Chapter 13
Chapter 13
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Vine
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Crisis is Opportunity is Crisis (4)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
***
“Forget your pasts from this moment on! Nobody here cares if you’re nobles or serfs! The only thing that matters is one thing! Whether you’ll end up as corpses on the battlefield or swing your swords while alive! Got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
Following the leading soldier, we arrived at a hastily built barracks on the outskirts of the city, where new conscripts were undergoing morale training.
*What a mess.*
Troops who needed to head to the front lines right away were trembling at a single shout. It’d be a miracle if those soldiers could face the enemy on the battlefield and swing their blades.
*No, maybe that’s exactly why they’re instilling fear?*
Instilling courage in soldiers was hard, but fear was easy.
Just put someone with authority on a high platform, have them yell a bit, swing a sword a few times, and it was done. If they lopped off the head of the first guy who tried to run as an example, the recruits would become meat shields who shuffled forward on command, unable to swing their swords or flee.
“Hey, you lot are all mercenaries, right? No need for morale training then. Line up in front of me by your assigned roles. From the left: infantry, spearmen, shield bearers, archers... any? If so, to the far right.”
While I was sizing up the barracks, a soldier who looked like a company commander took custody of our group.
“I know what you’re all thinking. Even as mercenaries, you didn’t want to stand on such a dangerous battlefield.”
“Bullshit. Like hell you know. We’re not getting steady pay like you city guardians—we got dragged here, so spare us the understanding crap.”
A balding mercenary spat curses at the company commander’s words.
“Soldier. What’s your name?”
“Hah! What, so you can come find me later? It’s your wife, you bastard! Nice to meet y—”
Slash—!
The mercenary couldn’t finish his sentence. A severed head couldn’t talk.
Thud.
Thump—
The company commander ordered the body dragged away, then wiped the blood from his sword with a handkerchief as he spoke.
“You seem to be misunderstanding something. Whether you feel wronged or angry, this is a battlefield, and you’re soldiers. Disobey orders, and you’ll be dealt with under military law.”
“...”
“Respond.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good. I don’t expect much from you. Just hold your positions as ordered and complete your assigned tasks. Think of it as your usual commissions. The risks are high, but Lordric will pay you what you’re worth.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Quick on the uptake—good. Now, we’ll assign you to units by role. Before that, anyone without personal gear?”
Professor and most of the others shot their hands up. As mercenaries, they had their own armor and weapons, but military-issue gear was higher quality than store-bought stuff.
“Even as conscripts, we’re not sending you out empty-handed. Head to that tent on the left for surplus gear—pick what you need. Once you’re equipped, you’ll deploy to the front. Prepare accordingly.”
At the company commander’s words, the mercenaries hesitated, then shuffled toward the tent, eyes on the gleaming blades nearby.
Me? The moment he pointed at the tent, I bolted like someone was chasing me. No avoiding the front lines anyway—might as well gear up to maximize survival.
***
“Why the rush? Gear’s... this it?”
“Can’t you see? Armor over there, weapons in front, stacks of it all—grab what fits.”
No big reason for sprinting over.
Regular army gear was decent, but conscript stuff was leftovers after elites took the A-grade. Worn-out or rejected for other reasons. To snag something usable from the scraps, you had to move faster than the rest.
But...
[Worn Shield: A shield cracked and splintered from long use. Neglected maintenance left it damp and musty.]
[Crumbling Chainmail: Issued to Turan regulars. Mishandled, durability sharply reduced / + Vinegar stench.]
“They’re really giving us this crap?”
“Don't want it? Go bare-handed. You look seasoned enough, but once the guys behind show up, even this’ll be gone.”
The supply soldier’s words made me glance back. Beyond the soldiers holding them, men waved to families, yelling stuff like “I’ll come back alive!” The newbies from morale training were heading here too. No time—grab what’s in sight.
*Even so, this is ridiculous. Vinegar? They soaked it to remove rust? On metal?*
Grumbling inwardly, my eyes scanned gear fast. No status windows here to scan on touch—just my eyes and experience.
By the time other conscripts finished tearful goodbyes and trudged in, I’d snagged some decent shields.
==========
[Noble Training Shield: Used for sword practice in a noble house. Strong impact twisted the central iron boss. Defense efficiency -20%.]
[Decurion’s Broken Shield: Issued to a Turan regular decurion. Repaired by an unskilled smith. Sturdy, but no grip.]
[Halved Kite Shield: Neatly severed lower half of a kite shield.]
[Oiled Brigandine: Turan regular brigandine armor. Well-oiled for improved defense. / + Rancid lard stench.]
[Leather Sandals: Ordinary leather sandals.]
==========
“Hey, you! Quit rummaging!”
“Oh, nothing!”
“Gear sorted? Hustle to the front! Company commander’ll lead you!”
