The Discarded Son's Skill Market

Zaid waved back. "Major Martin, it’s a pleasure to see you." He also nodded to Finn.

"Tsk, you never listen in the end." Finn shrugged and looked away.

Martin watched the exchange between the two and whispered to Zaid, "Do you know the Emissary Finn?"

Zaid shook his head. "We’ve only spoken a little." At that point, he stared at Martin and frowned.

What was this man doing here? Although he was registered as a mercenary, he is a member of a large guild. It’s unlikely that the mercenary guild has anything to offer him that would be of any use to him.

"There was no mention of them in the academy’s report on what happened in the Forest of the Undead, so they managed to infiltrate without alerting anyone."

Zaid frowned and looked at the other familiar faces in the caravans leaving before and after.

They were seven Rank F students who had come looking for quick money and an adventure... or maybe they were on their way to the festival.

’I hope it has nothing to do with that.’

Even though he thought that, he had a feeling that something was going to happen. There were just too many weaklings around—wasn’t this the perfect time to go hunting for "heads"? He could only hope that those guys didn’t need any more "heads"... However, when he looked to his right, he almost lost all hope of that.

They might not need any more people, perhaps, but they certainly needed Alice. He had no idea when they would set out, but moving outside the city walls was the best option.

Martin looked at him, turning his head, and although he couldn’t see his expression behind the mask, he still noticed a few things, so he asked, "Are you worried?"

Zaid shrugged. "Maybe."

"Hahaha." Martin burst out laughing and looked toward the back of the convoy of more than 15 trucks, which included heavy-duty trucks, food-hauling trucks, and tool-hauling trucks.

"Two companies are sending supplies to the same location in several convoys, and they’ve spent a fortune hiring security for the convoy," he said, looking carefully at each of the mercenaries and members of other similar groups.

"Six Platinum-Rank fighters, around D or C Rank. Three Adamantium-Rank fighters, around C Rank, and finally one Diamond-Rank fighter, leading the guard detail alongside Lord Shoaff’s Chief of Guards—the president of one of the companies." After listing each of the strongest fighters, Martin shrugged. "It’s unlikely anything will happen."

’Difficult, but not impossible.’

Well, Zaid decided to leave his worries about the future—for the future.

5:30 a.m.

Mr. Shoaff, the president of the companies leading them this time, stepped out of one of the armored cars and walked toward them.

He dressed in a peculiar way. He wasn’t wearing the typical clothing or cloak that was customary. He wore a two-colored tunic—white and black—with an unusual amount of golden floral embellishments and similar ornaments. A simple gold headband adorned his head.

A young man walked behind him wearing similar clothing, though without as many decorative embellishments. His headband was not only simple—it was cut in half and hung halfway down over his face, miraculously staying in place with every step.

Clearly, they were believers. But not of the Holy Loyalty Church—rather, of the Ancient Temple, also known as the Temple of the Seventh Night.

Both of them walked gently and slowly. Patience was one of the most important lessons of the Seventh Night. Running or rushing to do something was seen as a sign of losing patience, so no one was supposed to do it unless it was strictly necessary—such as in a life-or-death situation.

And yet, they would later have to pay a price to atone for their sins.

That is why they did everything patiently and slowly. For the mercenaries, it was a bit exasperating; accustomed to running for their lives and racing to secure a good mission before other groups, they weren’t prepared to see someone move so slowly, even though he had no disability.

However, he was the contractor, and the pay for each of them was very good.

After completing a walk that would take a few seconds—in one minute—Shoaff smiled at them and greeted them politely, though with clear hints of contempt toward them.

"Hello, I’m Shoaff. I hope you’ll call me Mr. Shoaff; it will be my pleasure to guide you on the right path to the Ancient Temple." He smiled. "I’ve hired you to lend me your strength on this long journey to the Holy See—it’s unusual for us to hire strangers. But with the emergency of the Seventh Night about to fall upon us, we have no other choice."

"I’m confident that the payment offered is sufficient. I think that with that payment, you won’t have any trouble serving as subordinates to my Guards for a while," he said with a final chuckle.

The mercenaries had no problem whatsoever serving as subordinates to these people for a while—many of whom were weaker than they were. They were used to it.

It was that little chuckle that made them uncomfortable, and being called "strangers" simply because they weren’t members of their religion felt a little annoying... at least to some of them, the believers of the Church of Holy Loyalty.

Zaid, Alice, Martin, and Finn, who were traveling together in the same group, didn’t care in the least.

The leader of the mercenaries—whose status was so high that he wore a diamond insignia on his chest—approached Mr. Shoaff and extended his hand with a forced smile. He was one of those believers.

"It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Shoaff. I’ll be working under your command. I’m Khan."

Khan, the dual-wielding swordsman. A man respected in the city for having attained Diamond Rank through sheer strength rather than by accumulation.

Shoaff nodded at him but did not return his handshake. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mercenary Khan," he said, completely indifferent toward him.

Khan had to pull his hand back. His eyes flashed, but he quickly hid his anger with a smile.

Behind the two men in flashy suits came a man wearing full armor made of some highly reinforced metal. It wasn’t like Martin’s bronze armor; this might have been mithril or orichalcum... the highest-grade armor available to mercenaries.

He was the Chief of Security, whose gaze was cold and indifferent.

"Talk to him; he’ll tell you what to do." He then greeted everyone and preached a little about his beliefs before turning around and heading to his armored car.

"Listen up. We’re leaving in 30 minutes," said the guard captain as he let his boss get into the armored car. "You’ve all been assigned based on your strength, and you’ll be under my command. I don’t care who your mercenary superiors are—I’m in charge here!"

His gaze swept coldly over all the mercenaries and other hired groups. He didn’t show even a shred of respect for Khan, even though the two of them were almost equally strong. Perhaps he didn’t even realize it himself.

"Strangers aren’t allowed near my master’s car, so please drive slowly—I don’t want to have to get out and beat you up."

"It’s a one-day journey from here to the Ancient Temple. Behave yourselves. I’m no executioner, but I won’t tolerate any misbehavior from Strangers." With that, he nodded indifferently at Khan and walked away.

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