Warrior Marygold (2)
3.
“Huff, huff!”
The moment she saw the sun sinking, Marygold bolted down the street. No sooner had she arrived at the inn than a shout rang out.
“Mary! Why are you so late? Get to cleaning the bathhouses, and fast.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Her palms, now those of a seventeen-year-old, were wrapped tightly in pristine white bandages. She wore them to protect against the blisters from daily wooden sword practice, and they'd become one of her defining traits.
“Dumping the hardest job—bathhouse cleaning—on a young lady like you. What a bunch of real assholes.”
“It's fine, it's fine. If I think of it as training, it doesn't bother me at all.”
Mary rolled up her sleeves. Beneath her sleek, agile skin, firm muscles stood out prominently. It was the body of someone who'd endured months of grueling practice and training.
“Heh heh, Miss Mary?”
A voice slithered from behind her.
“You look pretty no matter when I see you, Miss Mary. How about waiting on me in the bath sometime?”
As he reached for her body while she was busy cleaning, Marygold vanished from his sight just before his hand made contact. All he saw was the floor and ceiling flipping 180 degrees.
“Gahk!”
A pained groan burst from the man's mouth.
“Grrrrgh……”
“What was that? Did you hear something?”
A middle-aged waitress came running at the thud. Marygold waved her hands frantically.
“N-no, this guy just tripped suddenly… all by himself.”
“Really?”
“Miss Mary's right.”
Too proud to admit he'd been thrown after groping in secret, the man sided with Marygold.
“Jeez, that's what you get for barging into a bathhouse during cleaning. Get out!”
“My legs… I can't stand……”
“Then crawl!”
“Fine, fine.”
Marygold let out a sigh of relief as she watched him actually crawl away. This wasn't the first or second time something like this had happened at the inn. Young waitresses were always targets for lecherous men, some more persistent than others.
That was one reason Marygold had resolved to learn swordsmanship from her master—to defend herself. In the capital, such skills were essential.
“Tch! Tch tch! Buncha lowlife pervs. You should just quit this dump, miss.”
“Then I'd have to work at a tavern or brothel. Those are way worse.”
“Ughhh! Are there really no better jobs in the capital? I'm worried sick about you, miss.”
Pina fumed, but there was nothing for it. For Marygold, who'd only been settled in the capital for two years, even this was a blessing.
“Done cleaning? Then grab a bite and rest.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As she caught her breath, a commotion erupted from the inn's dining area.
“Paying mercenaries a base salary? Bullshit! Scammers, every last one.”
“I heard it myself, okay? They looked like total greenhorns, fresh off the farm.”
“Noble? Or rich?”
“Both.”
“……Where at?”
Marygold's spoon froze midway to her mouth as her ears perked up.
“Mercenary Guild Lancel, or something.”
Thump.
Something stirred deep inside Marygold. A familiar name. One from her dreams. The source of those strange feelings that sometimes kept her tossing and turning at night.
Lancel.
“Better go before they're full. They ain't hiring many. You should quit delivery anyway.”
“Yeah. I've always been the type to live by the blade. Back in my day……”
Marygold set down her spoon. Pina tilted her head, sensing something off.
“Miss?”
“Pina. Think I should quit the inn?”
“Huh?”
4.
The next morning, crowds swarmed the Mercenary Guild. Mostly seasoned mercenaries, men who'd swung a sword before, or those who prided themselves on their strength.
“How many you reckon, Hestie?”
“Looks like just under a hundred.”
“Quite the turnout.”
“No surprise. For folks who starve or turn bandit without work, a guaranteed silver a week is huge.”
“Even I think it's generous.”
Lancel chuckled.
To join the escort event, one needed proof of recent feats: completion grades on the latest 'five requests,' from S to F rank. Minimum average B or higher.
As guild master, he couldn't handle them personally—it'd look bad—so he needed reliable mercenaries to shine.
Yes. Including Marygold.
But she's not here. Skipping today?
If not, he'd drag her in. For now, focus on recruiting.
“Ready?”
“Yes, sir. Leave it to us.”
The examiners were three escorts Lancel had handpicked. They'd test the applicants directly.
“Begin.”
“Yes, young master. Three at a time!”
“One by one! No cutting—first come, first served!”
Bellowing men lined up before the examiners. From there, it was swift.
“Pathetic! Out!”
“Next!”
“Argh!”
“Quit whining!”
No amateur could match lifelong swordsmen, even mercenaries. In-game, escorts were at least 'advanced soldiers'; these were 'elite soldiers.' A clear gap from street brawlers.
“Go easy. Easy.”
The escorts seemed to relish venting on real opponents.
“At this rate, more'll wash out than pass.”
Lancel sipped his tea without replying to Hestie.
—Imperial Year 818, June 3. Weather: Very clear.—
—Random event, ‘Prince's Outing’, has occurred. (Location: Empire outskirts, Mercenary Guild Lancel).
“Pffft!”
“……Young master.”
“Sorry. Wipe it with this.”
“You did that on purpose.”
“Nonsense.”
Hestie wiped the tea from her face with a handkerchief, pouting.
Prince's Outing. Now? No, why here?
Lancel moved to leave hastily. But just as he turned—
“A noble-run mercenary guild? Nothing special after all.”
His blood ran cold. The voice came from right beside him.
“Just a wayward soul passing by, Yustia. Heard there was a fun show, so I dropped in. Honestly, it's underwhelming.”
Yustia. An alias.
Lancel knew his real name.
Yuri Langris Phrygia.
The man from the game, listed simply as '3rd Prince.' He stood hat pulled low, right next to Lancel.
Lancel sensed it: a faint mana barrier around the prince. No wonder he hadn't noticed.
“A fine mage like you might find this boring.”
“……”
“No need to be shocked. I just have good instincts.”
His eyes gleamed under the hat.
“Instincts, huh. First time hearing someone spots a mage that way.”
Lancel felt an invisible force coil around his throat. Mana blades, sharp enough to slice steel. Anyone sensing the killing intent would buckle.
Lancel didn't blink.
After testing him, Yuri withdrew the mana.
“Thought this guild was a letdown, but you're interesting, Sir Lancel.”
Here for a pissing contest?
Lancel dodged the prickling gaze.
“Next!”
And a familiar face appeared.
“A woman?”
“Isn't she from the local inn?”
Murmurs rose.
She's here. Marygold.
Lancel noted her transformed look. Fitted leather pants for mobility, a clinging blouse, thick leather boots, gauntlets. Her muscled frame curved gracefully, lean and honed without an ounce of fat.
Nothing like the fifteen-year-old I saw.
Good food grows the body. Training shapes it. Pure Marygold potential.
“Hm.”
—Encounter event occurred. ‘3rd Prince Yuri Langris Phrygia’ takes interest in Marygold.—
Yuri stroked his chin.
“A woman mercenary, huh.”
Women mercenaries weren't rare. The issue: Marygold didn't look the part.
One examiner approached.
“Name?”
“Mary. Please go easy on me.”
“Pick your examiner and stand before them.”
“Yes!”
Marygold strode toward the three lined up. Eyes followed: who would she choose?
“What?”
“Where's she……”
She passed them all. And went straight to the man leaning against the reception desk.
“……?”
“One bout, please. Sir Lancel Dante.”
Her eyes burned with fervor. Lancel froze at the sight of Marygold before him.