The handoff was very quick. It took barely ten minutes to confirm our teammates and accept the mission,
then they gave us half an hour
to get
organized.
Ren Feng told me that this time was for mercenaries to say goodbye to their families. In fact, the mortality rate among mercenaries was incredibly
high, nearly three percent.
In other words, for every hundred people who went on a mission, three would die. That might not sound too
horrifying.
But... how about a one-in-thirty chance of dying?
And that wasn't even factoring in the average number of missions. The real figures were even worse. Many mercenaries died on their very first mission.
In fact, most of the ones who stayed here
were veterans. The death rate for rookies on their first A-class-or-higher mission was as high as ninety percent.
Only one in ten rookies survived. And that survivor had to be lucky enough not to suffer an injury to a vital area. After all, even
getting a limb repaired was expensive. Most people who became mercenaries had been driven to desperation. Otherwise, no one would willingly risk their life.
Of course, that didn't include me.
Anyway, even if you made it through unscathed, you still had to get past the first wave of PTSD. That was English. I didn't know
why the word had survived so long into the apocalypse,
but at least I understood what it meant: post-traumatic stress disorder. In short, you had to overcome that wave of fear before you could carry out
missions normally. And after that, you still had to gain experience. One wrong move, and you could die.
So... the process of going from rookie to veteran was exceptionally brutal. The mercenaries standing here were practically
one in a hundred,
and the Wild Wolf Mercenary