A strange sound scraped through the silence.
The mercenaries’ faces tightened. In a single, fluid motion, they drew their weapons, their bodies coiling with tension.
The captain, walking at the head of the column, raised a hand, halting the procession.
Through the frigid air, a monster appeared.
It was a black, amorphous mass of slime, oozing forward.
“Yes. It’s a monster that exists in the records.”
Many powerful souls had challenged the Pale Expanse. Few had survived, but those who did made sure their experiences were not forgotten. They recorded the monsters they encountered, and of all the creatures documented, the black slime appeared most frequently.
“Do you know of it, Torg?” Elara asked.
“Know of it? I’ve eaten it. Quite chewy, but they make for a decent snack.”
For a moment, Elara thought she’d misheard, but Torg’s expression was dead serious.
“Would you like to try one? I can have them catch it for you.”
Elara shook her head, a little too quickly.
The black slime advanced, its hostility a palpable wave. The mercenaries braced themselves.
Elara glanced at Torg. He was still leaning against the carriage, gazing idly out the window as if he had no intention of moving. His casual posture confused her.
“I made a contract to protect your lives,” Torg said without turning. “I have no intention of intervening unless you’re in real danger.”
He muttered to himself, his voice too low for her to hear.
“Besides, I need to see what these sellswords are made of.”
The black slime rushed forward.
A mercenary with a massive shield stepped up to meet it, planting his feet and sinking his weight into the snow to hold his ground.
The slime launched itself forward, a gelatinous projectile.
The shieldbearer was thrown back, the sturdy man tumbling across the ground.
Another mercenary brought his sword down on the creature. The blade struck the viscous surface and was deflected with a violent recoil. The man staggered, regaining his balance, and stared at his sword in disbelief. The edge that had struck the slime was chipped.
The black slime coiled and lunged again.
The mercenaries scattered to avoid the charge.
The captain’s voice boomed across the snowfield.
“Black slimes can only move in a straight line! Circle it!”
“Don’t meet the charge head-on! Deflect it!”
Following their captain’s orders, the mercenaries moved swiftly, forming a loose ring around the monster.
The shieldbearer, though he’d been knocked aside, had not been defeated. He twisted his body with the next impact, redirecting the slime’s momentum and sending it sliding past him.
“Simple attacks are useless! Look for an external core!” the captain yelled.
The mercenaries fought with everything they had.
Thirty minutes later, the captain saw an opening and thrust his sword forward. The blade sank smoothly into a tiny, pulsating point on the slime’s surface.
The creature instantly lost its form, dissolving into a black puddle that seeped into the snow.
A ragged cheer erupted from the mercenaries. Elara, watching from the carriage, clenched her fist. They had defeated a monster of the Pale Expanse with their own strength. It was a moment of pure triumph.
Torg, however, had watched the entire battle without a change in his expression.
“I have a question,” he said, his voice flat. Elara turned to him.
“How strong are these mercenaries?”
“Uh… They’re quite skilled,” she managed. It was true; one couldn’t even accept a contract for the Pale Expanse without considerable confidence and power. “They are rather famous on the continent.”
Torg’s eyes seemed to recede, growing distant and cold.
After that, the journey continued. Monsters appeared from time to time, but whether by luck or good record-keeping, they were all creatures the mercenaries recognized. Knowing their weaknesses, they dispatched them with surprising ease.
“Hey! The Pale Expanse isn’t so bad after all!” one of them shouted after a victory.
The mercenaries’ initial tension slowly bled away, replaced by a growing confidence. It was a natural consequence of advancing so far without a single casualty.
“This isn’t so tough, Captain,” a man said.
“Don’t get careless. We’re not even halfway there.”
“But we’ve been doing fine, haven’t we? Maybe the danger of the Pale Expanse was exaggerated to begin with?” another mercenary mused.
“There hasn’t been a proper expedition since the time of the Emperor’s Saga. Most of the challengers since then have been riffraff.”
