The players roared with heartfelt cheers, a chorus of voices ringing true. This was the blessing of the Pioneer. He might not be at their side every waking moment, handing them quests or guiding their every step, but he had never truly left them.
The mercenary captain who had spoken out of turn earlier now looked uneasy.
"Th-this… these words… is he trying to set himself against the General and Her Highness?"
"You idiot."
Hoederer let out a sigh.
"The Pioneer has known these undying ones since long ago. He's their leader. If they'd ever intended to act against us, they would've done so already. Why would things look the way they do now?"
He glanced around at the crowd.
"Besides, tell me—doesn't this Frontier Zone give us mercenaries a place to actually rest and recover for once?"
The other captain bit down hard on his lip, shoulders sagging. In the end, he said nothing more.
Perhaps he had thought to spread the word—that the master of this city was none other than a Sarkaz enemy. But seeing the Sarkaz undying cheer and clap for a Sankta standing tall on the stairway, he suddenly found the world before his eyes far too absurd.
Hoederer didn't bother with the other captains. After forcing his way out of the crowd, he slipped into a narrow alley, where his companions were waiting.
"What did Ulšulah summon you all to discuss?"
The voice came from a woman in mercenary gear, long black hair cascading over her shoulders, golden eyes gleaming with an arresting light.
For a moment, Hoederer froze. Looking into those golden eyes, he felt a strange illusion—as if the Pioneer himself were standing before him, lips curved in that half-smile.
"Hoederer?"
The woman frowned and called to him again.
"…Sorry, Ines. My mind wandered."
Hoederer rubbed at his temples. By now he had steadied himself.
"The city's been formally named the Frontier Zone. But its policies and way of life won't be changing."
"That wasn't Ulšulah's decision, was it?" Ines narrowed her eyes, leaning back against the stone wall.
"If she'd wanted to make a change like this, she would've done it long ago."
She spoke with the assurance of someone who knew Ulšulah well. They had been acquainted for years, and stationed in this city for nearly two. Nothing had shifted before—so why today?
Hoederer cast her a long look. Mercenaries had sharp instincts, and she had already sniffed out that something was off.
"…Who is it?"
Ines met his gaze squarely, demanding an answer.
Hoederer's eyes flicked toward the other mercenaries standing guard at the mouth of the alley. They understood and quietly held their ground, leaving the two captains space to speak.
"If I told you the idea for this city of the undying didn't come from Ulšulah at all—but from a Sankta, a Sankta who also happens to be Ulšulah's superior—would you believe me?"
"…A Sankta?"
Ines's lips parted slightly in shock. "But this is Kazdel."
"I don't understand it myself," Hoederer admitted, running a hand through his hair.
"We both know Ulšulah—calm, reliable, with an eye for the bigger picture. If she had chosen the General's camp or Her Highness's, she would've risen to command in no time. Instead, she chose to stay here… as someone else's agent."
He pressed his hand to his forehead. He too found the whole thing far too strange, too absurd to believe.
Ulšulah's strength wasn't just that of a formidable mercenary. It was her command of the broader situation, her grasp of shifting tides. She had the qualities of a commander who could lead armies.
But what had Hoederer just witnessed?
Ulšulah—who had always been known for her cold, impassive face—had shown, in front of the Pioneer… something closer to relief.
"…Could he have been sent by Laterano?" Ines speculated.
"…No. I don't smell it on him."
Hoederer shook his head. A veteran of countless battlefields, he knew well the scent of an enemy. His mercenary's instincts had kept him alive through countless brushes with death. Yes, there was a faint sense of threat about this Pioneer, and the two "bodyguards" beside him radiated a killing aura without restraint. But Hoederer was certain: this man had never fought on the front lines of Kazdel's wars.
"A spy, then?" Ines asked flatly.
"If Ulšulah were my spy, I'd have placed her right at the General's or Her Highness's side, collecting information where it matters most."
Hoederer snorted. "Why waste her talents here, playing the thankless role of some 'agent'?"
"What kind of man is this Sankta?" Ines pressed, her voice sharpened.
"My exchange with him lasted less than ten minutes. Do you expect me to see through him in that time?" Hoederer exhaled, clearly irritated. After a pause, he lowered his voice. "…I didn't sense hostility."
