Impalen Mountains Dungeon (1)
The mercenary broker's office was tucked against the slums, giving it an eerie atmosphere.
Drunks sprawled asleep on the roadside, rookie mercenaries puking their guts out from cheap booze, and thugs picking pockets from staggering patrons—all blending into a bizarre street scene.
Calix and Krout had barely stepped inside when every eye in the place locked onto them.
The rowdy chatter and laughter from moments ago died down to furtive glances and whispers.
It was an unpleasant silence.
The mercenaries' reaction stemmed from how rare it was to see a naive young noble and his pristine knight escort in a place like this.
Nobles typically avoided mingling with lowly scum like mercenaries, sending servants as proxies for contracts.
But these two were different.
“We're here to hire mercenaries.”
The young noble declared it without hesitation.
The receptionist, facing a highborn for the first time, fumbled awkwardly to his feet.
“Ah... please wait just a moment.”
With that, he bolted into the back of the building.
He soon returned with an older man in tow.
His superior, no doubt.
“Welcome. This way, please.”
The man greeted Calix calmly.
Krout subtly stepped forward, half-blocking the path, which suggested the guy wasn't ordinary.
“I hear Class 4 mercenaries are rare.”
“Heh heh, sharp eyes you've got. Once they hit User level, they can snag a knight's post in some backwater fief. But plenty stick around for the free life.”
“I see.”
“More surprising you came in person. A proxy would've sufficed.”
“Sorry to startle you. But sending an agent might've botched the deal.”
“Hrm...!”
The old mercenary caught the implication in Calix's words and let out a groan.
“Do you know why mercenaries dodge noble quests? They dump the riskiest parts on us while hiding key info. No wonder we charge a fortune.”
“Heh, and mercenaries? Good luck finding one who honors a secrecy clause after a drink. They bolt at the first whiff of danger, too.”
“Well...”
“I'm not here to debate mercenary habits. I'm saying I need brave souls willing to face those risks.”
“Hrm...”
The old man was reeling from Calix's slick rhetoric.
The kid looked young enough to be his grandson, yet felt like he had a dozen foxes crammed inside.
“Alright. Tell me the details of the commission.”
“Hazard level A. Pay at 2.5 times average weekly wage based on experience. One-month base contract, renewable in two-week increments, max three months. 50% upfront. If the leader's S-rank credit, expedition composition is delegated to them. Combat troops up to 120, support up to 80.”
The old man's eyes sharpened.
No pushover, this one.
He'd concealed the job details while laying out precise terms.
And those terms were devilishly clever—tempting enough to bite, regrettable to refuse.
Inevitable, really. A lifetime of deals couldn't match Calix's thousands from the game.
“Whew, finding takers for this will take legwork. No other details?”
“That'd just cheapen the pay.”
“Grr, got it. We'll proceed. Never met a noble like you, young master.”
The old man sighed deeply, hands metaphorically raised in surrender.
“Just... try to bring back as many alive as you can.”
“I'll do my best.”
“Tell me your inn. The mercenary captain who takes it will visit. Handle the rest with them.”
He sank into the sofa, looking a decade older already.
Calix exhaled sharply as they exited.
“Phew, dodged a bullet. Thought they'd balk.”
“You handled that like a pro. Where'd you learn to haggle like that, my lord?”
Calix couldn't admit it was from watching infomercials read insurance fine print.
Silence fell between them.
“Wanna grab a drink?”
“Not of age yet, my lord. Try bangsso instead.”
“Aw, man.”
As the two bantered while walking, someone watched from the shadows.
A plainly dressed mercenary glanced up at the building they'd left, muttering.
“Broker's office, huh... Not odd in Poznyu, but a noble with guards? Worth checking.”
He headed into the underworld.
Poznyu was Lock Kingdom's sole free city, unbound by noble rule—a mercenaries' holy ground.
Join a band upon arrival, and your past vanished.
Criminal, runaway serf's kin, foreign noble—it didn't matter.
In exchange, its mercenaries defended against the annual monster waves from Impalen Mountains.
Come autumn, hordes swarmed: slain by blades or stuffed on corpses before retreating deep into the peaks.
Bluntly, Poznyu was a lavish feast laced with deadly poison.
It hadn't always been mercenaries. First came convict squads—perfect fodder, no widow's pensions.
After bloody upheavals, the system stabilized, birthing the Black Wing Mercenary Corps.
They seized the pleasure districts and underworld.
Walter, Poznyu's underworld don, was a hulking brute.
Over 2 meters tall, his gut so thick a dagger wouldn't reach his innards.
“Some nerve, Corbus. Showing that smug mug after our history.”
Walter radiated killing intent that prickled the skin.
