Chapter 167 - Damn Reincarnation

Side Story: The Meeting

“What the fuck? Do you even hear what you're saying?”

“W-well... As I've told you several times, being stubborn won't...”

“There are this many ships in the harbor, and you're telling me none of them can sail? How does that make any sense?”

BANG!

The wooden table shook as though it would break. The receptionist trembled at the violent display, pinned in place by the overwhelming pressure. He knew the man before him hadn't failed to break the table. He had chosen not to.

“... N-no matter how unreasonable you are, what's impossible is impossible.”

“Unreasonable? Want me to show you what unreasonable really looks like? Fuck, do you know what hell I went through getting here? I might just board whatever ship I like, cut its mooring lines, and set sail.”

“Please... Try to understand the situation...”

His desperate explanation stopped short. The murderous glare of the man looming over him seemed to squeeze his heart tight. Unable to say another word, the receptionist desperately averted his eyes.

“How can someone be so utterly devoid of manners?”

“It just shows how dreadful the world has become.”

Sneering voices came from behind him.

The receptionist went white, and the man's lips twisted into a smile.

“I was wondering where that barking dog was.”

Still smiling, the man turned around. Young knights stood there, their neat faces free of scars. Their diligently polished and oiled armor gleamed.

“Turns out you're just cute little puppies.”

“... What did you say?”

The knights' expressions darkened at the utterly vulgar mockery. The crests on their chests identified them as the Silverwing Knights of Turas. Seeing those emblems, the man burst out laughing again.

“One look tells me you're a bunch of weaklings who only just scraped out of your apprenticeships. Should you really be wasting time here? Your commander had his leg chopped off recently, didn't he?”

“... What are you...”

“Shouldn't you be helping your commander piss and shit? He's stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.”

Chuckling, the man perched on the reception desk. The Mercenaries’ Guild building had been blown away in its entirety during the battle a few days earlier, forcing them to set up a temporary desk for commissions on the street. That was how he'd ended up in this confrontation.

“This fucking mercenary has lost his mind...!”

The insults kept coming. Unable to endure any more, the young knights drew their swords. Despair spread across the receptionist's face. Passersby stopped, forming an audience. They had experienced a large-scale battle just days ago, but watching other people fight, rather than fighting on that dreadful battlefield themselves, never ceased to entertain.

“Swords out, huh? What's next? Going to throw down a handkerchief? Or a glove?”

The man chuckled and waved a hand dismissively. Then he abruptly clutched his nose and furrowed his brow.

“Sniff, sniff... Ugh, you still smell of milk... Babies, is that really how you hold a sword? Huh? Have you ever cut anyone with one? Did you even draw those swords to fuck me up? Huh? Or did you think that if you played the big, impressive knight and drew your swords, a fucking mercenary would just crawl at your feet?”

“Draw your sword!”

The young knight who appeared to lead the group roared. At his shout, the man rose from the desk, still chuckling.

There were mercenaries and knights among the spectators. They recognized the man and pitied those young knights who knew nothing of the world. The mercenaries shuddered as they imagined what would happen next, while the knights took several steps back, unwilling to be dragged into the quarrel or caught in the fallout.

“My sword?”

Grinning, the man slipped both hands inside his tattered cloak. ... Was he even a swordsman? That question passed through the minds of the knights surrounding him.

CLINK.

Metal sounded inside the cloak. It was quiet, but the knights flinched and stepped back. ... They hadn't meant to react that way. They should have advanced and swung their swords, not retreated. They had certainly intended to, yet their bodies had backed away on their own.

“Take your pick.”

THUD.

The man lifted his cloak, letting the assorted weapons strapped to his body fall to the ground. There were three or four swords alone, all of different types and lengths, along with a heavy hatchet, a short spear that could be wielded one-handed, a whip, a flail... and various other weapons. It was hard to believe anyone could move with so many weapons strapped to him.

“As you can see, I use plenty besides swords. Is there a particular weapon you'd prefer?”

“... Such pathetic bluffing...!”

