Chapter 30: Pouring Rain, Empty Castle
Rain fell in a steady drizzle, and there wasn't a soul in sight. The atmosphere hung heavy, and thick fog from the downpour shrouded their vision. The humid air naturally spiked everyone's discomfort. Above all, the mercenaries, who had marched without proper rest, now felt the weight of accumulated fatigue crashing down.
They glared at their employer, Azar, but had no choice but to obey.
"Ah! Take the slaves inside the castle."
"...Shall we open the cages?"
"Are you mad? What if the slaves escape?!"
At Azar's words, the mercenaries led the donkeys into the castle. They barely squeezed the wagons through the narrow gate. Inside, instead of people, only rats scurried about freely.
"This place... looks completely empty."
"What should we do?"
Azar pondered the mercenary's question.
"Ugh, why is there no one here at all? We ordered slave goods—they couldn't have just vanished somewhere... Did we take a wrong turn?!"
Azar groaned over the map. He had every reason to be bewildered. The map clearly marked this spot. Yet it was as deserted as an abandoned fiefdom.
Azar pointed accusingly at the mercenaries and shouted.
"Eek, if we head to another territory in this storm, the goods will die on the way. We're staying here for the night."
"...Here?"
The mercenaries eyed the gloomy castle keep.
"No one's around anyway... What's the harm? Everyone, set up camp here!"
The mercenaries began unloading. The slave wagons were shoved into a corner deep inside the keep. Azar scanned the interior, his eyes gleaming as he hurried off. The castle was littered with valuables.
"Oho! Can you believe it? Leaving treasures like these behind!"
Well-painted pictures adorned the walls, silver bowls and candlesticks sat on tables, and ornate shelves held crafts. Common for nobles, but unimaginable luxuries for commoners. Azar glanced around slyly and pocketed a few items. The mercenaries followed suit, pilfering discreetly.
Loki walked the corridors, observing the interior. Surprisingly, it was tidy.
"...Quite clean."
"It's the lord's castle, after all."
Loki glanced at a decorative flowerpot in the hall as Pol, walking beside him, spoke. The tree inside gleamed with vibrant green leaves.
"...Still fresh inside the castle?"
It was a sign people had been here not long ago.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Just talking to myself."
Azar stopped before what seemed the lord's lavish chamber and addressed the mercenaries.
"This is my room! No one enters!"
He vanished inside. The mercenaries smacked their lips enviously.
"Tch, hogging a noble's room all to himself."
"You think that stingy merchant will share with us? We saw him fretting over the slaves dying in the rain. Touch anything valuable, and he'll throw a fit and complain to the guild."
As the mercenaries grumbled, their captain emerged.
"Selecting watch shifts."
They decided to stand guard on the castle floors. But in an abandoned place with no people—unlike a normal village—it was different. Abandonment implied potential dangers.
"Two on the walls, two at the gate. Two near the inner walls, one inside. And since someone spotted people in the village earlier, we'll send three to investigate. If the village is nearly empty too, there must be a reason."
The apparent leader among the mercenaries glanced toward Loki while issuing orders.
Loki and Rapilta weren't hired mercenaries—they were the ones paying Azar for help. He hesitated on assigning them watch duty. Noticing, Alber stepped forward.
"We'll take a shift too. This one's up for it."
He patted Rapilta's shoulder.
"...Sir Alber? I stood watch last night too."
"Young folks need the practice. Besides, who said all-day shifts? We rotate, right?"
"......"
Rapilta looked to Pol. He shook his head.
"I've never stood watch before, so I'll pass..."
"You call that an excuse?!"
"What do you expect from a mage?"
Rapilta clicked her tongue.
"That's job discrimination."
"I'll help."
As Loki volunteered, Rapilta's eyes lit up.
"Really?"
"Yes. I don't need much sleep anyway."
The captain nodded.
"Then we'll draw lots for positions."
Seven for watch total. Three drawn for patrol. Rapilta got the gate, Loki interior rounds. The captain joined patrol with two subordinates.
"Gather as much info as possible. If the castle's empty, the villagers must know why."
The village had people, but the castle didn't—an oddity. The captain headed down with his men.
Night deepened, so the mercenaries unpacked to sleep inside. They unrolled travel bedrolls, seeking rest from long fatigue. Alber and Pol, exhausted, slept soundly.
Loki moved far from Azar's room, toward the sound of rain. Leaning against the wall, he heard voices.
"What're we gonna do? You really gonna do it?"
"Yeah! The slave trader's hogging all the loot—why should we sit idle? Sneak some and run! A few slaves won't hurt."
"For real...? If the guild finds out, there's a bounty on our heads."
Insomniac mercenaries whispered cautiously, then crept toward the slave wagons.
"Haa... What to do?"
