In practice, the merchant would probably not feel too great that he’d sold off his injured stock only to have them healed right after, so we’d need to tread carefully there, but that was only a slight problem.
“Also... it would be really helpful if I could keep relying on you for trading between Beast Woods and Whitesails... How much money do I need to put in?”
Tonio put his hand on his chin and hummed in thought. “Will,” he said, “I think we need to sit down and talk business for a moment.”
“B-Be gentle with me...”
My to-do list was getting longer and longer. But I had only one objective, and I was ever progressing toward it. Gracefeel, I whispered in my mind, I’m doing okay. And I’ll do my best.
I felt the quiet and expressionless goddess give the slightest of smiles.
It looked like a reasonably large inn. It had two floors; the bottom level was a bar, and upstairs, there were rooms for travelers. They were on the second floor, of course, to prevent sleep-and-runs. Some things are the same in every world, I mused.
The sign hanging out front said “Steel Sword Inn,” and below it was a small banner with a weapons motif. That was apparently the symbol of an “Adventurers’ Lodge”—a gathering spot that also served to bring adventurers and jobs together.
Adventurers were outlaws, making their livings as mercenary-like hired muscle, bodyguards, Union Age ruin-hunters, beast exterminators, and anything else that paid reward money. In terms of my previous world’s history, the professional gladiators of ancient Rome may have been closest, or perhaps the gunslingers in Westerns. Their social status wasn’t high, yet at the same time, it was a class that produced both heroes and fortunes in a heartbeat.
It was evening, and the streets were full of laborers on their way back from work. Menel and I reached the inn, whose door had been left wide open, and we peered inside. There was already a din inside, despite the hour. We saw people wearing warm clothes—we were, after all, still in winter—clacking together horns filled with ale. But there was something a little strange about it.
“Those are... beast horns. And leather.” The drinking horns they were casually using had come from horned beasts, and some of the cloaks and waistcoats they were wearing had been made from beast hide. Menel whispered to me that those were their battle trophies, an easy way for them to flaunt their power.
We stepped inside. Heads turned, there was a moment of silence, and then chatter.
“A young’un with chestnut-brown hair and a silver-’aired mixed elf with ’im.”
“He’s done a hell of a lot of training. You can tell...”
“That’s him. No doubt.”
The first voice that called out to me was a clearly agile-looking man who was pleasantly drunk. “It’s the man of the hour himself! Wyvern Killer! What d’you want with a bar all the way out here?”
“I have a job that needs doing.”
“Then you should talk to the owner and pay a bit to use the board.”
“Thank you.” I looked over to the wall of the inn and saw that there was a large wooden board hanging there, onto which numerous pieces of paper and leather had been pinned. I called out to the owner, bought several pins (that was how they charged the listing fee), and pinned up my sheet beside all the others.
That attracted a lot of interest, and everyone gathered around to see what my job was.
ADVENTURERS WANTED
For search of demon-infested Beast Woods.
Months of complete darkness.
Constant danger.
Safe return doubtful.
Meager reward.
Honor and recognition in case of success.
— William G. Maryblood.
And the place fell silent.
“Hey. Mister Hero.” The first reaction I got was a drunken and taunting voice. “We ain’t a charity. Ain’t none of us gonna go in on that.”
The person talking to me was a thick-armed, red-faced man who looked about thirty. He was wearing a sparkling steel breastplate and had a sword on his hip in a vibrant red sheath that didn’t have a single scratch. “Right, guys?” he said, and a few people who I guessed were his party hooted back their agreement and called me stingy.
Menel started to ball his hands into fists. I had a moment of panic, and then—
A scruffy-looking man sluggishly wandered over.
“Shut it, blowhards.”
His few words silenced them.
The man had a beard, and I couldn’t guess his age. He seemed to be in good shape physically, but looked pretty spiritless. The cloak he was wearing was scorched, worn down, and covered in scratches. The sword sheath on his hip looked beaten up and like it had some alterations made to it. But more than any of that, what I paid the most attention to was his fingers.
They were covered in scars and dirt, and all his nails were clipped short. Once, while relating one of his former exploits, Blood had said to me:
— When you see a swordsman, look at his fingertips. Whenever there’s something inside you making you doubt, saying drawing your weapon is a bad idea, and you wanna know, do you listen to that voice or do you shut it up? You just look at his hands.
“It looks to me...” He spoke slowly. I guessed he wasn’t good with words. “Like you’re looking for madmen. You’re not interested in blowhards, who have manners and patience and a business smile, but not much skill. You want a bunch of crude shitheads who fear nothing. You want scum-of-the-earth madmen who will dice with death for a dumb idea.”
I nodded. I wasn’t planning on giving them poor compensation on purpose, but the fact remained that exterminating demons in a poor area like this was a dangerous and not very lucrative job. There were still some untouched ruins still remaining, but even those came with dangers, and I didn’t want people working for me under false pretenses.
Menel and I had both agreed that we should look for adventurers who were after honor, glory, and risk rather than adventurers who were only doing it for the money. And I’d heard that this “Steel Sword Inn” was where those kinds of people were based. So I replied:
“That’s exactly right. That’s why I chose this place.”
“You hear him? That’s what he wants! Mister Hero’s looking for madmen!” After he yelled this, a number of people who had been watching us from their tables rose to their feet.
“Tch. You Strider bastards,” one of the blowhards said. “If you strike it rich out there, toss us a coin or two for once!”
All the people with attractive equipment, like the one who had first called out to me, lightly clicked their tongues and returned to their tables. I guessed they’d been hoping for something they could profit from, and if that’s not what this was, they were clearly not interested. It was only natural that some people would put their livelihoods first and foremost.
Those who now approached me, on the other hand, were largely uncouth people with dirty gear and a prickly manner. Most of their equipment was covered in beast hide, and they had been drinking their booze out of beast horns. These were people who would hardly give a second’s consideration to safe and secure jobs, like being a merchant’s bodyguard. They were ruffians to the core who liked the flames of their lives to burn hot, stoked with fighting, risk, and adventure.
Yes—they were people like Blood!
“What’re you looking for in Beast Woods?” one asked.