“Zenos, you haven’t been pulling your weight much lately, eh? I’ll be honest, man. We don’t need you anymore.”
Aston—the party’s leader—had pulled Zenos aside for a conversation at the inn where they’d been staying, and suddenly blurted that out.
Behind their leader stood the rest of the group: Yuma, an archer; Gael, a support mage; and Andres, an offensive mage. They all regarded Zenos coldly too.
Theirs was a rising adventuring party that had felled countless large beasts. With the increase in renown came more rewards from the guild and more sponsorships from nobility, giving them an abundance of funds. Indeed, Aston’s room was lined with valuable antique furniture, and the entire floor was covered in beautiful plush carpets.
These spoils were not shared with Zenos, however. He was the one person in the group who had been born and raised in the slums, after all.
The vast Kingdom of Herzeth, located at the heart of the continent, was divided into a strict hierarchy. At the very top was the royal family, followed by nobility, then common citizens. The poor fell at the very bottom of the social ladder. Discrimination was deeply ingrained in society, and so, despite them all being fellow party members, Zenos was always provided with a room more modest than everyone else’s. In fact, it was a blessing whenever he was given a room at all, since he was often relegated to camping outdoors.
Despite this mistreatment, Zenos continued to polish his skills for Aston’s sake in return for Aston taking him in.
“That’s not true, Aston. I do things. I’m sure I’m at least somewhat useful to everyone,” Zenos protested.
Aston scoffed. “You don’t even have a healer’s license.”
In this country, only those of citizen status or higher were allowed official adventurer’s licenses—the poor did not have that right. And of course, since he hadn’t been able to receive formal training, Zenos had largely taught himself how to use healing magic.
“We don’t need your dodgy self-taught spells anymore. With how strong we’ve gotten, no one can hurt us anyway.”
“But that’s because—”
Whenever one of his comrades was about to be injured, Zenos would immediately cast a healing spell. Not only that, he’d been using protective spells to prevent them from being injured in the first place, and buffing spells to enhance the party’s combat abilities as well.
Zenos tried to explain this, but Aston only shrugged.
“Bullshit. You don’t have a license, so maybe you don’t know this, but to cast healing spells you need chanting and magic circles and whatnot. You’re no saintess, and there’s no way you can just instantly activate your magic the second we’re wounded and heal us back to full health. If we’re not getting hurt, it’s thanks to Gael’s protective spells and our own power. You’re no help at all.”
Behind Aston, Gael, the party’s support mage, smiled triumphantly. Zenos had nothing else to say to that.
He was in Aston’s debt. Zenos was only here because, when passing through the slums, Aston and the others had said that they didn’t have a healer yet and asked him to join. Furthermore, since he hadn’t had any formal education in the healing arts, he figured there was a chance he was in the wrong after all.
“Get a grip, Zenos,” Aston said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “We need to look good to the nobility and royalty now. We can’t have some slum rat in our party. It’ll make us look bad.”
“But you said I was part of the team,” Zenos protested.
The other party members all snickered scornfully.
“What are you, an idiot?” Aston asked, holding his sides with laughter. “You seriously haven’t noticed? We just wanted cheap labor. A kid from the slums like you wouldn’t complain about going without food or camping out alone. And if push came to shove, we could just use you as a scapegoat, guilt-free.”
Zenos fell silent. He felt as though he could hear his memories crumble, falling around him like debris.
Having spent most of his life as an orphan in the slums, he was elated to have joined a party. To have found a place where he belonged. That was why, even when subjected to poor treatment, he grinned and bore it, hoping to be of use to everyone else.
But he had never belonged to begin with, had he?
“Anyway, we’re through with you,” Aston said, flicking his thumb. Something sparkly went flying and bounced on the floor, rolling to a stop at Zenos’s feet.
“What’s this?” Zenos asked, frowning as he picked the small object up.
“You wouldn’t know, but that’s a gold coin. A poor bastard like you can go his whole life without ever coming across one, so be grateful.”
“Aston...”
“Now listen here,” the party leader continued coolly, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t you dare tell anyone a slum rat like you was ever in our party. Got it?”
Silent, Zenos clasped the gold coin tightly in his hand. It was the one thing he’d gotten for his years of work as an adventurer, and it felt terribly chilly to his touch. It wasn’t a reward for his services—it was hush money.
“Very well,” he said finally. “If that’s how it is, then I’ll leave the group.”
Thus, the healer Zenos was driven out of his party. His former comrades, who had only ever seen him as a kid from the slums, had no idea whatsoever who it was who had led them to their current position.
And neither they nor Zenos knew just how much of a twist of fate their divergence of paths would turn out to be.