The Old Veteran's Anti-Attribute: Saving the World with Gags? - The Rusted Cauldron and the Lord of Silence――The Shadow of Anti-Attribute

Kamodobashi, a frontier town on the outskirts of the Ash-Rimmed Domain. A two-story wooden inn facing East Street called the "Rusty Cauldron Tavern"——the sign hanging from its entrance was, quite literally, a rusty cauldron. In the early morning hours when the sun still hung low, white steam rose from the inn's kitchen. Calderan moved both arms busily, stirring a large pot. Black short hair streaked with silver threads clung to his cheeks. His deep gray eyes gazed quietly into the pot. With the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, old burn scars ran along his left forearm. ——Once a Platinum-ranked adventurer, the man now simmered stew. Forty-eight years old. Despite the lower back pain he carried, he continued his prep work with steady indifference. "...There." He removed the pot from the fire. Dressed in black slacks and an old leather sword belt that extended to his waist, his appearance still retained traces of his adventurer days. However, the quickness of his movements from those years had long since faded. He straightened his body slowly, supporting his lower back. Time marks everyone equally. Few knew of the town of Kamodobashi. Located in the northeastern part of the continent, this town at the heart of the Ash-Rimmed Domain had a population of roughly twelve hundred——a small frontier settlement. It had gradually recovered from the devastation wrought by magical residue from the Attribute Wars. As a waypoint connecting the north-south highways, travelers occasionally passed through. What those travelers sought was lodging. And food. The inn Calderan ran could provide both. The stew, in particular, had a reputation. The travel permit registered at the Kamodobashi branch of the Adventurers' Guild was an adventurer's identification. That guild was located west of Kamodobashi with only two permanent staff members. If an adventurer in this town wanted to accept a request, they would check the guild's bulletin board and stop by the Rusty Cauldron Tavern for stew. That was how things had come to be. Calderan knew this. And knowing it, he had retired. Three years ago. When he drifted into Kamodobashi and purchased this inn, he still remembered it clearly. Carrying an aging body, he had fled from the common sense that "an adventurer's body is their capital." Back then, he had thought that was fine. "...Cleaning in the afternoon, then." Calderan murmured and left the kitchen. --- Past noon, Calderan was cleaning the guest rooms on the second floor. There were no lodgers at this hour. The merchant who had stayed the previous night had departed in the morning, and new guests were expected to arrive after evening. On the reception desk downstairs lay yesterday's account ledger. Three copper coins. The price for lodging with breakfast included. Cradling the dust-beaten sheets in his arms, Calderan descended the stairs. Moving slowly, protecting his lower back. There was no rush. In this town, no one hurried him. Stepping out to the back of the inn, he could see the well drawing water from a tributary of the Gatara River. An old pulley was attached to the wooden frame. Calderan adjusted the sheets and approached the frame. "...Maintenance is needed after all." He surveyed the back garden. Weeds had grown wild. Half a year ago, he had made an effort to clear them from scratch, and yet here they were again. Under the summer sun, the weeds grew with enthusiasm. Calderan exhaled deeply. Grasping the frame with his left hand, he pulled the rope with his right. The bucket rose slowly. Once, he could have hoisted it with a single hand effortlessly. Now, even using both hands, his breath came slightly short. (Getting old.) Thinking this, he gazed at his left hand. The burn scar. More than ten years old. He remembered that moment. When a comrade was about to be engulfed in flames. He had shielded them instinctively, and he remembered the heat from that time. "..." His left hand throbbed faintly. Around the burn scar, there was a slight sensation of disturbance. Old wounds do ache sometimes. Before weather changes. When pressure shifts. At such times, old scars breathe. Calderan paid it no particular mind. He drew water from the well. Cold water filled the bucket. Listening to that sound, he organized his memories as though nothing were amiss. Where were his comrades now? The main headquarters of the Travel Permit Guild was in Segrina, a city at the continent's center. Most of the Platinum-ranked adventurers were likely still active in that region. For those with good travel connections, it was a distance reachable in a month. But they would never meet again. (Well, it doesn't matter.) Calderan lifted the bucket. Its weight hadn't changed. But he had. That was