CHAPTER 6: MONSTERS AND VICTIMS

Rutger, the head of security, was furious. Between his nagging old wounds, his employer, who had managed to fray his nerves over the past few days, and that idiotic sergeant who, while drunk, had gotten into a brawl with some riffraff, things couldn't get much worse.

It would have been fine if it were just a couple of dead gutter rats; no one expects lawful fighters to answer for those. But that damn donkey had managed to stab one of the patrolmen who arrived at the commotion and instigated a fight with them! Now, a noose awaited the whole squad. Twelve outstanding guys were going to hang because of the nonsense of a bald-headed ram and a syphilitic monkey. Rutger's guys!

And he had suspected that something like this would happen. Suspected! But he still went along with his boss when he wanted to hire his wayward relative for security duty. Personally, Rutger wouldn't trust this trash to guard the toilet, let alone anything else. But Ivodzima had a different opinion, and since the employer was always right, Rutger had to go along with it.

Now the caravan had to depart with more than a third fewer fighters. And it was right in the heart of the bandit season! Rutger cursed. All the reliable folks were currently under contract. As for the unreliable ones... he wasn't crazy enough to hire potential bandit spies. Though his deputy had decided to recruit a handful of newcomers with relatively clean backgrounds. But what good were they? At first glance, it was evident: they were greenhorns who hadn't smelled blood.

Ivodzima's behavior also didn't please the warrior who had exchanged the second half of his fifth decade. With each passing year, greed consumed him more, while caution and the willingness to listen to the advice of his childhood friend dwindled. Rutger disliked the security solution that his patron had proposed even more.

Not because he thought it beneath his dignity to accompany a group of five youngsters. Executing various tasks that didn't always directly relate to security was his job. No, it was the very idea of escorting the wards from one of the martial temples that he detested. He would have preferred to set out with half his security team than with them. Yes, it was dangerous, but it was a familiar danger. But what could he do with five teenagers, each of whom was probably worth a third of his entire squad in battle? What would happen if this bunch of damn mutants lost their minds?!

Rutger had long harbored a deep-seated dislike for spirit warriors. To him, they stood little better than the ill-reputed Freaks, cursed by their twisted nature. Unlike demonic progeny, spirit warriors weren't born with inherent power or marked by the taint of mutations. This made Rutger's perspective relatively unique. Moreover, it was outright dangerous; many aristocrats sought to cultivate their own spiritual strength, and even the superhumans themselves weren't particularly tolerant. But Rutger believed that even if graduates from combat schools and temples lacked animal heads, extra limbs, or other diabolical markers, they were still corrupted by an unholy force, just like the Freaks.

The younger age, as Ivodzima put it, "the young masters who graciously agreed to assist our valiant security in case of an attack," didn't exactly boost optimism in the aging man. Quite the opposite. Where a seasoned adult would use his head, the youthful brood was sure to charge headfirst into danger. In any case, now the head of security had nothing left to do but mutter curses under his breath and hope that the temple mentors had instilled enough discipline and common sense into their students' heads.

"We've arrived, Mr. Rutger," the coachman's voice echoed as the carriage came to a halt.

"Wait here," the middle-aged warrior headed towards the inn's entrance.

When he entered the inn's restaurant, he immediately spotted the blond man he had encountered before. He was in the company of four other companions and sat at a table near their bags. As Rutger surveyed the group, he struggled to contain several robust expressions itching to escape. While the owner of the glaive, the seemingly calm, healthy man and a modest stature brunette did not inspire anxiety beyond what he expected (although the man did not like the mocking expression on the latter's face), then the presence of two girls in the group made the old shoulder, once pierced by an arrow, twinge unpleasantly, as if foreboding a storm. A premonition of trouble, heightened.

"Dark's dung!"

Not that the old soldier feared or disliked women. A woman's duty was to care for family and home, not to wander the roads and create problems. How many times had another foolish girl flaunted her backside before a crowd of lecherous men, not realizing where it would lead with her feeble womanly intellect?

A female warrior, even worse. These furious bitches could fly off the handle without any reason at all. Recalling his experience with "warrioresses," Rutger couldn't help but grimace, his mustache twitching with displeasure.

