Ch.150The Road to Jerikania (3)

“Hmph. Even this wreck still counts as a house, I suppose. Light a fire in the fireplace and it actually gets warm.”

“Well… the walls are still standing, and half the ceiling remains…”

Simon broke off some twigs and tossed them into the fireplace. The soot-covered stone hearth seemed determined to share its warmth with us, as if declaring that even if the house was dying, the fire would burn on.

This abandoned house, with its peculiar blend of cold and warmth, didn’t look particularly suitable for five people to stay in, but well, isn’t that what adventure is all about?

If you expect a soft bed and warm covers, you’re not on an adventure—you’re just traveling.

“Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I made a fire by myself.”

“When was the first time you made one?”

“When I was five. There was this old man who smoked. He must have used up all his matches because he threw away the matchbox. When I picked it up and looked inside, there was one broken match left. I used it to light a fire with some scrap wood and newspapers I found on the street.”

“A broken match…”

“It wasn’t very warm, but it was fine. I learned that fire couldn’t consume me.”

People like me, whose lives are bundles of trauma, are easily moved by small things.

Of course, just because life treats you unfairly doesn’t mean you can go around slaughtering tens of thousands of people like I did. But to possess combat abilities that are incomparable to ordinary people, you need to overcome that level of hardship.

Because those who couldn’t have already died.

“I’ve been thinking about why the entire city of Parcival didn’t try to kill me after I killed so many people there. And why most people don’t know who I am. Want to hear my theory?”

“Go ahead. I’m quite interested in that insane combat prowess of yours.”

“It’s like how an immune system works. Memory cells need to remember to develop resistance or immunity. If all the memory cells die, there’s no way to develop resistance, right?”

“…So you killed everyone before rumors could spread?”

“Something like that.”

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“I was young back then, but not stupid. I prepared thoroughly. I’d chop up rotten food scraps from slaughterhouses and slip them into water supplies and food ingredients… I’d selectively kill the sentries on watch to create extreme anxiety and sleeplessness… Sometimes I’d just cut off limbs instead of killing, forcing them to waste money on potions and create deficits…”

“You’re more suited to be a butcher than a knight! What child fights as viciously as you?”

“But those bastards were so noisy I couldn’t sleep. Do you know how maddening noise from upstairs neighbors can be?”

“Good grief!”

Being weak is acceptable.

In itself, it merely means being inferior to strength.

But being useless is not acceptable.

Something that can’t be used for anything is literally trash.

I might have been weak, but I wasn’t useless, and I did my best to improve my quality of life.

In the end, despite killing so many people, I had to be content with this dilapidated ruin rather than even a studio apartment. It felt futile that instead of proving myself in Parcival, I’d jumped into an adventure from which I might never return.

Perhaps this is a kind of revelation.

A revelation that killing alone solves nothing.

“Raisha.”

“Yes?”

“Never cheat on your husband. This old man can see that your spouse has experienced fates worse than death far too often. I fear your limbs being severed and your eyes gouged out.”

After I answered calmly, a horrified Simon said to Raisha:

“Come now. What’s so cruel about cutting off limbs and gouging out eyes? Using neurotoxins to cause motor paralysis or removing the frontal lobe is much better. The former gives you the fear of being unable to escape your situation no matter how hard you try, and the latter ensures you’ll never feel fear again. That’s far more cruel, don’t you think?”

“O-of course, my love.”

*

“We’re back!”

“Oh, you’re here.”

“What’s with the atmosphere? Did you two have a fight?”

“Well, you see…”

Simon began explaining our conversation to the elf sisters, almost like he was complaining.

The elf sisters, initially indifferent, were shocked after hearing our exchange and started directing their criticism at me.

“You’re ev—”

“One criticism equals one piece of equipment.”

“—not evil at all, I think.”

“Growing up in a harsh environment just makes you that kind of adult. There’s a reason elves judge each other based on their origins.”

“Damn, money really does talk.”

The initiative that had opened so impressively was blocked by the power of money.

As they said, everything the elves were wearing had been bought by me, so if they wanted to leave the party, they’d have to return everything except their underwear.

