Fabian glanced over at me.
"Right. I suppose I need to prove that I'm a useful fellow, too. I obtained a yellow adventurer's license in this city. You can check it in the ledger anytime."
It was a look that asked: what rank are you?
Yellow adventurers were roughly equivalent to D-rank in gaming terms. Colorless for the lowest tier (F-rank), green (E-rank), yellow (D-rank), orange (C-rank), red (B-rank), black (A-rank), and white (S-rank). The vast majority of adventurers fell within F-rank to E-rank.
"I see. That's quite impressive."
I nodded. Yellow meant he'd earned the right to call himself a veteran.
White or black rankers were practically nonexistent across the entire continent. If they did exist, they'd either get recruited into a knight order or serve as top-tier mercenary captains. Why would they bother continuing the wretched life of an adventurer when they could change careers on the spot? Red rankers could lead a reasonably respectable mercenary company.
That was how it worked.
It was the same for assassins, too. Say there was an assassin skilled enough to freely eliminate knights. Why would someone of that caliber keep doing work like assassination? They'd quit in a heartbeat.
They'd go serve under some lord, become a knight, and flip their fortunes entirely. Well, unless they had a Slave Brand seared into their heart like Jeremy — then it'd be a different story.
With a handful of exceptions, the highest rank an adventurer could realistically achieve was… orange. In other words, C-rank.
Fabian was D-rank, so while he wasn't at the top, he was more than capable.
I kept my smile and spoke.
"We came from Orléans in Frank. That's where we obtained our yellow licenses."
"Oh, I sized you up well, then. Orléans is quite a sizable city, isn't it?"
Fabian sounded impressed.
Even at the same rank, a license issued by a major city carried more credibility than one from a small town. But in addition to his admiration, I caught a hint of something else in Fabian's eyes — a trace of suspicion toward our story.
"So what brings adventurers all the way from Orléans to a backwater like this? I hope you don't mind me asking. We may end up sharing life and death together, after all. Please bear with me."
"Of course I understand. Fabian, are you aware that war has broken out in Frank?"
"I've heard the rumors."
Fabian nodded slightly.
"Bretagne seized the Paris region, and Orléans fell along with it. The two of us smelled trouble early on and got out fast. You know very well what happens to adventurers during wartime."
"……Prime conscription material, of course. Ah, so that's how it is."
Fabian rubbed his bald head.
Adventurers with a guaranteed level of combat effectiveness were, from a mayor's perspective, military assets that could be put to immediate use. More often than not, they'd dangle promises like "earn merit in battle and we'll grant you citizenship" before forcing conscription.
"So you fled all the way here to avoid the draft. Heh heh. The Black Mountains are just a short distance from here — a perfect place to make a getaway."
"As it happens, we also speak Teuton, so we came here for a bit of everything. And wouldn't you know it, we stumbled upon a job posting just like that one. Hahaha."
Fabian's eyes flashed cold for an instant.
"……If you're from Frank, your Teuton must sound rather rough, then?"
"No, not at all."
"What's this? No need to be modest. Compared to Frankish, Teuton is practically barbaric. So tell me — would you sing me a verse of one of those songs popular in Frank? I've finally met a Frankish person, and I'd like to clean out my ears."
In other words: I doubt your story is true. If you're really from Frank, prove it by singing a song.
"I'd be happy to."
I flashed a smile and opened my mouth. Then I sang.
From Bruno to Saint-Denis —
I crossed the hill of swords, stained with tears and blood, with nothing but my bare feet.
Advance, sons and daughters of the homeland. Cry out with parched throats,
The moment of glory has arrived!
From the Crimson Citadel to the plains of Ulme,
O Veutia and Minuai!
Hear the roar echoing through hill and vale—
The hellish battle cry of the enemy!
Raise the war banners stained with blood!
Raise the war banners stained with blood!
Let the filthy blood of our foes
Overflow upon the parched fields of our homeland!
Since it was a song I had composed myself, I could belt it out without much trouble. I didn't remember the lyrics with perfect accuracy, so I improvised here and there, but isn't that how songs go? They change as they travel.
"Ha! What a voice!"
Fabian clapped his hands. Honestly, I was a far cry from a great singer, but he was probably doing that as an apology for having suspected me.
The bald, one-eyed adventurer Fabian stopped pressing us about our identities. After all, those of us who lived as adventurers had no shortage of stories that could only be listened to through tears. By the end of that evening, Fabian had bought twelve rounds of barley beer, and we gratefully drank it all down.
The only thing was, when I mentioned at the drinks that I was a Spirit Caller, Fabian was genuinely shocked. Spirit Callers were a far rarer breed than mages.
"Truly? No, I'm not doubting you. But — you really are a Spirit Caller?"
"Of course. Just let me show you for a moment…"
I discreetly drew something small from inside my clothes, hidden from view. It was a lowest-grade elemental spirit. I had brought a few sylphs back from a dungeon to disguise my profession. Even now, two sylphs were clinging to me inside my clothing like sloths.
— Kyaa?
A sylph settled on my palm and tilted its head. It looked as though it were asking, *Where are we, Master?* Explaining where we were would be pointless—they'd never understand anyway—so I simply stroked its head with a finger.
— Kiha, kyaaaahh~.
The spirit clutched my palm and rubbed its cheek against it. Adorable!
