Overflowing Mercenary Demand
The surging demand for mercenaries had driven up the need for guild branches as well, and the mercenary guilds expanded their operations every which way they could. The man at the counter before him was both a beneficiary and a victim of that boom.
A former mercenary himself, he'd joined the guild right after retiring and been posted all the way out here in the western reaches as branch chief. He might be branch chief, but he had no subordinates. He handled everything solo—from building maintenance to issuing commissions. On the flip side, if the pioneer village grew big enough later on, he could dream of heading a major branch someday. In a way, the branch chief staring him down was just one more dreamer drawn to the frontier.
Papuran glared at the commission sheet Marhal had placed on the counter for a good long while. Then he let out a heavy sigh and pulled out paper, ink, and a pen from under the table. As he copied the commission, the man grumbled,
"The Union reps aren't idiots. A simple cross-check would've caught it right away."
"That knight was from the duchy. A local."
"So you wrote it in imperial tongue? What if he could read it?"
"Then I'd have used something else."
Five authorization slips in different languages appeared before Papuran. His face twisted into a look that screamed, what kind of lunatic is this?
So he'd prepared multiple forgeries in advance, certain the knight couldn't read imperial? Papuran had thought he knew the guy pretty well, but today's events called for a reassessment—from mysterious stranger to something not quite human.
"Duchy and Holy Empire tongues make sense, but what the hell are these other three?"
"Just know they're real languages."
"Whatever. There, done. Documents are squared away—but what if they start sniffing around?"
"They will?"
"You know as well as I do: out here in the west, we've got nothing but time on our hands."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the guild door swung open, and three red-nosed drunks stumbled in.
"You lushes still here?"
"Marhal?"
"Long time no see, you bastard! Where you been?"
"Not your business. I left a month ago on that unexplored scout job and just got back. Got it?"
Marhal tossed a silver coin from his pocket, and the drunks snatched it up with glee.
"Haha! Marhal here's been gone a whole month, right, boys?"
"Yeah! Yeah!"
"Papuran, booze over here!"
Watching the trio celebrate with their single silver, Branch Chief Papuran bellowed,
"Go drink yourselves stupid—on your own dime!"
The drunks cheered at that and headed to the makeshift bar in the corner, filling their mugs to the brim before returning.
"Get the word out to the others too."
"You want the mercenary guild branch chief to aid and abet crime?"
"Says the guy who just forged official docs."
"Hah... Fine. Ena and Joseph'll do?"
Ena at the general store, Joseph at the stables—among the most reliable folks in the pioneer village. Having sunk their life savings into settling here, they wouldn't lie easily to official authority. If the Union came probing, their word would outweigh hundreds of bought testimonies from randos for a coin.
"Perfect. Oh, and that woman at the flag shop—she new?"
"You've been gone a year. Land race happened too."
Land Race. The reason most folks left home for this place. With the land race underway, plenty must've cleared out of the village. Even without that, unless someone was dead set on settling, pioneer lands allowed free movement. Post a notice about a land race somewhere, and people flocked like flies. A year was more than enough time for half the village to turn over.
"Guess everyone's who wanted to go is gone by now."
"Yeah, pretty much."
Papuran's face grew wistful. One year. Just one year, and it felt like more had happened than in a lifetime of mercenary work. And truthfully, a lot had—from petty theft to serial killings. Not unheard of in a pioneer village, but nothing that should've kept a guild branch chief busy. What had worn him down was all...
'This guy's absence.'
Marhal popped up like a ghost to solve problems, and Papuran handled the cleanup. The guy knew guild bylaws inside out and treated the branch chief like a personal errand boy. Once Marhal vanished, folks started coming straight to the guild for fixes whenever trouble brewed—always as formal commissions, so Papuran couldn't refuse. For the past year, he'd basically been the village head of this little speck.
Marhal rose from his chair with a grunt.
"You still sell flags?"
"Not even caught your breath?"
"If a little walking tires you out, you can't hack this life."
Marhal laced his boots and brushed the dust off his clothes. He had rations left, and lastly pulled a harmonica from his pocket, blew into it once to clear the dust, then pocketed it clean.
"What's that?"
"Musical instrument."
"Where'd you even get something like that...?"
"Ways and means."
They'd known each other for years, but reading that face was still impossible. Would it ever be?
"Survey starts when?"
"Noon tomorrow."
"Gonna take a while to reach the end."
"It used to be a city site."
"All the more cutthroat, then. Plenty of deaths too. I know."
