The Mercenary Abandons the Lockpick
The mercenary gave up picking the lock and pulled out his lockpick. His comrades grimaced at his actions and shook him roughly.
"What the hell? Why? Hurry up and pick it!"
"...No."
"What? Why all of a sudden? Scared?"
"Because she told me not to."
"What nonsense is that now..."
In that instant, one of the mercenaries got punched. His eyes glazed over as he knocked down his comrade.
"......!"
"She told me not to. I'm just obeying."
The mercenary who spoke grinned, his eyes completely vacant. The others recoiled in horror.
"W-what?! This guy's lost it!"
"C-cursed or something?!"
"S-see? Dark elves really are demons!"
The mercenaries glared at Salat, but she looked back at them impassively and spoke.
"All of you... fight."
At that moment, they turned to each other. And then they started punching one another. The blows continued until they lost consciousness.
With that single chilling command, as if cold air flowed from her words, the humans became her puppets, faithfully carrying out her order.
Salat watched the marionettes—humans—dancing on stage with disinterest, burying her face between her knees again and muttering softly.
"See, Ifrit. Did you and Dad really lose to trash like this? To such weaklings?"
-You're saying that because you've never seen the real strong ones. Those guys weren't human.
Unlike Salat, Ifrit found the mercenaries' brawl entertaining. He sat cross-legged on the floor, arms folded in an arrogant pose, watching smugly.
Blood sprayed as they pummeled each other. One spat out white shards—broken teeth?—from his mouth. Another's face was crushed beyond recognition. Some had already passed out, while others kept swinging even after their fists were mangled.
As Ifrit gleefully watched those under the powerful hypnosis, they all dropped with a single punch.
A thudding sound of admiration made Salat lift her head slightly.
"......"
A strange man wearing a bizarre crow mask she'd never seen before stood there. Loki knocked out the charging mercenaries with one blow each. A chop to the neck, a strike to the solar plexus. Merciless attacks sent them crumpling like dolls.
"Haa... I tried to handle it quietly... Wait, is this quiet enough?"
He gathered the unconscious mercenaries in one spot, then pulled a liquor bottle from his pocket and doused them with it. He tossed the empty bottle nearby too.
"This should work as disinfection for their wounds, and make it look like they got drunk and beat each other up. They won't admit to messing with a slave anyway. Even if they babble about demons or whatever, no one will believe a bunch of drunks."
Once he'd tidied up, Loki turned to Salat.
"...You're quite the prankster."
Salat sat in the cart-turned-cage, while Loki stood, so their eye levels didn't match. She scowled at the red eyes visible beneath the crow mask.
It stung her pride somehow. Like looking down at a child.
From a mere human, no less.
"What're you? Human male."
"Human male?"
Her speech was oddly fascinating. Salat, prideful as ever, lifted her chin defiantly.
"Don't look down on me, human. Lower your gaze."
"Why should I?"
Salat turned to Ifrit with amusement.
"Watch closely, Ifrit. I'll show you how I make this human submit..."
Salat tilted her head at Ifrit right in front of her. Despite being a fire spirit, he was breaking a cold sweat. He sat rigidly in lotus position, tense as could be, head bowed to avoid meeting the crow-masked man's eyes.
Like facing a terrifyingly superior boss at work.
"What's with you?"
......
Ifrit said nothing, so Salat snorted.
"Hmph, whatever. Watch. I'll show you how any human submits to me!"
Confident, she extended her hand toward Loki and pointed a slender finger at the floor.
"Kneel."
"......"
Loki looked down at Salat. Then he bowed his head slightly.
A faint reaction cracked her icy expression. The corner of her mouth twitched into a subtle smile.
But the intense pain that followed made her eyes widen.
Thwack!
As he bowed, Loki thrust his hand into the cage and smacked the top of her head.
Salat clutched her scalp at the sharp impact, staring at him with a startled, scolded-child expression on her usually blank face.
"Wha... what? Why would a human male...?! I-I didn't say hit me..."
Thwack!
"Aaaah?!"
Startled, Salat yelped, tears pricking her eyes from the throbbing pain on her crown.
"...Little one's got a foul mouth."
"...How...? K-kneel!"
Thwack!
"Eeeek!"
"Use proper respect for your elders."
"Wh-why...?! Why won't you kneel..."
As Loki quietly raised his fist, Salat flinched and involuntarily switched to polite speech.
"...Sir..."
