Chapter 15: The Prelude Begins
"Boring."
Holding a spear and shield, Francis stood at the entrance of the Lord's Manor. Gazing at the empty street before him, he couldn't help but sigh: "Not a single person around, yet I still have to stand guard... Hiss—this weather is freezing!"
Icicles clung to the eaves, frost blanketed the white ground, and the early winter wind was damp and bone-piercingly cold, making his body shiver slightly. The steel armor offered no warmth, and the leather padding beneath was as ineffective as paper against the chill. Yet despite this, Francis did not let down his guard; he carefully scanned his surroundings for any movement.
He grumbled incessantly, but having worked as a mercenary for over a decade, he knew that when you take the money, you do the job. Guarding a door was uncomfortable, but it was still better than fighting.
Francis was aware of the attack that had occurred near the main city gates not long ago. He had heard the news shortly after waking up. According to the messenger, the assailant was incredibly skilled, single-handedly defeating fifty heavily armored spearmen. The man was still lurking somewhere in the city, his whereabouts unknown. No wonder his employer was being so cautious.
Fifty men—not farmers, but soldiers! Defeating them single-handedly was truly astonishing. Even the captain of their mercenary company might not be able to pull that off.
Although Francis didn't believe the attacker would choose to strike now, when everyone was on high alert, he still intended to do his duty to the best of his ability. As long as he was paid, he would never slack off—that was his principle and his conviction.
As for the guy who was supposed to be guarding the door with him but claimed it was too cold, said he was going back to get his coat, and still hadn't returned... Well, people were different. He had no intention of becoming like that.
Over forty years old, Francis had yet to break through to Silver High-rank. As a human, this meant he had little chance of advancing to Gold Glory. But even if he had no future prospects for improvement, he at least had considerable combat experience. He could still make a living as a mercenary for another seven or eight years, until his physical strength gave out in his fifties. Only then would he consider buying a plot of land somewhere and settling down for the rest of his life.
But did mercenaries ever get a peaceful old age? What a fine dark joke.
Chuckling at his own thought, Francis suddenly heard a sound other than the wind.
Tap, tap, tap.
Footsteps echoed from the corner of the street.
At first, they were barely audible, but as they drew closer, the sound grew louder, until Francis turned his head in confusion toward the corner from which the footsteps came.
On a normal day, no one would pay attention to footsteps. But ever since the lockdown began, few people had ventured out onto the streets. With the morning's commotion and the bitter cold, no one had come out at all today. Under these circumstances, the sudden arrival of such clear footsteps was enough to make Francis suspicious.
Before long, a tall, black-haired man appeared in his field of vision. Beside him was a silver-haired, green-eyed girl. Judging by their heights, they looked a bit like father and daughter—hmm, maybe siblings? But then their hair colors didn't match.
No, no, no. Whatever their relationship, the strangest thing was why they were out at a time like this. The weather was freezing, and there had just been an attack.
His mind was in chaos for a moment, but Francis quickly snapped back to reality. Watching the pair draw nearer, he had no time to dwell on the oddity. He stepped forward, frowned, and called out loudly: "Please stop, you two. This area is off-limits. Take a detour!"
"...Quite dedicated."
After a few seconds of silence, the black-haired man nodded. He seemed completely unfazed by Francis's stern expression and the weapon in his hand, commenting casually: "Out of all these people, you're the only one with a bit of a warrior's spirit."
"What... what do you mean by 'all these people'?"
As he pondered the words, Francis suddenly caught a faint scent of blood on the wind. Instantly, a chill ran down his spine.
(That's right—there are still many people patrolling nearby. Logically, these two shouldn't have been able to reach the Lord's Manor. Could it be?!)
His eyes widened as he stared at the man and woman before him, his mouth opening silently.
"They're all dead."
Seeing Francis's expression, the man's voice carried no emotion, flat and indifferent as he replied: "You'll be the same soon enough."
He was the one who attacked the city gates!
It was just a guess, but it seemed he hadn't been wrong. Even though the man hadn't made a move yet, just meeting his gaze made Francis feel as if he had been hit by a fear spell. His legs trembled uncontrollably, and his entire body shook.
Before him stood a terrifying monster—one who had crippled seventeen heavily armored spearmen with a single sword stroke and silently killed the patrol soldiers on several streets. His aura didn't seem to have reached the Gold Realm, but he was certainly more than capable of dealing with Francis easily. The two of them weren't even on the same level!
"...Please leave!"
Trembling, Francis barely managed to steady his shaking hands and aimed his spear at the man. Though fear still lingered in his eyes, he didn't take a step back. Instead, he shouted: "I'll say it again—this is a restricted area. One more step, and I will attack!"
The black-haired man before him wore a simple leather coat and riding gear, with no visible weapons on him. There was a small stain on his pant leg that looked like blood—it seemed he hadn't even needed a weapon to kill the patrolling mercenaries. Truly unimaginably powerful.
Precisely because he understood the man's strength, when Francis spoke those words, he felt as if a hand had gripped his heart and was squeezing tighter and tighter. The blood in his veins seemed to lose control—but he still didn't lower his weapon. Even though his hands had lost their strength from fear, he didn't retreat half a step.
Take the money, do the job. Accept the commission, fulfill the duty. Guarding the door was his responsibility. While there were mercenaries who would abandon their tasks without a second thought for enough coin, Francis was not one of them. Even if his strength was lacking, his will would not waver.
Fighting wasn't frightening. Fighting to the death was the bare minimum of resolve for an Imperial citizen, and the toughness of the Northerners far surpassed that of other Imperials. As a Northern mercenary, Francis had his pride! Even with no chance of victory, he would still fight!
"Impressive willpower."
The black-haired man looked at the spear aimed directly at his throat, showing no reaction at all. He merely uttered a faint comment that could be considered praise: "A bit of a shame."
And then... there was nothing more.
The black-haired man before him suddenly vanished. A gust of wind swept past, and Francis felt a dull pressure in his chest. The spear in his hands was snapped in two by an unexpected force. His body felt lighter as he was sent flying upward, slowly descending...
His consciousness sank into darkness. Just before falling into the deepest unconsciousness, the mercenary vaguely heard the thunderous sound of the tightly shut door being blasted open by a single punch.