all. --- At dusk. Calderan headed to the well again. This time to draw water for the evening preparations. The sky was dyed red. The western sun cast long shadows, and the entire back garden was wrapped in a gradient of red and purple. Calderan was about to lower the bucket into the well. At that moment. His left hand throbbed violently. Involuntarily, he pulled his hand back. The bucket's rope hung down. At its end, there came a wooden clang. "...What is this?" Calderan stared at his left hand. Something was seeping from the burn scar. A black mist of some kind. Like smoke, yet like haze. Formless darkness. It slowly began to cover the back of his hand. Calderan steadied his breathing. During his adventurer days, he had witnessed countless spells. The six-attribute magic——fire, water, holy, dark, wind, earth. He knew the incantations and light of mages of every attribute, and the holy priests dispatched from the Six Source Temples. But this was different. This was——what? The black haze slowly swirled. Its movement was as though it possessed will. Like a black serpent overflowing from his wrist, dancing through the air. For an instant. The center of the haze glowed. Sharp and brief. A blade-like shape. That blade emitted a black light for just a moment. Calderan reflexively clenched his left fist. The haze vanished. Without sound. Without trace. In the next instant, his left hand was ordinary again. Only the burn scar remained, illuminated by the sunset. "...What was that?" Calderan's voice was low. It carried caution. The caution of a man who, over decades as an adventurer, had survived countless close calls. He opened and closed his left hand. There was no pain. No abnormality. Only a faint throbbing remained. At the bottom of the well, something clanged. The bucket had reached the bottom. Calderan pulled the rope. Slowly. Carefully. His left hand was sending him a warning of ill omen. The bucket rose. The sound of water. The creaking of the wooden frame. And—— Nothing amiss. The bucket surfaced normally. Everything was as it should be. Nothing had changed. (I have no choice but to observe.) Calderan stared intently at the burn scar on his left hand. An old wound. More than ten years old. Why now? He lifted the bucket and headed back to the inn. --- That night. The dining hall on the first floor was wrapped in silence. Calderan sat alone, sipping the stew he had made. The salt was perfect. The spices were from the southern provinces. Complex flavors spread across his palate. The throbbing in his left hand was gone. Had the incident at the well that afternoon truly happened? He had checked multiple times. There was no injury on his left hand. No abnormality. Only the old burn scar remained. (Should I consult with my adventurer comrades?) He considered it. But immediately dismissed the thought. His comrades were all in distant places. Segrina was six hundred kilometers southwest from here. A carriage would take three weeks. He could send a messenger bird, but waiting for a reply would take a month. Was this incident worth such effort? (...I don't know.) Calderan finished his stew. Outside the window, the town of Kamodobashi had settled into the silence of night. Street lamps were few. The holy priests of the Six Source Temple would sometimes light the town with holy-attribute light each night, but the cost was high. In a frontier town, moonlight and hand-held flames were the only reliable sources. Tonight was a full moon. Soft moonlight illuminated the entire town. Outside the entrance, the rusty cauldron sign swayed gently in the breeze. Beneath it, several nocturnal insects fluttered about. Calderan stood and began cleaning up. He washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. His movements were completely automatic——actions repeated every day for three years. He climbed the stairs toward his room. Moving slowly, protecting his lower back. "...Tomorrow will be the same as always." When he murmured this, a faint unease seeped into Calderan's expression. Still, he opened his room's door. He entered the dark room and lay down on his bedding. Staring at the ceiling, he clenched his left hand. The sensation of a new mystery layered atop an old wound. He wanted to believe the world remained unchanged. But the black haze that had taken residence in his left hand was certainly heralding the next upheaval. Calderan had not yet admitted this fact to himself. He did not want to admit it. The quiet night continued. The town slept, and only moonlight streamed through the window. The next morning, until new guests arrived, Calderan would continue his ordinary days. Because that was the life he had chosen.

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Episode 1

Name: The Old Veteran's Anti-Attribute: Saving the World with Gags?
Author: Novelia

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