Chapter 43: The Ghost Legend
Over the next three months, the Blazing Mercenary Group seemed to have been targeted by something.
The first to be hit was the Vice Commander, Hawke.
This man was Carlos's sworn brother, in his forties, bald, with a large belly and a pair of small eyes that were always squinting, making him look like a villain to everyone. He was in charge of managing the mercenary group's accounts and had never been particularly honest—he would skim a layer off the top of every mission reward, pinching a few copper coins from the members' pockets to stuff into his own. Over a decade, he had saved up a considerable private stash, hidden beneath the floorboards of his room, and nothing had ever gone wrong.
That morning, Hawke woke up as usual, yawning as he reached down to the floor—
It was empty.
The hidden compartment was open, and the heavy bag of savings inside had turned into a thin stack of ashes that crumbled into black powder at a touch.
Hawke froze for three seconds before letting out a howl and rushing out of the room: "Someone! We've been robbed! My money was stolen!"
The entire group was in an uproar.
The mercenaries grabbed their weapons and rushed over, surrounding the room so tightly that not even water could leak through. Carlos squeezed through the crowd, and as he looked at the pile of ash, his expression became very strange.
"Are you sure the money was stolen?"
"Isn't it obvious!" Hawke stomped his feet in anxiety. "Twelve years of savings, all gone! It's all gone!"
Carlos fell silent for a second and pointed to a pile of things nearby: "Then what about these?"
Hawke followed his finger.
An iron chest stood in the corner with its lid half-open, revealing several valuable items: an enchanted shortsword, two silver rings, three gems of decent quality, and a stack of brand-new mercenary mission scrolls—these were the perks Hawke had skimmed from missions over the years, and their value was no less than that bag of savings.
But not a single one of them was missing.
Even their positions hadn't changed.
Hawke opened his mouth wide, unable to speak.
A young mercenary in the crowd whispered, "A thief who only steals money? Why didn't they take these more valuable things?"
An old mercenary nearby slapped him on the back of the head. "Are you stupid? If a thief only wanted money, they should have taken Hawke's entire bag. Why would they burn it to ash?"
The young mercenary clutched the back of his head, even more confused. "Then was it stolen or not?"
Nobody could answer that question.
Three days later, it was the veteran Barton's turn.
Barton had been in the group for twenty years, with seniority even greater than Carlos's, and he was a slippery old veteran whom everyone disliked. His greatest hobby was bullying newcomers—making them stand guard for him, wash his clothes, or run errands to buy wine. At the slightest dissatisfaction, he would resort to punching and kicking, and his mouth was never clean, cursing more foully than anyone else.
This morning, Barton woke up in bed and felt a chilly sensation on his face.
He reached out and touched it.
It was smooth.
He touched it again.
Still smooth.
Barton sat up abruptly and lunged in front of the mirror—
The face in the mirror was clean from the chin to the sideburns, without a single whisker.
The beard he had grown for twenty years was gone.
Shaved clean, not a single hair left.
Barton stared at the unfamiliar face in the mirror, his pupils trembling. Three seconds later, he let out a scream like a stuck pig: "My beard—!!!"
The entire group was in a stir once again.
The mercenaries squeezed into Barton's room, looking at his face which was so smooth it reflected light; they wanted to laugh but didn't dare, their shoulders shaking as they held it in. Someone sharp-eyed noticed three items neatly arranged on the nightstand: a razor, a small mirror, and a note.
The razor was polished to a shine, with a few bits of stubble still clinging to the blade.
The mirror had been wiped clean, capable of showing every pore on a person's face.
On the note was a line of text written in crooked handwriting, clearly an intentional attempt to disguise the script:
"Bully a newcomer once, shave one whisker. Twenty years; today, the account is settled."
Barton held the note, his hands shaking like a leaf.
How many newcomers had he bullied over the years? He couldn't even count them himself.
But that thief knew.
Not only did the thief know, but they had also accurately calculated the total—three thousand six hundred and fifty whiskers, not one more, not one less.
Carlos stood behind the crowd, looking at the note, his expression growing darker and darker.
Three days later, it was the cook Old Ma's turn.
Old Ma had worked in the base's kitchen for fifteen years and was extremely well-liked, never offending anyone. His only hobby was sneaking food—every day while stewing meat, he would secretly hide a piece, then get up in the middle of the night to heat it up and enjoy it with half a bottle of cheap wine.
This morning, Old Ma woke up as usual and walked toward the stove to start the fire, but then he froze.
Fifteen bowls were neatly arranged on the stove.
Each bowl contained a piece of stewed meat.
From the first piece on the first day to the fifteenth piece on the fifteenth day, they were arranged in chronological order, without a single piece missing.
A note was placed beside them:
"Fifteen years, five thousand four hundred and seventy-five pieces of meat. These are from the last half-month; have a taste."
Old Ma stared at those fifteen pieces of meat, and his eyes suddenly turned red.
His wife had been dead for ten years, and his son had gone to the Northern Border and never returned; eating meat in secret in this dilapidated kitchen was his only solace.
That thief knew.