His foe's face remained serene.
“Don't get cocky. Given our bad blood, I should lop your head off now. But I'm a Dark Knight now—past is past. Judge coldly.”
Walter's jowls quivered with rage.
But the man was a Dark Knight on a bigwig's errand.
The heat haze rising from him marked a Class 6 powerhouse.
'Damn! Scum like him levels up while I'm stuck.'
He should be grateful the guy offered to bury the hatchet.
“F-Fine. Let's talk business coolly. Why seek me?”
“A noble entourage rolled into town recently. Know 'em?”
“How'd I track every pissant?”
“Heard he posted a commission. Find out why he's here, what it entails—everything.”
“Hmph. Pay?”
“Info fee upfront. Rest after more intel. Move fast, or kiss the big score goodbye.”
“Bastard!”
Walter grumbled but summoned his crew for intel.
Turning to Corbus:
“Even Dark Knights eat, right? Or Class 6 skips meals?”
“Idiot. Even Masters die without air or food.”
“Kekeke, not so different then. We all eat, shit, fight.”
Walter beckoned a servant; the table groaned under food.
As he devoured meat off bones, Corbus sipped wine opposite.
Soon, reports piled up.
Corbus pored over them in a side room.
“Hazard A, up to three months, 200 souls total...”
Basic terms had to be public for hires.
Walter cocked his head.
“What? Planning a war?”
“War with who? No fief skirmishes filed. Not even bordering hostiles.”
“A-level hazard, that's why. Not some bandit escort. But dungeons need elites, not cannon fodder.”
“Straight monster hunt?”
“Who'd bleed cash on that?”
“True.”
Walter mimed slitting his throat.
“Just snuff 'em?”
“Class 5 senior knight glued to his side.”
“So? You're Class 6.”
“Direct kill leaves traces. He pops a recall scroll? Disaster.”
“Tch! Scrolls ain't cheap. Worrywart.”
“I wait for perfection.”
Stroking his chin, Corbus spoke.
“Assume dungeon-bound. Can't dawdle forever. Once inside, no scrolls—I'll handle personally.”
“Then I clean his hires?”
“Can't have leaks.”
“Extra pay. Over 100 combat troops minimum. Numbers matter, especially trapped in a dungeon.”
“Name your price. Client's loaded.”
Poznyu boasted three major powers: Black Wing, Steel Shield, and Red Wolf Mercenary Corps.
They dominated hundreds of bands with overwhelming might.
Not born from like-minded wanderers.
Black Wing from convict wave-fodder; Steel Shield their jailer overseers, quelling revolts.
Relations toxic, naturally.
They'd avoided clashes fearing Red Wolf's backstab.
Balanced forces kept a fragile peace—until the Dark Knight rallied Black Wing via Walter.
Sudden war prep? Misunderstanding inevitable.
Omar of Steel Shield thought the same.
“They're gearing for the endgame.”
“What happened?”
“Pulling scattered mains to HQ quietly. We prep too.”
“Yes sir!”
Tension gripped Poznyu.
Even Corbus hadn't foreseen it.
At the storm's eye, Calix sweated as Yurin clung to his arm.
She'd somehow learned of the dungeon delve and begged to tag along.
“No.”
“Why not? I'm your hostage, right? Drag me everywhere.”
“No investment yet, so fine. Quit whining and wait here.”
“Really ditching me? Hmm~ You'll regret it...”
Her sly expression pinged Calix's radar.
Yurin wouldn't throw a fit just for a dungeon tour.
'Feels like brushing this off will bite me. Play along for now.'
“Fine, up to the entrance. Wait there. Deal?”
“Hmm...”
She chewed her finger, then nodded.
“Yay!”
'Entrance suffices? Or confident I'll have to bring her in...'
A chilling voice slithered in like from the abyss.
“You mean that?”
Madam Hari glared murderously.
“Ugh, tell them to sort it themselves—they won't listen.”
“Hostage or not, dragging a young girl into danger? Are you even human?”
“She's not a hostage yet, and she wants to go...”
“Her Highness is still a child. Indulging every tantrum doesn't make you adult.”
“Forgot I'm pre-rite too?”
“Regardless! I object.”
'You two handle it, lady!'
Calix quelled his boiling frustration, coolly retorting.
“Convince her yourself. Or join the expedition and guard her. Why vent at me?”
She shot daggers but fell silent.
Bad first impressions; she itched for a fight.
'Ugh, hysteric. Hook her up with a guy...'
Madam Hari was twenty-eight.
Spinster age on Eren Continent, but prime marriage material to Calix's modern views.
'Anyone around? She's a catch... obsessive over Yurin, but a partner might mellow her.'
