Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C44

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Chapter 44: , Part 5

The shack fell silent the moment Brandon entered.

But Brandon paid it no mind. He strode in and settled onto the lone empty straw mat. All eyes followed him, especially ’s, who glared with furrowed brows, his gaze unwavering.

Brandon sighed inwardly. Do I really look that intimidating? Though outwardly calm, his heightened senses allowed him to perceive every twitch of muscle and rapid heartbeat around him. These youths were clearly on edge. Yet, he made no effort to ease their tension—let them stay wary. Their unease would keep them from acting rashly, and his presence here ensured he could monitor their every move.

The awkward atmosphere persisted until evening, lingering even after dinner. Most workers had arrived on Sunday night, and mining operations wouldn’t begin until the next morning, giving Brandon ample time to familiarize himself with the surroundings.

However, he avoided the dreadful stew served as dinner. The murky green concoction looked more like a witch’s potion than food, reeking of spoilage. One glance was enough to turn his stomach. He silently thanked Yuta for reminding him to bring rations—clearly, she’d dealt with similar situations before.

After circling the camp to confirm the locations of other barracks, Brandon returned to his own. This time, upon entering, he immediately noticed the undernourished youth sitting quietly inside. The boy hadn’t joined the others for dinner, and the girl sat beside him, keeping him company.

“You’re not eating?” Brandon asked, assuming the boy had been ostracized—a common occurrence in such groups.

But the frail youth shook his head. “I don’t eat supper,” he replied calmly, showing no fear.

“Fasting?” Brandon wondered aloud. Could this boy be a follower of the ? Only their ascetic scholars abstained from evening meals, commemorating ’s days wandering the plains during humanity’s darkest era.

The boy nodded in confirmation.

The Silver Lily sect, a minor offshoot of the , was prevalent in . However, only ascetic scholar apprentices observed fasting.

“Did you study under an ascetic scholar?” Brandon inquired.

“Yes, though I wasn’t formally initiated, I received some teachings,” the boy answered politely.

“Can you read?”

Another nod.

This was remarkable. Even Freya, once a militia captain in , barely knew a few letters due to her fortunate encounter with , a renowned guard unit leader known for his education and insight—a rarity among veterans. Brandon’s grandfather too had been literate, thanks to his family’s modest wealth, which afforded basic education. ’s literacy stemmed from her aunt’s lineage; witches’ descendants illiterate was practically unheard of. Among commoners, however, reading was a rare skill.

Intrigued, Brandon sat down. “If that’s so, why come here? Though poor, the Silver Lily is an officially recognized sect.”

“The ascetic scholar who taught me has passed away. I don’t know where I belong,” the boy admitted.

Brandon understood. Without formal initiation, the boy was merely a lay follower.

His curiosity about the boy waned quickly as his thoughts returned to the mission. His earlier reconnaissance revealed the mine’s layout but deepened his concerns. The swordsman—the greatest threat—rarely left the barracks. Sneaking in was feasible, but eliminating him without detection seemed impossible.

For now, Brandon resolved to wait out the week, hoping for an opportunity.

As he pondered, the frail boy began coughing violently. Supported by the girl, he apologized weakly. “An old ailment, sir. Please move away if it bothers you.”

Unfazed, Brandon shook his head. With nearly 100 constitution, diseases held no sway over him. He handed over a water pouch. “Clean water.”

“Thank you.” The freckled girl accepted the pouch, eyeing Brandon curiously.

Her scrutiny puzzled him—he hadn’t thought much of offering water, accustomed to a world of abundance. But in , where survival often dictated morality, generosity wasn’t always expected.

Regardless, his act earned their goodwill. After sipping the water, the boy’s cough eased. Still too weak to speak, silence lingered until the girl broke it.

“They say you’re strong, sir?”

Brandon blinked. “Strong? Barely…”

“Barely means very strong. Adventurers rank themselves—Iron-rank, right? You must be one,” she pressed.

“,” the boy added.

Brandon shrugged. At his age, achieving Iron-rank was notable. Most mercenaries reached it in their thirties or forties. Yet here, blending in was preferable.

“Close enough,” he replied nonchalantly.

The two exchanged glances. “Are all adventurers like you, sir? Black Iron-rank?”

“Not at all. That level already marks someone formidable among adventurers,” Brandon explained truthfully. Few stronger individuals chose the wandering life unless they craved freedom.

Curious, he asked, “Why do you ask?”

“We want to see the outside world,” the boy admitted.

“To adventure?”

He nodded.

Brandon understood their yearning but didn’t dissuade them. Life as miners wasn’t much better. Recalling Tagib’s intel, he probed further.

“I heard connect to . True?”

“I don’t know Yhaggoroth, but some tunnels lead downward. No one’s ever reached their end—some have vanished trying.”

Brandon nodded. “Interesting. Any legends?”

The pair exchanged another glance, confirming his suspicions. They believed him drawn by these tales, fitting an adventurer’s profile.

“Yes,” the boy said slowly. “Would you like to hear them, sir?”

“Of course. Tell me everything. I’ll reward you.”

Brandon leaned back, ready to listen.