Chapter 254: So, You Want to Die
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 254: So, You Want to Die
The people of the continent had a saying about Easterners:
"They are tough, stubborn, and incredibly obstinate."
Hans was a quintessential Easterner.
Most Easterners who chose to remain in Martai did so with a single, lingering thought:
‘Let’s see just how good you really are.’
In other words, they harbored deep-seated ill will toward the current Castellan. Hans was no exception.
"Stop a Colony? Bullshit. This has to be a setup."
Hans, who considered himself an expert at reading the room—or at least at rolling dice—had already jumped to his own conclusions. After all, once a game of dice was rigged, only those in on the scam would ever win.
Originally, whenever Martai faced a threat, they would request aid from the Eastern Mercenary King. But after losing the last battle, the previous Castellan had died. The commander had changed, and the territory had subsequently been subjugated by the Border Guard.
Then, out of nowhere, a massive crisis supposedly struck the territory, only for a mere handful of Border Guard soldiers to show up and "drive it away."
‘Fucking hell, I don’t buy a word of it.’
To Hans, the whole situation was absolute dog shit. If a few soldiers could drive those monsters off, then they couldn't have been that dangerous in the first place.
Unlike the soldiers who had actually stood on the battlefield, Hans—who had degenerated into little more than a local thug—hadn't witnessed Encrid’s battle. During the chaos, he had been busy chugging booze and sleeping it off. He kept the territory’s danger completely separate from his own safety.
The subtle divide between the two factions—the friction between the Easterners and the continental folk—also played a part in stifling the flow of information. Still, anyone with half a brain knew the truth, but Hans only listened to what he wanted to hear.
He was a textbook idiot.
His only skill was throwing his fists around, renting out his muscle here and there to scrape together a few measly silver coins.
‘Even if I went out to fight...’
Surely a few ghouls wouldn't be a problem. And a human-faced dog? Wasn't that just a mutt with a human head slapped on it? Just grab a spear, give it a good stab, and it’s over. Getting beaten by wild dogs? What kind of Easterner was that?
For an Easterner, wasn't the ultimate virtue the courage to slay a lion with nothing but a single sword?
The Mercenary King had done exactly that. At the age of eighteen, he killed a lion with a single blade—a beast that had tasted human flesh and mauled dozens of people to death. That was the first legend of the Mercenary King proving himself on the Eastern plains.
"He must have been carrying some kind of magic artifact or pulling some cheap trick," one of Hans’s companions spoke up.
To be precise, the man nudged Hans in the ribs, egging him on as he handed over a cup of wine. Hans took a sip. It was sweet, as if mixed with honey. It wasn't particularly strong, but perhaps because he drank it while worked up, a brief wave of dizziness washed over him before quickly fading.
Fearing he might look drunk, Hans clenched his buttocks and pretended to be perfectly fine.
"A bit weak, but it tastes good."
"It’s a new batch brought in recently. Not bad, right?"
His companion didn't seem to notice that Hans had swayed slightly. He just smiled. Hans nodded vigorously, his movements growing exaggerated, though he failed to realize it.
After that trivial exchange, his companion kept talking.
"If you actually see him, he looks like a total loser. Just has a pretty face, is all."
Apparently, women swooned left and right just by looking at him. His nickname was the "Charming Company Commander" or something equally ridiculous.
What kind of fucking asshole was this guy?
"You know Rennie, right? Even she seemed completely smitten the moment she laid eyes on that charming loser."
Rennie, the tavern keeper’s daughter, was the girl Hans had his eye on.
His blood boiled, yet everyone around him was cheering as if some great hero had returned. The atmosphere made it hard to openly voice his discontent, so he forced himself to hold it in.
Later, once the excitement had cooled down, he heard that the charming loser and his party were currently at Rennie’s tavern.
"I bet he’s nothing special in a real fight. If it’s you, Hans, maybe..."
His companion trailed off, handing him more wine. Gulping it down, Hans felt a surge of confidence he hadn't possessed moments ago. As the sweet, burning liquid slid down his throat, a hot sensation welled up from his gut.
‘I’m going to beat that bastard to a pulp.’
If not now, when would he ever show off the courage of an Easterner?
With that thought in mind, Hans entered the tavern and glared at the man. Seeing him in person, he really did have a pathetic face. How could someone who looked like he belonged in some noblewoman’s bed as a plaything be a war hero?
Hans also spotted Rennie. Her eyes were glued to the auburn-haired man, who sat with his eyes half-closed and his lips pressed into a tight line.
Why the hell did he look like that anyway? Fucking hell. Was he supposed to just stand by and watch this?
Hans was a well-known thug, someone who had rarely lost a fight. He stood up.
Screeech, clatter!
Rising abruptly, his chair scraped back and toppled over. The only people in the tavern were the charming loser’s party, Rennie, and a few other villagers. A few of them frowned. What was that thug bastard planning now?
*
Encrid found this refreshing.
