To the North Duchy (1)
Naturally, the entire Black Lion Guerrilla unit agreed to the discharge. Most of them had bowed deeply once, declaring they'd settle in the south, before departing.
"No, seriously, if you guys go north, you'll all freeze your asses off."
"Even if we become ghosts, we'll follow you."
"This is driving me nuts. Everyone else left, so why are you guys sticking around?"
"...We got nowhere else to go, sir."
Valerius smacked his forehead and let out a sigh. With the discharge pay, they could settle comfortably in a mid-sized city. But these crazy bastards were insisting on following him to the boonies.
He'd figured the seven from his hometown might stick with the mercenary band, but he hadn't counted on the rest.
"Those southern nomads think the north is a joke." Fine, if they wanted to go, that was on them. A true lone topsol never broke under a little hardship. The Black Lion Guerrilla were all topsols Valerius had personally vetted.
"You registered as mercenaries?"
"Yes, sir. Under the name as is. What about promotions?"
"Nah. Better to follow proper procedures—no loose ends." The Black Lion Guerrilla's fame or old man Grant's help might grease the wheels, but it wasn't worth much. They weren't out to live large as a merc band anyway, and leaving no fodder for the capital's nobles to attack was the smart play.
"They're holding a banquet in the capital. You not going?"
"Raven, my idiot little bro."
"...Yes, idiot big bro."
"How many times have I told you? Stay the hell away from the capital."
Valerius smacked the back of Raven's head. His vice-captain let out a choked yelp and crumpled, only for one of the mercs to snicker and haul him back up.
"Women, whatever—never get tangled with the capital."
"Ah, got it, bro."
"Alright, we head out tomorrow. Everyone, rest up."
And so, the next day, the Black Lion Mercenary Band set off for the North Duchy.
Just the straight shot north from the south took about two months for normal folk, but these guerrilla veterans had superhuman stamina. It didn't take them nearly that long.
"There it is!"
"Let's go, topsols!"
"Wooo!"
When funds ran low en route, they took on monster-hunting commissions. Knights couldn't handle high-grade beasts like trolls, but they bagged 'em for cheap, and clients loved it. That boosted the band's rep even more.
A merc band in sleek black plate armor and red waist capes, mowing down the toughest monsters? Word spread like wildfire.
Merchants took special interest.
"Ahem. Is the band captain around?"
"Yeah? What?"
Merchants were the usual visitors to their campsites. Fifteen-man band or not, their presence was intimidating as hell. High-merc level skills without the arrogance, clean work at fair prices—traders making bank on commerce heard the buzz and came calling.
"I heard you're headed north. Why not stop at Rozanica, the gateway city?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Then, could we travel together that far? We'll cover all conveniences. Fee goes without saying."
"Hm."
Valerius narrowed his eyes at the caravan master. Typical merchant face—probably not bad-looking in his youth.
"Come in."
He led the man into the command tent and scanned the contract he'd brought. No red flags. They were heading to Rozanica anyway. Mother Seria was there; he had to show his face. Plus, with monsters rampant this season, basing there to maintain order made sense.
"Good. Not bad. Any caveats?"
"Ah, we're escorting some passengers, but no frontline scraps expected. They're well-behaved."
"Oh ho. Noble outing? North's got snowstorms now, so probably locals. Outsiders are too spooked by rumors to move."
"W-well, I wouldn't know. Haha."
The caravan master broke into a cold sweat under Valerius's sharp words. That gleaming gaze, brutal features, monstrous build—it was enough to make knees buckle. He'd only used polite speech and considered the timing to guess their identity.
'A fox's brain in a bear's body, huh? Spot on.'
Valerius was infamous, of course. The first commoner in ages to claim captain rank. Foul mouth and ruthless methods matched by freakish skill—just as the rumors said.
"Scram, then. Tell your boss clear: don't start shit."
"...Yes. Understood."
Valerius tilted his head as the man scurried off. His gamer instincts tingled oddly. Something big going down in the north right now? Stuff happened up there all the time, but nothing plot-relevant in the original.
"Whatever. As long as it's not Isolde."
"Pardon? Isolde? You don't mean Lady Isolde of the ruling Serpia family, do you?"
"Yeah, that's her. Anyway."
Valerius nodded at Raven's question. Isolde Serpia—one of the original's villainesses. Originally the crown prince's fiancée, only to lose him and even her own brother to the heroine.
'Acts like a total bitch, crosses the line, gets executed. North falls apart without leadership.'
She lost it in rage at the heroine, got dumped by the prince, mental collapse. With leaders pulling that crap, no wonder it crumbled. Deadly even on paper—best steer clear.
Still, what were the odds of running into North Duke's daughter Isolde right now? She'd be busy hunting barbarian raiders during snowstorm season.
"L-Lady Isolde."
"Elio. How'd it go?"
"W-we secured legal escorts, at least."
Freya Caravan's master, Elio, was one of House Serpia's stewards. One of Isolde's key retainers, handling most external ops under a cover identity for such outings.
"Funds were tight, so I got the best match possible."
He handed Isolde the contract. She read it over.
"...Valerius of the Black Lion Mercenary Band. The southern front war hero?"
"Y-yes. Matched the description perfectly."
"..."
Isolde shuddered. Nobles had a famous tale about Valerius: the lone slayer of 700 southern cultists. Nicknamed the Butcher, bastard of the north's hero and Serpia founder 'Great Ivan.'
But she needed that caliber. Snowstorm season had monsters in frenzy; lesser mercs wouldn't budge, and lacked skill anyway.
"Whew."
The duke's chronic illness needed those herbs exactly now. Leaking his condition was unthinkable, hence her personal involvement. Crucial cargo demanded utmost caution—especially with time pressing. These escorts were a lifeline.
"So, what was he like?"
"Foul-mouthed as advertised. Eyes sharp like a demon's. Build that'd shame northern men."
"Skill seems solid, then. Good enough."
"B-but... we should prepare for betrayal."
Isolde smirked at Elio's words.
"The Butcher, southern war hero. Even my guard knight Elenoa can't match him. Prep's pointless. Don't worry—he's known as down-to-earth and just, despite the looks."
Of course, a bead of sweat still trickled down her own back. Valerius favored commoners. Clashed endlessly with nobles—practically blood enemies.
'Just don't let on we're nobles.'
Couldn't ditch them either. No better mercs at this price.
And so, the journey to the northern trade city Rozanica was set.
"All prepped?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Blend in, but no chit-chat. Eyes sharp."
With orders given, Valerius mounted up front and led the way.
The caravan's coachman, handling guide duty, gawked at him in awe.
"Whoa. Never thought I'd see a war hero in my lifetime."
"Hey, old man. Shut it and drive."
Messing around while steering a noble carriage? Ballsy—one slip, and his whole family'd be toast.
"Why head north?"
"Hometown. Let's go."
"...You discharged? South's still at war."
Valerius waved it off. No point explaining.
"I see. Parents well?"
"Yeah, Mom's fine. Tough as nails."
"Haha! Lucky you!"
No mention of Dad, but the coachman smoothly pivoted. Smart—sensing the landmine, he skipped awkward vibes.
'Check this guy out.'
Valerius chuckled dryly. Coachmen reeked of horseshit, sure, but this one's posture was ramrod straight, eyes keen on the horses. That was trained skill.
His gaze drifted to the rear carriage. Curiosity peaked about the two passengers amid the cargo.
'Nah, can't be Isolde.'
He shook his head. Good coachmen weren't common, but a duke's precious daughter getting mixed up? Unlikely.