Footsteps of the White Whale

The mercenary leader standing before me was quite the beauty. Though her veteran mercenary leather armor covered her from head to toe, obscuring her exact figure, she surely wouldn't disappoint me as described in the novel. That made her rudeness of dropping formal speech upon our first meeting entirely forgivable. My generosity opens wide for beauties.

"Heard of us? We're pretty famous in our own right."

"I've heard of you. The White Whale Mercenaries."

"Oh... then this'll be quick. So, what's your answer? Gonna fight?"

I glanced at Chris standing beside me. She seemed slightly thrown by the sight of the locals looking far more normal than expected. Of course, she didn't show it at all—only I, who had spent so much time with her, could catch that tiny flicker of surprise. Chris was reading the room. It meant she was ready to draw her sword from subspace at any moment.

I turned back to the mercenary leader urging my response. She was still on high alert, watching our every move closely.

"We have no intention of fighting. I was just making noise while training, that's all. If it's been a nuisance, we'll stop."

"Training... You two taking turns, huh?"

"No. I made all these marks myself. She uses a sword."

My goal is to join this mercenary group. Obviously with Chris. So it's best not to mention that she uses her fists. Her punches are powerful, but she doesn't train them separately as her main weapon.

"...You alone? That doesn't add up. Who trains nonstop, day and night? No breaks, no sleep, not even time for food or water?"

"Did you hear the noise from my training all day long?"

"Yeah. We've been around here for a few days."

Suspicious eyes turned my way. No need to worry. That was a lie meant to rattle me. They didn't confirm the nonstop booms for days—it was today they arrived in the village. So this woman was just fishing, using info from the villagers to probe my suspicious points. Hoping I'd slip up.

"Hmm... that's odd. We did take short breaks, at least for meals or bathroom."

Even if villagers claimed they heard booms 24/7, it didn't matter. They'd think, 'The client freaked out over the noise and exaggerated that it never stopped.' Lies with lies. Plus, there was juicier bait to distract them.

The leader pounced on the weakness I'd dangled, as if waiting.

"So you didn't sleep? For two weeks? Ha, liar."

"Not a lie."

"Then what? Like a kid who hates bedtime? No sleep for two weeks?"

"I'm in the middle of ascetic training."

"As...cetic?"

"Yes."

"...Tch. Were you a monk? Come to think of it, you use fists. Black hair, black eyes... looks Eastern."

"A defrocked monk, though."

"Huh..."

I knew this world had religion. The "defrocked monk" excuse worked perfectly, especially with mercenaries who kept their distance from devout types. Saying "defrocked" wouldn't make them hate me. Sure enough, the mercenaries just eyed me like a rare find—no bad vibes.

...Found him.

After scanning the dozens of mercenaries, I spotted the one I'd been seeking. His features were too distinctive to miss. Barely over 160cm for a guy—small stature. Face still boyish, cheeks not fully slimmed. And most striking: snow-white hair. Exactly matching the novel protagonist's description.

"Fine. No fight, no problem."

"I wouldn't dream of clashing with one of the kingdom's top mercenary groups."

"Pfft. Coming from the guy who made this mess, it tickles."

About fifty ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠members ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠behind her—not huge for mercenaries, but standout. This world thrived on wars and monsters between villages, so mercenary work boomed. Their small size came from strict entry rules.

They pursue elite few, high skill, max profit.

They cherry-picked high-value talent, obsessing over money. Especially their brown-haired leader, dubbed "Money Ghost" for her cash fixation. More members meant slimmer cuts, so they stayed lean. Opposite of typical groups that bloated with anyone to snag big jobs and revenue.

They could afford it thanks to skill and rep. Confidence they could land fat contracts despite low numbers. White Whale Mercenaries stood out.

"Perfect timing. I was just finishing my ascetic phase to travel and broaden my horizons."

I smiled softly at Chris, signaling with my eyes: Don't freak at what I say next.

- Nod.

Chris caught my look, gave a small smile and nod. The trusting gesture she often showed me. I wanted to hold her hand for reassurance, but... she wasn't a kid. Normally, she was the one looking after others, not needing coddling.

"...Travel?"

"Yes. No set destination, so joining a mercenary group sounds good. Save up for far-off lands ahead."

"Oho, intriguing. You offering to sign on?"

The leader glanced at the felled trees again before speaking. My strength was proven. Way past entry bar. I could demo if needed. Chris's ID was the snag, though...

"If you doubt my identity, I can show my—"

"Nah. Why flash ID at mercenaries, not even regular army? Forget it."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Me prepping excuses first made her shut it down. Fair—mercs didn't need IDs.

"Hmm... Comrades backing each other, no basic check? What if I'm a lying warlock?"

"Trust? Ha! Psycho massacring villages, wannabe lich stinking of rot—don't care. Long as you don't get caught hurting us or locals."

She stressed "don't get caught." Meaning they could kill me if I turned. Despite my power to wreck the landscape, no fear. As expected. That half-decent face hid a "mercs live by grit" hipster mindset. Her members too.

"Listen up. To join, few conditions. First: pull your weight. This scene says you will."

"I can prove it."

"Later. Second biggest in merc life... guts."

"Rookie! Fetch it!!"

"Yes ma'am!"

- Thud thud thud!

A massive guy rivaling Brack bellowed, and one man dashed off. The white-haired protagonist of White Whale's Footsteps. Fresh two weeks in, the rookie.

I popped his status window as he ran.

Mana recent, so low pool. Stats averaged a fresh Terraforming combatant's post-three-month camp. Impressive for his age. No Mana Awakening here like Terraforming—no +50% growth buff, no abilities. Unlike Earth, growth limits unbound... but pure brutal physical training only. Mana infusion tough without secret breaths—grueling practice to etch it in. Classic fantasy.

Last, trait Focus...

Inferior to All-Rounder? Field of view boost useless thanks to Immortal Lord's daily moon chants. +8% perceived time... meh.

Training buffs weaker than my endless Prums. Gap between having and not was huge, but after Selective Focus, All-Rounder, Resilient—no thrill. Only "perceived time +8%" notable, combat-only.

- Tap tap tap!

"Here!"

While analyzing, the protagonist returned. Mel clutched a big sack and small vial.

- Wriggle!

Squirm!

The sack writhed. Live critter inside.

The leader's hand plunged in, emerged with a wriggling rabbit.

- Flail!

Chris watched intently, tapping my arm, whispering:

'Rabbits... even here!'

I wasn't shocked—knew ahead. World full of Earth animals.

"Why rabbit? Tests my 'guts'?"

"Watch quietly."

I knew her play, but feigned ignorance politely.

"Mel, vial."

"Yes."

She gripped the vial from Mel in her free hand. My sharp ears caught viscous liquid sloshing full.

- Squeak!

Screee!

No mercy—she gripped hard. Pitiful cries. Liquid poured into its mouth. Russet fluid oozed stickily, flaunting ominous hue.

- Squeak!

Squi... squeak?

Three gulps—lots for a bunny. Stomach full, at least.

"Look close, defrocked monk."

Rabbit thrashed wildly. Excited eyes. Tiny struggles no escape.

One minute passed.

- Squiii! Squeak! Sque...!

Vital rabbit went limp. Eyes rolled, foam—dead, not fainted.

From that sticky vial.

- Slosh slosh!

"Works good, right?"

- Thwack!

She shook the vial showily, tossed it my way. Caught easy.

"...Meaning?"

Half-full dark crimson inside. Up close, foul stench hit—like historical drama poison.

Rabbit's fate said unhealthy.

"Drink. Finish it, you're in. If we have antidote... and give it? Your call."

The leader smirked coldly.