The World of Mercenaries

In the known world, the Frozen Continent remains one of the least inhabited areas by humankind. Ferocious beasts and temperatures plummeting to -60 degrees Celsius present deadly challenges, especially during autumn and winter. Each year, there are reports of merchant and mercenary caravans perishing in blizzards, desperate to push through. In early winter of the 192nd year of the Magic Era, an adventurer stood alone atop a small hill on the eastern side of the continent’s largest forest. Or perhaps “alone” is not entirely accurate—surrounding this human were other creatures… and startlingly, these creatures were the infamous giant snow wolves, known across the Frozen Continent for their ferocity. "Grooowl… Aaaooo…” The silver fur of a dozen adult snow wolves bristled as they fixed their steely eyes on the adventurer. Low, guttural growls rumbled from their throats, ready to pounce and tear him to shreds at the slightest movement. Surprisingly, the adventurer surrounded by snow wolves showed no hint of fear. In fact, he was smiling. “Damn it, stop staring at me like dead sheep.” The young adventurer taunted, holding up his middle finger in a mock-threatening gesture toward the wolves. “Don’t think I’ll spare you just because you’re a protected species in two countries. If it weren’t for Whitey, who’d be unhappy, I’d wipe you all out and rid the land of some pests!” The snow wolves, of course, couldn’t understand the human’s words. The adult wolves growled lowly, while a dozen younger wolves gnawed at the frozen remains of some human travelers not far away, red blood congealed into ice. “Sigh…” The young adventurer sighed deeply, seating himself on the snow. “You little brats… even if you devour people down to the bones, you could at least leave their clothes intact. How are their relatives supposed to identify them later on? Look here… look…” He gestured toward a wolf, “Yeah, you! That ring you just swallowed was worth at least twenty gold coins! And you… damn it! That’s a purple gold coin, not some purple duck’s egg. You think you can digest that?” A half-grown snow wolf glanced at this rambling human snack before it, then shot a disapproving look at the much larger wolf standing nearby. The young wolf snorted in displeasure. The adventurer seemed to remember something and immediately furrowed his brow, muttering, “That scoundrel… he’s off enjoying himself at the Tower of Wishes. Bet he’s got some beautiful high-ranking sorceress waiting for him inside… hehe…” A mischievous grin spread across the adventurer's face. “A seasoned beauty, a few centuries old… let’s see how that self-righteous guy handles her! But damn it, he left me here with a burden while he’s off in comfort. What’s this about? Poor ladies of the imperial city, all eagerly awaiting my arrival, and here I am playing free babysitter. Ah, heavens… what did I do to deserve this punishment?” In frustration, the self-pitying adventurer tossed a handful of snow aside, startling the wolves. They backed off warily, growling at the eccentric human. “Whitey, have your brothers smear themselves with more blood. We’re moving out.” The adventurer stood, brushing snow from his clothes, and called out to the wolves as they howled and dashed southward. His last words echoed through the frigid air: “You irresponsible fool, wait till I ‘educate’ your son properly. I’ll make him wish he was dead. When you see him after you get back from the Tower of Wishes, prepare to weep!” Does history forge heroes, or do heroes shape history? It’s a complex relationship, difficult to define. But starting from Red Moon Year 200 (the first year of the Magic Era), from the personal journey of Amy Harper—the Mercenary King who entered the continent’s history as a mere mercenary—the answer may be clearer. For the first ten years, history made the hero, while in the following ten, hero and history danced together. —Excerpt from Research Notes of Continental Historian Neil Harper