The Demon King and demons had overrun half the continent in under a year, then vanished like mirages with her death. This reclamation was fundamentally different from others. Pioneering was usually pushing into the unknown, untouched wilds—but the west had records. Right east of this pioneer village lay a border fortress, shattered in demon wars and now rebuilding under a new landlord. The wide-open area around here had been a trade route. Roads, cities. Head west, and you'd hit ruined city husks. Use those, and you could raise something city-like for half the cost of starting from scratch. Everyone knew what they were getting into. That's why the controls were tight, why every surveyor's line mattered, why so many died.
"You confident?"
"Me?"
"Forget I asked. Talking big to the era's top pioneer."
"Don't jinx it. Someone hears that, my head rolls."
The Demon King fell ten years back, but serious reclamation kicked off five years ago with the Union's founding. Plenty of skilled folks still landless, and blades flew often enough. Marhal stepped out of the guild. Papuran called after him at the door.
"Still, you're the best pioneer I know."
In the land race, knights and mercenaries died equally. Marhal was the one who'd entered three times, claimed land three times, and managed it all without major hitch.
As Marhal left and the drunks drained their murky mugs of beer, reaching for refills, the guild door creaked open again. A familiar yet unknown face appeared. Papuran knew the roles—knight and aide—but not these individuals. Union watchdogs dispatched for the race approached.
"I want to see the commission logs. Any mercenaries went out scouting unexplored lands a month ago?"
Duchy tongue. The far west's edge—water scarce now, but in ten years, a new reclamation hub. Not just anyone got posted as guild branch chief here. Papuran replied in his shaky duchy dialect.
"Yes, sir. Here's the commission sheet."
He pulled out the forgery, sweating bullets inside. 'They're really digging? Damn idle Union bastards. Haven't looped in Joseph and Ena yet...'
He needed to sync stories with them first, but hadn't expected Union knights to move this fast.
'Gotta pray that guy covered his bases.'
The sort to prep six forgeries for a maybe-inspection. He'd handle it fine.
Next to the mercenary guild stood a ramshackle board stall. A woman was slumped over inside. After three sleepless days hawking flags, she was crashing now that the race had started.
"One flag here."
"Flag...?"
The woman lifted her head. Her face matched her hollow voice.
"No more left?"
"Uh, y-yeah, there are. But everyone's already off, aren't they?"
Her concerned tone drew a faint smirk from Marhal.
"They say flag vendors are all iron-masked devils, but you look human enough."
"N-not everyone! Though yeah, most probably..."
"Stalls ain't free, after all."
"Exactly! Union's just our nominal boss—they treat us like trash! We order flags, pay fees, puppets on strings! Won't even take leftover stock off our hands! Deserve divine wrath! That's why vendors get called devils. Can't sell, you're bankrupt! This wasn't the freedom I dreamed of..."
She'd rattled on excitedly, but trailed off into gloom, head down. Fluent in Holy Empire tongue, she was likely born and bred there—from the world's new heart in the east to this western fringe. Marhal didn't know what drove her on that trek, but one thing was clear: the west wasn't what she'd imagined. A common disillusion for pioneer village newcomers.
"Saw some promo blurb, huh?"
"Y-yeah. Fairy tales like that—should've known better."
"One flag. Collapsible, toughest, longest you've got."
"Th-there's one like that left, but really? It's pricey. You robbing the place?"
"Union troops everywhere—crazy to hit a flag stall. Here."
Her body reacted on reflex to the glinting Holy Empire gold coin—a motion repeated hundreds, maybe thousands of times these past three days. Rifling behind the counter, she eyed him suspiciously.
"You're really going? Even on horseback, catching the knights'll be tough..."
"Gotta try."
Marhal took a forearm-thick iron rod. Gripping the end and swinging, it extended; the coiled fabric unfurled into a massive flag—twice a grown man's height. And that wasn't even fully deployed.
The land race wasn't equal. A joint national body like the Union couldn't run a power-laden race fair. Flags, symbols of claim, were one inequality. Broke folk lugged solid iron poles hard to even lift, horses collapsing under the weight. With cash, though—like Marhal—you got a rod proxy.
The woman jumped as he deployed it suddenly.
"Don't open it now...! Collapsibles can't reassemble once unfurled!"
"Tricky, but doable."
"Wh-what?"
Click-click-click. Back to rod form. Fabric coiled tight, protrusion retracted. Identical to before, gripped in Marhal's hand.
"Sell lots, pay your taxes heavy. See you around."
