Ch.41The Mourner on the Snowy Field (3)

Contractors are rare beings.

Of course, they’re fairly common in games, but even in the superficial game lore I know, contractors are described as rare entities.

I didn’t think these people would know how to counter a Star Contractor.

So I acted like a proper Star Contractor while pretending to move as if I assumed they knew countermeasures.

“Kneel. All of you.”

The flames undulating from my extended blade aren’t something that can be created through magic.

Normally, enveloping a weapon in flames causes serious damage, leaving the weapon in poor condition.

At best, the flames merely appear to flow along the blade.

But the Star Blade in my hand was different.

The intense flames, so powerful they drowned out even the sound of swallowed saliva, seemed to form the blade itself.

Though it glowed red-hot as if about to melt, it didn’t, and instead, flames traced the trajectory of the sword’s movement.

The Star Blade—cutting and melting through any armor.

It was the signature technique of the mercenary I had defeated earlier and the strongest ally who never missed an appearance throughout the series—the symbol of the Blazing Lord.

“Just a moment, we didn’t come here to cause harm…”

“Shut up.”

They seemed to know it well. They might not know how to counter it, but they understood the terrifying power of the Star Blade.

So they obediently followed my instructions.

They lit lanterns, brought out torches, and knelt down after placing their weapons on the ground—not a single one of them kept their arms.

The scene was peculiar—weapons laid out on the snow, the glow of fires, and kneeling people everywhere.

Like some cult gathering. With this absurd thought in mind, I extended my flaming blade toward them.

“Who speaks for you?”

At my question asking who their leader was, a man at the front stepped forward.

An ordinary-looking man who, if this were a game, would have been a farmer.

“Your name?”

The man froze at my question.

No, perhaps it was because of my extended blade. I nodded slightly, my face hidden inside my helmet.

“Krom Ne…”

The man stopped mid-sentence. With a complicated expression, he shook his head.

“Krom… my lord.”

“Krom, what’s your business?”

A natural display of superiority. The self-proclaimed Krom flinched and stared at my blade.

I could see various emotions flashing in his eyes.

Emotions close to hostility.

It starkly revealed what kind of place this New Continent was that I now stood upon.

There are no innocents on this land. If you’ve survived, you’ve had to get blood on your hands.

You stand here now because you’ve survived and won by any means necessary. That’s what the New Continent was—a complete hotbed of lawlessness.

Knowing this well, I kept my sword pointed at the man. Isla would keep a good eye on those behind him.

Instead, I pondered. What would be the best way to resolve this situation?

Inside the tent was a Mourner. A being who would rather fight than flee from such humans.

But what about those before me?

They seemed like mere prey for the Mourner.

Weaklings who would have become either a meal for cannibals or been forcibly conscripted if I hadn’t eliminated the cannibals and the Star Blade.

Appearances aren’t everything, but they didn’t look like a group capable of pursuing a Mourner who had survived into middle age.

This wasn’t a normal situation. Usually, the Mourner would either crack all their skulls and perish together, or survive.

There was no possibility of them defeating the Mourner. A glance revealed their weapons were mediocre.

Old, rusty swords, two-handed axes that could barely be distinguished from logging tools, and cheap polearms called godendaks.

Yet it was certain they had come looking for the Mourner.

Not with friendly intentions either. They clearly seemed to want to stab the Mourner.

But why?

I couldn’t understand. The image of a Mourner might be worse than a Black Knight, but it was closer to that of a disaster.

Who doesn’t mourn death?

Since anyone can become one in a moment of mourning death, they were viewed as disasters on battlefields, like infections or mutinies.

Moreover, Mourners aren’t rare.

From orthodox black mages like the Research School to the most basic and traditional Protection School, they’re subjects of study, but nothing has been revealed about the origin of Mourners.

It’s just that when people mourn others, they gain power, and their bodies completely lose magical energy as if they’re no longer alive.

Some say the soul disappears and murdered spirits take over the body.

Or that it’s power granted by some unknown transcendent being in exchange for souls.

Or that it’s awakening to human potential itself.

Or that they’re aliens emitting energy waves from their hands.

Both inside and outside the game, all sorts of hypotheses circulated, but nothing was certain.

Some even created mods that allowed energy waves to be shot through skills to prove their theories, but that wasn’t something worth recalling now.

What mattered was that these people, for reasons I couldn’t understand, hated the Mourner in the tent and had come to harm him.

What would my sister have done?

After briefly pondering, I only confirmed that I wasn’t my sister.

“Come out.”

At my brief command, Krom blinked. His eyes widened when someone emerged from the tent.