"A typical Laterano Sankta then—naïve, idealistic, free of hatred. That's what you mean, isn't it?"
"Stop looking through tinted lenses," Hoederer said, eyes narrowing.
"What I saw was someone driven by purpose. Every word, every gesture was deliberate, as though he has something he must accomplish. Maybe it's tied to the Sarkaz, to Kazdel itself. But whether it will help us—or harm us—I can't say."
The topic of the Pioneer ended there. Hoederer's mercenary band still needed to move out, to Scar Market, to take on new jobs and keep food on the table. Just as they were readying themselves to depart, a young Sarkaz in standard combat garb stepped in to block their way.
"You are…"
Hoederer recognized him at once. The young man was striking, sharp-featured, his posture taut with aggression. Ever since the mercenary captain had spoken rudely of the Pioneer, this youth's attitude had been nothing short of feral—like a hound baring its teeth.
"Draw your weapon!"
The young man sneered as he pulled his longsword free, holding it crosswise before him.
"I want to see for myself just what strength a so-called mercenary captain has."
"You—!"
The Sarkaz mercenaries at Hoederer's back bristled, hands twitching toward their weapons, but a single glance from Hoederer made them stop and step aside.
"What's your name?" Hoederer asked evenly, drawing the massive greatsword from his back, the blade nearly as tall as he was.
"Dawn."
"You already heard mine just now. Hoederer."
He hefted the sword, gaze steady.
"Then answer me this—why would Sarkaz like you pledge yourselves to a Sankta?"
"That man saved our lives in the wilderness."
"He is still a Sankta."
"And with eyes clouded by nothing but race, what could you possibly understand of him?"
Dawn's lips curled back, revealing sharp canines. His eyes gleamed cold, his body lowering as he coiled like a spring.
"In the eyes of our Leader, there's no difference between us and him—we are all just Terrans!"
With a sudden snap, Dawn exploded forward, his body like a released spring. Hoederer's expression shifted as he swung his greatsword up to meet the strike. The heavy blades collided with a bone-rattling clang.
Dawn skipped back with agile steps, landing lightly against a stone wall. His sword half-sheathed in a flash, he lowered his stance, poised to unleash a deadly Iai slash.
Hoederer recognized it instantly—Iaijutsu. A technique that could only be learned through proper instruction. Such swordplay was rarely seen among Sarkaz mercenaries; after all, just acquiring a decent blade was already a struggle. Finding a perfectly paired sword and scabbard? Nearly impossible.
This young man… he was no ordinary fighter. He was the making of an elite.
And this "Pioneer"… just who the hell is he, to draw people like this?
Hoederer's eyes widened, battle aura flaring. Instead of retreating, he pressed forward, each step heavy and deliberate—immovable as a mountain.
A flash of steel—faster than sight—shot toward his chest.
"Haaaah!"
With a roar, Hoederer brought his greatsword crashing down from overhead, like a landslide crushing stone.
Bang!
The collision rang out like thunder. Dawn's body slammed into a stone wall, his longsword clattering to the ground in front of him. Blood spattered from his lips as he dropped to one knee.
Hoederer stood before him, sword in hand, expression unreadable. He made no move to press the attack.
"You've clearly had a master's instruction," Hoederer said coolly, "but you lack the scars of real battle. You've fought, yes—but not on the razor's edge of death."
He tapped the side of his throat with one finger. "You should have aimed here. Not the chest. Anyone with half a brain wears a breastplate—your strike would've just bounced off."
"…Tch."
Dawn wiped the blood from his mouth, grimacing. "…Thanks for the advice."
Then he muttered, almost defensively:
"My blade can cut through armor."
Hoederer finally took a closer look at the weapon. Yes, it was a longsword, but its design carried an otherworldly sharpness—mechanical elements woven into the steel, futuristic in a way that made even a veteran mercenary's heart itch with envy.
He glanced back at his own battered greatsword—his face twisted with pain. A fresh notch marred its once-smooth edge. For a mercenary, a weapon was life itself. Now he'd be paying through the nose for repairs, and even then, the blade would never feel the same again.
"…What do you want?" Hoederer asked, irritation bleeding into his tone. Beneath the calm, his heart ached for his poor sword.
