Chapter 3: The Priest of Decay, Thirty Silver Coins per Head.
Thirty silver coins per head.
Thirty silver coins per head.
Neatly tied red hair, freckles shyly scattered across her fair skin.
The receptionist at Gus's Mercenary Guild was a young woman in her prime.
Is it because this world originated from a game? Or is it because Gus's public order is sufficiently stable? Or is it because the mercenary guild holds absolute authority over the mercenaries?
"What is your name, Priest?"
I neatly shelved my thoughts. What should I say? Using my previous name would be like screaming, "I'm alive here, come arrest me!"—a narcissistic act.
"Marnak. I am called Marnak."
Marnak. I had finally spoken the name I’d chosen when first creating this character.
The receptionist filled out sections of the form with her pen, detailing my appearance and the god I served. After a moment, she smiled kindly.
Now that I looked, she was quite beautiful.
"Yes, Priest Marnak. Could you wait here briefly? Preparing your mercenary badge will take some time."
I grinned brightly.
"I can wait as long as necessary."
The receptionist gathered the documents, stood, and ascended the stairs to the upper floor.
Undeniably beautiful. This world strangely teemed with lovely women. Another quirk of its game-like nature?
'Slaughter!'
"I meant no offense, Mother of Decay. I merely thought her charming."
'Slaughter!'
After patting the goddess’s writhing hand, I whispered:
"Speaking of which—how many fingers was that receptionist worth?"
A desiccated hand from my breast pocket extended two fingers.
Two fingers.
"Then she must be either highly capable or of considerable status."
The Mother of Decay’s finger system was simple:
1 finger: Ten units of divinity
2 fingers: One hundred units
3 fingers: One thousand
4 fingers: Ten thousand
5 fingers: One hundred thousand
As her priest, my method of acquiring divinity was brutally straightforward: harvesting the deaths of sentient beings. Killing that two-finger receptionist would grant me one hundred units instantly—though the cleanup would be tedious.
Yet the rules were lenient. I didn’t need to kill directly. Any fresh corpse could be offered to the Mother for divinity.
When I first learned this, I’d loitered near cemeteries. But I wasn’t a necromancer. The graves held only bones too ancient to harvest.
"Priest Marnak, your identification."
The red-haired receptionist descended with a smile, offering a bronze badge. I accepted it carefully, forcing a pious smile.
"Thank you. Are there any suitable jobs available?"
Truthfully, as a false priest, I had countless ways to forge credentials. Yet I’d come to the guild for one reason:
I was penniless. Though my enhanced body could endure prolonged hunger, even I couldn’t starve forever.
"One moment."
She sifted through paperwork.
"There was something here for a priest serving the Goddess of Sustenance..."
Her skilled hands shuffled pages as she spoke:
"Winter’s peak has left few guild jobs. By the way, seeking mercenary work—did your pilgrimage funds run dry?"
"Yes."
Pilgrimage.
This game-like world boasted diverse gods, each religion proselytizing fiercely. "Pilgrimage" meant seasoned priests traveling to demonstrate divine power—though it was common for them to take mercenary jobs when coin ran short.
"Ah, here! This one, Priest Marnak."
I took the paper and scanned it. The receptionist giggled.
"How convenient you can read. Most mercenaries need us to recite everything."
A notice from Gus’s lord: eliminate bandits or monsters causing recent farmer disappearances. Payment: thirty silver coins per head upon success. One coin even for failure.
Fair terms.
After skimming, I replied humbly:
"Literacy isn’t special—merely a matter of opportunity."
In truth, I’d gained this world’s literacy upon arrival. No studying required.
"When does this job begin?"
"Your timing is perfect. The party departs tomorrow."
Her oddly warm demeanor stemmed from my priestly status. Here, priests were intellectuals—educated and empowered, however minor their divine gifts. Thus, people treated them with utmost courtesy.
A class wielding both knowledge and power. That was a priest.
The problem? I belonged to the Decay—a sect universally despised by fellow clergy.
I smiled as warmly as I could at the receptionist and cautiously asked, "Could I possibly receive part of the payment in advance?"
I truly didn’t have a single coin to my name.
The receptionist repeatedly reminded me this wasn’t standard practice, but they’d make an exception since I was a priest. Still, they warned that even priests who accepted advances would face penalties for tardiness. After persistent negotiation, I finally secured one silver coin as an advance.
"That receptionist talked quite a bit, Mother."
'Kill!'
"I won’t kill them, Mother. Just because someone’s chatty doesn’t mean they deserve death."
'Kill!'
"I said no! Keep pushing, and I’ll lose my temper."
'Wobbly Rabbit'—the name of my cheap inn, sounding ripe for a fox’s meal. After paying ten bronze coins for lodging and meals, only ninety remained in my pocket.
Poor. So poor.
I shoveled down the mystery stew, tasting nothing. Floating chunks made it look unappetizing. Had I possessed tastebuds, its awfulness might’ve choked me.
Mechanically eating, I observed chattering groups around me. I sat alone.
Just as loneliness crept in—
'Kill!'
The voice boomed in my skull, mocking my solitude.
"Don’t worry, Mother. Your son’s resolve is ironclad. I’m only debating which weapon to buy after this job."
The stew vanished. I left the bowl and climbed to my room—a private one thanks to extra coins—then collapsed onto the hard bed.
I reached Gus’ West Gate, the meeting spot stressed by the receptionist. Pre-dawn emptiness meant I arrived first—a perk of needing little sleep.
'Kill!'
"I’m early, Mother. Must you threaten everyone who’s slightly late?"
As I murmured to the Mother of Decay, others trickled in. A castle official checked mercenary tags and crossed names off a list. Mine was marked. I stepped back to observe our leader.
Galard—a silver-ranked mercenary in his prime—wore thick furs over armor. His grizzled face matched the rustic attire, and his easy rapport with officials suggested long service in Gus.
When the official left, Galard approached me first.
"Aren’t you cold, Priest?"
My thin white robe lacked even basic fur. The chill meant nothing to my enhanced body—though truthfully, I couldn’t afford winter gear.
"I’m fine."
"Ah, the noble spirit of priests repels even frost." He preened at his use of "noble." Later, he hesitantly asked, "They say you serve the Goddess of Maintenance. May I ask your capabilities?"
His expectations were simple.
"I can halt wound deterioration and maintain their status."
"Truly fitting for Her priest!" Galard beamed, relieved.
While he assessed our ten-member group, I consulted Mother: "How many fingers?"
Galard: one-and-a-half. Others: half to one. Half-fingers indicated growth potential, but no extra divine essence upon harvest. No exceptional targets.
After Galard’s final check, our thirty-silver-per-head mission began.