‘Is this guy picking a fight?’
He asked Rem with his eyes. Rem blinked back, equally baffled. Rem’s gaze swept over their party: Audin, Dunchabel, and Teresa. Just looking at these three, wouldn't any ordinary person think twice before picking a fight?
And then there was Rem himself. Not to brag, but it was rare to find anyone in the territory foolish enough to challenge him.
Granted, Encrid did have a rather pretty face. Perhaps that made him look like an easy target. But there had been a battle recently. If anyone knew about it, if anyone had witnessed it, or if the rumors circulating the territory had reached their ears...
‘And yet, he’s picking a fight?’
What was this? Who was this idiot?
Encrid glanced at Rem once before assessing his opponent. His perception, now elevated to the domain of the senses, swept over the man. He noted the slight signs of physical training, the degree of muscle development, the position of his hands, his habits when stepping forward, and the sequence of movements as he kicked back his chair.
Having observed everything, Encrid subtly extended his left hand and slid his right foot back. Anyone with eyes would have recognized what Encrid’s stance meant.
Yet, the opponent showed not the slightest hint of realization. Truly, absolutely, not a single bit.
"Hey. Don't go acting so high and mighty in someone else's territory," the man said.
"Should I kill him?" Dunchabel asked.
Only then did Encrid recall what the Castellan had told him. Hadn't he been told to go easy?
"I’ve got this," Encrid said, standing up.
No one else in his party paid any attention. The opponent’s eyes grew even redder. In fact, they were bloodshot to an extreme degree. Not that Encrid cared.
"You bastard!"
The agitated man lunged. Encrid pivoted to the side, dodging the swinging fist, then pushed the man’s forearm while lightly tapping his thigh with a kick. Every movement occurred in a single, fluid motion. It was natural and smooth.
Seeing this, the eyes of Rem and the others gleamed. It was an application of the Soft Sword Style. He was executing it with his bare body—a technique he had recently become engrossed in.
Because Encrid pushed him like that, the man looked as if he was about to slam his head straight into a tavern table. However, Encrid didn't just let him fall; he grabbed the back of the man’s neck and pulled him back up.
Having only swung his fist once, the man was left utterly bewildered. Encrid pushed him away. Hans flailed as he managed to find his footing.
What the fuck was that?
Strangely, his anger flared even hotter. Unable to contain himself, Hans reached for the knife at his waist.
"Draw that, and you die. There’s no turning back after that," Rem said, munching on a rusk. With his mouth covered in sugar, it was a highly convincing sight.
Hans didn't hear him. He felt he couldn't go on living unless he plunged a blade into the stomach of the bastard before him. Normally, he should have snapped out of it by now, fallen to his knees, or bolted, but such thoughts never crossed his mind.
He had to kill them all. He couldn't live under the same sky as this piece of shit. His agitation was so extreme that his brain had stopped functioning.
It wasn't natural.
Encrid sensed that something was off about the man’s demeanor. Just as he was contemplating which bone to break—Thwack!
With a crisp sound, the man’s eyes rolled back, his hand still resting on his knife, and he collapsed forward. Sachsen, who had appeared behind him, caught the falling man, rolled his eyelids back, pried his mouth open, and sniffed his breath.
"...What are you doing? Do you have a sniffing fetish?" Rem asked.
Ignoring him, Sachsen turned to Encrid. "Someone drugged him."
Drugged?
Sachsen went on to explain that it was a drug capable of turning someone into a vegetable for life if misused. "His judgment has been impaired, and he’s also under hypnosis."
He spoke with the tone of an expert. And his diagnosis was entirely accurate.
Clap, clap, clap.
The sound of someone clapping echoed through the room.
"Impressive. To think you’d recognize that."
The speaker was a man carrying a leather canteen at his waist, two knives on his right hip, and a shortsword on a belt on his left. With every step he took, the shortsword dangled against his thigh. One could tell just by his gait: this guy knew how to fight. He was incomparable to the fool who had just lunged at them.
Encrid stared blankly without replying. What is this one now?
Despite the lack of response, the man didn't seem embarrassed, approaching with a persistent smirk. He had a face that resembled a rat.
"Greetings."
He offered a greeting, but once again, no one replied. Even Rem, who usually hated silence, merely crossed his arms and stared. Though his mouth was still covered in sugar, he looked ready to swing either his fire axe or the halberd used by the Centaur Leader at a moment’s notice.
Encrid’s senses told him that Rem was fully prepared.
If I leave him be, this guy’s going to die.
"Who are you?" Sachsen asked.
"Ah, how should I introduce myself?" The man pretended to ponder for a moment, bringing his hands together before letting them drop in a show of playfulness.
Should I just kill him? Encrid could feel Rem’s internal debate.
"Wait," Encrid said.
‘Wait for what?’ The only one who didn't understand was the newcomer. He brushed it off and spoke.
"I am from the Black Sword."
The Black Sword was a bandit group. Encrid let his arms hang loose. He had never had a pleasant conversation with these people.
