The Villainess Is An SS+ Rank Adventurer

A full suit of obsidian.

Here was an expense so rarely seen that even the nearby merchants had no knowledge of what this individual wore. If they did, they would flock to him like magpies to whatever I happened to be tossing through my bedroom window.

Darker than any blackened steel, yet smoother than glass, it caught the light from the waning dusk, blinding at least one troubadour as his trumpet groaned along with him.

I was almost impressed.

Despite the ore being hoarded by the Grand Duchess, even her generals were gifted with only the occasional sword. And for good reason.

While I knew obsidian was vaunted for its durability against both weapons and magic, I had no idea that donning an entire suit also made the wearer utterly impervious to shame.

After all–

“Walnut cake?” asked Coppelia, handing over a plate.

He was currently sitting at a table with a princess, a clockwork doll and an elven lady.

The armoured figure shook his head, all the while his wooden chair creaked beneath him.

“Thank you, but no,” he said, his voice hoarse and distant in his helmet.

“You sure? It’s overly moist, oppressively buttery and alarmingly sweet.”

“I’m not one for confectionery.”

Coppelia tilted her head, rightfully puzzled over why anyone would decline cake.

Then, she shrugged and ate her umpteenth slice.

Time passed in peace, filled with the sounds of forks clinking against plates, the commotion of a busy square, the rushing of a fountain and the boasts of would-be gladiators … several of whom were openly gawping at the obsidian figure.

That was understandable.

To intrude upon a tea party was one thing. But to decline cake was another.

Some things were simply inexcusable.

Thus, I finished my last bite of spongecake, nodded in satisfaction, then sat back in my chair.

“Salutations,” I said to the guest with a polite smile. “My apologies, I failed to see you there. But I'm afraid that if you’ve come searching for sponsorship, you’ll need to look elsewhere.”

The man shifted upon the edge of his chair, limited by the covered weapon at his back.

He gave a chuckle closer to a grunt than a laugh.

“I’ve no need of more crowns,” he said, the amusement in his tone echoing within his helmet. “Nor fame for that matter. And if I ever wanted more, I wouldn’t find it in any pit.”

“Then you’re mistaken. There’s no better source for gathering hoodlums than the Arena Grand Tournament. Anyone who triumphs in defeating them all is guaranteed both fame and fortune. That is a public service which is richly rewarded.”

“It is. But not for me. My ban is still in place.”

“Oh? And what grievous sin did you commit in order to be banned?”

“Not losing when I was supposed to … as I said, I’ve no need of more crowns.”

“Well, then I suggest preparing a bottomless pouch for me. Just not now. I’ve no idea what you want, but I must decline. I’m already busy with somebody else appearing from behind to harass me at short notice. There’s a queue. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

The man leaned forwards slightly, placing his arm upon the edge of the table. The movement caused every plate to slightly shake.

“Waiting would require patience. And while that’s something I can do on occasion, it no longer applies when I see the source of so many rumours before me. You’ve been very busy, adventurer.”

“Clearly not enough, since you believe that intruding when I’m eating cake is acceptable. But I suppose this is the standard for hoodlums these days.”

“You offer a compliment. I’m far worse than any hoodlum, as those who once wore my armour can attest. Do you know what this is?”

“Indeed, I do. A fine target for vandals.”

“Vandals cannot damage obsidian armour.”

“Then you’ve never visited Reitzlake before. I can almost see my reflection. And so can the miscreants waiting on the rooftops. I must warn you now, while I’m famed for my kindness, the gulls are not. They do not show mercy or reprieve.”

The walking mirror gave a small snort of indifference.

A moment later, his eyes glanced upwards, the crimson light gleaming with whatever magic fuelled his helmet.

“... Apologies for the interruption,” he said, his voice somehow worn from just the slightest courtesy. “Although I was raised well, I was ever the problem child. As you can tell, manners was never my calling.”

“Apparently so. You wear a knight’s armour, but it’s clear you’ve no titles to your name.”

“I don’t deny that. Titles are something others bestow. I kneel to no lord, ruler or king but myself. So while I might lack the honour of a nobleman’s respect, it is only because my name would be lessened by it. Instead, my name remains what I am.”

“I see … and what are you exactly? A man with no concept of personal space?”

He raised his head slightly, the pride clear even with the helmet.

“I am the deeds I achieve, the tales I write, the battles I survive and the corpses I leave behind. I am the last face my foes ever see. The terror that haunts the cowled spectre. The darkness that monsters fear. I am … the Wanderer.”

I waited for him to continue.

When nothing happened, I rolled my hands.

“Yes? If you’re going to give an introduction, at least complete it. Your name is … ?”

“That is my name.”

“Excuse me? What is your name?”

“That. What I just said. I am the Wanderer.”

“The Wanderer.”

“Yes.”

“That … That is your name?"

“Yes.”

“... I see? And what is your actual name?”

“That is my actual name. I am he who travels the land, stalking the nightmares that would haunt lesser men. My name is therefore what I am, carried upon by the whispers of fear I leave behind.”

I stared.

“How do you pay your taxes?”

“What?”

“Your taxes. How do you pay them?”

“What do you mean ‘how do I pay them?’ … I pay them normally.”