The harmless appearance was incapable of deceiving the veteran. A decade ago, a petite blue-haired girl, younger than the curious brunette who was currently studying him, had literally torn apart seven careless mercenaries before his very eyes in a matter of moments. The man remembered the smug smile with which the girl had left. None of the men, transformed into bleeding pieces of flesh and entrails, had died immediately, departing life slowly and painfully. Assistance to the sufferers had been decided upon only after the blue-haired monster had finally disappeared from view.

Rutger had no desire at all to test the susceptibility of these young psychopaths to crude jokes at the expense of his comrades. For a moment, a wicked thought flashed through his mind to spit and return to the caravan alone. The head of security artfully cursed under his breath, sending a multitude of curses towards the greedy hog of fat and the bunch of demonic offspring.

Naturally, he voiced something entirely different:

"My name is Rutger. I am the captain of the caravan's security. Follow me," the man turned around and, without looking back, headed for the exit.

* * *

"I can't help but feel like he didn't like us for some reason," Akira remarked, watching the broad back of the man with long wheat-colored "Cossack" mustaches, streaked with gray, and a metallic breastplate as he walked away.

"A textured character. If you slapped a fur hat on him, he'd be a spitting image of Taras Bulba," I thought to myself as I picked up my bag. "Although the large-caliber revolver on his belt certainly stands out from the image."

"Well, I'm not a golden ingot for everyone to like," Kei chuckled, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Gray-bearded old men are not to my taste," the young man laughed.

Outside, a dignified but somewhat gaudy carriage awaited us, pulled by two large white horses. The coachman, dressed in an olive-colored livery, sat on the driver's seat.

The escort remained grimly silent throughout the journey.

Passing through the city gates and traveling a bit further, we reached the caravan, resembling a disturbed anthill. Diverse people moved chaotically from wagon to wagon, cursing each other, and occasionally bumping into one another. I witnessed a short brawl break out at one point.

The present wagons also varied greatly in appearance and levels of wear. There were a couple of peasant carts, a traveling troupe's dilapidated stagecoach, and other... models of carriages, heh. Even a strange contraption with an elongated, flexible wooden frame, in the center of which something resembling a giant basket with a fabric roof was mounted. Looking at this oddity, the word "tarantas" came to mind. The only semblance of order and uniformity in this chaos were the large six-wheeled employer wagons that served as the backbone of the caravan.

Ignoring the surrounding commotion, the mustached guide led us forward.

"Hello, hello, hello, my dear friends!" exclaimed a cheerful, portly man dressed like a parrot. His crimson, gold-embroidered camisole, green shirt with a lace collar and cuffs, gold chain around his neck, canary-colored breeches tucked into high boots, also adorned with pearls and semiprecious stones, created quite a... peculiar impression. His cork hat and a gaudily decorated dagger in a gilded scabbard at his belt only added to the effect. "How are you feeling? How was the journey? I hope old Rut didn't ruin your mood with his gloomy demeanor? Perhaps you'd like some wine? I have a wonderful red wine, simply nectar!" The plump man smacked his lips and rolled his eyes. "You won't regret it!"

The chubby man was quite good at pretending to be a harmless talker. However, his gaze gave him away – it was too observant. He clearly wasn't as simple as he wanted to appear. Still, in this business, other people simply didn't survive. I wondered whether he was only involved in criminal activities or if he had ties to the insurgents as well. Though the latter was unlikely. After all, in the Capital and its surrounding cities, the Police and Intelligence worked much more efficiently than their colleagues beyond the Wall. Due to the nature of my work, I knew that spies and rebel fighters had been significantly thinned out in the cities of the Inner Ring.

So, there wasn't much to fear. But relaxing wasn't advisable either. As always.

While I scrutinized our greeters and the surroundings, poor Natal was struggling to fend off the overly talkative and hospitable merchant. The fat man, like a station-side gypsy, tried to mesmerize the boy with his bright attire and jumped from one topic to another. We barely got rid of him.

Nevertheless, the merchant was persistently trying to make friends. I seriously doubted it was because of any newfound affection. Somewhere, somehow, they were planning to take advantage of us.

The question was: in what way and to what extent?

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

---

"It'll do," Kei assessed our mode of transport with the air of a connoisseur. "The windows are wide, good for reading. And the seats are not bad, quite comfortable."

I peered under the carriage and checked for the presence of springs and shock absorbers.

"At least it won't shake us as much as it could," I thought.

