A month has passed since the village conflict. After leaving, I found another group of players in the outskirts of a meadow. There are four of them, chatting and laughing without a single care.
They aren't well-armed—some rusted swords, a bow, and one of them is bare-handed. They are still inexperienced, but they improve right before my eyes.
For this past month, I have observed them closely. My years as a spy allow me to hide easily from their sight. Some things remain unclear. I don't understand their goals.
They walk along, their faces light up, and they bolt toward a completely different place. Their faces tense. Their eyes fixate on something that isn't there.
And then they run. Without arguing. Without questioning.
They do senseless things; they gather useless herbs. They chop wood, they deliver supplies. And every time, they do it after speaking to someone. A woman asked them for help moving cattle, and they ignored her.
But… the change was immediate. Their faces… lit up. And they went. Without negotiating. Without asking. When they finished, they returned to the woman and looked very happy as they left.
And it repeated, over and over again. Wood, weeding, burning logs, killing a few wolves. Senseless tasks for someone immortal. For someone who runs without tiring and goes days and days without eating.
This isn't simple. Something pushes them, but I cannot understand what. Perhaps they receive some benefit from it?
When they finish… something happens. Mana swirls slightly, and they seem to absorb it directly into their bodies. Without a medium, without meditation, and without artifacts. Sometimes it is more. Sometimes less. It isn't random.
It doesn't explain why they obey.
I think I should approach them; they don't seem immediately aggressive. While they sat in the woods, I drew near, and for the first time, I let go of the mana concealing my presence. I let myself be seen. It might be a bad plan, but I'm starting to run out of ideas.
When they noticed me, they immediately stood in fighting stances—if you could even call those guards. A boy with golden hair and blue eyes, no older than eighteen, stared at me.
"Who are you?" he asked warily.
"My name is Severin, a pleasure to meet you." With a small nod, I greeted them, hoping they wouldn't attack me outright.
"An NPC… you have a name, cool," the boy said, while his eyes wandered more toward his allies than at me.
I still don't understand them. My clothes are special—magic armor, weapons strengthened with runes—but all of that is invisible to someone without the proper mana capacity. Something they lacked. They had no interest in me, but in something I represent. I don't know why. Where that desire in their eyes comes from, I don't understand.
"I don't know what an 'NPC' is, boy, but I've noticed you like helping people," I said, with my best attempt at a peaceful voice. "Why do you do all those senseless tasks?"
The boy looked at me; he seemed to be the leader of the group. "They aren't senseless tasks, they're quests. People give them to us, we do them. It's not senseless, it's progression."
Quests? Can you even call that a quest? They are mere chores. What does he mean by "progression"? I have to investigate this.
"What progress? Where are you progressing to?" I asked, staring intently at him.
"Levels, obviously. Don't you know anything?" Silas asked, annoyed.
"Of course, I don't mean to offend you," I said dismissively. "So, do you take quests from anyone?"
"Not from just anyone, old man. From NPCs," he said with an exasperated voice. "There are special ones; when they ask us for things, we do them."
Of course. They don't understand why they do it, they just do. They act like automatons. They don't decide. They respond. As if someone else were doing it for them.
"Silas," the girl beside him called out. "This NPC is advanced. Look at his eyes, he has runic patterns carved into them. He'll definitely give us good quests. Don't offend him."
"Right, right," Silas replied with a sigh. "I keep forgetting that NPCs understand what we say to a certain point because of the new AI they gave them."
The boy fixed his gaze on me, almost hopeful. "Mr. Severin, do you have something you want us to do?"
Dangerous. They are mercenaries for something unknown. They receive no riches. Nothing. And yet they search like children for new toys. At this thought, my muscles tensed. It is much more dangerous than I ever believed. If they are asked to kill the Emperor, will they do it? Is there anything that stops them? Does it mean these beings are not allies among themselves, but heterogeneous groups?
It means there is no alliance or loyalty that moves them. There is nothing in those eyes. Only benefits. And they are willing to do anything for a breadcrumb.
"Mr. Severin?" Silas called with a slightly nervous voice. "You've been standing totally still for thirty seconds."
I reacted immediately. "My apologies, I was merely contemplating what kind of 'quest' you could perform. Clearly, you aren't very strong as warriors."
Silas seemed offended by my comment and frowned. "We're still Level 1, but we're strong," he said with some annoyance.
Levels? That doesn't exist here; it must be a parameter of their world. No matter. Magic must exist in all worlds; in time, I will gather more information. The positive thing was that we were near a trade route, and where there is trade, there are caravans.
"Well, I have something for you," I said calmly. "I need you to approach a caravan in the Sun's Pass."
Silas looked back at me. "For what?"
"There is something valuable there."
That was enough. Silas's face and those of his allies lit up immediately as he stared into the void.
There is something. And they respond. They don't need to understand. Only a direction… and an implicit promise.
"There are several marked crates containing a shipment of wheat in the Sun's Pass, which connects the village to the Blessed City. I want you to bring them here. You will recognize them because they bear the mark of a black raven on the back," I said calmly.
But Silas was already walking, as if he knew the terrain with absolute certainty. He waved his hand toward me as he left, relaxed, with his companions.
My gaze lingered on his back for a while. I understood something about this. They aren't people. They are tools.
I don't know who holds them. Or for what purpose.
But they don't doubt. They don't stop. They don't understand what they are doing.
That is what makes them dangerous.