master's summons, the healer Boyle came scrambling over in a panic.
"Treat this one."
"Pardon? But he's past the point where Heal can—"
"That's why I'm telling you to treat him."
Boyle's body shook. He had understood his master's meaning.
Set the wounds wrong. Leave him permanently crippled.
Ereb wiped the blood that had spattered his face with the back of his hand, then swept his gaze once across the crowd. And he smiled.
"I like those faces. Expressions that suit your station."
Then he pointed at Messi.
No answer was required. Ereb turned and went back the way he had come, irritably shaking scraps of flesh and blood from his iron boots.
In the space he left behind, Boyle's treatment continued. No — it was not treatment. It was the deliberate making of a cripple.
It was carried out in an atmosphere like a public execution.
Muscle fused twisted. Bone set crooked. The ruined face was left grotesque, and one of the eyeballs was no longer right.
Every time they looked at Den, they would remember. The cruelty of the man who ruled them. The place they occupied.
And that they must never, ever touch Messi.