The Merc Chief’s tent was cross-shaped and its middle portion rose high above the others. This lofty ceiling gave the pop-up structure a much-needed gravitas, since this was where the Chief conducted all his promotions and executions—a tigerskin carpet and portable throne could only do so much to instill the proper levels of fear.

A portly man in a toque trembled on the striped fur mat, and Chief Asorfo did his best to lounge on the throne. To the right of the Chief was a thin, long-boned slasher in a face mask. To the Chief’s left was a familiar white-gloved apothecary-turned- ‘messenger’-turned-apothecary once more.

“Headaches, nausea, irritated throats; vomiting, coldness, and death,” said the Chief, a bald, strong-jawed man. “Remind me what everyone had for breakfast?”

“Pancakes, sir.”

“Pancakes? Pancakes? Tell me, what symptoms do pancakes usually come with?”

The toque man trembled: “If I had to guess, it’d be happiness and satisfaction—”

Asorfo laughed so hard that he might have puked out his guts, had he not already vomited them away earlier that day.

“Good humor. A love for food. And being the camp’s worst assassin by far. All these things make you the Vulture Company Chef we know and love,” Asforo declared. “Your carelessness would normally be grounds for execution, but if you can prove here and now that you’re in fact camp’s best assassin, I might just forgive you.”

At this, the Chief tapped his right armrest, as the chef raised his head, eyes filled with hope. This left the chef’s neck exposed when Asorfo’s right hand man slit it open with one precise cut. The chef collapsed into a lump of clothing and skin, as his blood leaked out onto the carpet.

“...That’s what I thought. Status, Dr. Colin?”Asorfo sighed.

“Our healers are casting Restore as fast as they can,” said the man at Asorfo’s left hand. “But it takes about ten minutes per cast, and with most of our men poisoned it’ll take days before we’re at full strength.”

“Shameful! Absolutely shameful, for a company of assassins to be laid low by an attempt at mass assassination. When I find out who did this I’ll stuff them full of nightshade and broil them in the very batter they fouled.”

“They shall die sufficiently horrid deaths,” nodded the apothecary. “But I believe we must first focus on killing our targets. We’ll set a trap on Escher Road, as planned.”

“What say you?” Asorfo said, turning to the company’s right hand. “Have we enough strength to slay the targets that you have already twice failed to kill?”

“Your troops might not. But I do.”

“Bold words from a man on his final chance.”

“Like I’ve said, I have failed not out of weakness, but because our client prefers our targets die a ‘natural death.’ An ambush is a poor idea that raises too many questions, so we should fortify the camp, and allow them to act as the aggressors—it’ll be seen as an unfortunate accident when they’re killed.”

“It is your hesitation that has forced us to march to this backwards town,” Colin protested. “It is your arrogance that will have us lose needless troops to an S-Rank and some random bum. All we need to do now is shoot them from behind with a crossbow. Asorfo, I beg you to see sense. ”

“Carry on with your discussion.” Asorfo ordered. “I wish to hear my two best lieutenants come to a conclusion before we make our next move.”

It was plausible for an S-Rank to take on five hundred Vultures alone, and if that were true for Pern then an ambush might be needed to slay them. But Pern was a freshly promoted S-Rank, and Rick a complete X factor, so their true strength was hard to gauge. Asorfo readied for a long debate.

But the decision was soon taken out of his hands.

A bloodied assassin flew in: “Sir! Sir! We’re under attack!”

***

How many tentfuls of killers can two Adventurers slay before they’re caught?

More than one might expect. The heavy cloth walls and space between sleeping areas suppressed the Vulture’s grunts and battle cries, and even seasoned killers fall fast when they’re caught off guard.

“Gyagh…”

“Urgh..”

“Guh!”

That last sound was Rick’s. He had punched a sleeping assassin in the head, but the youth’s skull was as hard as a stone.

Physical Resistance A: [ACTIVE]

The scarred assassin smirked. “If you thought you could kill me like the others, you thought wrong. Prepare to face the fruits of five years of training at Caer Princips Assassin Academy.”

“Thunder!” Pern said, and the prodigy convulsed til he slumped back down. “I don’t know if this is glorious, but this is certainly effective.”

Rick checked off the tent on the map. “That level of nightshade’s not enough to kill them. But it makes it easy to pick them off, ‘specially while they’re recovering”

When they were done with one group they swiftly moved to the next. Though they were warriors, they executed the Vulture minions with almost bureaucratic efficiency.

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Tent twenty:

“Gyaaagh…”

“Ung ung ung…ung ung ung…”

Tent twenty-five:

“BLAAAAAAGGG!!

“BYOYOYOYOYOGAAGAAGAAA!!”

“...Thunder can sure make some weird noises sometimes,” Pern said, shaking her head.

Tent thirty was the only tent that was hard.

The men in this tent were resting, but had otherwise been fully healed by Dr. Colin. When Rick and Pern burst through the tarp, the men already had their hands on their swords. By the time Pern called Thunder, they had drawn them, and by the time Pern finished saying the word most of them were dead. Electricity was hard to block, after all.

But like all the other assassins, these men…

Thunder Resistance A: [Active]

Elemental Resistance A: [Active]

…had skills. And some even had multiple.

“Knife Storm!” called out a red-faced man with smoke curling from his sleeves.

“Pern!” Rick cried.

A knife jumped from the table and launched itself at Pern’s stomach; it only missed her because she had turned towards the panicked Rick. The knife then levitated and swerved back to her; Rick grappled the other surviving soldier and threw him in front of the blade.