The Emperor’s Saga was a well-known tale, and those in power had little desire to stir the hornet’s nest. The Pale Expanse was dangerous—no one denied that. But perhaps, the mercenaries began to think, its legend had been greatly overblown. Perhaps they could conquer it after all.
That realization began to take root in their minds.
And with it, their perception of the barbarian began to change. He was no longer a monster from a legend, but just an ordinary, lazy barbarian.
“He’s kind of annoying,” one grumbled.
They had to sleep outside, shivering in the cold to maintain security. If not for their magically treated cloaks, they would have frozen to death long ago.
But the barbarian rested comfortably in a warm carriage. For sleeping, he had been given an entire carriage to himself. He never joined the battles, merely watching from his cozy perch. He had been hired for the same job they had, and the preferential treatment grated on them.
“Is he really that strong?”
The doubt grew louder.
“I don’t think so. So what if he’s a barbarian? This is the Emperor’s Saga we’re talking about. He’s probably at the bottom of the food chain out here, just clinging to us for protection.”
Their doubts hardened into certainty.
The captain said curtly, “Those are the client’s orders. It’s not our place to question them.”
“But what if the client is being deceived?” a mercenary pressed, his eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t we at least confirm his strength?”
The captain dismissed the complaint, but the mercenaries’ dissatisfaction simmered.
Oblivious to their resentment, Torg sat in his carriage, chewing an apple with a look of pure satisfaction.
“I’m glad you like it,” Elara said.
“It must be difficult to keep fruit fresh on a long journey. Is this preserved by magic as well?”
“Magic can do anything, it seems.”
Torg popped the rest of the apple, core and all, into his mouth. With a sickening crunch, it vanished. The old man sitting beside Elara watched him with a weary expression.
Torg licked the juice from his fingers contentedly. How long had it been since he’d tasted fresh fruit? After days of nothing but monster meat, it felt like it was cleansing his very soul. His desire to leave the snowfield burned even brighter.
A thought seemed to occur to him. “I’m curious about something,” he said, turning to Elara. “Judging by your clothes, your posture, your speech… you’re no mere family representative.”
Her attire was simple, but the material was clearly of the highest quality.
Elara nodded. “I am the daughter of a concubine of Lord Ivan Voronov. My mother is Lady Lyra.”
“A concubine? A second mother, you mean?”
“Yes. My poor mother was sent as a tool for a political marriage. She was used and then cast aside, left with no real power.”
Torg nodded, his expression indifferent.
Elara watched him for a moment, then found herself speaking without thinking. “My mother and I… we are family in name only. In the household, we are treated no better than servants.”
She hadn’t meant to say so much. But Torg’s dispassionate attitude seemed to draw the words out of her.
“You said the family is on the verge of collapse?” he asked.
“Yes. Aggressive competition from other merchant houses is costing us our clients, one by one. If this continues, we will soon be bankrupt.” Her father, the head of the family, was paralyzed by fear. He needed to find a way out, but his attempts to avoid conflict had led him to concede everything. The family’s ruin was imminent.
“So this caravan,” she finished, “will decide the fate of our house.” If they could sell this shipment of weaponry to a kingdom at war, they would have more than enough capital to revive their family’s fortunes.
“I see,” Torg muttered. “But I have another question. Even if you hold no real power, you’re still of the family blood. Why risk your own life on this journey?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “A life-threatening journey. Someone… has to set an example.”
The old man looked at Elara with admiration. Her sacrifice was a true act of noblesse oblige.
“You’re quite clever,” Torg said suddenly.
He leaned forward slightly. “And ambitious. Greedy.”
“Hey, you bastard! What are you talking about?” the old man sputtered, half-rising from his seat.
But Elara’s eyes wavered. She understood.
Just as she was about to speak, a sharp knock echoed from the carriage door.
The old man got up clumsily and pulled it open.
A group of mercenaries stood outside. “We have something to say to the lady.”