Chapter 168 - Damn Reincarnation

The Meeting

A meal?

He was walking off without even waiting for an answer. Given Hamel's temperament, it would hardly have been surprising if he had smacked the back of that slick, rude bastard's head. But the peculiar air emanating from Vermouth kept Hamel's violent impulses in check.

Hamel knew that feeling well. Someone he must not dare touch. Someone he would certainly lose to in a fight. Someone he should avoid getting involved with if at all possible.

“Fuck.”

And Hamel was irritated that he was letting something like that sway him. The man hadn't shown any hostility, and they hadn't met on a battlefield. They were just on the street—no, that bastard had come looking for him out of the blue. Then he had abruptly suggested going for a meal.

Hold on.

Who the hell were you, anyway? Hamel Dynas. Yeah, sure, that was his name. Why the fuck wasn't the bastard introducing himself? Who were those two, descending from the sky and staring at him like he was something fucking disgusting? And why was that huge, musclebound bastard's gaze sparkling in a way that didn't suit his face at all?

TAP.

Hamel's foot caught on a pebble. As if heaven itself had put it there, it was in the perfect position to kick. Surely he couldn't help it if there was a pebble lying here? Hamel glared at the back of Vermouth's slowly receding head, and at Senya and Anise following him with disapproval practically pouring off their backs.

Moron was still beside Hamel. Looking down at him with a pleased smile, he recognized that this body had been developed solely through fighting. He imagined how flexible and unpredictable its movements would become once battle began, and that imagining naturally turned into a “duel” in Moron's mind.

'He's strong, but I won.'

Not “I will win,” but “I won.” Moron had already reached his conclusion and nodded emphatically. A valiant warrior of the northern Bayar tribe, the Son of the Snowfields, he approached his soon-to-be companion and reached out.

“Let's go together.”

Hamel seemed bewildered by how sudden all this was. Moron wanted to build a fine, manly friendship with his future companion, so he tried to pat Hamel's shoulder with a somewhat premature show of affection.

At that moment, Hamel kicked the pebble with all his might. Naturally, he aimed for the back of Vermouth's head. He kicked it hard enough to burst the man's head if it hit.

It would never hit.

Hamel thought that both just before the kick and after it. And he was right. The pebble he had kicked flew barely a single pace before vanishing as though it had never existed.

“... Huh.”

Hamel saw it clearly. The flying pebble had been enveloped in precisely controlled mana and annihilated. It happened so quickly that the pebble almost seemed never to have flown at all.

“... Heh.”

Walking that far ahead, Vermouth had manipulated his mana without the slightest warning. Such an extravagant display of skill just to stop a pebble. His mischievous prank had been thwarted the instant he attempted it, but Hamel felt interest rather than humiliation. He had long been confident in his own ability to manipulate mana, yet he wasn't sure he could manage it with the subtlety and precision Vermouth had just shown.

He hadn't wanted to obey that abrupt invitation to eat, but the sight of Vermouth continuing on without so much as looking back after doing that made Hamel start walking.

“Senya.”

Vermouth still didn't turn around. He parted his lips and quietly called her name.

“Don't.”

“What kind of asshole does that?”

Senya clicked her tongue and dispersed her spell. The sharp blade in front of her turned back into mana and vanished.

“I know mercenaries are ignorant, but that bastard has to rank among the worst of them. Vermouth, do you even realize? He tried to smash your head in.”

“That didn't happen.”

“Oh, aren't you impressive. You handled it all perfectly without me having to do anything. So what? I don't like that bastard, and I want to slam him into the ground first. I'm free to do that, aren't I?”

“Senya.”

“All right, all right.”

Senya stopped voicing her complaints and merely pouted instead. She glanced at Anise walking beside her. Anise was looking ahead with an utterly composed expression, but Senya remembered the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.

'... I'm telling you, I'm the only normal one here.'

Anise always addressed Vermouth respectfully as “Lord” and served him, but apparently, deep down, she had hoped Hamel's pebble would land a blow on him.

The place Vermouth led Hamel to was an ordinary restaurant of the sort found anywhere. Restaurants on streets like this usually had a few mercenaries guzzling liquor from midday onward, and sure enough, a group of rough-looking mercenaries sat inside, drinking raucously.

