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Thursons was a B-class mercenary, and he was 34 years old. He was the unlucky guy who had thrown a punch at me and ended up smashed into the basement.
Surprisingly, he looked fine. Either he was naturally tough, or he hadn't been neglecting his training. It meant he was a born brawler, just right to be a mercenary.
"You said that you saw corpses?" I asked.
"That's right."
Corpses under a private house? It was an appropriate setting for a thriller novel. Unfortunately, considering the behavior of the Dark Church, it wasn't strange.
"How many corpses were there?"
"Six corpses in total. By the way..."
"Hm?"
"You believed me right away."
He was saying strange things.
I looked at him with a puzzled expression, and Thursons said, "We know how lacking mercenaries must seem in the eyes of you heroes. Maybe that is why we are often doubted when making simple reports on missions like this. We get asked whether we saw things correctly, and the like."
"Well, I get it. However, didn't you say you were B-class?"
"That's right."
"B-class mercenaries can act anywhere. You are veterans with both experience and a solid track record. That is enough."
At the very least, they weren't pathetic enough to panic when they saw a few corpses.
I walked past Thursons, who looked at me strangely, and headed to the gaping hole. I crouched down in front of it and peered below.
Sniff sniff.
I focused on my sense of smell, but couldn't pick up on any rotting corpses. If that stench had been present, I would've realized it as soon as I entered the building.
That meant there were two possibilities. The mercenary had a hallucination,...
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