Bire had told them before he went to rest with the second group:
"The dagger went through the forehead precisely, like he knew exactly where the core was. It's like he could see it. The force was just enough to break the skull, yet so clean that barely any carcass or black blood spilled out when the blade pierced through. Very clean. Very precise."
Now, imagine that kind of precision turned against humans or hybrids.
A shiver ran through the group.
"Let's look at the bright side—we have a reliable temporary member!" Bryent lifted his booze, his movements a little loose, slightly drunk. "I'll count on you, kid. And thanks for the carriage, too."
Sylene stared at Bryent, and something uncoiled slightly in his chest, a quiet sigh of tiny relief passing through him. But beneath it, confusion lingered.
And doubt.
A feeling clawed at him—the urge to push the person in front of him away, to reject the trust placed in him. His fingers searched his pocket, closing around the melting ice rose. Anxiety crept in, a sudden wave of insecurity washing over him.
"…Aren't you afraid I'll murder someone in your group while you sleep?"
Bryent's sharp gaze met his, searching. The others look wary.
For a while, he was silent.
But it didn't take long before a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.
"I don't think you will?" he said, leaning in slightly, studying Sylene's face. Whatever he saw made his grin widen. "You would have done it if you wanted to—back when we didn't even know you had this...skill."
"You see, kid, I've been in this business since I was young," he continued, his voice steady. "I've seen all kinds of people. And I just think you're one of the okay ones."
His large hand suddenly ruffled Sylene's hair, tousling the dark strands with easy familiarity. "Besides, it's not about trusting you or anyone else. I trust myself—and my gut tells me you're alright."
Sylene blinked, something flickering in his dull green eyes. There was something strange about Bryent's words. A quiet confidence.
Is that what self-trust looks like? How could someone believe in their own judgment so much? Is that why Bryent is the leader?
The mercenary took another swig of booze, completely at ease, as if even if Sylene did try to kill him, he'd handle it just fine.
"And y'know," Bryent added with a smirk, "if someone's last sight in this world was you, I bet they'd die happy."
Sylene frowned, confused. One second, he was almost in awe of Bryent's words—then, the next, he was completely thrown off.
"…What do you mean?"
Bryent raised a brow, looking amused. "Well, if I had to die on the battlefield, I'd want the one who killed me to be someone beautiful. Like you."
A loud whistle rang out from the group, followed by groans and laughter.
"Oh, come on! If we're talking about looks, I'd rather have Madam Gosa or Miss Ellis! Have you even seen their latest movie?"
"I volunteer to be their training target!" someone called out.
Laughter erupted, rowdy and unrestrained.
"They're superstars! They wouldn't waste their time training with guys like you!"
"And they'd probably just hire bodyguards, idiot!"
A few of them sighed dreamily, lost in their own imaginations.
"But they're so beautiful," someone muttered wistfully. "I'd die for those curves—"
"Shut up, you gooner! Shameless!" Michel snapped, shooting the 'offender' a disgusted look. "You guys are too shallow! Embarrassing!"
Loud boos rang out from the mercenaries, but the young man ignored them. Instead, he turned to Sylene, jabbing a finger in his direction.
"And you! Don't you dare underestimate our mercenary group! Killing us in our sleep? We've been through too much for that. Our experience isn't for nothing."
A chorus of whistles followed, their pride flaring like embers in the cold night air.
"We've seen life and death. It wouldn't be that easy to take us down!"
Bryent, lounging with an air of lazy confidence, grinned. "Well, he's right. It'd take more than that to kill us, kid. After all, we're a group, and you're alone." A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he waggled his eyebrows. "Even if you managed to kill us, you wouldn't escape unscathed. We have these, after all."
He jerked his chin toward the weapons and exoskeleton supplies, the gleam of VX cases catching the moonlight.
Sylene's eyes lingered on them, breath fogging in quickened puffs. The sight of those weapons sent a small thrill down his spine. He wanted them. He wanted to try them. Own them.
"Yeah, I can see that," he murmured. "Can I try the VX or the exoskeleton someday? I want to own them."
"The only way to get one is through a permit," Bryent replied, stretching lazily. "You'd have to register, wait a month or two for approval, then enroll as a soldier or a mercenary like us."
Sylene's expression darkened. "Is there a way to get a permit without becoming a soldier or mercenary?"
His identity was a problem. If the government discovered who he was, it could mean being sent straight back to Rosencraft. He refused to let that happen.
Michel, still wearing that mischievous glint in his eyes, snorted. "Well, you could always get yourself a rich noble lover and persuade them to get you one."
Sylene shot him a sharp glare, clearly unimpressed.