Perhaps that was why the restaurant had been taken over by their group. Why choose a place like this? Unable to understand, Senya glanced at Vermouth, but soon realized why he had picked it.

The mercenaries leering and whistling at Senya and Anise went pale as though they had encountered a devil the moment they saw Hamel enter behind them. Hamel didn't say anything to them or even spare them a glance, but they quietly set down their bottles and immediately stood.

“Pay before you leave.”

Hamel tossed the words at the mercenaries as they tried to leave the restaurant.

“And give the owner a nice fat tip for fucking up his daytime business.”

“Y-yes...”

“And since you're paying extra anyway, I'd sure appreciate it if you paid in advance for the meal I'm about to eat.”

“Of course...”

In the end, the mercenaries had no choice but to leave their entire money pouches on the counter before departing. Hamel picked an empty seat and planted himself in it before Vermouth could sit down.

“You really are trash, aren't you?”

Senya still didn't like Hamel. Tilting her head defiantly, she glared at him.

“You're a mercenary, and they're mercenaries. Doesn't that make you colleagues?”

“That's why we pay for each other's meals. Professional camaraderie. I can pay for those bastards' meals someday, can't I?”

“Oh, I'm sure you will.”

“Aren't you being awfully rude to someone you met today—no, just now? Oh, and I've been wondering... why'd you dye your hair purple? Want people to spot you easily on the battlefield?”

“It isn't dyed!”

Senya scrunched up her eyes and took off her hat. She abruptly bowed her head, showing even the roots at her crown.

“My hair has been purple since I was little! An ignorant mercenary like you wouldn't know this, but when someone is loved by mana and magic as I am, that blessing becomes part of their very constitution!”

“Mana's blessing turns your hair purple...? What a pathetic blessing.”

Should she kill him? Senya glared at Hamel with fire in her eyes.

“You have quite a foul mouth.”

Anise watched Hamel through narrowed eyes. An old, threadbare cloak. Scars on his face. There wasn't a trace of neatness about his appearance, and even the words coming out of his mouth were vicious.

“Lord Vermouth. Must it really be this mercenary?”

“I believe I already told you.”

“Hamel is weaker than I am, but he is strong. A duel would establish that for certain, but I do not wish to fight him while he still feels awkward among us and hurt his pride. A warrior must respect a fellow warrior.”

Moron, who had naturally settled beside Hamel, spoke with his chest proudly thrust out. Everyone turned to look at him at that irrelevant remark.

“... Why's this dumb-looking bastard suddenly talking like an idiot?”

“Hey! Who are you to call Moron an idiot?”

Feeling she had found her chance, Senya immediately rebuked him. At the same time, she subtly released mana to pressure Hamel and even gripped her magic staff, Akasha, beneath her robe. If Hamel launched another sudden attack like before, she intended to teach him some manners and make him understand the pecking order.

“What's wrong with calling him an idiot when he's acting like one...? No, wait. Moron? Vermouth?”

Only belatedly recognizing those names, Hamel whipped his head around. Though he had been called an idiot several times, Moron wasn't offended and was staring intently at the kitchen. His only concern now was when the food they had ordered would arrive.

“... Moron Ruhar. The Son of the Snowfields.”

“You know of my valor?”

At Hamel's murmur, Moron's eyes lit up and he turned his head sharply. But Hamel had already looked away from him and was watching Vermouth across the table.

“... And Vermouth... Vermouth Lionheart? Master of the Holy Sword, Hero of Light?”

“That is what they call me.”

Vermouth answered with a gentle expression. At that point, Hamel could only let out a hollow chuckle and shake his head. Why hadn't he recognized them? These four—weren't they all exceptionally distinctive, even taken individually?

A cleric with beautiful, luxuriant blond hair. A benevolent face that seemed always to be smiling. A heavy mace hanging at her waist, at odds with that appearance. In times like these, armed clergy were hardly uncommon, but a cleric who insisted on vestments rather than armor while conspicuously carrying a mace was a rare sight.

'... Anise Slywood, the Saint of Light.'

The witch who had been picking fights with him all this time. An insolent face that openly displayed her dislike without any attempt to hide it. Purple hair, not dyed but transformed by powerful mana. Green eyes that brought a forest to mind.

'The archmage, Senya Merdein.'

Every one of them was famous.