The Demon Lord's body was composed almost entirely of mana, which made it incredibly popular among spirits—creatures that could only survive in places with dense mana concentrations. Looking at our appearance, Fabian spoke with a bemused expression.
"S-So it's true… It really is a spirit."
His jaw had gone completely slack. I grinned and quickly tucked the sylph into my chest. I wanted to play with it a little longer, but this wasn't the right place. Our adorable little thing—once I've wiped out every last one of these adventurers, I'll play with you nice and slow! Just wait a little.
"Well? Do you find my word reliable now?"
"A-Ah. Of course. How could anyone doubt it after being shown proof like this. Good heavens, this is the first time in my life I've laid eyes on a spirit tamer."
Fabian blankly pressed his lips to his beer mug. It was an empty mug. Only then did he realize he'd done something foolish, and he gave a sheepish shrug.
"To think I'd find talents like you—my eye for people hasn't completely rotted away yet. I'm now fully convinced this adventure will succeed. I look forward to working with you."
"As do I. Please take care of us."
We ordered fresh beers and clinked our mugs in a light toast.
If the eye for judging reliable companions had picked the Demon Lord, would that eye be truly extraordinary, or truly horrifying? I was curious about that. Either way, it was undeniably an incredible eye for talent…
The next day, we departed the city. Fabian had clearly prepared extensively during our stay—he even had a map to the Demon Lord's Castle.
"Don't worry about getting lost, friends."
I was being guided to my own home by someone else. It was absurd, but Jeremy and I were disguised as adventurers who had traveled from a distant city. We quietly followed Fabian's lead.
We stopped by several villages along the way and reached our destination in three days.
Six hills, and upon them, six villages.
Outsiders would never know, but this was the small kingdom over which I reigned as ruler. Taxes were completely abolished across the board. Only households that had been allocated land were temporarily charged a rate of three-tenths, and in exchange for their obedience, monsters were kept at bay… A paradise for farmers.
The place was currently suffering from an untimely flood of adventurers.
"Oh, milord! That's our prize laying hen!"
"I'm telling you, I'm offering to pay for it. What's all the fuss about?""
A band of adventurers tossed down a handful of coins and proceeded to pillage a family's meager assets. The farmer, who stood to lose his prize laying hen for barely a copper or two, made a face as though he might cry but couldn't bring himself to push back. Nearly thirty adventurers were running amok in this village alone.
"Price too low? Then how about lending us your little lady for the night?"
"N-no, it's fine. It's enough... it's enough."
The farmer clutched the coins tight and bowed his head. The adventurers playfully slapped him on the shoulder and sauntered off. Tonight's dinner menu would be chicken soup.
As the second and third sons struck out on their own, the population of each village had dwindled considerably. Some frontier villages had barely forty residents, and even the largest could scarcely scrape past ninety. The territory's people had bowed before the tyranny of numbers.
And the opposition — even if it was only Goblins — were thugs who had wielded blades their entire lives. To deal with them, the militia members had to step forward. And my territory's militia had been decimated during the Leaf incident...
"Tsk, the atmosphere is thoroughly rotten. Let's try another village."
Fabian clicked his tongue. We went to the neighboring village. But it was every bit the lawless wasteland.
Quirinale, Viminale, Esquilino, Capitolino, Aventino, Celio — every single one was packed with adventurers. All six villages were groaning under the pressure of outsiders.
"Dammit, it's nothing but a ragtag bunch of drifters! I knew it. Damn rookies."
Fabian, who had unwittingly spent half a day touring my entire territory, was so exasperated he exploded. He hacked up a wad of phlegm — kah — and spat it on the ground.
"It's because of trash like that that people think of adventurers as vagrants! No code, no principles, and not the slightest clue they're dragging this whole industry through the mud."
"There isn't a single village with an inn, either. Looks like we'll have to rough it."
"Failing to get proper rest the night before entering the Demon Lord's Castle would be a foolish thing to do."
Fabian shook his head.
"Our only option is to knock on some random house and ask to stay the night."
"Hmm. That makes us no different from any other band of adventurers, though."
"What kind of person do you take me for? I'll pay proper lodging fees. Meet me at the village entrance tomorrow morning."
Fabian grumbled and walked off somewhere.
As it happened, Jeremy and I already had accommodations arranged. I walked toward the edge of the village with familiar steps. The place that had once been a hunter's house was now the village chief's home.
I knocked on the door. A man shouted from the other side.
"Ugh! If you're an adventurer, scram! If you're a villager, scram even harder! I've no mind to lend you lot a house, and even less mind to chase adventurers out of mine!"
I let out a quiet laugh.
"Parsi, it's me. Your proud master."
"Well, I'll be damned!"
A crashing clatter came from inside the building, and the door flew wide open. There stood Parsi — the oldest man in the domain, bar none.
"I've been waiting so long my balls nearly shriveled up, Your Highness!"
"It's only been a few days. Don't be so dramatic."
"In those few days alone, the villages could've been turned upside down ten times over. Come in, come in!"
As Parsi ushered me inside, I asked.
"So, are the domain folk growing resentful of those adventurers' mischief?"
"Growing resentful? Did you just say growing resentful? Don't even get me started! They're at the point where they'd rather die gouging those bastards' eyes out with their own balls than suffer it any longer!"
"In other words—"
I settled into a seat, grinning.
"Things are going very well indeed."
At that, Parsi heaved a deep sigh.
"That they are. Damn it all — everything's unfolding exactly as Your Highness wished."