“Are you certain? ... Because taxes need to be paid more than a single time you accidentally stalk a tax inspector. Perhaps you’ve forgotten how it’s done? Are you a professional highwayman, by any chance?”

The man sat up slightly, the indignation clear.

“I might be the Wanderer, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a house. That means I pay taxes. Diligently, I should add.”

“Excellent. Then you have a name. What is it?”

“I told you. It’s The–”

“I’m not calling you that. A random word you plucked from a bar conversation is not an eligible name. You need a forename and a surname, which can either be a family name or in specific circumstances your place of birth. Now, what is it?”

“I am not from this kingdom. I don't follow its traditional naming conventions.”

“Irrelevant. It doesn’t matter which kingdom you’re from. Bureaucracy is the same everywhere. The moment a kingdom starts accepting the Wanderer as a name, it will become the laughing stock of the world. How would record keeping work? The moment you stop wandering and start relaxing in your pyjamas, you’ll suddenly vanish from all official records!”

The man’s crimson eyes narrowed slightly.

“... If you want to know, the Wanderer is a compromise. I’ve been called many things that I could choose from. Before, I was known as the Darkness That Monsters Fear. A name I personally prefer. If the Wanderer is not sufficiently detailed, you can call me that.”

I jabbed my finger into his chest.

“You cannot name yourself the Darkness That Monsters Fear. That’s not a name. That’s a sentence. It’s ridiculous. What is your name on official correspondence?”

A pause.

“My name is what is spoken upon the trembling lips of man and beast alike.”

“Fine. Which kingdom are you from?”

“I was born in Rozinthe.”

“I see. Please wait here.”

“Wait? Wait for what?”

“I’m going to the Rozinthe Embassy.”

The man’s crimson eyes widened.

“You cannot just go to the Rozinthe Embassy. Citizens of another kingdom are not allowed to enter, nor can you retrieve sensitive information even if you could.”

“I have my methods. Rest assured, I’ll uncover your ridiculous identity. As a visitor in this kingdom, you are required to disclose who you are whenever questioned by a person of authority. Such as me.”

“My identity is what I am," claimed the unidentified individual. "It's the tales I’ve woven as a gladiator, a hunter, a soldier, an assassin and a mercenary. From a common bandit to a hero of the people, I have been them all and defeated them all. That is the only thing that matters.”

“All that tells me is you have a highly convoluted employment history. Are you constantly being fired? Because that's not a point of pride. It's a problem.”

“I am not being constantly fired.”

“Well, always hopping careers isn’t a good look either. Like it or not, loyalty is a valued trait. If you wish to rise in a specific profession, you need to demonstrate the ability to kowtow for extended periods.”

The man drummed his gauntleted fingers against the table.

“... I’ve no need to rise in any profession,” he said, a dangerous calm to his voice as cutlery started dancing away. An elven lady with a clipboard caught a falling spoon. “There is nothing left for me to prove, nor is there any master left worthy of acknowledging me. I have defeated every foe, slain every beast and conquered every obstacle. I now search the corners of the continent, hoping to find the last light that could burn itself brightly enough to scar the black of my armour. That is why I am the Wanderer. And that is why I am here.”

I offered a nod of consideration.

“Very well. I see this matters to you. While I'm not letting this be, I’ll temporarily oblige you this request. You can be the Vagrant.”

“I am not the Vagrant!” he snapped at once, hand flailing upwards in objection. “I am the Wanderer! There is a clear semantic difference.”

“All I know is that you’re permanently being recycled in professions and you spend your free time interrupting innocent maidens while they’re having tea and cake. That is vagrancy at its finest.”

“A vagrant is often lost. I am not. The reason I came here is for you.”

“Why? Are you hoping to work on Soap Island? If so, you’ll need to go to Trierport, but I cannot promise you'll be accepted.”

“That is not an issue. I’ve no intention of going to Trierport ... although I’ve heard that many of your foes went that way. Some of whom I know.”

I didn’t bother hiding my groan.

Even when they were crafting soap, they could still find ways to harass me. Whatever their unreasonable daily quota was, I was going to have to double it.

“Ugh. Is that why you’re here? Did you work for one of the hoodlums I punted away? … Because I need everyone to know that I'm not responsible for any lost wages incurred.”

“You've no need to worry on that account. They could never afford my rates. But then again, I am not someone who can be hired at any price. For what I seek is not crowns or fame. It is a foe worthy of my time.”

I threw up my arms in exasperation.

“Excuse me! But there is a bar right there! Go fight a lout!”

The Vagrant offered a snort … just before he stood up.

“I know who you are, adventurer,” he said, idly reaching for the weapon at his back. “I suspect that few around you do. I see the strength that you possess. You are far more than your deliberate ease at my presence would suggest. But while the rumours were not wholly wrong, it still remains to be seen how many are right."

I gestured at the table spread with both hands.

“Can we not just eat cake and drink tea? Why does everything have to devolve into violence?”

“Perhaps it's because Lady Fate is drawn to you.”

“Lady Fate is in deep arrears and does not have the right to ask even an insult from me.”

The Vagrant shrugged.

“Well, I suppose you should take that up with her. Assuming you survive. Which you won’t.”

He gave a roll of his shoulders, then duly removed the stained fabric hiding his weapon.

A troll’s club.