Eyes blinked in the darkness. They were definitely eyeballs, but they could see nothing.
'Does a thread of fate come even to me, stagnant and unable to see anything?'
He closed his eyes. Even with this unusual fate visiting after so long, there was no emotional disturbance whatsoever.
'This too shall merely pass.'
He had sunk too deep to have expectations, and time had flowed for as long as he'd been sinking. Less than a single thread, less than a strand of hair.
It was such a quiet place that even a small fate like this would make him open his eyes.
He kept his eyes closed and continued sinking down, down.
***
"Wahaha!"
From several empty houses the mercenaries had occupied, laughter constantly poured out. It was rowdy. Rowan looked inside. As if they'd butchered a horse, the smell of meat flowed strongly through the window cracks.
'They're having a feast.'
He saw mercenaries drinking without restraint too. Checking their faces, Rowan was disappointed. Just mercenaries like in any fantasy.
He headed to where the cargo wagons were. Not a single sentry on guard. There was nothing valuable, and it was a mountain village where even fencing stolen goods was hard. No need to guard it.
He slightly opened the tarp to check what was inside.
'Did they come to war?'
From heavy weapons to all kinds of arms, there was a ton. Most were polearms, meaning most had long reach. The condition didn't look too good. Some were rusted from poor maintenance, and there was a smell of blood.
'Tsk.'
Nothing rusts as easily as iron. If they weren't going to maintain it like this, it'd be better to use bronze weapons with a higher tin ratio.
While he was at it, he checked the other cargo wagons. He had that much time to spare.
'This one's ranged weapons.'
The last one wasn't worth seeing, but he opened it anyway. It was full of all kinds of daily necessities and supplies. Spare armor was visible too.
Rowan wanted to steal this. But he couldn't—because of modern morality, and more than anything, he had a strong desire to live an upright life. He didn't want to leave a stain on his new life.
Rowan quickly disappeared after finishing his business.
No twist or anything. The mercenaries really hadn't set up any devices on the cargo wagons. No sentries, no proper system at all—no different from a bandit group.
Literally just traveling for sword money and life prices, vastly different from what a modern person would imagine.
As soon as he got home, for once, Rowan ended up talking with his father and his eldest brother. Wine sat on the wooden table. Homemade wine had the distinguishing feature of fairly high alcohol content.
Ranch work often involved outdoor activities, so high-alcohol liquor that raised body heat and kept body temperature constantly elevated was a natural choice.
"What's this about? Calling me suddenly. Even liquor..."
The eldest son, Sernhac, and Rowan's father, Haldanak, had serious expressions.
"I heard the story. You went to the Black Flag Youth Association officers' meeting on Rakson's recommendation?"
"Yes. They told me to do watchtower duty."
Haldanak waved his hand to change the subject.
"That's settled. I've been watching for a while. I've been disappointed many times seeing you dabble in this job and that, like window shopping, but I had a little faith in you consistently training swordsmanship with Rakson."
Literally just a little. That's why he gave no support. He set up this meeting because he'd made a different decision. With that attitude, Rowan felt anticipation.
Father Haldanak turned his eyes to Sernhac.
"Your brother spoke up first. Said you seem to really be dreaming."
Sernhac had always told him to go work in the city rather than lose a hand. Rowan made a disbelieving expression.
"He's still your brother, you brat."
He suddenly pulled out a leather pouch and pushed it over.
"Money I saved up while running the ranch. Not much, but still, you're the same son, so Sernhac kept saying we can't give you nothing."
"Father said the same thing though... what..."
Even while watching them pass it back and forth, Rowan quickly checked inside the leather pouch.
'Silver coins!'
Copper coins were mixed in too, but still, it was perfect as seed money.
"Why are you guys suddenly like this?"
Considering that one silver coin was a month's living expenses for a one-person household, this was considerable money. Especially in this place where combat was a way of life and weapons and armor were expensive, this could be called very substantial seed money.
"You can earn money later. Or pay it back if you succeed."
Eldest son Sernhac said something pointless.
"If Rakson writes you a letter of recommendation, you could work as a soldier in the city, couldn't you? He's a retired veteran who lived well enough to serve as a soldier until the very end. No one's received his letter of recommendation."
Apparently, going to the officers' meeting of the youth association had greatly moved these two.
"I'll use it gratefully."
They drank several glasses while reminiscing. Since they usually only drank high-alcohol liquor to maintain body temperature, days like this were special. It wasn't for nothing that they'd saved up quite a few silver coins—frugality was ingrained in them.
In a world without the concept of minors, drinking was no problem. It was a place where people said tobacco was the secret to longevity.
The very next day, with Rakson's help, he joined the mercenary group.
Rowan was equipped with light gear, a round shield, and a shortsword, plus throwing daggers. He could temporarily receive ranged equipment from the mercenaries separately. Free, of course.
"A retired veteran's recommendation, age doesn't matter. Welcome for a short time, kid."
The mercenaries openly bet on whether Rowan would piss himself in combat with goblins or not, or made bets on whether he'd vomit seeing corpses. Especially hot was whether this young punk would kill even one goblin.
'All talk, no substance. Bastards.'
Rowan cursed up a storm inside. It was only because of Rakson's influence that Rowan could be here, and the words of the Iron Pouch Mercenary Group's commander, Jose, were literally bullshit—just words to mind Rakson.
As proof, Rowan was placed in the center of the mercenary group. He also had to carry two loads like a porter. Having trained and practiced fighting for a long time, Rowan found it light. He'd also chosen leather armor to reduce weight.
"Pretty good? You're strong. Real strong."
