Chapter 270: Not Everything Goes According to Plan (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 270: Not Everything Goes According to Plan (1)
The Black Sword Bandits were so massive they could practically be called a small fiefdom.
As such, it was no exaggeration to label them one of the greatest plagues festering within Naurilia and the kingdom at large. That was how dangerous they were.
Cheese dripped from the mouth of one of the executives. He had just heard something utterly absurd.
Grabbing a linen napkin, he wiped his mouth roughly and spoke.
"All the assassins were wiped out?"
They had sent the Swallow Blade, and slash—he was gone.
They had sent a mercenary unit, and they were utterly crushed.
After that, the Black Sword executive had dipped into his personal reserves. He had sent an entire unit of first-rate assassins.
And yet, it was a failure.
Slam!
The executive slammed his fist onto the table and roared, "Are you trying to drag the Black Sword's reputation through the mud?!"
Fine, so you're a good fighter, is that it? Then try dealing with this.
He had gathered every assassin in the branch. He had sent them all, leaving not a single first-rate operative behind. No matter how great a hero or warrior was, there was no defending against a blade in the back.
Especially if that blade was coated in poison.
There were over fifteen assassins skilled in poison and blades. If he sent that many, even if they couldn't kill the target, shouldn't they have at least severely wounded him?
"And he's completely fine? What about our men?"
"All dead."
"What about the scout we left behind to report?"
"He's dead too."
If they hadn't left another scout watching from a distance to clean up the mess, they wouldn't have even obtained this information.
"If I had gotten any closer, I would have been killed as well," the bandit said, kneeling on one knee as sweat poured down his face.
His sweat dripped onto the smooth stone floor, staining it. As the drops hit the light gray stone, it darkened into a dull, muddy color. The dark spots on the floor multiplied.
He hadn't actually seen Sachsen. He had only witnessed the end of the scout who had been positioned closer to the assassins than he was.
I couldn't even see him.
He had only seen his comrade flailing in the air as if caught on an invisible hook before dying. He had fled immediately. Even though he hadn't sensed a single presence, he ran the moment he saw his comrade die.
If he hadn't, he would be dead too. His instincts had screamed it at him.
"Who on earth are they?"
Despair crept into the executive's voice.
The assassins he had spent a lifetime gathering were all dead. They had been there, and now they were gone. Vanished. Unless he died and went to the afterlife, he would never see them again.
Who the hell are these bastards?
His mouth hung open, speechless with disbelief. Does this make any sense? He stared at the reporting bandit.
The bandit kept his head bowed. He had nothing to say either. After all, his entire report consisted of nothing but "everyone is dead."
"What do we do now?" asked a servant standing behind him.
"What do you mean, what do we do?" the executive replied, chewing over the words of the bandit disguised as a servant.
Damn it.
The situation had taken a turn for the absolute worst. If he slipped up, he would be devoured by those climbing up from below. There were plenty of bastards coveting his position.
Of course, they couldn't replace him immediately. The operations he ran here were too numerous.
Starting with the business.
The reason his position here was so secure was clear. It was because he distributed the drug. Thanks to his work, there was hardly a noble in the kingdom who didn't know about the product. The krona earned from its sale flowed directly into the Black Sword's operational funds.
"I will request aid from headquarters. Until then, we leave them alone."
He had no one left to send anyway. It was more accurate to say he couldn't touch them even if he wanted to until reinforcements arrived from headquarters.
"In the meantime, we will focus on the 'Den' we established."
Though he used slang, everyone in the room understood. As long as the 'Den' remained intact, his foundation was solid. For now, he decided to forget about Encrid, or whatever that charming idiot's name was.
Of course, he would nurse this grudge again soon enough. He had absolutely no intention of letting it slide.
"Where is he now?"
"Probably swinging his sword around somewhere in the territory again."
The speaker was the sharp-eyed, quick-witted servant. He was a strikingly handsome man with a smooth, clean-shaven face. His judgment was reliable. They had previously investigated Encrid's daily routine in detail.
A sword-crazy bastard.
He was a man who practically defined the phrase "obsessed with the sword."
Marcus had concealed the fact that Encrid and his party had left for their mission. It wasn't out of some grand scheme, but rather out of habit. Marcus knew all too well that the more information was restricted, the more advantageous it was.
Above all, Encrid was an easy man to hide. He was the type to lock himself in the training ground or his quarters for days on end without stepping outside. Of course, as time passed, people would realize he wasn't in the city, but for about seven days, it was entirely possible for no one to notice.
Because of this, the Black Sword executive had no idea that Encrid was already at his 'Den'.