*Lead my ass—he’ll toss us in and bail.*
Lucky the supply guy ignored conscripts. Let me sweep four usable shields into my four-slot inventory. Looked like they were dumping noble discards too.
*Not bad. Noble-supplied means better base durability than grunt shields.*
“Form up! Hold formation, you won’t die! Trust your comrades beside you! Form up!!!!”
“Anyone meeting my eyes gets their head! Don’t show your backs on the battlefield!”
Pushed to the front, company commanders and military police screamed themselves hoarse from spots along the line.
The acrid tang of steel.
Sour sweat from tense bodies.
*‘Sergeant! Get out of the way up there!’*
*‘Lieutenant! This ain’t right! Blow that bridge, civilians across’ll all die!’*
*‘Don’t, and we all die! Lose more troops here, we lose control of the sector—don’t you get it?’*
*‘Fuck! Those hordes’ll eat every last one alive!’*
*‘Jeffrey, Duke. Drag Sergeant Park to barracks.’*
*‘Let go, fuckers! Comms been dead forever—still barking orders? That prick’s just scared shitless of muties!’*
*‘...Sergeant Park’s defiance will be handled under military law later. Blow it.’*
*‘F-For real?’*
*‘Can’t? I will.’*
*‘Stop, you bastard! Stop—!’*
The collapsing bridge, screaming people swallowed by the living wave across, soon painted red.
Professor had sharp eyes, and that moment, it felt like a curse.
“Damn it. Bringing up useless shitty memories.”
He shook his head, shedding the flooding past like tidewater.
“Turaaaan!!! Defense line!!!! Advanceeeee!!!!”
“Forward! Forward! Forward!”
Company commander’s orders echoed with soldiers’ chants. Sharp spear tips of shield bearers ahead pointed forward, at us conscripts’ backs. Move or get skewered. The cold metal snap woke him up.
*‘Won’t expect much combat from civilians, F-rank mercs—gonna milk us as meat shields. Bastards.’*
He’d done his best prep so far, but no time for post-deployment plans. Survive first clash—then what? Run with the impact? Would combo mercs hold formation behind, waiting? If not? Just end here—
“Ugh! Nonsense! Quitting now gets nothing! There’s a way! Gotta be! Snap out of it, Professor!”
He slapped his cheeks hard enough to clap.
Prep done. No retreat? Best he could at his spot.
“Shieleeelds!!! Open raaaanks!!! Spreeeead!!!!!”
At the company commander’s shout, conscripts in rags and junk shields scattered hesitantly. Mutants fixated on visible foes—spread to pull max aggro. Formation? Bullshit. Frontline shields like me? No survival luck.
“Front liiiine!!!! Shields uuuup!!!!!!”
“Shields uuuup!!!!!”
Boom!
Thoom!!
Orders rippled forward; regular shield bearers in our rear formed up, raising shields.
*‘Now!’*
Mutants close enough for collision soon; company commander’s gaze shifted from doomed conscripts to Turan regulars.
Meaning archers aimed at our backs for rebels now turned to foes.
As regulars raised shields, blocking commander’s view, Professor dug into the ground with the sharp lower edge of his half kite shield from supplies.
[Skill: Installing Trap.]
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
-Take a Look: Why the ground suddenly? Digging a trench?
-Gunpowder and Blood: Not a great choice. Enemy contact imminent. Not enough time for Professor’s bulky character to dig a fitting trench.
“I know! Shut up, you’re distracting me!”
Thud! Thud! Whack! Whack!
Pounding with all his might dozens of times, palms shredded and bleeding, but he carved a shallow pit barely half his body depth.
Rumble rumble rumblerumble!!!!!
“Screeeech!”
“Kraaaaw!”
“Kyak! Kyak!”
“Wooooaaargh!!!!”
“Front liiiine! Front! Spears!”
Clank!
“Argh! Please! Just a bit more!!”
Mutant pack close enough for cries.
He wedged the kite shield’s tip slantwise into the trench front, propped other shields to support the angle. Then crammed his body between slanted shield and dirt pile, curling tight.
*‘This body hits that mass, arms and ribs shatter. Good thing now’s Mutation Blood not combat-evolved. Enhanced, but core 8-9th grade gene collectors. Poor judgment. Survive first hit, they’ll ignore shielded me for visible regulars ahead!*
Skipped swords in supplies for this.
Dragged to battlefield, no glory motive, unsure if could swing properly anyway—shields same.
Knew body couldn’t take impact.
Picked shields for structure, not personal armor. Force to ground this way—his jobs simple.
One, grip slanted kite so it doesn’t shift over him.
Two, pray shields’ durability holds as monsters trample past.
“I can do it, I can! Come on, you fucks! I survived solo in the wastes over five years!!! Overcome shit crises hundreds of times!!!!!”
Earth-shaking tremors flowed through his body,
Boom!
“Grrrrraaaahhhhh!!!!!”
Finally, massive impact rocked Professor’s body.
***