Chapter 259: How to Handle Idiots (4)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 259: How to Handle Idiots (4)
"Didn't I tell you? Idiots always flock together."
Rem spoke as he stared down one of the men blocking their path.
The man wore a black robe in a poor attempt to conceal his identity, but his bulging gut and exposed mouth made it painfully obvious who he was.
"Hmph!"
The corrupt priest snorted in response.
Rem had warned them before they even set out. He’d mentioned running into that fat fool in the market and noted the strange way the man had looked at him. He had also predicted that the bastard would likely team up with another of his kind.
That prediction was now coming true.
Of course, a few strings had been pulled behind the scenes to ensure it did.
"Call me Rem the Prophet."
It was the kind of boast a man might make after tripping and falling on his face, only for an arrow to whistle over where his head had just been—but it was still worth bragging about. After all, things had unfolded exactly as Rem said they would.
Encrid obliged him with a title.
"Rem the Idiot."
"Are your ears broken? I said Prophet."
"Originally, 'prophet' and 'idiot' meant the same thing."
"You didn't just make that up, did you?"
"I didn't."
It was his honest opinion. Encrid spoke with such calm confidence that Rem gave up on the title with a muttered, "Damn it, forget I said anything."
"There are many lost and foolish souls in this world. It is the duty of a servant to send them to God’s side so they may repent and be reborn."
Audin chanted his prayer. To anyone else, it sounded less like a blessing and more like a promise to beat them all to death. For some reason, he seemed particularly eager to kill that corrupt priest.
Encrid took a step forward.
As the leader of the group, he stood with his left hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his hip, shifting his weight slightly to one side. To the untrained eye, it looked like a careless, relaxed posture. To anyone who actually knew how to handle a blade, it was a stance ready for anything.
From the opposing side, a man stepped out from behind the pot-bellied priest. His posture was rock-solid, showing no obvious openings.
"The client told me to ask one last time," the man said. "Do you have any intention of joining the Black Sword?"
Trying to recruit us now? As if we'd ever accept.
Krais snorted inwardly. He carefully observed the man who had stepped forward. He was a head taller than the priest and, like Encrid, signaled his leadership by taking point.
He had fierce eyes and carried a long sword. His gaze was sharp, despite an attitude that seemed almost bored at first glance. He was a mercenary who had earned his name because he excelled at planning his kills.
Krais guessed his identity immediately.
"The Preparing Sword?"
Encrid heard the name. He wondered if the man was a famous mercenary; a spark of interest flared in his eyes. The man's arms hung loose, his legs were spread at a stable width, and his eyes were fixed on Encrid's feet and legs. He had even angled his body into the optimal position for a quick draw.
He knows how to fight, and he's good, Encrid assessed.
"You know me?" the mercenary asked. His voice was flat and gruff.
"I didn't know you were corrupt enough to take a job from the Black Sword," Krais said, feigning shock.
It wasn't a particularly grand provocation, but the man’s brow furrowed. He was clearly offended.
"……You have a talent for wagging your tongue."
"And you have a talent for selling your soul for a few gold coins."
The Preparing Sword was a tall mercenary with fierce eyes who wielded a blade as large as himself. He was commonly referred to as a powerhouse of at least territory-class, and some even considered him associate knight-class. The main reason for his fame, however, was his namesake: he was exceptionally good at "preparing" for every engagement.
Krais continued to needle him. An agitated opponent was easier to dismantle than a calm one. It was a simple truth of combat.
"I told you. Those idiots wouldn't even consider it."
Behind the leader, the pot-bellied priest babbled.
Krais wanted the opponent to charge in a fit of rage, but the man didn't bite. Instead, the Preparing Sword merely raised his left hand.
At that signal, heads began to pop up one after another along the ridges to their left and right. These forces had been lying in ambush for two days. Some were from the Black Sword, while the rest belonged to the Preparing Sword's own mercenary band.
The Preparing Sword had received a summary of his opponents. He knew the Swallow Blade had been defeated, but he believed he was different from an idiot like that. Relying on scrolls and gimmicks—why would anyone do something so stupid?