"The Leader requests your presence."
Dawn straightened despite the lingering pain, sliding his sword back into its scabbard with a practiced motion. He gestured with a calm, almost formal hand.
Hoederer exchanged a glance with Ines. In that silent moment, their eyes said everything—mutual caution, unspoken speculation. Finally, the two of them followed Dawn toward a nearby residence.
It was Ulšulah's home. With the Pioneer's sudden return, there hadn't been time to prepare lodgings, so at Ulšulah's insistence, his group had settled in her apartment. It was a four-bedroom, one-living space the players themselves had built for her, large and well-furnished. She had been reluctant, but ultimately relented.
"You really did go pick a fight, didn't you, brother?"
"… …"
"And lost."
"Tch."
Hoederer's eyes flicked toward the siblings waiting at the doorway. Their uniforms were pristine, custom-made, and expensive—nothing like the patched, mismatched gear of most mercenaries. His gaze lingered on the sister's twin blades, both clearly crafted with care and precision. A pang of jealousy stabbed through him.
Our mercenary band has scraped and bled for years, and all our gear together still isn't worth one piece of what these kids carry.
"Instructor said if you get into fights and lose, you're doubling your training."
Dawn froze, his expression stiffening.
Hoederer ignored the sibling bickering. His men remained outside the courtyard, while he and Ines stepped through the doorway.
Inside, they finally came face to face with the man himself—the creator of this city, the Pioneer of the so-called Frontier Zone.
"…Next time you send for me," Hoederer sighed, holding up his scarred greatsword, "could you not do it like this? A few more rounds of 'invitations' like that, and my weapon won't survive."
On the surface, he sounded almost casual—half complaint, half jest. But in truth, this was Hoederer's way of playing the game: reading the room, masking tension, turning a dangerous meeting into something that resembled banter with an old acquaintance.
That, after all, was the mark of a seasoned mercenary.
Even so, Hoederer knew that as the man behind the Frontier Zone, the so-called Pioneer deserved at least some courtesy—and perhaps even respect.
Around them, Sarkaz children played and chattered.
"Dawn fought me," Hoederer said flatly. "And lost."
Behind the table, Felix gestured for them to sit. "All the better. It's good for that boy to learn early that there are always higher mountains. Among his peers, he's never had a real rival."
There was a warmth in Felix's tone, the kind that came when speaking of one's own kin. To Ines, it almost sounded like he was talking about a younger brother. She found herself staring at him, lingering on the halo and the wings at his back, her thoughts drifting.
"Give him a few more years," Hoederer muttered, lowering himself unceremoniously into the chair opposite Felix. "Then he might manage a draw with me."
His eyes drifted to the drinks on the table—chilled fruit wine, of all things. In Kazdel, such a luxury could only be obtained through rare trade, each bottle fetching an exorbitant price. Only the wealthiest mercenary companies could afford one, and even then, only as a rare indulgence.
"Pioneer," Hoederer finally said, his voice slipping back into the steady rhythm of business, "what exactly do you want to discuss with us?"
"I need to make a trip to the Babel," Felix answered calmly. His gaze flicked between Hoederer and Ines. "For that, I'll require mercenaries who know the way. Ulšulah told me your company has worked under contract with them before. She recommended you."
"You can't be serious…" Hoederer stared at him, dumbfounded. "A Sankta? Marching into Babel, straight to Her Highness? You'd be torn apart before you got through the door."
He wanted to say what was really on his mind: Are you insane? A Sankta walking into Kazdel is like a lamb waltzing into a wolf's den.
"What's the pay?"
The question came from Ines, drawing Felix's eyes to her. She met his look without flinching. "My name is Ines. Are you truly seeking to hire us, Pioneer?"
"Two months' worth of supplies," Felix said, raising two fingers. In Kazdel, money held no sway—trade was barter, and supplies were the true currency.
Then he turned his attention back to Hoederer. "Your sword's finished. Accept this commission, and I'll see you equipped with a new greatsword—crafted to the same standard as Dawn's."
Felix laced his fingers together, studying the two mercenaries. His wings shimmered faintly, and though his words were smooth, his smile carried something else—something sharp, predatory.
He was a Sankta, yes. But in that moment, he smiled like a Sarkaz.