“By the way, do elves really discriminate based on origin?”

“Of course. We High Elves are at the top of the hierarchy.”

“Hmph.”

Hierarchy, huh.

Come to think of it, in the past when humanity was bound to Earth, people discriminated against each other based on skin color.

How strange—it’s not like bullets fired by a Black person wouldn’t hurt White or Asian people.

“What about Wood Elves then?”

“They’re the lowest. They’re the ones who couldn’t handle city life and ran off to the forests.”

“That’s right. Honestly, they’re barely better than goblins except for their height.”

“Is that so…”

It seemed that elves’ racial consciousness—or whatever you’d call it—existed with a different texture than that of humans, but it definitely existed.

“So what makes you High Elves better?”

“We live in cities, don’t we?”

“And…?”

“Do you really think creatures who can’t even afford city land prices despite living for 100 or 1,000 years are on our level?”

Ah…

So that’s it…

When will humanity ever escape this cursed capitalism!

“The boy from Parcival who couldn’t afford city land prices and left on an adventure is standing right in front of you.”

“Eek!”

“And my first companion was Seriya, a Wood Elf.”

“Eeek!”

Having accidentally triggered every tripwire they shouldn’t have touched, the elf sisters gaped in shock.

Finding this quite amusing, I sneered and pointed out their immaturity.

“Seriya was a 300-year-old elf. She was much more mature than you and much more reliable. Even if it was for a short time.”

“Hmph! Even so, the withered skin of a 300-year-old elf can’t beat the elasticity(?) of an elf under 100!”

“Shut up. Whether it’s Seriya or you two, you’re all beneath my wife.”

“Why are we inferior to that flat-chested woman?!”

“Breasts.”

They sank gloriously.

As a rule, when it comes to breasts, bigger is better.

Of course, Raisha’s pre-surgery chest was closer to a tumor than breasts, so that’s beside the point.

*

And so the next morning dawned.

Having gone to bed hungry after our improper verbal battle, we were preparing a hearty breakfast to appease our suddenly famished stomachs.

The aroma of savory butter and greasy bacon escaped through the gaps in the half-collapsed house. Simon cut bacon with scissors into a mountain of scrambled egg fried rice and handed it to the elf sisters.

“Dig in!”

“You could use nicer words like ‘please eat’!”

“‘Dig in’ is slang! ‘Please eat’ is standard language!”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it all!”

“I’ll dig in, sir.”

“That’s right.”

“…”

Good heavens.

It seems Simon’s mental age is regressing as he hangs around the elf sisters.

It would be quite troublesome if Simon became an alcoholic too…

“Master, please eat.”

“Ah… right.”

But right now, what mattered most to me was putting buttered toast, bacon, and sunny-side-up eggs in my mouth.

Mmm. This salty and savory taste.

Every time I eat, I’m reminded that a man needs a woman.

Damn it. It’s about my wife again. I’m going to get squeezed dry.

“After we finish eating, let’s clean up and leave. This place seems to be a spot that adventurers like us visit occasionally.”

“Yes, that sounds good. Repairs would be—”

“Simon?”

“Quiet! Someone’s triggered the barrier!”

“What?”

At Simon’s words, we put down our plates and drew our weapons.

Just as Simon said, the sound of someone rushing toward us could be heard from a distance, and judging by the heaviness of the footsteps, they seemed to be heavily armed.

“How many?”

“At least five… could be as many as seven or eight.”

“Good. Simon, Lucia, and Casia, provide support from in here. Raisha, you come outside with me.”

“Yes!”

Despite the sudden attack, we didn’t act rashly.

As they say, only the prepared can escape the control of the situation—or in reverse, situations cannot control those who are prepared.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The heavy footsteps from the distance grew closer.

Even with armor, footsteps wouldn’t be that loud, so it might be heavy logging equipment that would be found in a place like this.

Rustle! Rustle rustle!

“Here they come!”

And finally, breaking through the undergrowth, what appeared was…

“P-please save us!”

“GROOOOAR!!!!”

Three porters carrying loads on their backs, and a bear chasing after them.