Unless one was a true knight, surviving a relentless hail of arrows was impossible. That was why he had prepared fifty archers alone. The ridges on both sides were steep; even if the enemy tried to climb them, he had stationed two heavily armed ten-man squads to intercept them.
Over seventy men had been mobilized just to catch fewer than ten people.
And that wasn't all. A crowd of formidable mercenaries, including the Preparing Sword himself, stood firmly in their path. Getting here without being detected had been the hard part; the actual slaughter would be easy.
That was what "preparation" meant.
With his hand still raised, the Preparing Sword spoke. "Fools who don't even know the value of their own lives."
How long did they think they could survive after making an enemy of the Black Sword? A mercenary had to be clever and quick-witted to survive for long. He considered himself exactly that kind of man.
Krais, peeking out from behind Encrid, spoke up again.
"What a relief. I was worried a bunch of mages might show up, but this is surprisingly sloppy. Did they not pay you enough?"
Krais pinched his thumb and index finger together to form a circle. Encrid was once again impressed by Krais's silver tongue; the man certainly knew how to get under an opponent's skin.
"I will personally skin that motherfucker alive," the Preparing Sword growled.
Krais widened his eyes in mock terror, then stuck out his tongue. "Go ahead and try."
Sometimes, childishness could be a fatal blow. This was one of those times.
"That son of a—!"
Krais had successfully made the enemy commander lose his cool.
Hmm, not bad.
It was an excellent provocation. Encrid admired the result.
Meanwhile, Krais was still calculating. He remained wary of spells, as magic always introduced variables. Then again, no matter how big the Black Sword is, they wouldn't have dozens of mages.
Seeing them use scrolls during their last encounter had triggered his paranoia, but in Krais's opinion, the enemy's current forces were too sloppy. Their quality was low, and their numbers were insufficient.
Why?
The answer came as soon as the question arose.
They still don't know our true strength.
All the members of the platoon, Encrid included, fought well enough for rumors to spread. They had performed brilliantly on the battlefield and destroyed a colony. But rumors were fickle things; they tended to swell and exaggerate. Fools who believed they were smart would assume the stories were hyperbole and plan their strategy accordingly.
If it were Krais, he would have frantically investigated the truth of the rumors first. To be fair, the Black Sword had their own difficulties. When they tried to dominate the streets of the Border Guard, the Gilpin Guild blocked them. When they tried to plant spies inside the castle, Marcus's counter-intelligence was extraordinary.
Contrary to his reputation as a warmonger, Marcus kept a tight lid on internal security. Word had even spread among peddlers that the duty intensity of the Border Guard army had become much harsher since his arrival.
Of course, this too was a misunderstanding. It was simply that the soldiers suffering under Encrid's training worked more diligently, trying to stay on gate duty or patrol for as long as possible just to avoid him.
In any case, the Black Sword was ignorant. Not only did they misjudge Encrid's group, but they were also completely unaware of Krais's existence. Krais recognized the enemy's foolishness, though he could almost understand it.
After all, where else would you find a bunch of associate knight-class monsters gathered together like this?
They weren't even an official order of knights. Marcus had taken full advantage of this lack of information to gain an edge on the battlefield. Even after this, there would likely be those who repeatedly doubted Encrid's skills.
Above all, the true strength of the platoon members wouldn't even have been rumored yet.
An associate knight-class powerhouse, a group of archers, and other mercenaries who knew how to fight—it was a solid force. Even if they weren't all associate knight-class, they were at least territory-class. The enemy's preparation wasn't actually sloppy; the Black Sword simply didn't know who they were dealing with.
Our preparation was a bit excessive, Krais thought as he snapped his fingers.
Snap!
Naturally, nothing happened. There was no way the sound of a finger snap would carry over the ridge.
"……What was that?" Ragna asked, watching from the side.
"Are you about ready to be sent to a temple too?" Rem added.
Krais cleared his throat with a dry cough. "The timing was slightly off."
