Chapter 37
Chapter 37
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 37
Chapter Title: Assassination Operation (1)
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Two groups were tangled together in a chaotic melee, like roots twisting wildly.
Cracker, who had followed behind me, widened his eyes and shouted.
“Brothers!”
I stopped him just as he was about to charge straight into the fray. He yelled, his face flushing red.
“What’s the holdup!”
“First, stop the fight.”
“How do you plan to stop that?”
He huffed excitedly, breathing heavily through his nose.
The battle had only just broken out.
It wasn’t easy to separate them in their heated state. Instead of answering, I dismounted and showed him with actions.
Boom!
My foot, infused with inner energy, slammed heavily into the ground.
The shockwave rippling from my toe shook the earth violently, kicking up dust.
Rumble.
As the ground quaked with a thunderous roar, those lost in frenzy hurriedly lowered their stances to steady themselves, then glanced warily at one another.
The fight naturally ground to a halt.
A calm voice drifted through the midst.
“Enough.”
All eyes turned to me, the source of the voice.
Their stiff expressions suggested they instinctively knew the tremor had started from me.
The two tangled groups, now in a lull, slowly backed away and clustered with their own.
“Brothers!”
Cracker spread his arms wide and rushed toward the mountain bandits. Their faces softened and lit up the moment they saw him. In contrast, the caravan members’ expressions hardened.
“Big brother!”
One of the bandits ran toward Cracker.
They embraced roughly, pounding each other’s backs in a fierce reunion.
It felt like a family long lost, reunited after years apart.
Cracker had said he’d left the stronghold about two weeks ago.
Considering the time, this was pure madness.
As the situation turned against them, someone from the caravan shouted.
“Who the hell are you lot! I’ll say it again—we’re the Polchero Merchant Group, backed by Count Itzriel!”
Judging by his attire, he seemed to be the caravan leader. As always, I answered with my sword instead of words, drawing and swinging it.
Slash!
A brilliant white arc sliced vertically, cleaving a baggage wagon behind the leader straight down the middle.
Thud.
The wagon collapsed at both ends, revealing new faces hidden behind it through the gap.
All of them gawked in shock, eyes wide.
They weren’t the only ones.
Everyone who had witnessed my single strike stood with mouths agape.
Given the distance from the split wagon to me, they could easily calculate they had no power to handle me.
With one gesture, they lost all will to fight.
Most of the caravan were mercenaries hired to guard the goods, after all.
They had no intention of dying to protect cargo.
They knew full well their necks would slice easier than that wagon.
“Leave the goods and go.”
I wrapped things up neatly.
“Ha! You’re already a full-fledged bandit! Most satisfying! That’s the act of a real mountain man!”
Cracker’s booming laughter echoed through the valley.
The caravan mercenaries exchanged glances, hesitating.
No need to spell it out nicely.
I kindly held up three fingers.
“I’ll count to three. Anyone still here then loses their head.”
They bolted before I even said one, not looking back.
They vanished into the woods in a stampede.
The area cleared out in no time.
But not everyone fled. One bold soul remained.
All eyes now turned to him.
A man with dull brownish-gray hair.
His long hair swept back softly for a man, he was a handsome middle-aged fellow with a mature air.
He looked early to mid-forties, his faint smile carrying a boyish mischief.
Even alone in enemy territory, he spoke leisurely.
“Might as well apply to be a bandit here. You taking new recruits?”
He sheathed his drawn sword and raised both hands.
I eyed him steadily.
The strongest person I’d met on the Valencia continent so far.
He’d concealed his aura well, but he couldn’t fool my eyes.
Just from his sword grip and sheathing motion, I could gauge his strength.
What the hell is this guy?
Hiding his presence so perfectly, he was at least peak Expert...
That put him among Francia’s top five, no doubt.
Not someone to run into here.
“Cut the crap. Get lost?”
Thick veins bulged on Cracker’s shiny bald head.
He’d been the enemy moments ago.
What made him think he could waltz into the stronghold?
The stronghold’s location was life-or-death to bandits—they didn’t let just anyone in.
“You’re blind to talent like me. Or do bandits pick recruits by looks? That’d explain it—”
His gaze swept over the rough-looking bunch and paused on Liriel.
“Well, not everyone, apparently.”
He winked at Liriel with one eye. She grimaced in disgust.
“Guess you’re all wondering why I stayed. No big reason. Just some fine booze here.”
He rummaged through a nearby wagon as he spoke.
“You’ve made a big score anyway—probably heading back for a victory feast. And I can’t resist a good party.”
He lit up, grinning as if he’d found something.
“You rascal. There you are.”
In his hand was a bottle that screamed luxury at a glance. He uncorked it right there and chugged straight from the bottle.
“Ahh, that’s the stuff.”
“What a fucking asshole.”
A few bristled to step forward, but I held up a hand to stop them. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and pointed at them.
“Can’t be that stingy. Bandits should welcome today’s foe as tomorrow’s friend—that’s the spirit. No romance in you lot. What fun is holing up in the mountains without that?”
Talkative bastard.
I asked.
“What’s your name?”
“Short on words, eh?”
“Keep it up, and your neck’ll be shorter.”
“Whoa, can’t have that. I wanna outlive everyone. Nice to meet you anyway. Name’s Nederman.”
I glanced at Allen upon hearing his name.
Ever heard of him?
Allen stared back, baffled.
Seemed like a fake name or not a famous one. Now Nederman asked.