Moron Ruhar. The son of the great chieftain of the Bayar tribe, renowned as a warrior tribe even among the indigenous peoples of the bitterly cold north. He was Bayar's great warrior, who had been crushing the heads of nearby demonic beasts and demons since childhood.

Anise Slywood. The Saint of Light whom the Holy Empire of Yuras had kept hidden from the world. It was said that the light she emitted alone was brighter and stronger than that of dozens of clergy gathered together. Her divine magic was called the realization of miracles: it made the crippled walk, restored sight to the blind, and reattached even severed limbs in an instant.

Senya Merdein. A young witch, human but raised by elves. She had suddenly left the Great Forest of Samar and descended upon battlefields overrun by monsters and demonic beasts. She was like a natural disaster made flesh, and whenever her staff shone, lightning, storms, and flames swept across the ground.

... Vermouth Lionheart.

A survivor of the northern Kingdom of Ashal. Taken prisoner by demons at fifteen, he had been on his way to the demon lands of Helmuth when... with a single sword, he rescued the slaves and, together with Moron, exterminated the demons in the surrounding area. A monster. Afterward, he traveled to the Holy Empire and became the Hero of Light, acknowledged by the Holy Sword.

“... Well, I'll be damned.”

Hamel smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching. Famous heroes everyone had heard of time and again. Rumors abounded, but this was his first time meeting them in person.

“So why have the famous Hero of Light and his companions... come looking for an insignificant mercenary bastard like me?”

“At least you know your place. I really don't like you, but I might like that little bit of you that knows when to bow your head.”

Senya spoke with a bright smile. Should he hit her...? Was he allowed to? Hamel glared at her, clenching and unclenching his fist beneath the table.

“Let's stop insulting each other.”

Vermouth spoke, and his voice instantly cooled the atmosphere that had been about to boil over around the table.

“The food is starting to come out.”

“Ooh!”

Moron sprang to his feet. Then he abruptly picked up the entire table and jogged off to the kitchen. Rather than carrying the plates over one at a time... it probably was more convenient to use the whole table as a tray.

“He's insane...”

“Moron is kind.”

Anise spoke. She uncapped her holy water, gave it a gentle shake, and brought her nose close to the aroma rising from the opening.

“Do you think he puts up with you calling him an idiot because he truly is one? If Moron had a savage temperament like yours, do you think he would merely smile when you insulted him that way?”

“What, then? Would he smash my head in?”

“Find the answer yourself. Unless you are a fool, you should know...”

CRUNCH!

The sound came from behind them. When they looked to see what had happened, they found that the table had crumpled under Moron's grip. The dishes placed on it fell, but with agility that belied his enormous frame, Moron caught every plate and tossed them away.

The plates flew through the air and landed on the neighboring table.

THUD!

Then the building shook slightly. Moron's vigorous movements had left several deep footprints in the floor.

“V-Vermouth will pay for the repairs.”

“... You idiot...!”

Anise let out a deep sigh and shook her head.

“Looks to me like he's being called an idiot because he really is one.”

“... Even if that is so, Hamel, you have no right to call Moron an idiot. Only his friends and companions may call him that.”

“Exactly! Who are you to keep calling Moron an idiot? Even if he is an idiot, you aren't allowed to call him one. Got it?”

“What the hell did you bring me here for?”

Utterly unable to understand, Hamel asked the question. Vermouth's expression hadn't changed as he quietly listened to their exchange. When Moron brought the neighboring table over, his shoulders slumped, Vermouth spoke.

“Hamel Dynas. Would you become my companion?”

The words came without warning.

Moron didn't seem interested in taking part in the conversation. He set the table down in the middle of the group and immediately reached for the large pork leg on it. Senya, beside him, slapped the back of his hand.

Moron flinched, then nodded in understanding. He held out both his large hands. Senya lightly traced a circle with her finger, and his hands were enveloped in water and bubbling foam.

After washing his hands, Moron reached for the pork leg again.

SMACK!

This time, Anise slapped him across the cheek. The sudden blow left him looking bewildered. Glaring at him with wide eyes, Anise snapped open a napkin and placed it on her lap. Then she picked up a knife and fork and displayed them to him.

“... Mm...!”

Moron nodded and put a napkin on his lap as Anise had done. His thighs were so thick that it couldn't cover even one leg. Then his enormous hands picked up a knife and fork. They were far too small to hold properly in his hands, forcing him to pinch them between his fingers.

