Three months earlier.
On the western coast of the Stol Continent, in some village.
“Hey, you bastard—Silver!”
Late at night, Black Weasel kicked the inn-room door in, barking in his gravelly voice. The door panel tore loose on the spot and slammed to the floor. A thick reek of booze poured into the room.
“Finally landed a real score. We’re leaving.”
The room was pitch-black, like someone had dumped tar all over it. The outlines of furniture showed here and there, like a canvas with only a few charcoal lines scribbled in. Black Weasel swung his gaze around and headed for the window.
“Fuck, no candle lit… Did this slave brat run off? Hey, Silver! You run off or what?”
“Here.”
Only then did a voice fly out of the dark. Black Weasel yanked the curtain aside. In the night sky, a crescent moon wore a nasty little grin. The darkness staining the room thinned out, just barely. Two old beds. Two old chairs. One old table.
Silver sat in a chair with one leg hooked up on the table, peeling an apple with a dagger. Black Weasel started hauling chests out from under the bed, one after another.
“I told you to get ready to go. This job’s not your usual small-time crap. It’s an escort mission for a prince. A prince.”
At that, Silver let out a short, mocking laugh.
“A prince?”
“Yeah, a prince! Well… maybe the king’s eighteenth—or thirty-second—bastard, but still. A prince.”
“Princes are a dime a dozen. If it was a princess, maybe.”
“Shut up. A slave doesn’t talk back to his master. If you don’t want your head split by my axe, start packing. We’re headed to Morgan.”
“Back there again?”
Silver’s shoulder twitched. He jammed the dagger into the tabletop with a thunk and sprang up.
“That place is at least a month from here. It’s October. In another month it’ll be that fucking dead-ass winter.”
“That’s exactly why. You want to reach Morgan before winter hits, don’t you? We leave today and haul ass, we’ll make it in a month.”
“Screw this job!”
“I already took the advance. If you want to suffer even a little less, pack your shit, you stubborn little brat.”
“Ugh…!”
After raking both hands through his hair, Silver finally dropped down in front of the chests. There were two total—both pulled out from under the bed. When he opened the first, a tight wooden lid scraped up to reveal a chest crammed full of every kind of nasty weapon: axes, daggers, iron hammers, iron hooks, a sickle.
Black Weasel flung an oil-soaked cloth at Silver.
“Polish ’em till they shine! A tool that’s sharpened right takes heads clean!”
“Fuck. Like they don’t take heads clean without it.”
Silver muttered as he rubbed down an axe. Black Weasel popped open the second chest with a clank. Packed gold coins threw blinding light in every direction.
“Ooh—how’ve you been, my love?”
After planting a kiss on the coins, Black Weasel glanced over at Silver.
“Money’s a beautiful thing, Silver. You know how good we’ve had it in this inn? That’s all thanks to this little bastard.”
“What’s gotten into you? Finally gonna pay the room you owe?”
“Gotta settle up. The booze here was good.”
Black Weasel jerked his chin toward one corner of the room. Barrels stacked in tiers gave off a honey-sweet smell. Silver lifted the sickle and gave it a once-over.
“Pay heavy. From what I saw, this place was dead.”
“No customers because it’s a village crawling with petty thieves. Forget already? Three days after we checked in, some random man and woman tried to jump us. If it wasn’t for me, your head would’ve gone flying, Silver.”
Black Weasel traced his throat with the edge of his hand, smug as hell. Silver, polishing the sickle, furrowed his brow.
“But why’d they jump us in the first place? One look at us and we look like beggars.”
“Guess things were so bad they’d rob beggars too. You forget? The innkeeper was practically crying, begging us to just let those two live. Said they were decent local kids who go all the way out to the far North Sea in the dead of winter to pirate so they can feed their families.”
“But wasn’t that the middle of summer?”
“Whatever. You ready?”
“Yeah. Done.”
Silver shut the chest. Black Weasel sprang upright and shouted.
“We’re off—! Ah, but before we go, just one drink.”
The next day. Deep night.
A hulking man and a boy staggered down to the inn’s first floor. The big man’s waist bristled with daggers, a whip, and multiple axes. The boy wore a black robe, a huge chest in each hand. Even to an old man with cataracts blurring his eyes, they looked like a thief who’d just cleaned out somebody’s house and the little lackey trailing behind him.
