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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: The Mercenary World (1)
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"Dullard."
My master always called me that.
Whether I'd made a mistake, collapsed from exhaustion, or even managed to do something right by some miracle.
And without fail, he'd add:
"I've told you time and again, you've got no talent. While others swing their sword once, you'll need to swing it two or three times. Didn't you say you wanted to become stronger than anyone?"
Even now, those words cut right to the bone.
I knew full well what he meant, and without my regression ability, even reaching C-rank mercenary would've been a pipe dream.
Hell, I'd died pathetically before even making C-rank once.
If just picking up a sword let you drop monsters like flies, no one would ever fear them.
After dying countless times, I finally realized one thing.
For a talentless hack like me, a great master was absolutely essential.
But with zero talent to my name, landing one wasn't easy. I got ridiculously lucky bonding with Douglas as master and disciple.
Or so I thought. I was the only one who saw it that way.
"Do you know why I took you as my disciple?"
Master brought it up one day.
It was after I'd been his disciple for quite a while and finally ranked up to A-class. A modest drinking party to celebrate.
"You saw potential in me, right?"
"Already getting cocky over A-rank? You insolent punk."
Ah, yeah. Heard that one a lot too.
He didn't seem too bothered, though. I refilled his glass, and he chuckled briefly before speaking again.
"You're not entirely wrong. Yeah, when I first saw you, I saw potential."
What was this old man about to say?
An inexplicable anxiety hit me. I froze mid-sip, waiting for his words.
Back then, I had wondered why the empire's top mercenary took a nobody like me as disciple.
Not that I'd dared ask outright.
The old man tore into his favorite duck meat, smearing sauce on his now-white whiskers, devouring a chunk before continuing.
"Dull disciple, who do you think becomes truly strong?"
"Someone with talent, right? That overwhelming talent you always stressed."
"Yeah, exactly."
Having seen it up close more than anyone, I knew the wall talent created all too well.
Master nodded calmly and posed another question.
"Then who do you think is the best to teach? Or rather, who would you want to teach?"
"Well, someone with talent again, I guess?"
A rare smirk crossed master's face at my answer.
I realized without him saying it: total wrong.
He downed his drink in gulps, slammed the glass down, and bared his teeth.
"Obsession with strength."
His gaze pierced right through me. I held my breath without realizing.
"No matter what, no matter how, even staking your life—that kind of obsession to grow stronger!"
Thud!
His thick fist pounded the table heavily.
He jabbed a finger at me.
"You had it back then. Thought you were just some reckless idiot barging in demanding discipleship, but your eyes changed my mind. You were ready to do anything to get strong. Even if it killed you. I sensed zero talent... but that obsession overwhelmed even me."
Maybe because praise was rarer than gold from him.
His frank words felt embarrassingly itchy.
"No matter how brutal the training, you never quit once. With barely any talent, you clawed your way to A-rank. Honestly, exceeded expectations."
Master paused, then laughed again, adding:
"You could hit S-rank easy."
Embarrassed, he looked away and picked at more duck.
Right as he raised a piece to his mouth, something clicked. He turned to me.
"Don't let today's praise go to your head."
Ah, right. There was one little-known fact about master.
"No matter how hard you flail, you'll never catch my daughter's heel."
"Yeah, yeah, sure."
Despite the tough look, he was a massive doting dad.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The morning before the sun fully rose.
Standing outside the inn where we'd crashed, lost in old memories, Douglas returned from his brief absence.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Bathroom was packed."
"No, not at all. But you're really guiding me yourself?"
"Same road anyway. Haven't seen a junior like you in ages—gotta hang till the end."
He clapped my shoulder lightly and took the lead.
As we walked the dim pre-dawn streets, with me close beside him, he spoke up again.
"Ervin, you're peculiar. Or should I say, eerie? First time meeting, yet we click like no one else. Feels like reuniting with an old pal—would that make you laugh?"
"No, I'm honored. Never dreamed I'd chat with the living legend himself here, and you're taking to me so well—I'm grateful."
Douglas had warmed up to me oddly fast over dinner.
Technically cheating, but who'd know?
Over a decade together in past lives—I knew his likes inside out.
Plus, my personality owed a lot to him.
So his familiarity? Totally natural. And crucially, we shared another bond now.
"Haha, quit the humility. I figure you could give my daughter a fun match."
"Your daughter? The prodigy swordswoman? With S-rank review coming, not sure I'd measure up."
"Knew that much? Didn't expect you to."
"Heard you mention her during dinner. As your disciple too, I'd love to meet Lize."
"I'd like to see her myself. Gotta check with my own eyes if her sword talent's just daddy bias. No doubt she's a bigger genius than me, haha."
Douglas always wove in daughter-brags.
Used to baffle me, but now? Totally got it.