“What is this—”

“Silence.”

I’m not as merciful as my sister. I don’t strive for the perfect ending like she does.

If it fails, it fails; if it’s a failure, then it’s a failure. My sister and I approached games differently.

If a dive failed and the game crashed, I’d just surrender and be done with it, or if they didn’t accept the surrender, I’d just trudge through until the end.

If I could recover, I would; if not, so be it. I don’t obsess over results.

It was the same now.

“This person is my guest and under my protection. If you want him, come and take him.”

They say if your brain is weak, your body suffers, but if your body is weak, your brain suffers. I was someone who chose the easy path when available.

Krom and his group displayed various reactions to my declaration.

Some tried to suppress their anger, while others couldn’t help but glare at me.

Some tried to subtly grab their weapons but had to let go when Isla’s crossbow pointed at them.

Eventually, after much hesitation, they left.

“We’ll wait.”

Only after Krom too had departed with those puzzling words did the Mourner look at me with a blank face.

I removed my helmet, cracked my neck from side to side, and sat down on a log in front of the campfire.

Isla was retrieving her arrows and slowly releasing the tension in her bowstring, as if she hadn’t just been aiming her crossbow.

Throughout all this, the Mourner just stood there blankly.

An expression suggesting difficulty comprehending what had happened. A faint emotion hidden within.

It was far from relief. It quickly disappeared when I looked closely.

He sat down by the campfire.

“I apologize.”

“Thank you.”

Isla responded. She twitched her ears expressionlessly and pointed at the Mourner with her tail.

“That’s what you say at times like this.”

Got it? It wasn’t the way to treat a middle-aged man, but the Mourner was a generous person.

“Thank you. You saved my life.”

He smiled. Not because of Isla’s attitude, but for some other reason that was clearly perceptible in his smile.

But he didn’t speak of it. He sat quietly in front of the burning campfire.

His body, almost as massive as my monstrous frame, was covered in scars.

How long had he been a Mourner? What had he done before becoming one?

He bore the marks of someone who had struggled for a long time.

Hands covered in calluses, a muscular body without an inch of fat.

Scars exposed by his near-nakedness, some deep wounds visible.

I thought about the uninvited guests from earlier.

Why had they sought out a Mourner they could never defeat?

Why had the Mourner not only spared them but fled?

To the point of approaching a complete stranger and requesting food.

And while trying to avoid death, why didn’t he fight to survive?

I didn’t know. These were stories I couldn’t know unless he told them.

“Want a drink?”

“Thanks.”

“You too, mister.”

“Thank you.”

Isla poured tea into wooden cups she had carved herself. It was tea with honey; Isla always carried at least one jar of honey in her luggage.

The well-brewed tea with fruit, honey, and tea leaves tasted good even to me, who was more accustomed to cola than tea.

It was refreshing, warming, and sweet enough to lift one’s spirits.

We leisurely enjoyed our tea and the warmth of the fire as if nothing had happened.

Fire-gazing, they called it. That’s exactly what it was.

Fire had magic. Something that most humans in this world possessed, but not I nor the middle-aged Mourner before me.

A kind of pulling force. Considering that human development in any world has always been accompanied by fire, it made sense.

We just stared at the fire.

The Mourner didn’t ask if I was really a Star Contractor or why I had helped him.

Likewise, I didn’t ask what had happened to make those people chase him or what relationship he had with them.

From this, I could sense it.

That Krom’s words about waiting weren’t meant as a threat to me, but to this middle-aged man.

But I didn’t try to stop him. I had no reason to, nor any loyalty.

This middle-aged man, though seemingly well-behaved, might have committed terrible sins that brought him to this New Continent.

Unless one was a shapeshifter like Isla, if a human came to the New Continent, something about them had to be tainted.

Their intentions, their past, their conduct.

Something had to be dark for them to be here. I realized this as I briefly closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, the Mourner was gone.

Only footprints heading toward the rising sun in the darkness remained.

I draped my cloak over the soundly sleeping Isla and followed the footprints.

The pursuit wasn’t difficult, as he had apparently dragged his right foot across the snow, leaving clear traces, perhaps due to a leg injury.

But a thought occurred to me.

Vaguely, I wondered if what he had been avoiding wasn’t his own death.

Indeed, that was the case.

At the end of the footprints, hell was unfolding.

Blood, entrails, and bones were scattered everywhere like red blossoms.

Had the perpetrator not been standing there, I would have thought it the work of a powerful monster or beast.

I saw the man standing at the center of it all.

A middle-aged man covered in blood from head to toe, turning to look at me with a sad face.

As our eyes met, he laughed dejectedly.