Loki pondered earnestly. Some mercenaries planned to steal and flee with slaves. Ignore it? Intervene? Ignoring might backfire later, pinning blame on him and causing a fuss. Intervening could spark fights.
'Either way's fine, but...'
Loki hated hassle.
Even unwashed, her snow-white silver hair gleamed beautifully in the darkness, like a silken thread. The bronze-skinned elf stared blankly at the shackles on her limbs, hugging her legs.
'Just endure a bit longer. That's all. For revenge, this slavery is nothing.'
Hunger gnawed. Her skin itched, pierced by needles of pain. Eyelids heavy with fatigue, mind foggy. Yet Dark Elf Salat resolved to endure this wretched slavery.
She lightly touched the wound on her right shoulder. A slave brand burned into flesh—irremovable proof. A defilement of elven pride and honor, a symbol of submission to humans. Revolting, loathsome.
But for Salat now, it was essential.
'Yes... For revenge, I'll be a slave as long as needed!'
"Truly a pathetic sight."
A rasping voice echoed, and a small flame sparked before her eyes. Palm-sized, it swirled into form: draconic lower body and arms, a human-like face in its early forties. Red beard and hair, long curved horns, human torso clad in red scaly muscles. The arm-crossed flame spirit smirked at Salat.
-The daughter of Demon King Kalib, who once terrorized the Midplane, reduced to a lowly human slave! How amusing.
"...Is that something to say, you spirit defeated by those lowly humans?"
-......
The Flame Spirit, lord of all fires and king of flames—Great Ifrit—fell silent at Salat's words. Bound by contract to Demon King Kalib, he had lost the war against humans fifty years ago.
-Hmph, your father was weak. Besides, I couldn't use my full power in the Midplane.
Ifrit bit his lower lip despite his words. Truth was the opposite. His contractor, Hanes of the Demon Empire, was history's greatest spirit mage—Ifrit's own prowess astonished even him. Yet they lost. To humans. To the 'Twelve Heroes' no less.
Even combined, Dark Elf Hanes and Great Flame Ifrit failed to kill a single one of those frail twelve humans. No matter their numbers or strength... A world-elemental spirit defeated by mere humans!
Ifrit shrugged, recalling the past.
-So, you're playing slave to get revenge on those lowly humans?
"...Yes."
Salat glared at Ifrit with hatred-stained crimson eyes.
"I'll seduce the highest-ranking human, turn him into my puppet. Then humans will fight among themselves."
-Ha, foolish. You think it's that easy?
"Easy. Want to bet?"
Voices approached. The tent over the cage was yanked aside, revealing men.
"...It's real. An elf!"
"A Dark Elf at that."
"Whoa, really... First time seeing one up close! That slave trader hit the jackpot. A small operation like his with a Dark Elf...!"
The mercenaries eyed each other, then Salat.
"...We'll take this one."
"For real? Crazy! Not just any slave—a pricey Dark Elf! Rarer than regular elves, something even nobles can't snag...!"
"No! Grab and sell it quick. Rarer means pricier, so if we're stealing, go big!"
Salat frowned at their words; Ifrit chuckled ahead of her.
-Humans love you.
"Hardly."
The mercenaries couldn't see Ifrit right before them. As a spirit, only active power revealed him, so he watched leisurely. They fumbled frantically at the lock, some glancing nervously around.
"Disgusting. Controlled by base desires—typical humans!"
-Heh, and you're ruled by hatred? Pot calling the kettle.
Salat hated Ifrit's sarcasm but couldn't deny it. She was fallen, burning with vengeful hatred, willingly enslaving herself for revenge.
"All because of humans. They made me this way."
The mercenaries looked baffled.
"What's this elf muttering about?"
"Crazy in the head? Yeah, saw her mumbling alone during escort."
"Explains how that small trader got her."
But they didn't care. They craved only to sate their lust—right there before them!
"Hurry and open it!"
"Wait! Too sturdy. Smash it?"
"What if we get caught?!"
Then—
"Hey, what're you doing?"
A cold voice boomed unnaturally loud. The mercenaries flinched, peering at the source. A man stood at the entrance, deep in a large crow helm.
"What?! Not on watch?"
"Tch, now what? Knock him out?"
"...Hey, wait! He's a Nord. Can we take him?"
They exchanged glances, then smirked at Salat.
"Ah, I get why this Nord's here!"
"What?"
"He wants slaves too. Hey, Nord! We steal this, sell it, split the cash half-half. No complaints, right?"
"......"
Loki stayed silent; the mercenaries took it as assent, grinning.
"Alright, hold on! Watch this lockpicking!"
One inserted a pin, twisting at the lock. Salat sighed softly and spoke to him.
"Stop."
Her crimson eyes flushed blood-red. The mercenary's eyes glazed over meeting hers.
He tilted his head, blinked, and smiled blankly.
"...Yeah."
Charm
Compels the target to obey.