“How old are you?”
“None of your business.”
“Playing hard to get. Care to share your name at least?”
“Jenes.”
“Huh, same as the dead crown prince. Must be inconvenient. I’d have changed it ages ago.”
His antics made sides indistinguishable, so I asked directly.
“Francia or Crebon—which side?”
“Francia, obviously.”
Nederman grinned.
No sincerity felt, but info on him could only come from his mouth anyway.
If he were imperial, I’d kill him here. But no, so nothing more.
“Get going.”
“Got it, got it. No need to scare me off. Shame, though—passing on talent like me. You’ll regret it someday. See you when fate allows. Especially you, pretty miss. Longer hair would’ve been better. Lots of regrets today.”
He sauntered off leisurely, waving till the end.
Allen approached, eyeing the bushes where Nederman vanished.
“Why let him go?”
“Too much hassle.”
He was seriously skilled.
No reason to kill a non-enemy.
With things settled, the bandits swiftly gathered the caravan’s goods.
The fight had been brief—no deaths, just minor injuries.
That was the clincher for trusting Nederman.
If he’d wanted, he could’ve taken their lives easily.
“Now, introductions. This is my youngest blood brother, Portin.”
Cracker brought over a man to introduce.
The one who’d embraced him earlier.
The lanky man had a long scar diagonally across his nose bridge.
* * *
After clearing the site, we resumed up the mountain path.
The stronghold lay deep in the peaks.
The rugged trail between sheer cliffs meant we released the horses and went on foot.
The stronghold’s name, soon to arrive: Golden Field.
Curious name, so I asked—turns out they named it dreaming of fields full of golden rice.
A humble dream, but near impossible in current Francia without selling the country.
“Looks like a bird’s nest.”
Liriel’s impression upon seeing it.
As she said, the stronghold nestled in a cliff crevice like a nest.
The approach was so narrow three abreast would fill it.
The terrain turned it into a natural fortress.
“What do you think? Just as I said? Look at that majestic harmony with nature. No stronghold in Francia rivals Golden Field!”
Cracker gazed at it proudly.
Throughout the journey, he’d harped endlessly on three things: the stronghold, mountain men, brothers.
His pride in them was unshakable.
The interior resembled a slash-and-burn village, but oddly, a small wall linked the innermost cliff gap.
Another mini-fortress.
“It started from that little keep.”
Cracker spilled unasked details.
“Any attackers must breach two walls. Huhaha!”
We followed Cracker, who hadn’t shut up since earlier.
Villagers greeted him warmly, eyeing us with curiosity and wariness.
Buildings were ramshackle, clothes ragged, but it smelled of genuine human warmth unlike anywhere before.
Why? Everyone was smiling.
“That’s the wash area, over there’s the mill for grain.”
Cracker explained as he led us in. Every pillar bore his touch.
His tales revealed a surprisingly systematic village.
Someone with top-notch administrative skills ran it.
Not Cracker, I was sure.
“Who designed the village?”
“Our second brother. Sharp as they come!”
Cracker rubbed under his nose smugly.
I nodded in agreement.
“He’d excel running a nation.”
“You bet! This is our kingdom!”
We reached the inner quarters and got rooms for our stay.
No prep time, yet surprisingly tidy.
While we unpacked, a feast prepped in the courtyard.
Long tables groaned under heaps of barbecue, the sun dipping low. The savory aroma of roasting meat filled the stronghold.
Bandits gathered one by one.
Eyes glazing over—didn’t happen often, apparently.
“Stuff yourselves till you burst, drink till you drop, and party like mad!”
Cracker’s shout drew cheers as they dove into the food. They ignored his words, lost in grub.
Us too.
As we tore into meat with gusto, he brought another brother.
“How’s the food? Anyway, meet my brother. This is second brother, Barten. Smartest in the stronghold.”
Unlike the bandit stereotype, Barten had a gentle air.
“Pleased to meet you. Heard all about you from big brother. Thanks for the help.”
“Oh, likewise. I’m Allen, and this is—”
After brief intros, we refocused on food and drink.
As night deepened and moonlight brightened, the mood heated up.
Everyone buzzed, nicely tipsy and excited.
Half the talk was crude curses, but thick brotherhood shone through.
Environment shaped bonds—martial world or here, mountain folk were much the same.
“Is that guy telling the truth?”
Cracker plopped beside me, sipping alone. He pointed at Allen, ranting atop a chair.
Allen was gleefully recounting my tales.
From our first meeting to Chezen Castle.
He got so hyped meeting folks—must not tire his jaw.
Storyteller, not independence fighter, suited him.
“More booze?”
I shook an empty bottle at Cracker.
Mountain fruit wine—tasted great.
“Here.”
He fetched a fresh one quick and sat again.
“What do you think of my brothers, seeing them?”
“Mountain men.”
Gave the answer he wanted, too lazy otherwise.
“Pahaha! Right? All rolled here after hard lives. Especially those two—we shared life and death. No blood, but real brothers. I’d stake my life for them. Same for them. That’s my pride.”
Sincerity gleamed in his eyes.
“Wanted to show you. Curious how we became sworn brothers?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh?”
He tilted his head.
“Not at all. So, when exactly does the assassination op launch?”
Heard the plan en route, but not the precise start time.
“Personality doesn’t change with booze.”
Grinning ruefully, he chugged then spoke.
“Tomorrow evening. Prep well.”