No Mercy for the Weak
“Even twenty would be a decent-sized force.”
The current operation involved eight from the penal unit and ten from reconnaissance command—a total of eighteen men.
“Still, our side has the superior firepower, so we should crush them here. Pick up the pace on the pursuit.”
“Our side has superior firepower? What the hell are you basing that nonsense on?”
“Look at this! We brought top-tier guys with us—there's no way we're weaker!”
“Unbelievable.”
Robin shook his head as he examined the sword marks etched into the stele.
It's not infused with overwhelming power, but the precision is impeccable.
A level of skill impossible without elite swordsmanship.
At minimum, on par with me—or better.
Assuming this was average combat prowess among their forces and simulating a fight with the current operation's numbers...
Total defeat.
No need for lengthy calculations; the outcome was obvious.
“The odds are higher that they're stronger. Believe what you want and judge for yourself.”
“Fucking prick.”
He hated Robin's guts, but Ricardo knew most of what he said rang true.
“We'll decide once we spot their numbers. Coward. All you think about is running.”
Ricardo took a step back on the plan without showing it, lashing out at Robin instead.
And Robin, as if he couldn't care less about the insults, offered no reply.
Still ignoring me to the end? Thinks I'm beneath notice, does he.
He'd figured the penal unit would have beaten that foul temper and arrogance out of him, but it had only sharpened into something more vicious.
“Keep it up, then. You'll rot in the penal unit till you die.”
Robin snorted at Ricardo's jab.
“Me? Big dreams you've got there.”
Robin was certain.
One day, he'd reclaim his old position.
“Big dreams? You, marked by the Chief of Staff? Think you'll ever get a shot?”
Ricardo was certain too.
This bastard would die as cannon fodder in the penal unit, forgotten.
“Nothing to say? Know your place and shut up. Follow me.”
Captain Ricardo resumed the pursuit.
But soon, both men halted before an unbelievable sight.
“What the hell is this?”
The stele lay perfectly bisected.
Ricardo had first thought it just a rock, but no—it was definitely mana stone.
“Another stele destroyed. The count rises.”
Robin shook his head, inspecting the clean-cut cross-section.
Incredible mastery. Special forces, maybe?
A flawless strike, zero margin for error.
Destructive yet refined.
Two elite swordsmen already. This is dangerous.
Red alarms blared in Robin's mind.
“They headed this way, then.”
Once more, Ricardo scanned the ground for tracks.
It didn't take long to spot something gravely wrong.
“Hold on—if they went straight this way...”
Straight-line tracks, like they had a fixed destination.
Judging by stride length and such, their speed was far faster, more aggressive than before.
“Main force is the target. We must've crossed paths.”
No sooner had Robin spoken than Ricardo's communication orb buzzed.
> ZZZT! Main force! Main force! Surrounded by enemy! Requesting reinforcements!
“Damn it all!”
* * *
“Fewer numbers than expected. They were resting, so some must've gone out on recon.”
After encircling seamlessly, Lieutenant Colonel Garen assessed the enemy.
“They pulled out a small comm orb, so yeah.”p>
Comms orbs varied in grade; one pocket-sized like that had limited range.
Means they're close.
Confirming more foes nearby, the task was clear.
“To handle safely, we take these out quick first.”
“Wise call, sir.”
Visible enemies: seven.
Double their numbers, and victory was sealed.
That big one's being hauled by handcart, though. Brutish.
Couldn't be helped.
Horses would bolt at the first monster sighting.
“I don't care for pointless fights. Surrender peacefully, and I'll spare your lives. Your call.”
Garen stepped forward from the encirclement, offering what might pass for mercy.
“Operation leader...”
Six pairs of eyes locked on one man—their boss, apparently.
Guy looks like a total scumbag.
Palan had a knack for reading faces; that was the mug of a commander who treated troops like dirt.
“Surrender? Ha! Counteroffer: drop your weapons now. Word's out—you won't leave these mountains alive.”
Incredibly, the man flipped the script, demanding their surrender.
An unforeseen angle.
Heavy recon presence? Doubt it.
Lie or not, worth checking.
View target's truth?
Cost: 40P
Pricey.
Way too damn expensive.
Can't waste points on this.
Truth Eye was great, but like delivery food—too convenient, and suddenly your wallet's empty.
No real need anyway.
His call or not, Orpia and Garen decided.
“Hmm.”
Garen stroked his chin, eyeing the enemy leader.
Probably gauging the truth of his words.
“As expected of Lycan dogs—brains too dim for sound judgment.”
Unshaken voice, steady face.
Palan studied him too; hard to call bullshit outright.
This guy's recon command, right?
Uncannily like that sadist Sadis from before.
Why's he dragging this out?
Recon or not, surrendering weapons was suicide.
I know that; he sure as hell does.
Special forces guy retreating or surrendering? Zero chance.
“Hmm, tough call. Real tough.”
Garen grimaced thoughtfully, scanning around.
Then, turning away from enemy view, a subtle smirk.
He's waiting for recon?
No other explanation for that grin.
What if there are a ton?
Intent made sense—killing them all here risked recon scattering, not joining.
But ops had variables.
“Screw it! What, with barely ten of you? Pathetic tricks!”
Suddenly, an enemy near the magitech cart scowled and stepped forward.
“Wh-what the hell are you—!”
The leader's buildup crumbled; his face twisted.
Told 'em to surrender, and one actually does.
Reason for pre-battle offers.
“Why? Better captured by Lycans than die with trash like you. Got a problem?!”
Voice thick with hate.
Phrenology was science, after all.
“Fine choice. Bind him.”
“Yes, sir!”
The surrenderee's hands were roped tight.
“One question. Know the magitech setup locations?”
“W-wait...”
Leader twitched, but words were slower than steel.
“He's got the map.”
“I see.”
As if it were over, Garen drew his sword.
“W-wait! I surrender too.”
“M-me too.”
A few realized too late, but life was first-come.
“Kill all but the leader. If capture's tough, kill him too.”
“Yes, sir!!”
Order dropped.
Waiting Special Forces charged like a beast.
Clang!
Metal clashed everywhere.
Overwhelming.
As expected, their weight class dominated.
Guess I should pitch in.
Couldn't stand idle; he drew sword, targeting the weakest-looking foe.
Clang!
“N-no, I was dragged here! I surrender! Mercy!”
Begging man.
Pity, but war was winner-takes-all.
“If we spared every dragged-in sob story, Korea'd beat America, man.”
“Korea...? What're you on about?!”
Gibberish to them, but irrelevant.
Wasn't meant for their ears.
“Hah!”
Ki shout, heavy slash at the ribs.
“Urk!”
He read the blade but parried weakly.
What? Why so feeble?
Gave unnaturally; pulled back fearing trap—else it'd been grievous.
“Damn!”
Foe grimaced, realizing; up close, gaunt to pity.
Exhausted from the cart?
Details unknown, but not normal.
Picked too good a mark?
Jackpot.
“Let's see you last.”
Bottomed-out stamina meant no hesitation.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Heavy combos.
He backpedaled, desperate blocks failing.
Claaaaang! Thud!
Seven exchanges; foe's sword hit dirt.
“Wait, I don't know their plans—penal unit...”
Slash! Spurt!
Sword severed neck mid-plea.
“Tch. Lame.”
Final desperate cling to life, begging.
Enemy or not, it stung.
Others wrapping up too.
Double numbers, all elites—no defeat possible.
“Why 1v1 when we've got numbers?”
Around him, pairs double-teamed safely.
“Captain, real combat suits you. Or massive growth?”
Garen approached, flicking blood from his blade.
What? He watched my whole fight?
Scarier than any horror flick.