*
Sinar entered the room and stood perfectly still, concentrating.
The faint sounds from the adjacent room drifted over. She assessed the situation through the ambient noise, checking if there were any watching eyes.
There were none.
As soon as she confirmed this, she raised her right index finger and traced a small circle in the air. It was a sign language known only to a select few in the Elven Company.
"This is the last one, right?" Finn asked.
"It seems so," the Elven Company Commander replied, leaning back on the bed and stretching her long legs. Her smooth, flexible muscles lengthened fluidly.
She didn't seem to feel the cold much, wearing only a pair of leather pants that appeared to give her maximum freedom of movement. Everything else about her demeanor was perfectly calm.
However, there was a small brazier in the inn room, and finding it bothersome, she had pushed it aside as soon as she entered. When asked why, she simply said, "It might start a fire."
"But is it really alright for us to kill time like this?" Finn asked again, pulling the front of her layered leather armor closed.
It was armor made by inserting hardened leather between layers of fabric, but the poor quality of the leather made it stiff, causing the front to keep popping open. Still, it was warm and sturdy.
Sinar spoke without a trace of a smile. "This task is also important."
"I suppose so."
Finn dragged a chair over to the window and leaned back. While keeping watch outside, she also needed to oil the hinges. That was the only way they could slip out under the cover of night.
Having participated in various operations as a ranger, Finn was highly skilled in these matters. Of course, she wasn't quite on Sachsen's level.
"The seventh one," Finn muttered.
That was the number of successes Sinar and the selected members of the Elven Company had achieved so far.
*
Sachsen never missed even the smallest detail. He was incredibly meticulous.
Watching him, Encrid felt as though something was hovering just on the edge of his grasp. It was tantalizingly close, yet just out of reach. It could have been frustrating, but he didn't feel rushed.
In fact, he found the sensation itself fascinating. Had he ever looked at something like this and had an epiphany before?
This, too, was proof of his growth.
As he watched, Sachsen spoke. Since Krais's soul had receded, these were purely Sachsen's own words.
"Small things gather to create something great. It is the same principle by which tiny brooks gather to become rivers, lakes, and eventually flow into the sea."
It sounded like abstract nonsense, but to Encrid, the elusive concept he had been chasing seemed to take a step closer. Now, he could almost make out its hazy silhouette.
"Swordsmanship and training are all well and good, but a single minor preparation can decide victory or defeat. How much more so when your life is on the line?"
Encrid had once lacked raw physical talent. Now that he had finally acquired what he once lacked, his naturally sharp mind spun rapidly, analyzing and reanalyzing processes until something clicked. This was especially true regarding swordsmanship and combat.
In a way, what Sachsen was describing was close to the Valen-style Mercenary Sword.
Encrid was now capable of categorizing swordsmanship. For instance, the orthodox Nameless Swordsmanship was about how to swing the sword. It was a style built upon layers of foundation.
In contrast, the Valen-style Mercenary Sword operated on an entirely different plane.
It's closer to personal tactics.
—He who enters battle must use his head.
Those were the words written when he first learned the Valen-style Mercenary Sword. The phrase itself had been helpful, but realizing its true meaning now made him think, I suppose I should say it saved my life.
Since learning and understanding those words, how many times had they saved his skin? His thoughts flowed continuously, a succession of minor epiphanies.
He knew instinctively that this wouldn't suddenly elevate his swordsmanship or bring about some miraculous leap in power. However, the blending of his accumulated experience and everything he had learned left Encrid with something deeply meaningful.
What if the opponent used a long sword? What if their waist looked unusually thick? What if they were hiding something underneath? What if they wore a flexible sword like the Swallow Blade as a belt? Could he deduce their habits just by looking at the angle of their sword belt?
And before that, what about taking a stance that made it slightly easier to move, or securing a more advantageous position? All of this was possible, and Encrid himself could prepare for it. This was the realm of personal tactics.
Thus, the hazy concept solidified and came within his grasp.
A rush of exhilaration and the joy of growth welled up inside him once more. Even so, he didn't suddenly start drooling or cackling.
It's not like I'm Rem.
Encrid did occasionally drool when he concentrated too hard, though he would never admit it to himself.
"Let's have dinner first," Sachsen said.
Encrid nodded.
The first floor of the inn doubled as a dining hall. Once they sat down, Sachsen channeled Krais into his body once more. Sinar played the part of a silent elven guard. In truth, it barely required any acting. All she had to do was refrain from her usual jokes.
"An elf! What a rare and precious guest," the innkeeper said, bringing over stew and roasted pork. He kept stealing glances at Captain Sinar as he spoke. He seemed genuinely amazed.
