Ch.121The Value of Life

THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!

Massive logs were sinking into the depths of the swamp.

Well, not exactly sinking, but being driven in. Though the direction of gravitational force was the same either way, so what’s the difference?

Creeeeak…

“Move them carefully! If the rope breaks, we’ll all be attending funerals!”

“Work in Zone 1 is complete!”

“Then the work team can take a break! How much longer for Zones 2 and 3?”

A pile driver with a massive stone weight was pounding down on the logs that had been moved into position by cranes.

The reason for this endeavor was simple: the southern swamplands, being swamps, offered little solid ground to stand on, yet weren’t suitable for boats either. So they were laying down logs to create an artificial foundation.

This method had been used to build the floating city of Venice (called “Venice” in the common tongue of this world) on Earth. And since the swamp water contained even less oxygen than seawater, there was no worry about the logs rotting.

Naturally, these logs would eventually support heavy multi-story buildings and various structures, so the wood being driven in wasn’t weak like cedar or pine, but rather oak, chestnut, and other hardwoods known for their durability.

Unfortunately, Amurtat had a cold climate, meaning most of the western forests consisted of coniferous trees like pine. These softwoods weren’t sturdy enough, so hardwoods like oak and chestnut—the “ironwoods”—had to be imported from other countries.

“Ugh…! The expenses…!”

“Sob!”

As I shed tears of blood looking at the mounting costs, my aide joined in the crying.

“To see Your Majesty concerned about expenses…! I can die without regrets now!”

Oh, so that’s why you’re crying?

Anyway, while we were spending a fortune to develop the swampland, it also meant that with enough money, the southern region could be developed.

Before you grab a club to beat me for talking nonsense, let me clarify: just as on Earth, territorial development projects in this world often failed or stalled for various reasons. If throwing money at the problem could solve it, then simply spending that money was the most cost-effective approach.

Besides, we weren’t stealing the wood from anywhere—we were paying fair prices for it. The sellers had no reason to dislike us, so apart from the outflow of funds, it was a profitable venture for everyone involved.

“By the way, have we decided which companies will be the first to move in?”

“Ah, not yet. We planned to have them compete against each other, but things have become unexpectedly heated…”

“Really? How heated could it be?”

“Well, they’ve been spreading false rumors about competitors, even hiring assassins… behavior unbecoming of proper businesses.”

“Tsk. Even though they won’t see any profit for a while and will only rack up development costs, their greed knows no bounds.”

“Well, what can you expect from lowly merchants?”

*

Time passed, and it became January of the 28th year of the Amurtat calendar.

Amurtat’s population had finally surpassed 3 million, but the development of the southern region was still progressing sluggishly.

This was to be expected, considering that building a single house required driving in logs that cost ten times more than the house itself.

However, for mortals, even a year feels like a long time. Unable to endure the two-year gap, companies began subcontracting work without hesitation.

To the Adventurers’ Guild, of course.

Over the past two years, more than 200,000 adventurers had set foot in these southern swamplands for “adventure,” and 25% of them—50,000 people—had died or been maimed.

But it was acceptable.

After all, those who died were “adventurers,” not soldiers or citizens.

Thanks to their sacrifices, the exploration rate of the swamplands continued to rise, and the academic world’s interest never waned as new flora and fauna were discovered regularly.

In this world, human life was the cheapest commodity, and to obtain the most precious things, one had to first sell off the cheapest.

As the swamp filled with corpses, alligators and other wild animals multiplied by feeding on them. The Adventurers’ Guild then issued more quests to “subjugate” these creatures, drawing in yet more adventurers.

Adventurers who had survived the fall of Fahrenheit died in the swamps of Amurtat, and younger, weaker adventurers filled their vacant positions, carrying on their legacy.

“What an easy world to make a living in.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you think? Even if you can’t read, as long as your limbs work, you can earn money like this. It’s much better than most jobs, right?”

“…I suppose.”

Every day, thousands of people come to the guild with tattered clothes and rusty swords, dreaming of striking it rich.

Their equipment gradually improves, and then one day, they’re simply gone.

Whether from overconfidence or bad luck, no one takes responsibility for the deaths of adventurers.

Veteran adventurers knew this better than anyone, which is why this one merely nodded at the much younger receptionist’s words.

Whether in affirmation or denial, adventurers risk everything for money—from hunting giant rats in sewers to confronting evil liches deep in the mountains.

Needless to say, those who become adventurers are desperate people.

Those who aren’t desperate—those with stable jobs and homes—view adventurers as disposable consumables with a death wish.

But life is hard, and the jobs and homes of those with no one to rely on are as fragile as straw huts in the wind.

In other words, unstable.

As income gradually decreases, people first cut back on food, then clothing, then move to cheaper housing.

And when there’s nothing left to cut, people turn to the guild as their last lifeline.

Killing giant rats could provide three meals a day, exploring dark caves could buy new clothes, and embarking on expeditions for months could pay a security deposit for a rental home.

Those who became adventurers with such thoughts died from infections after rat bites, were torn apart by bears in caves, or fell off cliffs while being chased by beasts and monsters on distant expeditions.

The only trace of their existence could be found in the two words written on quest documents: “Quest Incomplete.”

The guild thrives on the corpses of adventurers who died without gaining name, honor, wealth, or love.

“How long would it take to explore this entire swamp?”

“Who knows? Probably about 30 years.”

“Ha. 30 years.”

The now middle-aged adventurer thought back to his youth.

With tattered clothes and a makeshift club fashioned from a stick and stone found on the street as his only weapon, his last meal had been half a moldy piece of bread two days prior. On the verge of death, he had accepted his first quest to catch rats in a warehouse.

It took him a full day to catch the rats in a warehouse so tall he couldn’t even look up to its ceiling. After catching thirty rats, he dragged them back to the guild in a sack full of holes and reported the completion of his quest.

He received three copper coins and used them to buy firewood to roast the thirty rats.

Desperately, he stuffed his cheeks with the charred, undercooked rat meat, its fur barely removed, to prevent anyone from stealing it.

The next day, he suffered from excruciating stomach pain that nearly killed him.

Unable to afford medical care, he endured the pain and, once it subsided, dragged his filthy body back to accept more rat-catching quests, repeating this cycle for an entire month.

The city was vast, and rats were plentiful, so for that month, he never went hungry for a single day.

Now, from a boy to a middle-aged man, he no longer hunted rats.

With better equipment, he fought goblins, orcs, wolf packs, and evil spirits for higher pay.

Now he had a home that kept out rain and wind, a wife he had met by chance, and grown children—a son and a daughter.

“Rat meat…”

“Pardon?”

“I caught and ate a rat the other day, but it didn’t taste the same as before.”

“Come on. Who eats rats? Just buy chicken.”

“True. My son said the same thing.”

With that, the veteran adventurer took his finally calculated payment and headed home.

Throughout his life, he had met countless adventurers.

They willingly gave their lives for a few copper coins, a few silver coins, a few gold coins.

He had seen a one-armed adventurer starve to death in an alley corner, an adventurer who refused amputation despite his rotting leg—saying he couldn’t live as a disabled person—die of sepsis, and families freeze to death waiting for breadwinners who would never return after taking on reckless quests.

What is the value of a life?

Copper? Silver? Gold?

If he were to die now, would the angels’ court weigh the life he had lived, or the life he could have lived?

The middle-aged adventurer left the guild.

And ten new adventurers entered.

Desperate and wretched, just as he once was.