Krais felt no shame. These things happened. He spoke confidently, and just as he finished, a commotion broke out atop the ridges.
"What the fuck?!"
"Ambush!"
The cries of the enemy soldiers echoed down. Some of the archers spun around, but it was already too late to unleash a volley. The armed troops guarding the archers immediately turned to charge the attackers who had somehow taken them from behind.
"How dare you!"
One enemy soldier bravely stepped forward, swinging a bastard sword with both hands. It was a decent, heavy strike.
The person facing him was empty-handed.
The attacker ran forward as if meeting the blade head-on, slipping right inside the opponent's guard. Fleshy squelches and thuds followed. The mercenary wielding the bastard sword collapsed, and the man inside his guard pushed the corpse aside and emerged.
Torres wiped the blood from his dagger onto the dead man's collar. Over his gambeson, he wore light leather armor bearing the crest of the Border Guard.
"Oh, we're not late."
On the other side, another man leaped into the midst of the enemy soldiers in a single, swift stride. He drew his sword with a sharp whoosh and thrust it forward with lightning speed. Both his footwork and his draw were so incredibly fast that by the time he was visible, he had already pierced an enemy soldier's neck.
"Gark!"
The mercenary clutched his throat, stumbled, and fell to his knees as crimson blood gushed between his fingers. With his windpipe pierced, he was a dead man walking.
Zimmer came to a halt after executing his specialty. "Brainless bandits," he muttered.
Since the ridge wasn't very high, his face was fully visible to those below.
"Hmm, looks like it's over," Krais murmured smugly.
For a mere bandit group, mobilizing a force of this size on short notice was an impressive feat. It showed the sheer resources of the Black Sword. They hadn't just hired random rabble; they had secured an associate knight-class mercenary. This was no small matter, even if there was still a gap between a true associate knight and someone of "associate knight-class." Fighters of that caliber could be counted on one hand in the North.
However, they simply didn't know who they were dealing with. It was the kind of thing that was hard to believe until you saw it with your own eyes.
"A bit disappointing," Encrid muttered.
Krais ignored him. He was someone who constantly imagined worst-case scenarios and prepared accordingly. And this was the result of that preparation.
The Border Guard and the Martai army began to occupy the enemy's ambush points. Having their rear taken, the Preparing Sword's archers fell into a panic. There was no escape route. From the very choice of location, everything had been anticipated.
As Torres cleared the ridge, he silently marveled at Krais's intellect. Big-Eyes is no joke.
The Preparing Sword's face remained expressionless, but the mercenaries holding the line behind him were beginning to crack.
"We're fucked," some whispered in anxiety.
"Bullshit, we just have to kill these bastards and it's over!" others shouted, trying to rally their fighting spirit.
"Shouldn't we get out of here?" the realists suggested.
"Now, who's the idiot?" Krais asked.
The Preparing Sword's brow furrowed deeply.
"We should have just settled this with brute force from the start."
A massive man stepped forward beside the Preparing Sword. Behind him were about twenty others, none of whom looked like mediocre fighters.
"Only those with confidence, step up. I'll kill you all."
Thud, thud. The maces held in both hands of the charging man looked lethal. He intended to seize victory here before the battle atop the ridge could descend upon them. Despite his blunt appearance, he was a quick-witted mercenary who had survived long enough to develop a keen instinct for these situations.
"I agree with that."
Beside him, a woman licked her lips. Her tongue was so long it looked like it could reach her chin. Between her tongue and her bizarrely elongated face, she was a grotesque sight. She held three throwing knives in each hand—cheap imitations of Whistle Daggers.
Rem growled as he watched them approach. "I'm going first. Just try to step ahead of me, and I'll bury my axe in the back of your head."
Encrid, who had been about to step forward, gestured for him to go ahead.
Through a shift in perception and insight—a new evolution of the sixth sense that transcended the physical—Encrid briefly became a "prophet." Or, as he had joked earlier, an "idiot."
He predicted the future.
Among those charging, there was not a single soul capable of withstanding Rem's axe.