Guarding the Goods
Dozens of wagons were loaded with food and travel supplies. Over a hundred people had gathered to watch the goods being packed onto the carts. It was enough to empty several of Azenman Riantl's massive warehouses.
Azenman knew what happened in neighboring territories when groups of migrants formed like this. Marhal had requested provisions for two hundred people, but the actual amount prepared was double that. If the numbers swelled unexpectedly or accidents occurred, even this might fall short.
"That's a hell of a lot."
"Isn't it?"
Bayola turned her head at the subtle difference in tone. Marin was glaring at the wagon train, her eyes brimming with irritation.
"What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? Plenty."
"Like what?"
"Who's gonna guard all that?"
"The mercenaries... oh."
Bayola had learned all too well what mercenaries were like in less than a year in the West. Hire them, and they'd do the bare minimum. But expecting them to risk their lives with true loyalty? Forget it. Better to see them as disposable human shields or potential traitors waiting to happen. Even the elite troops Azenman had assembled had fled at the first sight of demons, tails between their legs. When Bayola heard they'd made off with treasure too, she'd forgotten her own situation and gaped in disbelief.
Sister...
Soila Muesilrigo. The name sprang to mind reflexively at the mention of demons.
She'd had plenty of chances to ask Marhal the truth. But fear had kept her silent. Confirmation from him—the guide who'd led the Hero to the Demon King's doorstep—would make it real. Soila would truly become the Demon King. That terror had kept Bayola from even approaching Marhal all this time.
"What're you doing?"
"Nothing. Really."
"Snap out of it. If things go south, we're guarding all that ourselves. And once we're out there, meals too..."
Bayola and Marin's faces darkened in unison.
Strekl's training regimen turned even meals into ordeals. For ordinary folk, they'd balance eating with other drills, but for Bayola with her superhuman body and Marin nearing that threshold, meals were the core torture, with other training as sides. Naturally, eating became twice the agony.
The food Strekl produced was nightmarish—stuff that made you question how it could emerge from a proper kitchen. The two had once watched him cook up close. The ingredients were normal enough. The seasoning might suck, but it wasn't inedible. Yet the final product could make even Marin—who'd stolen dog food in her day—retch mid-bite.
"Marin."
"Yeah?"
"...Never mind."
There were things to clear up with Marin too. But bringing it up with her was tough for different reasons than with Marhal. Bayola didn't even know what she'd done wrong. She sensed a mistake somewhere, but nothing specific came to mind.
Am I really such a bitch?
Incompetent, screwing up left and right, unable to clean up her own messes. Talk about a burden. Bayola's sighs just kept piling up.
While the wagons were being loaded at Azenman's warehouses, Marhal was at the church. It was dawn, and no one else was around. He circled the building once. Dozens of windows dotted the church, but only one was made of glass.
Second floor, corner room. That one?
That single room stood out with its high-quality window. Glass was a rarity, crafted by only a handful of artisans—a symbol of wealth. The church's glass windows were reserved for the chapel and a few key spots. But this corner room on the second floor had one prominently installed.
The window was wide open. Marhal picked up a stone, tied his prepared note to it, and tossed it through. The stone sailed in, followed by a short yelp. Then Alasil Egoman poked her head out, rubbing her forehead.
Spotting Marhal, she leaped straight out the window.
"That hurt!"
"Didn't think it'd hit."
"You said note, not rock."
"Common sense is to tie it to a stone, right? Or should I have shot it on an arrow?"
"Like declaring war on the church?"
"That's why I used a pebble."
"Open your mouth. Did you oil your tongue or what?"
Marhal obligingly opened wide and stuck out his tongue. Alasil reached to grab it, but he smoothly stepped back, dodging. She irritably scraped her foot on the ground.
"Damn it. What the hell are you, anyway?"
"That's what I wanna ask. Is that how a nun acts?"
"Suits me fine. Sending a note means the date's set, right? When? Tomorrow? Today?"
"Today."
"Then let's go. Where to?"
"No luggage?"
Alasil wore everyday clothes and light indoor slippers—nothing else.
"I sleep fine on bare ground."
She strolled off casually. Marhal was impressed by her straightforwardness, lost for words. As she headed to the church entrance, she glanced back.
"So, where we headed?"
"Ring a bell if I say Azenman Riantl's warehouse?"
"Oh, there?"