Some mercenaries joked lightly, and
"If you get in the way, I'll just stick a dagger right in that crown of yours. Got it? You little shit."
Thud.
One mercenary picked a fight and vented, lightly jabbing his stomach. Rowan lightly brushed off such hazing. He'd already expected the crazy behavior of rough mercenaries. He'd expected it from the moment he saw the bloody polearm wagon.
Mercenary commander Jose didn't intervene at all.
He was so indifferent that he didn't care if a mercenary died. The 33 mercenaries each carried only their own loads and headed for the Black Mountains. Their mission was to search there.
"Move in groups of seven. The remaining five patrol the perimeter. And you, kid."
"My name's Rowan."
"Yeah, you little shit. Just answer."
"Yes."
"You come with me."
Mercenary commander Jose lightly patted Rowan's neck while watching the groups depart one by one, then continued speaking.
"Life comes first. Rakson has great influence in this shitty mountain village. The Silver Stick Merchant Guild, which was pretty friendly in the city, has come to trade all this village's resources. This place is practically Rakson's manor."
He told Rowan pointless stories and explained why he shouldn't fall behind.
"Whether a hand flies off or a leg becomes crippled, it doesn't matter as long as you're alive, so watch your ass. Got it?"
"Yes."
Mercenary commander Jose moved too. All he had was leather armor protecting his upper body, and he was a mercenary who used a bow, arrows, and a dagger longer than a regular dagger. In the leather straps on his thighs were stored fletchless arrows half the length of normal arrows, and in the quiver were about 30 arrows no different from any other, packed tightly.
'Guess he specializes in ranged.'
It could be called the complete opposite of Rowan. With dismal projectile angle and distance sense, Rowan couldn't shoot bows well.
Of the 33 mercenaries, four groups started searching the abandoned mines, and with five in the patrol group handling outside patrol, he arrived at the mine entrance following Jose and the mercenaries.
Thunk! Thud!
Skillfully digging dirt with the scabbard and cleanly inserting cut branches there. Obviously artificial—in other words, a marker that it was a searched location.
"Going in. Once inside, don't run your mouth. Mines echo well. If it echoes, just pull out and hide and watch the situation."
Words reeking of experience. Rowan carefully put it all in his head. None of the mercenaries had a single polearm. Must be in the cargo wagons. And Rowan, who found that questionable, resolved his doubt once he entered the mine.
'A narrow place.'
Naturally not a place where polearms could be used. That wasn't all.
'It's dark.'
Polearms longer than torches would inevitably lose their advantage. Even trying to use them to assist others, how could you check enemies with a long weapon farther than the torch's clear visibility? In short, total nonsense.
Since the torch's visible range didn't reach far, Rowan tensed up automatically, even though he was in the middle. The mercenaries' breathing gradually quieted. They moved slowly while maintaining thin, long breaths.
Setting the pace of those mercenaries' steps was the job of Jose at the very front.
The mine was winding, with signs of haphazard digging. A winding passage with the miners' traces intact.
Scratch.
He also marked the direction of the path traveled with a dagger.
'What? I see light ahead?'
Rowan was startled. Conversely, he could feel the mercenaries' spirits rising sharply. A fire lit in a mine no one enters meant goblins were there.
It was a torch emitting acrid black smoke. Placed on a holder and burning for a long time, Jose looked around sharply, then reached below it and pulled out the torch.
He stuck it in the dirt with a plop to put out the fire and examined the torch.
"Dried goblin excrement. Has the characteristic of producing lots of black smoke, and when you put out the fire like this, it stinks."
At the stench wafting from Jose as he spoke quietly, Rowan made a sound.
"Ugh."
"Hehehe."
He seemed to have intentionally made him smell it. The other mercenaries were breathing only through their mouths like swimmers. The goblin torch was relit and placed on the holder.
Even monsters couldn't be free in a cave without a single point of light. Especially goblins—they were an intelligent species that walked on two legs and used tools. Also, since they were guys who were active day and night, it was impossible to be active in very dark places.
Jose's group continued searching very thoroughly and cautiously rather than advancing forward immediately.
'He said life comes first. Really doing it thoroughly.'
When Jose stopped, the mercenaries who hadn't loosened their tension stopped alertly. Jose pointed somewhere with his hand—the bumpy passage wall.
At Jose's hand signal, raising one finger and pointing to himself, when the mercenaries nodded, Jose headed to the wall alone. He melted into the darkness beyond the torch's visible range.
Couldn't see anything because of the torch's light. With both ears pricked, Rowan waited without moving a muscle. He'd never been this tense.
Crack. Gulp.
A very small sound was caught. It was the sound of crushing bone and a death rattle, unable to make a loud sound.
'He killed a goblin!'
"Follow me."
Jose strode forward. The torch's light touched the bumpy wall, but Rowan just blinked. When Jose slipped right into that shadow, he was shocked. They'd cleverly used the shadow's darkness to create a passage.
An adult man couldn't pass easily, but moving bit by bit didn't make much noise.
Since the mine echoed with dripping water and underground water flowing, they could move without making noise.
Past the concealed passage, there was one goblin corpse.
"A sentry."
"So this is the goblins' base?"
At one mercenary's words, mercenary commander Jose shook his head.
"Of course not. How many mine entrances are there? Those horny and greedy goblins will be spread all over."
Jose moved again, and torches were lit everywhere—so much so that their torch was no longer necessary.
'They're continuing like this?'
Just eight men. Rowan could only think it was crazy and wanted to ask right away, but he kept his mouth shut tight. An outsider who couldn't even be called a new recruit commenting on their actions meant he couldn't complain even if he died.
Rowan never overlooked the mercenaries' violent temperament.