The blade tore into the man’s clothes, then sawed back and forth as it desperately tried to extract itself. Pern dueled with its summoner, and then with a squelch of blood and skin the knife Rick was watching carved itself out.

Rick then snatched a pancake bowl and slammed it over the possessed knife, muscling it into the ground. Pern finally parried and slew the man, and his ruddy face faded to white.

“Damn,” Rick muttered. “This isn’t as easy as I thought. Listen Pern— I’ve still got business here, but you should retreat.”

“I swore to your rules, didn’t I?” Pern drew herself to full height. They were so close that they could have kissed. Rick stepped back, but Pern pursued him til he was pressed against the tarp.

“Come on…”

***

“...I’ll fight!” Riona said. She drew her hammer and waved it at the surrounding soldiers. “I refuse to abandon Card. I’m his mentor, party member, partner, and best friend. Now, who among you wants to be my first corpse?”

The black tents back then were the same as the Vulture’s company’s Rick was fighting through right now. But the staunch prairie grass near Southfield was different from the thin strands of Mazevale; it was the kind of short, sharp grass that bit into one’s feet if one were to dodge or run.

Card scanned the men that surrounded them; they were about twenty in total, led by a swaggering eye-patched veteran named Casia. Each had a running tally of kills on their hands, arms, cheeks, or tongues, and the men themselves formed two lines—leather armored spear wielders in the front, and experienced soldiers in iron plate behind them.

“Wait,” Riona half-mouthed, half-hissed. “Wait.”

The wind breathed; the sun blinked as a cloud flew by.

Then the spearmen charged. They were far enough that Card had time to chew on the danger, yet close enough that he could see the cold hate in their eyes.

Riona drew ten copper needles tucked away in her chestplate and tossed them high in the air. She batted each one with the hammer and they drove themselves into the chest and arms of the greenhorns rushing through the field.

“Shit! I’ll get tetanus!” said one. “Disease-spreading whore!” cursed another, as they patted at their clothes.

“That’s not the point of the points. Card?”

“Thunder.”

The bolt split into the splinters and the complaining soldiers shuddered, keeled, and died.

The other ten were professional and grim. A monkish man lagged behind and chanted, and a yellow sheen rippled over their clothes. “Thunder!” crackled against it before it hopelessly faded away.

Riona fought two veterans at a time. A full, fast, hammer swing took the first pair by surprise, then finally by their chins. She moved her titanic weapon as though it were a toy, but its impact was heavy and real.

The next two were more careful. A squat man ducked under a wild smite. Another lankier, shadier man blocked the hammer, but his blade shattered, and the metal bits ran into his eyes. Riona broke open his skull, and from the way the squat man looked at the grotesque splatter, he probably wished he were blind.

Card, meanwhile, tread around the bloodied casualties and pounced at the remaining four in the rear.

“I have you!” Casia said as he whirled around. He slashed at Card, with a strike that was impossible to block, yet still gave Card plenty of range to retreat. Card pushed forward instead, felt the sword bite him, and then drove his own Thunder Sword deep into the lead assassin’s chest.

Card’s leg was cut and red blood welled out, but he’d taken Casia’s life in exchange, so overall he was quite pleased. The corpse’s head lolled as he tried to pry the Thunder Sword loose from its ribs, and when a second soldier slashed at him Card was forced to let go.

“Damn it.” He snatched up the dead man’s helmet, put it around his knuckles and rammed it at the pursuer’s nose.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

He punched his victim a few times more and won a second helm.

Five remained, but Riona and Card had run out of tricks. There was nothing left for them but pure unadulterated battle: hits, misses, missing-flesh, shattered-bits, and a burning sensation from their wounds and strained muscles.

Red speckled Riona’s arms where she had blocked and dodged, and her leather jacket had been ripped into rags. Card, meanwhile, had a dagger stuck through his chest in a place that miraculously missed all his organs.

One of the five assassins left collapsed from sheer exhaustion, and another two fell when Riona fake-tripped and bashed them on the head. Card slew the last two with well-aimed punches, and this second wave of attackers were finally all groaning or dead. He bludgeoned the defenseless monk for good measure, and the robed man’s delirious incantations drifted up to heaven.

“Done, " Card said. Riona put her arm around him, they leaned against one another, and he tumbled down into the grass.

“You’ve made some powerful enemies. I’m proud.”

“We’ve made them together.”

A layer of muck brown coated Riona’s already dark-toned skin, and it had a scent that could only be described as foul. Card didn’t move away.

“All this time I was always searching for someone who I could spend time with, someone who sees beyond what the Guild asks them to do,” Riona said. “Veterans are talented, but set in their ways. A beginner can see what I do, but their skill lags far behind. You, Card, are who I’ve always been looking for—a skilled, disciplined warrior willing to break all the rules.”

“I wasn’t looking for you, Ri. But I’ve found you anyway,” Rick huffed.

They took a moment to catch their breath, and it slipped away from them instead. They were pale, tired, anemic.

What was worse is they had left alive one last foe. The twenty-first man, a cloaked lieutenant with a tally-marked tongue that emerged from a black tent—clapping.

“How touching,” he said, in a coarse voice that would soon etch itself into Card’s mind.

***

“Sticky,” muttered Rick. He pulled away from his companion. She was Pern, S-Rank Adventurer, pale in mythril and wielding a sword. She was not his mentor, even if that’s how she was listed in Guild records.

Pern sniffed. “Sticky? It can’t be sweat! I’ve got Water Resistance A!”

Pern clutched at his cloak. When Rick strode outside it was still with the needy girl dragging herself behind him, but he didn’t mind. Not yet, anyway.