False starts in the land race meant instant execution and warrants, but late starts were fine. No reason to punish stragglers—and plenty hated rubbing shoulders with sweaty commoners in the dust. Nobles. Power players above them. Folks with the chops to start late and surge ahead. Marhal, veering off the footpath trail toward the start line, ducked into building shadows. The knight and aide were entering the guild.
'Union knight commissioning lowly mercs? Nah. Aide too—must be about me.'
Suspicious: a man popping up outside the start line right before kickoff. But they moved fast. Issuing orders to underlings would've sufficed, yet here he was, pounding pavement personally.
'Just tip off Ena at the store—merchants'll shut their traps. Swing by there, then stables.'
After a year of cold winds, he'd hoped for a breather—now land race and Union suspicion. Unauthorized scouting wasn't huge; disgorge finds, pay fine. But he was a landlord. Union hated background-less folk holding land, pinned crimes on landlords to seize holdings anyway.
Marhal headed to the general store first. Ena was a sturdy middle-aged woman of solid build. Empire native, she'd raced to this wasteland after her knight husband died to demons, determined to claim his fallen patch. Her "general" store stocked everything procurable nearby—or she'd fetch it if not.
"Brat. Still alive, huh."
"Call a landlord 'brat'? Might lose your land."
"A guy who didn't collect taxes for a year now playing lord?"
"A year? I was out scouting unexplored lands a month ago—back just now."
Ena gave him an odd look, then nodded.
"Right. The shady landlord who jacked rates then vanished."
"Raising 'em for real?"
"Yeah. You need more."
"Might actually do it."
"Do it."
Marhal's eyes widened at her bold stance.
"What merchant begs to hike their own taxes?"
"No joke. Nearby traders learned your rates. Barely stopped a mass exodus."
"Local landlords must be pissed."
"Don't know the lords' faces, but their agents looked like they'd swallowed ants."
Ena smashed necks off two liquor bottles with her hand, tossing one to Marhal.
"You know about the race."
"Stamina booster. Drink up, no chatter. And taxes—beyond land tax, collect more. Or fights break out."
"Hugo?"
"Steward's a steward. Can't raise rates sans lord's say-so."
Marhal did collect taxes—via steward, monthly. But bare minimum for Union and such. Others piled on booze, cloth tariffs for revenue. Some taxed rivers. Compared, his land was barren but livable. Merchants knew, wanted hikes—still half other rates, and brawls hurt them most.
"Say I approved, hash with Hugo."
"Overall rate?"
"Enough to quiet nearby lords."
"Hah. Fine. Scram. I'll handle mouth-sealing here."
Ena, suddenly saddled with village tax tweaks, sighed and shooed him. Marhal swigged from the bottle as he headed to the stables in the village outskirts. Might seem peripheral, but in transport-scarce, logistics-busy pioneer lands, stables ranked top-tier.
Ex-merc Papuran and knight widow Ena weren't average, but stablemaster Joseph was exceptional. The stable sprawled as big as the whole village. At the corral fence, brushing a horse, the man turned at Marhal's approach, bowing deeply—a ingrained courtesy absent in Papuran or Ena.
Former knight Joseph. A decade ago, he'd commanded a fortress in the wars.
"You've arrived, sir."
"Joseph, got a horse?"
"Race took all the good ones."
"Just needs one run."
"Got a few like that."
Joseph fetched some from the corral. The glaring beasts calmed at his touch.
"Knights' warhorses. Age dulled prime, but they know speed. Loose the reins, they'll run to death."
"No horse does that. Not like they're drugged."
"They are. Rare naturals aside, most get dosed. Bit by bit pre-run, addicted to the act itself. Common for urgent couriers."
"...Sketchy, but perfect now."
Marhal grabbed the black-maned one's reins. It neighed low and long, sensing its end.
"Y-young master."
"No traces found. Schedule too tight to detour. Sorry."
"No need. Grateful you remembered my stubborn wish."
Joseph's homeland lay west. Dispatched east during demon uprising, he'd learned of the outbreak and his home's fall near-simultaneously. Tracing its remnants was his dream, passed to Marhal in altered form.
Marhal mounted smoothly. Before departing, he impressed on Joseph,
"I was out a month scouting unexplored lands, back now for the land race."
"Understood."
Not just here—pioneer villages ran lawless sans Union's bare rules. All else by landlords and folk. Union knight and aide couldn't touch a backed landlord.
"Let's go."
As if understanding, the black steed bolted. Wind-whipped atop it, Marhal gripped reins one-handed, swigging from the bottle with the other.