I itched to gush about Lize too, but held back. Mostly.
"Raising a daughter solo must be rough. She seems cute as hell now, but brace yourself a few years on."
"...Hoping it doesn't come to that, but probably inevitable?"
"Haha, pray it doesn't."
"Thanks, senior..."
Dad raising daughter alone.
Daughter with sword talent.
Sword-wielding mercenary.
Shared traits let "senior" roll off easy.
Folks knowing his rugged face would've gawked, but this was more familiar to me.
Familiar after ages apart, anyway.
"Oh, forgot to ask yesterday..."
Douglas slowed, as if it just hit him.
"A-rank at your age screams great master. If it's not rude, mind sharing the name?"
The question I'd dreaded.
But I didn't flinch. Smiled faintly, like always in these spots, casual as ever.
"He's in a place I can't reach anymore."
"...I see. Sorry."
Air dipped briefly, but we picked up smooth.
Too many battles weathered for awkwardness over this—him or me.
How long did we chat, circling back to daughters?
"Ah, here already."
Mercenary Guild loomed ahead.
Smaller than Pinel's branch. Tied our horses where others clustered, followed him in.
"..."
Chilly stares greeted us instantly.
This hostile vibe? Long time no see.
A dozen gazes from tables locked on us.
Some familiar faces too—nostalgic even.
"Hmph, you lot somehow still alive."
Douglas scanned a few familiars. Several shot up, bowing respectfully to the S-rank pinnacle.
Others? Polar opposite.
"Old timer, still kicking?"
A towering man sauntered over cockily.
Never thought I'd see him here.
Sharp-eyed, he bent to meet Douglas's gaze, adding:
"Time to retire already?"
"Same punk attitude, Isaac."
S-rank Isaac grinned fangily.
"Grumpy? Wanna throw down? Been eyeing that 'strongest' spot."
"Still pulling petty stunts? Sorry, no hobby fighting brats."
Guild chilled further at the sudden tension.
They'd never actually fight—why repeat the same crap forever?
Isaac acted the thug, but was dutiful as hell.
Hadn't he answered the nation's call obediently?
S-ranks couldn't take jobs without clearing properly anyway.
"Huh?"
Isaac's eyes met mine.
Kept low profile, maybe too low—drew notice.
But his gaze flicked back to Douglas.
"What? No word on a disciple."
"Not disciple. A-rank Ervin."
He glanced at my intro. Felt others' eyes too.
Didn't crave attention, but strolling with Douglas? Inevitable.
Isaac tsked short, turned away.
"Tch, boring guy."
His spear swayed on his back as he returned.
Its countless arcs? Shudder just recalling.
One opponent I never wanted round two with.
"Ervin, grab a seat."
"Yes, senior."
Answered absentmindedly to Douglas noting incomplete roster—eyes swarmed me again.
Isaac too, and folks I'd rather dodge.
Should've watched words. Too late.
This? Not even blip. Casually sat by Douglas.
Waited. Mercs trickled in, filling seats.
Roughly thirty heads.
Some known, most not.
Then a stout middle-aged man bustled from back, center-stage.
"Uh, hello? Thanks for coming. I'm Herman, Sitran branch chief, lead on this new dungeon delve. Uh, first, headcount and team assignments."
Quick greeting, eyed papers, continued.
"S-rank Douglas?"
"Mm."
"Yes, Douglas leads Team 1, vanguard captain."
"Thought it'd be light monster-slaying, now captain?"
"Uh, unavoidable. You're the top here, so..."
"Fine, fine. Just testing. Tell 'em I'll handle issues."
Branch chief bowed repeatedly in thanks.
Names called, teams set—no me yet.
Expected, waited quiet. Some stares lingered.
Wish they'd knock it off.
"A-rank Ervin?"
"Here."
Last call: mine.
"Uh, low-floor detailed scout and map team."
"Pfft."
Snicker somewhere.
"Low-floor scout?"
"Forgot maps? Pathetic, heh."
Whispers, but I caught every word.
Corner trio smirked openly at me.
They didn't know, but I knew them. Badly.
"How insecure to stick to lows."
"Hanging with S-rank? Connections flex."
"Ah, bribing for scraps? Fits, pfft."
Moment blurred—got the gist.
Too long since trash talk; felt fresh even.
Didn't care much about insults, but dungeon meant teamwork.
Meant enduring their crap nonstop.
"Hah."
Sighed short, stood, strode straight to the trio.
Play nice dad for Lize, but truth? Temper wasn't great.
Prime days, master nagged to cool it.
Lives dulled it some, but roots ran deep.
In mercenary world, my bitchy side fit perfect. Actions spoke louder than words here.
Stopped at their table. Felt their mocking stares.
I curled a lip in sneer.
"Ha, what the—?!"
Sword out in a blink, blade to the first mouth's eye.