“Bluffing? Hmm, all right. So you don't want to choose? Then I'll pick something suitable for you.”

As though he still had more weapons to reveal, the man spread his hands wide and slipped them into his cloak. Watching him, the knights' eyes began to tremble with an unease they couldn't understand. An inexplicable chill prickled across their skin.

“How about these?”

The man smiled, making the scar on his cheek twitch, and pulled both hands from his cloak. The knights gasped, backed away again, and froze.

His middle fingers stood straight up.

Waving both insulting gestures, he assumed a grave expression.

“... Would one finger each still be overkill?”

“You...”

The spectators burst into laughter, and the knights' faces flushed red. Humiliation and anger surged from deep within their chests, driving away their inexplicable fear.

The knights charged all at once.

“... Is it really him?”

On the rooftop of a distant building, a mage wrapped in robes and wearing an oversized hat scrunched up her eyes. Though she was far from the fight, she could see it as clearly as if it were taking place right before her, and could even hear every word exchanged.

“I don't like him.”

The mage wasn't the only one watching the man. A cleric in black-and-white vestments clicked her tongue and shook her head.

“Ability aside, he is far too vulgar. I swear to God, that man is among the most ill-mannered mercenaries I have ever seen.”

“... His ability isn't that impressive either, is it?”

The mage added her agreement. At that, the hulking warrior standing atop the railing in the wind shook his head vigorously.

“No. That man's skill is not to be taken lightly.”

“... Why are you standing up there?”

“His movements have heated my blood and set my body burning. My warrior's soul cries out to test itself against him.”

“Stop spouting bullshit and come down. Don't you feel sorry for the railing supporting that enormous body of yours?”

The cleric shot a sharp glare at the warrior's back. Rather than answer, however, he murmured in admiration and nodded.

“... He is skilled... Hmm... I'll grant that.”

Despite saying so, the mage couldn't accept it. That mercenary did seem strong. But his strength fell within the bounds of what she considered ordinary.

“It isn't enough.”

The cleric spoke. Leaning askew against the railing, she lifted the small bottle of holy water hanging at her waist.

“Sir Vermouth. I don't understand why you want to take that mercenary as a companion.”

Vermouth Lionheart.

He stood several steps behind the others. His hair was ash gray, neither black nor white, and his golden eyes glittered like finely wrought gold. His features were so beautiful it was hard to believe he was a man, yet he did not look frail.

“... I believe we are already perfect as we are.”

Anise Slywood.

She brought the holy water she always carried to her lips. After several swallows of the potent liquid, which seemed to set her insides ablaze with just a sip, she turned narrowed eyes toward Vermouth.

“Moron alone is enough for the front line. Sir Vermouth, what do you want from that mercenary? What do you believe he can do that makes you insist we accept him as a companion?”

“... I think Anise is right.”

Senya Merdein.

She pushed up her hat, which had tipped forward, and continued.

“I'm not particularly good at hand-to-hand combat, but that mercenary doesn't look more reliable than Moron. He does seem even more ignorant than Moron... But how would another idiot help us?”

“I am not an idiot.”

“If that mercenary can't hold the front line as well as Moron, what can he do? Fight? Vermouth, with you here, do we even need another fighter? Or is he a devout cleric despite appearances?”

Senya snorted and stealthily reached for the holy-water bottle Anise had set on the railing.

“If he's more devout than our holy-water-addicted saint and can perform even more impressive miracles... Heh, I suppose we could let him...”

“That is clearly impossible, isn't it?”

SMACK!

Anise's hand struck the back of Senya's sharply.

“I am the Saint of Light. No cleric in this world possesses faith even remotely approaching mine. That is why I accompany Sir Vermouth on his journey.”

“Can't I have just one sip?”

“No.”

Senya's shoulders slumped at the firm refusal.

“... He is not a man to dismiss.”

Moron Ruhar spoke as he stepped down from the railing.

“That man. His attacks and behavior look rough, but his movements flow together smoothly and flexibly, like water. Martial skill perfected through more brushes with death than an ordinary person could even imagine... And that is not all.”

