—————————————————————–
Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Yuziro
—————————————————————–
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Paris’ war hammer shattered the head of a man wearing a steel helmet. He laughed.
All around him, the battle raged on. Those in chainmail armor, those wielding longswords, those mounted on horses – everyone was fighting. They all shouted and snarled, clutching their spilling guts, somehow trying to slit each other’s throats, gritting their teeth and straining, unable to distinguish friend from foe as they swung their weapons wildly. It was a battlefield.
The fight broke out after the former lord of Noife, Viraki, died and his presumed-dead brother Drite returned. It wasn’t an outcry seeking chaos amidst unstable succession. This battle occurred because Drite was too belligerent.
With his excellent combat skills and charisma, he swiftly devoured Noife. Unlike his brother who strived to enter central politics, Drite prepared for war with all the resources produced in the trade city. Hundreds of soldiers and mercenaries armed themselves with the finest equipment and ate their fill while preparing for battle.
Neighboring domains grew alarmed. As soon as news of Viraki’s death spread, so did rumors that Noife was preparing for war. They immediately sent messengers to the king requesting mediation, but the king remained silent. The perspicacious ones realized the king chose to turn a blind eye to the war, bothered by the rising power of the new lords who emerged victorious from the Eastern War.
And today, three and a half months after Viraki’s death, Drite finally invaded Dustick, located southeast of Noife.
“Are there only dregs in Dustick?!” Paris roared as he smashed a seventh head. His stature exceeding two meters, combined with the equally massive war hammer, was fit to be called a giant. And ordinary folk tried to evade such a giant rather than face him.
Paris grew vexed, unable to savor the taste of crushing skulls with no worthy opponents. No matter how wildly he swung his hammer, everyone just fled far away, none daring to approach. A small clearing formed in the heart of the battlefield.
When his loud taunts failed to provoke anyone into attacking, Paris wiped the sweat beading on the bridge of his nose. His palms were soaked in sticky perspiration. Surveying the surroundings, it seemed the battle situation was reaching a climax, and soon the retreat horn would sound, just as it had for the past week.
As Paris caught his breath, a man caught his eye.
For some inexplicable confidence, the man didn’t even wear a helmet. His black hair tied back and face were fully visible. A fairly masculine visage.
His height and build were nearly a match for Paris’. He wore the armor of a mercenary – leather and chains linked together, with an iron breastplate. Yet the sword in his right hand seemed mismatched with his armor. Though clearly ancient, it didn’t appear worn. A thick, wide, elongated blade with a lone runic inscription in the center and a wolf’s head pommel.
Paris realized why this man stood out to him. He had taken an enforced break for the same reason as Paris – a lack of challengers to fight. A savage grin spread across Paris’ lips. The more exceptional they were, the better the skull-crushing felt. Paris clanked over in chains and iron plates toward the black-haired man, imagining how that sword would move, and how he would counter it. No, he shook his head – countering didn’t suit him. He would strike first.
Paris raised his war hammer and charged. He saw the man slightly lift his sword. A fool? Not even trying to evade, planning to block with that sword instead?
The warrior Paris laughed as he brought his hammer crashing down. Though just a single strike, it wasn’t something easily blocked or dodged. If the man retreated, the hammer’s blades would skewer him. If he tried to block, Paris would simply overpower him with brute force. And if he counterattacked, Paris’ longer hammer would strike first before that sword could reach.
Paris’ face filled with anticipation of the impending satisfying impact. And then Valian raised his sword to cut diagonally, cleaving through Paris’ steel hammer and body.
Paris collapsed, spilling his innards in a heap on the ground. The remaining oxygen in his blood aided his brain’s activity before it fully drained away. As he died, Paris pondered the immense difference in force required to block an overhead strike with an upward blow.
Valian wiped his blade and gazed at Paris’ fading eyes. The lifeless pupils flickered like inanimate objects.
Then the retreat horn blared. Valian sheathed his sword and picked up the warrior’s now-shortened hammer shaft. From the severed haft to the spiked hammer head, it was all steel. Even just the scrap value would net a decent sum. His slowly increasing wealth lifted Valian’s spirits a little.
The setting sun cast long, dim shadows that obscured the faces of the fallen corpses and retreating soldiers slouching like more bodies.
Though the shadowed faces likely bore their own expressions, no one tried to discern each other’s. No one had a reason or desire to do so. Valian was no exception. So he slung the hammer over his shoulder and walked back toward the Dustick camp, wondering what would be for dinner.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Valian did not depart for the Cobvili Marshlands.
In the Black Tree Village, that seemed to be his intended destination, but that thought vanished completely upon reaching Dustick. It was a trivial reason. Dustick overflowed with decadence and indulgence. Valian lightly found his feet bound to this world of liquor, women, and gambling that unfolded as soon as the sun set.