The thief not only knew but had also found these pieces of meat one by one and arranged them neatly here.
Old Ma picked up the first bowl and took a bite of the meat.
It was cold.
But he ate it with tears in his eyes.
——————
As the news spread, the entire mercenary group completely exploded.
In the cafeteria, in the hallways, and by the training grounds, mercenaries were whispering everywhere, mysteriously exchanging various versions of the "Ghost Legend":
"The Vice Commander's private stash was burned to ash, but the valuable items weren't touched—doesn't that seem like punishment for his embezzlement?"
"Barton's beard was shaved off, and the number of times he bullied newcomers was accurately calculated—this ghost's memory is way too good, isn't it?"
"The cook's stolen meat was laid out, and even a note like that was written—why does it sound like a compliment to me?"
"I heard the Commander's night was even more bizarre; only three things were burned, and one of them was a keepsake from his mother—"
"Holy crap, what does this ghost actually want?"
"I'm telling you, it's definitely that female mage! The Commander dumped her back then, and she's come back from the dead for revenge!"
"But why would she help the cook find his meat? What's the cook's relationship with her?"
"Who knows? Maybe the cook gave her a bowl of hot soup back then."
"That makes sense... this ghost is actually quite sentimental..."
Carlos sat at the main table, listening to these discussions, his head aching severely.
For the past month, he hadn't been able to sleep well, constantly wondering who that thief was. A ledger, a love letter, and a keepsake—three things burned to nothing, as if someone had dug out his deepest secrets and laid them out one by one in the sunlight.
But he hadn't even caught a glimpse of the thief's shadow.
No footprints, no traces, no clues whatsoever.
It was as if it truly were a ghost.
He looked toward the window.
Lia was sitting in her usual spot again, holding a cup of tea and quietly reading a book. The sunlight fell upon her; with her red hair and golden eyes, she looked like an ethereal immortal from a painting.
For these past three months, she had been like this almost every day.
She was swift and decisive on missions, but once back at the base, she would nestle in a corner to read and drink tea, never participating in the mercenaries' gossip or meddling in others' business.
But every time something happened, she was present.
Carlos stared at her for a long time before finally being unable to resist standing up, walking over, and sitting down across from her.
"Mage Lia," he spoke, his voice raspy.
Lia glanced up at him before lowering her head to continue reading. "Does the Commander have business?"
Carlos fell silent for a second before lowering his voice. "How much... do you know about these matters?"
Lia turned a page. "What matters?"
Carlos stared into her eyes. "The Vice Commander's lost money, Barton's shaved beard, Old Ma's meat, and my night—"
Lia finally looked up, her golden eyes meeting his gaze calmly. "Commander, I am a mage, not a detective."
Carlos was choked up.
She paused and added, "However, if I had to say, I think that thief is quite interesting."
"Interesting?" Carlos frowned.
Lia nodded, her tone indifferent. "The one who stole the money didn't take anything valuable; the one who shaved the beard didn't settle old scores but only counted the number of times newcomers were bullied; the one who took the meat put it back and didn't forget to leave a note—this thief isn't here to steal things."
"Then what are they here for?"
"To settle accounts."
Carlos was stunned.
Lia picked up her teacup and took a sip. "Everyone's accounts are calculated clearly. What should be burned is burned, what should be shaved is shaved, and what should be returned is returned. Once finished, they leave without greed or possession."
She set down the teacup and looked at Carlos, an elusive light flashing in her golden eyes. "Commander, have you ever thought—maybe that thief didn't want to hurt anyone at all, but just wanted certain people to know that some things don't go unseen."
Carlos opened his mouth but couldn't speak.
Lia withdrew her gaze and lowered her head to continue reading. "I'm just guessing; don't take it seriously, Commander."
The sunlight from the window shone on her face, which was as calm as a deep, bottomless ancient well.
Carlos stared at her for a long time before finally standing up and slowly walking away.
After a few steps, he suddenly turned back. "Mage Lia."
Lia didn't look up.
Carlos hesitated for a moment and said softly, "Thank you."
Lia's movement of turning the page paused slightly.
Then she continued turning the page as if she hadn't heard anything.
Carlos turned and left, his back appearing somewhat hunched.
Only after he had walked far away did Lia look up, watching the sky outside the window dyed red by the sunset, a slight smile touching the corners of her mouth.
——————
That night, something happened in Carlos's room again.
It wasn't burned, it wasn't shaved, and nothing was laid out.
It was the diary he had carried with him for twenty years that had gone missing.
The next morning, that diary appeared on the mission board, nailed firmly in place with an iron spike.
The open page read:
"I dreamed of her again today. Still that face, still that smile. She said she doesn't blame me, but I blame myself. It's been thirty years, and I still can't forget."
The date signed below was from a month ago—exactly the night he had pocketed those gold coins.
The mercenaries gathered around the mission board, looking at each other, no one daring to speak.
Carlos stood outside the crowd, staring at the diary, the scar on his face twitching.
Then he suddenly laughed.
He laughed more painfully than he could have cried.
"It was worth it... It was damn well worth it..."