Chapter 18
Chapter 18
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 18
Chapter Title: Fox Magical Girl, Lucia (1)
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One week later, Dalton gathered the entire mercenary corps.
"Baron Tilen's bored as fuck too, shit. Apparently, he spent a whole week reviewing rewards for a band of less than 150 mercs before crashing out."
"Yeah, but you said the captain nearly teared up from gratitude 'cause the prick didn't pull any bullshit to skim off our bonuses."
"Fuck if I know why nobles always act like such assholes."
From the sound of it, everyone seemed to be cursing the baron, but today—right now—not a single soul in the White Beard Mercenary Corps harbored any grudge against Baron Tilen.
I could say that with absolute certainty because today was the day everyone had been dying for: the victory celebration where the baron showered us with massive bonuses.
Proving my point, Dalton climbed onto the makeshift podium, his mouth grinning so wide it practically reached his ears.
Seeing that shit-eating grin, it was obvious the mercenary captain had pocketed a filthy load of his own bonus.
'Fuck, I'm probably getting a fat stack too, but thinking about the captain's cut makes my gut twist.'
"Listen up, fuckers! If you can't hear me, dig out your goddamn earwax and pay attention. This is the day you've been jacking off over—the baron and the corps handing out your rewards."
Every merc, me included, roared in response.
Then Dalton started announcing the payouts, beginning with the rookies who'd just joined—excluding me—and going by seniority up to the standout performers among our 150.
Honestly, it'd be cleaner to post a fucking bulletin: "So-and-so gets X gold and promotes to whatever." One and done.
But our corps had Dalton, who loved hamming it up, so he droned through every single one like a prick.
"Charles Squad Senior Mercenary William: for slaying 3 enemy soldiers, 5 gold coins! Pior Squad Senior Mercenary Karin: for sniping and killing 6 enemy soldiers with arrows, plus extracting critical intel that led to victory—12 gold coins!"
What's wild is how listening to all these payouts for our comrades, standing there forever, didn't bore the shit out of me anymore.
Instead, it stirred envy and a burning drive to outdo them next time...
"Squad Leader Pior: for greatly contributing to breaking the Tristan Mercenary Corps' morale, 20 gold coins."
...Nah, fuck that. Hearing that bastard—who barely lifted a finger beyond riding my coattails—pocket 20 gold hit different.
It lit a fire under my ass: next time, I'd snag more than that prick, no matter what.
I'd bet my left nut every other guy here was thinking the same while listening.
Once they'd covered the squad leaders, officers, and platoon leaders' feats and rewards, Dalton took a deep breath and bellowed on.
"Finally, Recruit Martin Meyer of Pior's squad. For killing 13 enemy soldiers and Platoon Leader Schmitz, plus uncovering Baron Casino's cowardly plot and saving the corps from defeat—10 gold coins. In recognition of those abilities, promoted to Squad Leader."
The gold was less than Pior's, which pissed me off to no end.
But jumping from meat shield rookie to squad leader? In Korean terms, that's like private to sergeant in a hyper-speed promotion. Guess the bonus got docked for the position boost.
Still, fuck—Karin's made sense, but that spoon-riding fuck Pior pocketing more cash than me? Bullshit.
'Fuck, that freeloading Pior's a cheap bastard, but not a total scumbag without a conscience. Guess I'll mooch a drink off him and call it even.'
The second my promotion hit, murmurs rippled through the surrounding mercs.
"That fucker Martin—yeah, I admit he's a beast, flew solo in that fight. But squad leader? Not even a senior merc? That's too much, right?"
"You dumb shit, just admit you're jealous and your balls are twisting. Spit it out."
"Fair, but fuck—Sir Holmes or whatever offered him a knighthood, and the prick turned it down. Throwing away that shot for squad leader? Total fuckup. When I heard that, I figured shit like this'd happen."
As I endured the heavy stares and whispers, Dalton looked down from the podium and said,
"Senior Mercenary Karin, Squad Leader Martin, Platoon Leader Jason, Platoon Leader Karl—the four of you. The baron specially awarded commendations. Follow me."
A commendation? Simple terms: a noble's stamp guaranteeing a merc's badass skills—"Trust this guy, he's competent as fuck."
Hard to fake, and only top-tier mercs score one.
Is Dalton sneaking extras to us on the sly?
Getting something special proving my chops behind closed doors? Felt fucking great.
The gold stung a bit, but better shots would come.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ When we entered the tent, Dalton wore a suspiciously bright smile.