Valian was no monk, and with his astounding stamina, there would be no issue. He splurged gold on booze, bought women, but didn’t gamble. After all, he would either win or end up slitting the gambler’s wrist.
Indeed, there was no major problem. Soon the people of Dustick took a liking to Valian – if that could be considered a problem. Who could fail to cheer a man who could down entire oak casks of liquor unfazed, bed ten women in one night, and shatter an arm wrestler’s limb with just one finger?
After amusing himself for about a month, just as Valian considered setting off again, rumors spread that Noife would attack Dustick. In this medieval land, it was nothing unusual for lords to seize any chance to kill another lord and claim their domain. The peculiarity lay in the extravagant mercenary fees the Lord of Dustick offered.
Dustick could hardly be called a city with good public order. This was partly due to the lack of a standing army, but also because the city’s criminal organizations divided territories with the lord himself.
An unimaginable structure in other cities, where powerful armies would have swept away such organizations, leaving only miserable remnants to cower. Yet here, the lord remained indifferent to how the city operated, so long as his own luxuries and indulgences were guaranteed.
Ordinarily, neighboring lords would have devoured such a city long ago. But the original status of Dustick’s lord posed a problem.
The Lord of Dustick was the king’s brother. Fearing his brother’s control, he had participated in the Eastern War as a common soldier, earning distinction to be granted a lordship – a unique case. Even after becoming a lord, concerned about vexing the king, he kept no soldiers aside from his personal guards.
The surrounding lords thought: if we kill this man and seize his lands, would the king really stay silent? He may keep his brother under check due to power struggles, but he is still his brother, after all. Thus, Dustick grew into a city of frenzy under the lords’ vague disinterest.
And Drite directly challenged this status quo. Setting aside the city’s squalor, conquering both Noife and Dustick would allow him to monopolize over half the trade routes in the kingdom and Aria region.
This promised immense wealth, and Drite believed offering just a portion to the king could quell his wrath – an assessment that seemed accurate judging by the king’s attitude so far. The king had completely ignored the letter from the Lord of Dustick.
So the Lord of Dustick hired mercenaries. He emptied his mountains of accumulated wealth from years of nothing but drinking and womanizing, spending it all to recruit soldiers.
Dustick’s thugs, ruffians, petty thieves, debtors drowning in IOU’s, even whores thinking penetrating paid better than being penetrated – they all came wielding blades to the lord’s recruitment officer. And as commanded by the lord, the officer hired every last one of them.
From his spies’ reports, Drite expected to swiftly crush these rabble and devour Dustick. A miscalculation.
The numbers didn’t add up. Exchanging one of Noife’s soldiers resplendent in dazzling armor funded by vast wealth against a whore donning an oversized helm barely fitting her head while clutching a rusted blade – such a one-to-one trade would bankrupt even Noife’s riches in no time. Only a king could squander wealth so frivolously.
Yet through some uncanny strategy and tactics, the Lord of Dustick managed to achieve that one-to-one exchange ratio. If not precisely one-to-one, then at least one-to-two or one-to-three.
This was possible because, truth be told, Noife’s soldiers were hardly superior in quality to Dustick’s – equally hollow shells of men. Originally a mishmash of alley thugs who received barely two months’ training from grizzled sergeants, undisciplined mercenaries, and the hot headed but tactically local-minded Drite – this deranged trifecta inevitably led to this drawn-out war of attrition on the Dustick Plains.
Valian decided to stick his spoon into this stew of thugs and ruffians. The promised pay for each day’s survival was staggeringly high.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The slightly stale bread softened adequately once soaked in the stew. Taking a bite, Valian dribbled some down his front and brushed off the leather breastplate with his hand. The thick, porridge-like stew contained some meat, revealing just how much money the Lord of Dustick had poured into this endeavor.
A few others sat around Valian’s campfire, but he paid them little mind. Though their tongues wagged endlessly, knowing death could come at any moment, they were all still mercenaries in the end. Here by their own choice. Yet their confessional outpourings amidst the soft firelight and enveloping darkness made Valian edge away slightly.
As Valian chewed noisily, his gaze fell upon a lone knight slowly riding a horse toward them. The crest on her dangling left arm’s shield marked her as a holy knight of Epollu.
He could roughly guess her identity. The female knight serving as strategic advisor to the lord’s personal guards. Though her gender was unusual, holy knights made no distinctions between men and women. Taking up the sword in devotion to the divine made one a knight. Granted, true holy knights with sacred powers were exceedingly rare.
At any rate, this particular holy knight did wield genuine sacred powers, which along with her aloof demeanor, earned her popularity among the mercenaries and soldiers. After all, six out of ten healers were little more than quacks, so a knight capable of healing prayers was naturally beloved. Moreover, she visited the field hospitals to pray whenever she could, so what more could be asked?
She dismounted before Valian.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Maybe a heroine?