CREAK, CREEEAK...

With forlorn eyes, Moron began cutting the meat with his knife. Every movement made the old table creak. His knife work was utterly clumsy. Senya and Anise, devoted to teaching Moron “manners,” exchanged satisfied looks.

... While those three were occupied, Hamel considered Vermouth's words. Become his... companion? He understood what that meant. Vermouth, Senya, Anise, Moron. Those four were the most famous heroes on the continent, a party with the fighting strength to take on a vast army of demons.

Hamel had intended to cross over to Helmuth through this port. Most of the wars in Turas had ended. The demons and demonic beasts had retreated to Helmuth, and the monsters had been slaughtered so thoroughly they could no longer form armies. There were no battlefields left in this land for Hamel to join.

But it wasn't enough. Hamel wanted to kill more monsters, more demonic beasts, more demons. If possible, he wanted to wipe them from the world entirely. For world peace? He had no grand sense of duty like that. He simply hated them. Wanted to kill them. Couldn't bear even looking at them. That was why he wanted to kill every last demonic beast, demon, and Demon King.

That utterly personal reason turned Hamel's heart toward Helmuth. The fighting never stopped there. Reinforcements were arriving from all over the continent, but they said Helmuth's armies built mountains of human corpses every single day.

Hamel thought several factors had kept him alive until now. One was simply that he was strong. Another was that he was a genius. Another was luck. Perhaps his luck would run out in Helmuth. Strong as he was, genius or not... he might have no choice but to die.

Still, he thought that was fine. He should have died long ago anyway. He had survived through luck, and rather than live in gratitude for that, he wanted to live as he pleased, consumed by revenge and hatred. Even if he died in Helmuth, he thought he could be reasonably satisfied if he took as many demons and demonic beasts with him as possible.

“... A companion, huh.”

Hamel twisted his lips into a smile.

If he became a companion of the famous Hero, Vermouth, he would be able to survive longer in Helmuth. That alone was enough to make him willing to join Vermouth.

“I don't mind that. But I don't want to take orders from some weak-ass fuck who's worse than me.”

What he didn't like was the attitude all four people before him displayed. As if someone like him was utterly unnecessary. Even Moron was convinced he was stronger than Hamel. Senya and Anise couldn't understand why Hamel should join them.

Hamel didn't like any of it. Just how great did they think they were? Did they think he was some weak-ass fuck?

'You're asking to die.'

“... Pwahaha!”

Senya burst out laughing as she cut her meat.

“What did that bastard just say? W-weak, weak-ass fuck? Vermouth, he meant you, didn't he? Right? Ah, ahaha, ahahah!”

“S-Senya, don't laugh, please don't laugh so—pfft—so much. Laughing in someone's face like... hoo... hoho, hehehe...! Laughing is... terribly, r-r-rhehe... rude...”

“You truly are a warrior!”

Moron, too, looked at Hamel with a broad grin.

THUD!

Hamel tipped his chair back, then put both feet on the table. Senya and Anise abruptly stopped laughing.

“... Vermouth.”

Tiny sparks flared into being around Senya.

“He's just another mercenary bastard you could find anywhere. Is there any reason we absolutely have to bring him?”

“... He seems utterly devoid of dignity. Lord Vermouth. There must be countless warriors better than this stray dog of a mercenary. I hear the only son of the Kiel Empire's knight commander possesses excellent looks and character as well as skill... Why not go to Kiel instead?”

“I have heard that the warriors of the maritime kingdom are exceedingly brave men. I would like to duel them.”

As the atmosphere turned chilly, Moron alone spoke of something else.

“... Hey. Looks like everyone except you hates me. I don't want to travel with bastards who hate me either. Like that foul-tempered saint over there said, why don't you find some other bastard to take along?”

“No.”

Vermouth spoke.

The flames Senya had summoned went out. The light circling beneath Anise's feet disappeared. Gracefully pouring liquor into his cup, Vermouth continued.

“It has to be you.”

Hamel couldn't understand those words.

“If you need to confirm my abilities, why don't we finish our meal first?”

“... What?”

“We'll eat, drink, fill our stomachs, and when we've had some time to digest...”

Vermouth swirled his cup and smiled gently.

“We'll have our duel then.”