“What else is there?”

“I cannot explain it precisely, but there is something distinctive woven into his technique.”

“Moron, Vermouth asked you beforehand, didn't he? Huh? Did he ask you to take his side?”

“Vermouth does not make such requests.”

Of course he didn't. Senya pouted and glanced back at Vermouth. ... This was the first time he had stubbornly insisted on something so incomprehensible. They had encountered many heroes on their way here, and some, inspired by Vermouth, had asked to join them.

'... Why does he want a mere two-bit mercenary as a companion?'

That mercenary was certainly famous among his kind. A young man adept with every sort of weapon, who returned alive from even the harshest battlefields. A battlefield ghost who belonged to no mercenary company, commanded no subordinates, and roamed in search of battlefields teeming with demonic beasts rather than lucrative pay.

Hamel Dynas.

“... This is the first time I've asked you for something like this.”

Vermouth finally spoke. He approached the railing and continued.

“I won't make such a request of you again.”

“... Sir Vermouth.”

“Anise. You asked what that mercenary could do, and what I wanted from him.”

The fight below was already over.

The seven knights who had surrounded Hamel lay scattered on the ground, each with a broken arm or leg, while Hamel picked up their dropped swords and inspected them. He was openly taking their weapons, yet not one spectator tried to stop him.

“... I don't really know what he can do either. But I do know what I want.”

“... Pardon?”

“I want him to fight alongside us.”

Vermouth spoke with a faint smile. Anise's eyes widened at that smile. She wasn't the only one who looked astonished. Senya, who had been furtively eyeing Anise's holy-water bottle, stopped moving, and Moron, who had traveled with Vermouth the longest, gaped.

“You may find his skills untrustworthy right now. But he will catch up to us quickly.”

“... Catching up isn't enough. Vermouth, you know that too, don't you? We're going to Helmuth to kill the Demon Kings.”

Recovering from her surprise, Senya extended a hand and pointed at Hamel.

“Someone who just beats up a few greenhorn knights and steals their swords... There's no way he can fight alongside us...!”

“He can. In no time at all, he will be able to stand beside us.”

“... Sir Vermouth. Is that... a divine revelation?”

Anise asked in a trembling voice. Vermouth slowly shook his head.

“It isn't a divine revelation. It's only my... unreasonable insistence. I will make him our companion, whatever it takes, and do everything I can to convince you.”

“... Ugh!”

Feeling stifled with frustration, Senya vigorously raked her hands through her hair.

“So what now? Are we just going to keep watching from here? If you want him to join us, shouldn't you at least go talk to him?”

“We go greet him, shake hands, and test our strength against each other. We help the loser to his feet and drink together. That is how we can become friends.”

“... I have no desire to acquire any more ignorant idiots as friends.”

Anise still looked unconvinced and deeply displeased. But after Vermouth had gone so far, she no longer refused.

The same was true of Senya. Of the group, only Moron accepted Vermouth's unreasonable insistence without complaint.

'... What does he see in him?'

That idiot Moron said he had sensed something. Was there really something only a warrior's eyes could see? But Senya and Anise could sense nothing in Hamel. A coarse, vulgar mercenary. To them, he was nothing more and nothing less.

“And who the hell are you?”

That was how he had looked from afar. Why would seeing him up close change anything? Senya gazed down at Hamel with a doubtful expression.

“Why the fuck did you suddenly fly over here and start looking down on me?”

Wasn't that far too insolent a way to speak to people he'd just met? Senya glared at Hamel, her eyes twitching. A large scar marked his left cheek, and there were numerous smaller scars elsewhere on his face. His upturned eyes looked so fierce that one glance was enough to tell her what a foul temper he had.

“Hamel Dynas.”

Vermouth was the first to descend from where they hovered in the sky. Holding down his wind-tossed ash-gray hair with one hand, he approached Hamel.

“Have you eaten?”

“... What?”

At Vermouth's sudden question, Hamel and everyone else went blank.

“It seems you haven't. Let's have a meal together.”

With those words, Vermouth turned around.