When Captain Sinar had entered the village, she had kept her hood pulled low, hiding her face. The innkeeper must have only realized she was an elf after they stepped inside the inn. Otherwise, she would have drawn the gaze of every single passerby.
Seeing the innkeeper's reaction, Sachsen put on a subtly arrogant air and spoke.
"Ah, I wouldn't talk to her so easily if I were you. She's a guard my father assigned to me, and she's got quite a prickly temper."
With this single remark, Sachsen established that he belonged to some merchant guild and revealed a glimpse of his persona's character. In other words, he had become the obnoxious son of a wealthy merchant. His arrogant swagger was beyond natural; he looked as though he had been born and raised to be this insufferable.
Did he tweak Krais's personality a bit?
Just then, a servant following behind the innkeeper suddenly tripped, dropping the cup he was holding. With a dull thud, the wooden cup hit the floor, spilling wine everywhere.
"You clumsy fool!" The innkeeper stepped forward as if about to explode in anger, while the servant bowed his head repeatedly. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"
It was barely a disturbance. A man with a bushy, forest-like beard and an ordinary brown-haired man, both drinking wine or fruit liquor, glanced over briefly before returning to their drinks.
"Hey, go easy on him, easy," Sachsen chimed in. At this point, he was practically playing Krais on drugs. His constant need to butt in and comment on everything made him look exactly like that.
Sinar stood like a doll, staring blankly at a corner of the table without letting her gaze wander. Beside her, Finn chimed in with lines like, "Young master, you must return to the caravan in two days."
Of course, it was all rehearsed. It was a simple script Sachsen had written.
"This should buy us about a day."
The logic was simple. Since they were scheduled to leave in two days, the enemy would likely wait and watch until then. Putting the elf on display served as a warning not to try any cheap tricks or poison, and emphasizing her prickly nature served the same purpose. If they made the enemy perceive them as an unknown, troublesome opponent, they would buy at least a day.
"This is enough for me."
Sinar also played her part perfectly. Showing a piece of dried fruit in her hand, she indicated she didn't need a proper meal.
"To not know the joy of eating!" Sachsen scoffed, dipping his wooden spoon into the stew.
Encrid ate at ease. Sachsen's current behavior was a signal that the food wasn't poisoned.
Meanwhile, the tavern servant brought over a fresh cup of wine. Walking with extreme caution, he clearly had no intention of spilling it again.
"Be careful, lad," Sachsen said, offering only words of comfort without tossing a single copper coin. As he did, the servant stole a glance at Encrid's waist. He was staring at the fine sword and sword belt hanging there.
Seeing this, Sachsen chuckled and spoke.
"This is my friend, who's helping me out on this trip. He's not a violent man, so you can ask him to show you his sword."
Some swordsmen had such terrible tempers that merely looking at them, as this servant was doing, would prompt them to threaten to gouge out eyes or draw their blades.
"Oh? No, no. It's fine."
"I'll just let you see the blade."
Encrid readily drew his sword halfway.
Shring.
The way Encrid drew his sword was awkward. In other words, he was demonstrating a minor preparation of his own. He was intentionally hiding his proficiency. It wasn't particularly difficult.
All he had to do was recall the very first time he had drawn a sword. Having crawled his way up from the absolute bottom, mimicking a beginner was easier for him than for anyone else.
He simply did everything experienced swordsmen warned against. For example, gripping the scabbard tightly with his left hand right near the opening while drawing the blade was a spectacularly foolish move. It was something one should never do, as a slip could easily slice open the web of the hand.
Aside from that, he made the rest of his movements look flashy. After all, wasn't that the hallmark of a superficial swordsman?
"Wow, the blade is blue," the servant said, his eyes wide with wonder.
Encrid thought the boy was incredibly audacious. Judging by his stride and movements, he was clearly trained, yet he had dropped the cup and was now making a fuss about seeing such a sword for the first time.
In any case, Encrid played the part of an immature swordsman accompanying a merchant's son, and it seemed to work quite well.
That night, while everyone was asleep, the window slid open silently thanks to the oiled hinges.
"Well then."
Sachsen slipped out for a night stroll. In the adjacent room, Finn made her move.
The two crossed paths on the inn's roof. They ignored each other and went their separate ways. They had agreed to gather information independently and pool their findings the next morning.
Sachsen leaped across the roofs of two houses adjacent to the inn, while Finn headed down.
Suddenly, Sachsen saw a blade thrusting in from his flank.
There was no presence, no warning. It was a blade that bypassed even his senses.
Rip.
The blade pierced through his clothes.