Chapter 16 : Whispers Before the Hunt

“You made it in just fine, Terty.”
Saker smirked as he spoke, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. The man called Terty tilted his head, brows arching in mock confusion.

“Did a new law pass while I was away? Must we seal our lips while drinking now?”

“Idiot. How would you even drink with your mouth shut?”

“The tavern’s so damn quiet. Feels like the place hasn’t even opened yet.”

“Those bastards you beat down earlier stirred up some trouble.”

“And that means what, exactly?”
Terty’s confusion deepened. A place like this—filled with mercenaries—would normally erupt in cheer at the scent of blood, not recoil into silence.

“So,” Saker cut in, “you staying for a drink or what?”

“That was the plan.”

“Then come on.”
Seiker grabbed a room key and led Terty upstairs. As they passed, he whispered something while gesturing discreetly toward Curtis’s table. Terty’s eyes narrowed with sudden interest.

While the two disappeared briefly to the upper floor, Curtis turned to Freeman, their own quiet discussion sparked by the stranger’s presence.

“That man seemed quite familiar with Seiker.”

“He should be. We’ve helped him out more than once in the past. Good timing, actually.”

“Good timing?”

“That question you asked earlier. Terty’s the one to answer it better than I ever could.”

“Is he someone we can trust?”

“By my standards, yes.” Freeman nodded. “He’s ranked Silver in the Nigerte Mercenary Guild—and rumor is he’s poised to hit Gold within a few short years.”

When it came to martial skill, that spoke volumes. Curtis understood why Freeman spoke so highly of him.

In this world, warriors and mages alike were categorized under four great ranks:
Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Gemstone.

The naming convention felt oddly whimsical, reminiscent of distant kingdoms like Beshilgol, but traditions were long-standing and rarely questioned.

Within each rank, one might find wide variations in strength—but the leap between tiers was like the span between earth and sky. A Silver was not merely skilled—they were a force of nature in the making.

Mercenaries used the same hierarchy, with one grim addition beneath Bronze: Scrap Iron.
To be ranked Silver meant more than skill—it was prestige, power, and promise. Those with such titles were snatched up by noble houses, military corps, or guild lords. Few remained long as wandering blades.

“How old is he?” Curtis asked.

“Thirty—maybe thirty-one.”

“…He must’ve endured a hard road.”

“…The road of a mercenary is hardship itself,” Freeman said quietly.
For someone in their early thirties to already be considered a future Gold was no small feat. In a profession where few survived that long, it was extraordinary.

Especially for someone with no noble lineage—just grit, steel, and relentless resolve. Curtis could easily imagine the guild giving Terty special privileges.

Best to befriend him. He may prove useful, Curtis thought, watching Terty return from upstairs.

As fate would have it, Terty shared the same idea. Seiker had given him the essentials: Curtis’s name, his origins, and his remarkable rise.

Approaching Curtis’s table, Terty offered a polite nod—measured, but not cold.

“Seems we’ve both heard a thing or two. If you don’t mind, might I join you?”

“Please.”

“Pull up a chair then. Seiker! Bring more beer!”

“Last round before you switch with me. You think I run this place alone?”
Seiker barked, slamming three mugs on the table. Freeman didn’t bother responding.

As the mugs were slowly drained, the two men studied each other in silence. Not with hostility, but with curiosity—two seasoned hunters sizing up the other’s scent.

Around them, the heavy silence of the tavern began to fade. The mercenaries, once stiff with unease from witnessing Curtis’s magic, slowly found their voices again. The tavern hadn’t regained its full chaos—but it no longer felt haunted.

At last, Terty spoke.

“They say you’re a mage.”

Curtis nodded. “Just recently stepped into the world. I’ve been asking Freeman here about mercenary life.”

“Understandable. But do you truly need advice? Mages are in high demand, even when they’re silent.”

“That may be true, but I’ve no idea how to even begin.”

Terty leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing.

“…You awakened on your own?”

“Yes.”

Terty let out a low whistle. “Remarkable.”

A mage who hadn’t studied under a master or within a tower—but instead awakened to magic unaided by tradition—was known as a self-born.
Some scoffed at them, calling them unrefined, lacking the pedigree of lineage and scrollwork. Others, however, whispered a different name: Genius.

The nobles often sneered. The poor and self-made? They revered.
And Terty, a soldier of the dirt and blood, clearly sided with the latter.

He wasn’t mocking. The admiration in his eyes was pure.
“It’s nothing extraordinary,” Curtis said, voice calm. “Surely I’m not the only mage in this world to awaken on his own.”

Though truth be told, Curtis doubted there was another who could level up through a status window like he could. That detail, however, he kept to himself.

“Freeman speaks highly of you, Sir Terty,” Curtis continued. “If I may, could I trouble you for some guidance?”

“That’s no trouble at all,” Terty replied, arms folding as his gaze sharpened. “What would you like to know?”

“As I said before, I’ve only just stepped into the wider world. I’d like to taste real combat—nothing too perilous, but enough to test myself. What do you recommend?”

Terty fell into thought, brows furrowing beneath his weathered brow.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “how would you measure your own strength?”

“Hard to say,” Curtis admitted. “Depends who I’m compared to. Real combat might show something different.”

“What if we used the thugs you nearly tangled with earlier as a benchmark?”

“I wouldn’t even consider them worth comparing.”

“So, you’re confident you’d crush them?”

“Honestly, I’d have to try to lose.”