You could tell immediately that Marcus had significantly less influence than the previous commander. In the past, we would have been delivered to our destination by air. I sighed. Unlike flights, long overland journeys were not to my liking, so I felt a sense of dissatisfaction. Besides, the former commander, before Akame cut him down, had announced that we would be assigned another Teigu. Under Marcus, there was no Teigu, no transportation, and rumors were that they intended to cut our funding.

Useless bastard!

No, you couldn't live like this. If the agency didn't have the means for a flying vehicle, I should have solved the problem myself by adding a puppet capable of cargo-passenger flights to my collection.

"What do you think of the caravan leader? Is he really a handsome fellow?" Kei asked as we finished inspecting our newly acquired mode of transportation and stashed our bags under the seats.

"He looks like a clown," Akira chuckled, sprawled out on the seat next to Kei. "But his face gives away that he's greedy and sly."

"What did you expect? They're all like that," the young man shrugged. "Nothing but swindlers! But he seemed a bit too delighted to see us, as if we promised to eliminate all his competitors."

"The Police arrested part of his security," Natal explained. "Now he's afraid of attacks from highway bandits."

"Exactly!" the redhead exclaimed. "We're more valuable to this fatso than he is to us. Yet, our money is still going to him, not the other way around."

"This fatso has been running caravans for years," I decided to chime in with my two cents. "At the very least, he knows how to haggle better than Natal. And there's something about his gaze that I didn't like."

"What do you mean, Kurome?" Natal looked at me attentively. "Did you sense something or notice anything? Do you think we're in danger?"

"Nothing specific, but it feels like he's decided to use us and is figuring out how to do it conveniently. Besides, his overly friendly demeanor is a bit too showy," I waved my hand uncertainly. "It's unsettling."

"Oh dear, poor Ivozima, nobody liked him!" Kei laughed. "Maybe he was just trying to impress you naive school graduates. He dressed up especially for you. But you suspect him of all sins. There's no refinement in you!"

Putting aside our banter, the team began discussing the caravan leader. Eventually, we reached a consensus that if this Ivozima wanted to use us in any way, it didn't pose a serious threat. Most likely, the merchant had learned that his competitors were planning to send a gang of bandits after him and decided to use the naive graduates of the combat school for his protection. There could be other reasons, or there might be none at all, but the majority of us decided to exercise caution.

"I suggest one of us joins the mounted patrol in turns," Natal said. "There are enough wind-up horses in the caravan, and I think they won't refuse us."

"Great idea, Commander," Akira exclaimed. "If we get tired of sitting in this wooden box, we can take a ride. It'll also give us a chance to keep an eye on things."

"I think you're all overthinking this," Kei Li, scratching his head independently, stepped in with a sense of contradiction. "Suspecting someone just because you didn't like the look in their eyes is a method for dull guardsmen. Since when did we put on boots?" He chuckled.

"It's better to be a living paranoid than a dead optimist," I shrugged.

"Ha! Great line, Kurome-chi, you're on fire today!" The joker immediately forgot about his sense of contradiction. "Did you come up with that yourself?"

"I came across it in some book," I admitted honestly, without specifying that it was in another world.

"Really? I haven't come across it... you don't remember where?"

I shook my head negatively.

"Too bad."

"As if you'd read anything other than your perverted manga," Akira teased, giving him a mocking look.

"I read not only manga, you silly woman," Kei replied with the demeanor of an offended aristocrat.

"Oh, how could I forget!" the redhead pressed her palms against her cheeks. "You also read those equally perverted books, just without pictures!"

"You simply don't understand high literature."

"So high that they don't sell it in any decent bookstore!"

"Ahem," Natal coughed softly, redirecting the arguing pair's attention to him. "I think Kurome is right. Even if the merchant has no ill intentions, we shouldn't let our guard down. I'll go negotiate with the security, and you decide who will go on patrol first."

The order of shifts for today was as follows: first was Baeb, second was Akira, then Kei, followed by me, and Natal would be the last. Soon after Natal's return, our coachman appeared, and the caravan set off.

* * *

While I had some free time, I decided to use it wisely and practice my newly emerging sensor abilities. So, asking to be left alone, I moved further away from the others and began meditating, tuning myself to the right frequency. This time, entering the desired state proved to be a bit more challenging, as there were more distracting factors, such as Kei and Akira bickering.

But in the end, perseverance and focus triumphed over external circumstances.