Flustered to bewilderment, Salat was stunned. This was the first time her Divine Gift [Charm] had failed.
Ignoring her question entirely, Loki hoisted the fallen mercenaries. Two in one hand, two over his shoulders—strength no ordinary man could muster.
"Sorry to impose. Strangers or not, they've got you to thank."
"......"
"You sleep too. We'll head out again tomorrow, so it'll be tiring if you don't."
With that, Loki left the room. Salat rubbed her scalp, staring blankly at Ifrit.
"...What was that human? Why didn't my Divine Gift work?"
Her low, emotionless voice carried bewilderment.
Ifrit trembled, clamping his mouth shut and shaking his head furiously. Then he fled via reverse-summoning.
"......?"
With the prideful spirit scampering off like a frightened pup, Salat dazedly gazed at where Loki had vanished.
"Are you sure you really saw villagers?"
The mercenary captain in charge of patrols had come down to investigate but found no one. He'd seen the farmer waving too, so he figured people were still around, but now not even a shadow remained.
Rain poured relentlessly, winds howled fiercely. Dragging weary bodies laden with heavy gear down had been for naught.
"...Let's check this last house."
The two mercenaries nodded at the captain's words and stood before the home. Wooden walls, thatched roof. Raiders could torch it easily, but in this rural village, it was utterly ordinary.
"Sorry to disturb so late! Anyone home?"
One mercenary knocked on the rotten, poorly maintained door. No response.
"...No signs of life?"
They exchanged glances and pounded harder.
Thud! Thud! The resounding knocks pierced the rain, but still nothing.
"...Definite. This village is abandoned."
"Why? Not the greatest countryside spot, but houses are intact, fields tended... Monster attack maybe...?"
The captain shared their confusion. Well-maintained crops meant people had been here days ago at least. But now, empty.
"Not monsters. No raids either. No signs of attack. If there'd been one, we'd see burn marks or bodies. Not even bloodstains..."
Just abandoned? This pristine village...? Why?
As the captain pondered, stroking his chin, a mercenary spoke.
"No choice. Better head back. Nothing more to find."
"Yeah... no response no matter how hard we knock."
One knocked again to confirm. And this time... there was a reaction.
Not the door opening, but the rotten panel shattering as something seized the mercenary's head viciously.
A hand. Red-skinned, muscular, writhing. Amid the stench of decay wafting through the downpour, red worms squirmed through gaping holes in the skin.
Long fingers, pointed nails unlike any human's. The massive hand gripped the mercenary's face, squeezing tighter.
"...Mmph?!"
Sensing danger, he swung his sword at the hand. It sliced only shallowly, refusing to embed or sever.
Breath cut off. Mouth and nose sealed, he couldn't inhale. Worse, pressure crushed his face.
"Ughh!"
He flailed desperately, but the hand wouldn't yield. He stabbed the doorframe instead—and something burst through, emerging.
Human.
But not human.
Decaying skin, grotesquely melted and twisted face. Where eyes should be, only hollow sockets writhing with worm-like things.
Clad in ordinary rural farmer's clothes.
"......?!"
Seeing it, the mercenary's eyes bulged in terror—then his skull caved in.
His headless body collapsed, and the human-shaped monster hurled it inside.
The house erupted in noise. Flesh tearing, bones crunching, slurping and chewing.
More of them swarmed within.
The farmer-clad monster licked blood from its hand with a long tongue. Even rain-washed blood on the ground was too precious; it crouched, lapping the dirt.
"......"
The captain and remaining mercenary stared, dumbfounded, unable to process the impossibility.
By the time they registered it...
The mercenary shouted.
"Zombies?!"
Zombies: lowliest of undead monsters.
But at his subordinate's cry, the captain paled, terrified, staggering back. Unbelieving, he wiped his mouth, shaking his head.
Fear overrode reason, clouding judgment. His body trembled violently, on the verge of seizure.
Experienced as he was—even before ogres, kings of the forest in wars—he'd never quaked like this.
But before this, he knew only to flee, abandoning all else.
Instinct screamed run, but his body... wouldn't move.
His gaping mouth blurted the truth he knew.
"No, no... Even zombies would be better."
Zombies could be killed, or their necromancer slain.
The captain recalled what he'd witnessed.
"That's..."
Bringers of countless deaths.
The calamity that plunged the continent into terror.
The thing before them was...
"Worm Pest... the undead born from the plague."
As the captain muttered, another monster loomed right behind him.