Terty grinned.

“Very well. How about you come with me to the Mercenary Guild tomorrow?”

“Pardon?”
The offer caught Curtis off guard, abrupt and seemingly unrelated. Freeman, however, understood immediately.

“You’re thinking of bringing him along on the hunt?”

“Why not? Good for both of us, no?”

“Hunt?” Curtis asked, confused. “What hunt?”

“Ah, you weren’t told.” Terty leaned back slightly. “The city of Nigerte organizes regular purges of corrupted beasts. They rally mercenaries every few weeks. The next hunt gathers in three days.”

In Curtis’s home world, such creatures were called monsters.
Here, they were known as malspawn—creatures of filth and malice. So vile in form that revulsion welled up just from sight alone. And the feeling, it seemed, was mutual—malspawn sought the blood of men instinctively, viscerally.
They were an affront to life itself.

Yet the world was wide and wild, its untamed frontiers teeming with nests left uncleansed. No matter how hated, they were unavoidable—men and monsters were fated to cross paths.

“Wait—these things live near a city this large?”

“Not near the walls,” Terty replied. “But Nigerte’s influence stretches far, including to the edge of the Great Spine Mountains. Malspawn descend from there on occasion.”

“I see.”

“We cull them regularly. They’re mostly small fry—enough for a decent bout, but not so many as to overwhelm.”

“Even so, no one goes alone,” Freeman added. “You can’t very well sleep out in the wild by yourself.”
Even a Silver-ranked warrior could die if ambushed while resting. And staying awake for days on end was simply not an option.

**“Normally, mercenaries form temporary squads,” Freeman went on. “But this time, Terty plans to take you with him. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s the idea.”

“If you’re willing, I’d be honored,” Curtis said sincerely. “But are you truly fine with taking someone like me?”

Terty smiled. “Most of us are just grunts with swords. If one of our own suddenly becomes a mage, I’d be the one asking for the favor, not you.”

“Then I’ll look forward to it.”
They shook hands, the pact sealed.

Joining the Mercenary Guild in Nigerte was surprisingly simple.
Pay a small fee, write down your name, and receive a crude metal shard—the symbol of the Scrap Iron rank.

Scrap Iron was a provisional tier, even below Bronze. It meant the bearer had neither skill nor achievements worth noting.
For many, this was a crossroads: rise through merit, or remain forgotten in rust.

“You won’t need to worry about that,” Terty said. “Complete just one hunt, and they’ll bump you to Bronze straight away.”

“Just one?”

“Mages are rare. In our trade, even more so. They won’t wait for some long review—they’ll grab hold of you while they can.”

Of course, rules still prevented awarding high ranks immediately. But that didn’t concern Curtis. His only goal was to gain battlefield experience—and for that, even a Scrap rank was sufficient.

Still, one thing gnawed at him.

“Terty, isn’t today the gathering day for the hunt?”

“It is.”

“Aren’t we a little too relaxed, then…?”

“No need to rush. We’ll head out after lunch.”

“…Eh?”

“The guild’s providing carriages this time. We’ll be there in under three hours.”

It turned out the “gathering day” was merely a deadline to arrive at the designated village—nestled near the foot of the mountains, not quite wilderness, but close enough.
Some walked, some rode. The journey was left to the mercenary’s means.

To Curtis, it didn’t feel like a true military operation.
At the village, a guild officer arrived in the same carriage, gathered the mercenaries, and made a brief announcement:

“I’ll be stationed here for seven days. Submit your spoils before then. Final payments will be made back in the city.”

No speeches. No rallying cries. Just business.
And apparently, it was all so routine that not a single mercenary asked a question before they dispersed.

Even lodging was self-managed. The village was too remote to host inns, and even if it had one, it couldn’t have accommodated over fifty hardened warriors.
Thanks to Terty’s status, Curtis secured a spot in the village elder’s home—a golden blessing compared to those camping under the open sky.

The next morning, after a modest breakfast, Curtis and Terty ascended into the hills together—alone.

“Is this what a purge is supposed to be like?”
Curtis asked, unsettled by the solitude. He had expected squads, formations, commanders—not a two-man ascent.

Terty gave a dry laugh. “A proper purge would involve mass coordination and sweeping force.”

“Good. I thought I was the only one confused.”

“But in these parts, malspawn numbers stay low thanks to frequent hunts. No need for armies.”

“Then this is more a hunt than a purge.”

“Exactly. We spread out for a reason, too. Even the most rabid beasts hesitate when they’re outnumbered.”

The strategy was clear: track them like game, bait them out, and strike them down.
Dangerous, yes—but efficient. And for confident mercenaries, the rewards were sweet.
Though Curtis had no experience, with Terty beside him, he felt no fear.

Suddenly, Terty halted.

“Wait.”
He crouched low, hand drifting toward the hilt at his side.
Curtis followed his gaze—and saw it.

Dark, sinewy shadows slipping between the trees. Something about them felt wrong—unnaturally grotesque.

“Gnolls,” Terty murmured.

Musclebound beasts, upright like men, with the hunched gait and vicious eyes of hyenas.

“Don’t drop your guard. They’re weak alone, but in packs—”

SPLASH.

One of the gnolls exploded mid-sentence, skull crushed under a sudden deluge of conjured water.

“…My apologies,” Curtis said, lowering his hand. “Reflex. Could you finish what you were saying?”

Terty blinked at the twitching corpse.
“…Make that six.”