The innkeeper, slumped at the counter by the entrance, jolted awake and snapped his head up. The moment he saw them, his face went white.
Those two guests staying upstairs since early August had been his personal nightmare. In the ripe heat of midday, the hulking man and the boy had barged into the tavern like wild boars breaking into a farm plot. Within the time it took the sun to dip a single handspan, every drinking customer had cleared out. That evening, the guest in the inn’s best room had “voluntarily” checked out, and the room had naturally gone to the hulking man and the boy. That was already two months ago.
“Hey, boss. What’re you doing up? Your wife throw you out because you can’t handle business at night?”
The big man grinned and clomped over. Every word he spat came with a heavy wave of alcohol stench. The innkeeper just swallowed, silent.
“Hey! When someone asks you something, you answer!”
The big man slammed his fist into the counter with a thud. The innkeeper pressed his back to the wall.
“Y-yes, yes! G-guests, at th-this hour, wh-what… what can I do for you? A-are you… f-finally leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah, thank you! Safe travels! I won’t charge you for the stay, the food, or the drinks!”
“Forget it. I don’t like free.”
What the hulking man pulled out wasn’t money.
It was an axe.
“Bring me a cart and a month’s worth of food. Oh—and seven barrels of booze, and three crates of apples. For the price of us leaving, that’s pretty modest, yeah?”
***
At the same time, on the Atania Continent. The small kingdom of Lebanon, capital Rosipol.
In the slightly warm midday of October, the outdoor training yard in front of Mayer Public School’s main building buzzed with students’ chatter. The instructor stood in the middle of the circular yard and beckoned.
“Quiet! Wolf! Your turn.”
Wolf popped up and trudged to the center. Leather straps were wound tight around his hands, and he wore nothing but trousers—bare to the waist. The sand under his bare feet felt rough as a carpenter’s palm.
The opponent walking in from the other side was Roy, the next biggest kid in their class after Wolf. Wolf and Roy faced each other with the instructor between them.
The instructor spoke.
“Basic stance.”
To boys their age, a boxing stance was about as complicated as a fortress blueprint.
“First, bend your knees a little. Feet shoulder-width apart, left foot slightly forward. Left hand up at eye level, keep a bit of space. Right hand in front of your right cheek. Elbows tucked to your ribs.”
The students sitting around the yard all wore the face of someone chewing moldy barley bread. In Lebanon, every male except slaves was required to undergo combat training starting at seventeen. But this was a school for common boys. Combat training, unlike baking bread, fixing shoes, or sewing, was pointless crap not worth the time it took to learn.
“Wolf, look your opponent in the eye! What, you scared of getting hit? Big for nothing little shit…”
The instructor scanned Wolf and scowled. Even though he’d only just turned seventeen, Wolf was nearly the size of a grown man.
“Looks like the kind of body that packs on muscle while you sleep, but you’ve got no guts. With that build you could take punches head-on and still drop the other guy… Snap out of it! A kid who can’t box can’t handle a weapon, either!”
“Instructor, Wolf’s good at baking, though! Since last year he’s been helping the boardinghouse owner and working in the kitchen.”
At someone’s comeback, the students burst out laughing. The instructor dropped his head and let out a long sigh.
“Fine. I’ll count. You go in and attack. You win if you hit him until he surrenders or can’t fight anymore. Five, four, three, two… one!”
The second the words left his mouth, Wolf flopped backward onto his ass.
“I surrender! I surrender!”
“Pwahahaha!”
The students howled. Even the instructor looked like he’d given up.
“Wolf, out. Roy, in. Next!”
Wolf dusted off his butt and headed out of the ring. Roy followed behind, grumbling under his breath.
“We’ve gotta do this every week until we graduate. God, it’s boring.”
“Just go through the motions. If you get unlucky and break a finger, you’ll just waste time you could’ve spent learning a trade.”
Wolf lowered his voice too. The students muttered, irritated.
“Like they won’t just leave it to mercenaries if a war breaks out.”
“I’m telling you, I’m jealous of our house slave the most. Doesn’t have to do combat training, and gets to roll around in bed with my sister every day.”
Wolf dropped down wherever and sat. From the main building behind them, the history teacher’s voice drifted out.
“<Ill Omen> are stupid. And in academia, the main reason given for their habit of solving everything with violence is that stupidity.”