The first thing I noticed was that the sources of energy for my teammates felt much brighter than those of regular people. The coachman steering the carriage resembled a dim spark next to the blazing campfires. Horses, if not examined closely, were nearly invisible. I was curious to relate which source belonged to which teammate. Keeping in mind the dangers of overzealousness, this time, I proceeded more cautiously and tried not to strain my "spiritual eye."

Let's see... The most potent fire, with a glimmering satellite-shingu, undoubtedly belonged to Natal. The second most powerful was probably Kei Li, with Akira next to him. The fourth belonged to Baeb.

I wanted to take a closer look using my new abilities, but remembering the potential consequences, I had to curb my curiosity and return to my regular perception. To begin with, I needed to assess how this brief attempt at sensing like this affected my well-being.

And this time, everything went much better. I didn't notice any searing needles plunging into my brain or a taste of blood in my mouth, just a mild discomfort. The sensations hadn't disappeared entirely, but they were much weaker and passed quickly.

Worse than I had hoped for but better than I had feared.

Once the last traces of discomfort had dissipated, I waited for another ten minutes and then plunged back into the trance. It wasn't certain that I would learn to actively use my sensor abilities in the foreseeable future, but it was worth trying. The ability to enter and exit this state quickly and without consequences was the first step.

Improving the clarity and "depth" of my spiritual vision was also important. However, I would address that later and in solitude. I had no desire to explain the reasons for a nosebleed or a loss of balance to my comrades or, even worse, to Natal, who considered himself something like my older brother. So, I focused on practicing entering and exiting the trance and subtly exploring the connection with the spiritual power of Yatsufusa.

I only broke away from my training for lunch and the operation of adding some of the medicines bought by the minion to the food of several caravan members.

When it was my turn to go on patrol, those I had treated were predictably alive and well. However, due to my excessive training, I was feeling rather poorly. My head was throbbing, and I felt slightly nauseous, as if the early signs of withdrawal had begun. It wasn't anything serious, but the need to go on patrol in this condition was still irritating. I hoped that the fresh air would help me recover.

"Heh, when I stop taking the 'medicine' and the real withdrawal starts, I'll be nostalgic for these sensations," I thought. I didn't know how things were with the new junk, but the withdrawal symptoms from the previous "medicine" were truly memorable.

I had to move on a spirited mare of pinto color. To establish a rapport, I treated the animal to a couple of apples, which I had honestly purchased from a cheerful peasant. Jumping into the saddle and gently urging the mare forward, I trotted towards the head of the caravan, glancing around.

My appearance didn't go unnoticed. It didn't cause a commotion, but as I rode past, I caught sidelong and curious glances.

That's how I moved, slightly ahead of the vanguard. I munched on cookies, scanning the surroundings and attempting to translate some Russian songs into Imperial language to pass the time. However, that proved to be somewhat challenging. I preferred rock music, and it turned out that many of my favorite songs either wouldn't make sense to the locals or could be interpreted as a call to rebellion. I had to rack my memory to think of something politically neutral.

The monotonous journey was interrupted by the appearance of a monster. More precisely, a demonic beast perched in place; the caravan had come into the ambush of the lurking Rock Monitor Lizard. Unlike the Earth Dragon, the main terror of the Inner Rim's roads, this smaller relative, a half-insect-half-lizard, didn't burrow underground but camouflaged itself as rocky outcrops, as if growing stone.

I must say, the camouflage was quite effective. At least, I had just started paying attention to the suspicious-looking protrusion when it, shaking off stone crumbs, bolted toward the two guards who had foolishly frozen in place. The second guard and the dismounted horse were moving in slow motion in the opposite direction.

"Too bad," I noted. There were so many stones on the sides that panicked animals practically guaranteed leg injuries.

The monster noticed my approach, but arrogantly ignored the meager prey in favor of the more substantial guard or the horse. However, after receiving a painful and debilitating stab in the unarmored underbelly, the monitor promptly reassessed its priorities. Raising a cloud of dust and clawing the stony ground, the offended creature managed to turn almost on the spot, but it couldn't find the juicy morsel there anymore. I was retreating from the road to avoid any accidental participants interfering with the fun.

The resulting battle could be compared to a bullfight. Like a seasoned matador, I seemed to flirt with death each time but still remained intact, clean, and content with life. In reality, just like the matador, I could kill such a weak opponent with a single blow, or by spending a second of real time in full acceleration, turn it into finely chopped mince. However, for a simple school of combat graduate, cutting through the monitor's armor, let alone its main bones, was a formidable task. That's why, as mentioned before, I had to play the bullfight, striking at weak points like the junction of plates, joints, and sensory organs.