Soon, the finance officer and chief admin strolled in, carrying boxes that looked like they held the commendations.
Dalton turned to us and smirked.
"You shits are the MVPs of this win. So the baron's hooked you up with special bonuses and commendations—take 'em with fucking gratitude. And per tradition, no bragging about how much you got. Fuck up and blab, you'll blow it all on booze for the boys and whores' laps. Got it?"
Snag too much compared to the rest, and yeah—like Dalton said—you'd get shaken down by jealous corpsmates.
So that's why they keep the real fat stacks secret.
"Senior Mercenary Karin. Your commendation and bonus."
The finance guy cracked the box just enough to tease the contents, then handed it to Karin.
The others got thick pouches too, and I was last.
"Martin, here's your bonus and commendation. Now no one's calling you a worthless fuck wherever you go."
Peeking in, the pouch looked looser than expected.
Fuck, the baron must've shorted me on purpose for turning down the knighthood.
Heard nobles are slimy fucks, but this? Overkill.
"Thanks, Captain."
Dalton handed me the commendation, then waved us off.
"Everyone out except Martin. And you know the drill—if anyone asks, say 'decent haul' and shut up. Brag like an asshole and start a fight, I'll crack your skulls. Dismissed."
Once it was just us, he eyed me with a meaningful grin.
"Martin, fuck. Skip the bullshit—open that pouch in your commendation, you worthless prick."
As captain, he'd know my cut, and he wasn't the type to dip in, so I untied it without hesitation.
Should've been golden glow, but silver light poured out.
But the shine was way brighter than silver—had to be platinum coins, worth like 5 gold each...
Even as a knight, I'd rarely touched platinum. I jolted in shock.
"Worthless prick turns down a knighthood like a boss, then freaks over a few plat? What a clown."
"But fuck, platinum? 15 coins—that's 75 gold, right?"
"Listen up, Squad Leader Martin. Without you, I'd be fucked, Baron Tilen too—biting our tongues in defeat. So this is the least."
Hearing that, it felt like a halo beamed from the baron I'd never met straight to me.
This massive payout must've broken my brain.
"When you got rewarded, didn't you see the pouch size? Gold would've made the others jealous as fuck. So I swapped it to platinum myself to make it look skimpy."
"Thanks for the warm consideration, Captain. Fuck, I'll follow you to hell and back."
"Cut the ass-kissing before I rip your head off."
His words had some real edge—blue aura flickered around him.
"You ditched that rat Tilen poaching underlings for a shot at knighthood and picked me. This is my gift to you, punk."
He handed me a sword from his collection—fancy sheath, looked pricey.
"Don't need it anymore. Suits you, though. Draw it."
Blade slid out, revealing a sword body laced with mithril.
Mithril blades varied wildly in price by content, but even cheap ones cost 4-5 times a master steel sword. Filthy expensive.
Dalton beamed smugly.
"Snagged it off an enemy knight during my merc days. Too sentimental to sell, gathering dust—thought of you. Overkill for rookie shitstain Martin, but perfect for Squad Leader Martin Meyer."
"Captain, I'll follow you into fire or limb-loss till you drop."
"Ugh, fuck—goosebumps from a dude? Shut it, or I'll turn you into Adolf."
For all his words, he grinned, clearly pleased I appreciated it.
"Anyway, you're a squad leader now, but the junkiest one—no one's following your green ass. Till Zaltzheim, you're a squad leader with zero men. Corps tradition—tough shit, endure it! Junkyard Squad Leader Martin."
Blame my green ass—no helping it.
At least story-wise, Zaltzheim's primed for all-out war between Count Zaltzheim and Baron Filloran. City'd be crawling with job-hungry mercs.
Plus, to survive that hellhole, Dalton'd bulk up the corps—tons of new blood.
Get there, and I'd ditch the no-subordinate pants-squad-leader life quick.
Conversation wrapping, I turned to leave when Dalton muttered,
"Oh, yeah. Karin's bitching she can't stand Pior anymore. Heh, transfer her to another squad?"
...Dropping that now? Means he's greenlighting her for my squad.
So I convinced Karin that day and successfully pulled her into mine.
Just snag 8 more grunts, and we're set?
Nah, fuck it—might even meet a protagonist-party heroine there.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ One week later, a notice went up in Zaltzheim: White Beard Mercenary Corps recruiting rookies.
The crowd buzzed about what kind of outfit it was, and among them stood a girl with fox ears and a tail.
Her tail swished curiously as she muttered,
"White Beard Mercenary Corps? No clue what they are, but... think they've got a job for me?"