Alasil faced forward again and kept walking. Marhal quickened his pace to match hers.
"You speak anything besides Holy Empire tongue?"
"Where to? Not Empire or Holy Empire from here—Kerddish? Pariban? Makes sense for migrants."
Both were tiny nations under the Duchy, treated as de facto vassals. Barely countries, their lands smaller than a major noble's domain. Their nobles and royals were cautious self-preservers; a bit of coin, and hiring help was easy.
"The Duchy."
"Uh... no Duchy tongue, though."
She rattled off practical Duchy phrases she knew: How much? Where's the inn? I'm a church nun, and so on.
"...How'd you even get to the West without Duchy?"
"Stuck with Holy Empire folk. And everyone picks up a bit of it, yeah?"
Marhal realized anew how unusual his usual company was. Around him, multilingualism was baseline. He'd forgotten normal people stuck to their native tongue fluently and mangled others at best.
"Why? Wrong? Weirder to expect a Holy Empire nun to know foreign tongues."
"Fair point."
Priests sent abroad learned by force, but they carried elect-superiority. Holy Empire speech was supreme; others, barbaric. No need to learn barbaric tongues.
Need an interpreter?
Bayola was too risky; Hugo had work here. Marin was barely toddling in imperial. No trustworthy Holy Empire speakers available.
Marina Silanatiell could, but...
She had her own tasks. Their first meeting was too brief to gauge reactions. Pairing them might amuse, but this job prioritized results over fun. That left one option.
"You know party etiquette?"
"Gonna crash parties while minding migrants?"
"More than you'd think."
"Whoa. Never been to one. But I won't cause trouble—got etiquette training."
Marhal felt a twinge of unease. In his experience, folks who boasted like that usually caused massive scenes.
Marin felt restless, on edge. All because of one person. That figure darting between wagons like a fool.
Did she even realize how conspicuous she was? People had an aura. Strip Strekl of armor and dress him as a commoner—he'd never pass for ordinary. Bayola was the same. Nobility didn't vanish with plain clothes and behavior. Even setting aside her karma, every move drew eyes.
She'd learn once she got kidnapped for real. Bayola worried Marin, but part of her hoped it happened. Let the one who despised the gutter taste it herself. Then ask if she could still beg them for the future. Could you dream of tomorrow in that sewer?
Marin had clawed out of the muck, but those memories still chained her. Over half her life in filth—no escaping that. Her real life had started just three years back.
She scanned the laborers sharply. Having been one, done the same, she understood their mindset. She noted who pocketed flint or oil-soaked rags—petty theft, hard to catch. Claim it as their own, done. Verifying meant unloading every wagon; wasteful for trifles. Better to memorize faces and watch them close.
"Hey, you. Empty your pockets."
Far off, Bayola had grabbed a worker pocketing matches. He looked annoyed, nothing more. Caught once? No big deal. In a pioneer village, maybe a hand or noose—but this was a city. Blacklisted locally at worst; flee to another town or hide in the West a few months, back safe.
Bayola's move just tired everyone out for nothing.
"Explaining's slower than experiencing."
Leaving Bayola, Marin sharpened her gaze. Veterans would exploit the distraction for valuables. Three men diverting a crate caught her eye. Travel goods and food—not priceless per box, but contents could fund a month's leisure. Maybe cash inside. Had to stop it.
Before Marin moved, a nun approached the thieves. Their eyes met. Instinct screamed: same kind. Gutter rat made good.
The nun addressed the men.
"Brothers, shouldn't this crate go over there?"
The thieves startled at the sudden nun but recovered with West-hardened tongues. Chosen ones knew squat about lowly work, right? They replied in rough Holy Empire speech learned on the streets.
"Oh, no ma'am. This one's headed elsewhere."
"Really? Call the overseer then?"
"Of course. Check all you want."
"Better ask the crate's owner while we're at it. This going elsewhere, right?"
Marhal, now beside her, eyed the men and crate alternately.
"Don't recall ordering any redirects. Names and guild affiliation. Gotta check with the guildmaster and warehouse boss."
At those names, the men's faces changed. Not confronting the bosses directly meant industry savvy—and real owners didn't end things pretty. Finger at best. Death at worst. Guilds hunted relentlessly; hundreds baying for blood. No escape.
"How should we apologize? Looks like pros—owners'll know best, yeah?"