But I didn't regret having to hold back; I simply enjoyed myself. It was almost as entertaining as sparring with the Master of one of the martial styles. A tough and resilient, but slow enemy was excellent entertainment!

***

The monitor lizard once again lunged forward, attempting to sweep away the annoying, painful pest with its bulk. The creature didn't open its mouth anymore; it had learned its lesson. However, instead of the satisfying sound of crunching bones, the old predator felt pain in its eye, and the area to the right plunged into darkness.

The lizard didn't understand why the hostile biped had attacked it. There were many tasty quadrupeds and less tasty bipeds with sharp stingers in the big group. Why fight? The rocky hunter had already tried to retreat, but the pesky biped wasn't letting go. It attempted to scare the enemy away, filling its roar with anger and the readiness to fight to the death, but the pesky biped responded with a squeaky, intermittent sound, expressing a senseless thirst for murder.

The little creature didn't want to hunt; it wanted to kill.

After receiving another strike from the large claw, the weakened and bloodied monster, limping on two paws, made one final attempt to attack.

Pain!!! Falling. Weakness... Cold... Silence.

***

Snow never considered himself a coward. The son of a wounded sergeant from an early age of knew how to handle both his hands and fists. Among the caravan guards of Lord Iwodzima, he had served for four years and enjoyed some authority as a reliable and brave fighter.

But it was one thing to shoot or fight with bandits, and quite another to look into the eyes of imminent death. Falling into a stupor, the young man stared at the approaching Rock Monitor Lizard. He knew he was already dead. Older comrades had taught him never to shoot at monsters of this kind so that, having taken the prey, they wouldn't engage in battle. The fate of the unfortunate ones was sealed anyway, and ten-millimeter bullets, even if they penetrated the skin, would only infuriate the creatures. They also told him what it could lead to for the caravan.

Snow diligently memorized the lessons of his elders but never thought he would find himself in the place of the heroes of scary stories. Mentally saying his goodbyes to family, friends, and his wife, he closed his eyes. Hearing a roar, a crash, and feeling small stones brushing against his body, Snow tensed, jerked, but the expected pain and death didn't come. The noise rapidly moved away. The guard opened one eye.

The enormous creature was performing strange maneuvers, as if unsuccessfully trying to catch someone invisible. The man watched the peculiar scene in fascination.

"Snoo, you moron, get out of there!" his partner yelled, leaping from his horse with a broken leg.

Following him, the man continued to stare at the monster. Possessing excellent eyesight, he could make out a small dark shadow darting rapidly around the beast. But it wasn't until he reached his comrades, who had drawn their weapons, that he caught sight of a figure frozen in place, holding a sword. A girl!

The girl was battling the gigantic monster! The little cookie lover, whom he and Shiro had mockingly teased. Who would have thought that she would save their lives?

"He's going to eat her! Why isn't anyone helping?!" Snow exclaimed hoarsely. In his excitement, he stepped forward and raised his weapon.

"What are you doing, you idiot, calm down!" his neighbors shouted, wrenching his arms and taking away his rifle. When he tried to move, he received a bracing slap. "Look over there!" They turned his head, and he saw a quartet dressed in familiar black uniforms. Just like their friend, two guys and a girl, seemed more interested in the short brunette who was energetically waving her arms and talking about something.

"Incredible," someone whispered. Was it him?

The monster emitted a gut-wrenching roar. It was met with laughter, full of joy, but eerie.

When the monster finally fell, someone cursed, someone whistled in admiration, and someone muttered prayers to gods or demons.

"Now I understand why the Captain warned us not to mess with these juvenile monsters," one of the veterans from the previous recruitment muttered. Snow, who was no longer being held back, turned sharply and landed a hefty punch on the talkative guy's face.

"Snoo! Are you o—" The stocky guy who took the punch deflated. "I told you nicely, didn't I?"

"No big deal. Watch your words," Snow replied, locking eyes with his slumped opponent. Then he turned to his partner. "Shiro, let's go."

"Go where?"

"To say thank you to this girl," Snow said decisively, heading towards the little warrior, who, against the background of the dead monster and the dark blood spilling around, now did not look ridiculous at all with a katana too big for her.