The man waved his hands dismissively. "I didn't come to fight. I'm just here to deliver a few words."
Paying the other customers no mind, the man said, "Would you happen to have any interest in switching sides?"
The man asked with a smile. Encrid chewed on the question before replying.
"So, you want to die?"
"I came here with truly good intentions. You know how it is, right? The Black Sword doesn't really understand the concept of giving up. What I just showed you was, well, a little taste."
He meant that sending that drugged idiot was just a preview.
"This is a very good offer, an opportunity. Think it over."
The man was serious. Encrid was serious too.
"So, you want to die?"
"Pfft."
Listening from behind, Rem burst into laughter. He had easily anticipated what Encrid would say next. Knowing Encrid’s habits, Rem had predicted his move perfectly.
"The Black Sword will not give up. I am, after all, merely a messenger. And Dunchabel, don't you have a debt to pay? Did you think you could just ignore it and walk away?"
The messenger craned his neck to look at Dunchabel. She had lent her martial prowess to the Black Sword as a mercenary in the past. She had carried out requests and received compensation. But all of that was already meaningless. Afterward, she had wandered simply to find a place to die.
Could that really be called a debt?
"Yes," Dunchabel nodded.
The messenger flinched for the first time. ‘This crazy bitch has gotten even crazier,’ he thought.
"Sigh, this is truly troublesome. Let me say it once more. This is a very, very good offer. We can overlook Dunchabel’s matter, and we can give you whatever you desire. For instance, if you wish to become a knight, we can even get you into an order of knights..."
As the messenger spoke, Encrid maintained a blank expression. An order of knights—this meant they already knew his goal. He had talked about it quite a bit, after all. This was proof they had done their research.
‘Well? Are you going to reject this offer too?’ the man’s eyes asked.
Encrid spoke with a deliberate, serious tone. "Do you want to die? Or do you not? Why aren't you answering my question?"
Pfft.
Only when Rem burst into laughter for the second time did the messenger’s expression sour.
‘These bastards... Do I really need to show them what’s what?’
He flicked his finger. It was a subtle gesture, hidden from his opponents. It was time for the assassins to drop from the roof.
Silence.
Hm? The man flicked his finger a few more times. Only then did something come crashing down.
"Kyaaa!" The tavern employee shrieked.
Thud! Thud!
Two corpses. Holes had been pierced through their necks. Standing beside them, the auburn-haired man spoke.
"I believe this is the end of your little tricks."
Ah, fuck, what is this? The messenger panicked. He knew they were skilled, but how could they dispatch first-rate assassins so easily? His face contorted.
"If you kill me, the Black Sword will..."
Whoosh, thwack! Whoosh, thud! Crash!
"Kyaaaaaah!"
As he spoke, the messenger reached for a smoke bomb at his waist. Seeing this, Rem threw his axe without missing a beat. His right hand was a mere blur.
The fire axe flew through the air and embedded itself in the messenger’s head. The sheer force of the impact lifted the man off his feet, sending him flying backward. His back slammed into the tavern wall before he crumpled to the floor.
That was it. The messenger was now a corpse.
The maid screamed once more, while Sachsen searched the dead man’s pockets with practiced ease. He retrieved several pieces of paper, a leather pouch, smoke bombs, poison, and knives. Inside the paper was a strange powder—the drug used to bewilder people.
"Don't be too alarmed. If you contact the barracks, they will come clean this up," Encrid said as he stood.
To him, it was nothing more than a fly interrupting their meal. He was merely impressed by Rem’s axe-throwing and Sachsen’s swift movements.
"Haha, it seems even the bandits are drawn to your charm, Brother," Audin joked idly, and the party set off.
Regardless of whatever tricks the Black Sword was pulling, they were off to see the dwarf. That had been their goal from the start.
The dwarf was in a corner of the smithy, eating bread, cheese, and wine.
Clang! Clang!
As if the metallic clanging and the sweltering heat meant nothing to her, she was seen licking melted cheese off her fingers. Rumors in the territory traveled fast; by the time they had finished looking around the market, news of what Encrid had done had already spread.
The dwarf looked around at everyone and spoke. "You guys know how to fight, huh?"
Her tone was cheeky. Encrid stared at her. How old is she?
Since other races often looked different from their actual age, she might be older than him, but she looked like a short girl of about fifteen. Of course, she was no ordinary girl. She was a muscular young woman whose neck seemed thicker than his own. On the other hand, her features were delicate, making her quite pretty.
Krais hadn't been lying when he said she was attractive. However, by conventional standards, calling her a beauty was a bit of a stretch.
"Do you think she's pretty?" Rem grumbled.
The dwarf mumbled in response, "I can hear you, grey-head."
Her way of speaking was certainly fiery. And Rem was, well, Rem.
The barbarian smiled gently and asked Encrid, "Do you want a stuffed dwarf? I think I just found one that’s about to die."