Chapter 26
Chapter 26
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: Primmer Plains Battle (5)
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This game I've possessed, even though it's a fantasy game, has this strangely realistic side to it.
One of those things is that the soldiers nobles keep and train are generally stronger than most mercenary companies.
It's not exactly a typical fantasy game element, but unlike mercenary groups that just grab a bunch of fresh recruits, call them meat shields, and throw them into the meat grinder...
...nobles vet their soldiers from the start—checking their build, their courage, everything—before hiring them.
Then they pour their territory's tax money into supporting them, body and soul.
They bring in the best instructors they can afford and train them day and night, and they equip them with the best A-grade gear money can buy.
Of course, that means they're way stronger than mercenary outfits that throw together rootless riffraff with no proper training straight into battle, where most of them wear nothing better than patchwork cloth armor.
"Walter Platoon Leader, our boys are on their first real deployment and look beat. Mind pulling them back a bit?"
"These rookie meat shield bastards have done their job already."
"Thanks."
"Yeah, you wanna pull back too while you're at it?"
I appreciate the kindness, but I've got a chance to cut loose and prove myself solo—I'm not gonna chicken out and bail with some lame excuse about being tired, or I'll chop my own dick off first.
"I'll take the thought. Look over there—that banner with the crest flapping around. Looks like they've got a knight. I want dibs on that fucker's head."
"Shit, you brain-dead bastard with your brains in your sword tip. Fuckin' love that about you."
And just like that, not long after, I pulled my men back and stood alone at the vanguard.
"Martin's up front. We just back him up when he dives in like a maniac! Got it, you worthless shits?"
"Yes, Platoon Leader!"
"Good. Then get ready to fuckin' charge, all of you! Martin, we'll move in the second you bolt."
Another chance from Walter Platoon Leader to go wild—I have to make the most of it.
What I've done so far isn't enough. Time to put on a real show.
With that resolve, I charged straight at the enemy soldiers waiting for me.
The foes across from me leveled their spears at me, but they weren't even thinking about dodging or thrusting—they were just gonna bulldoze forward blindly.
To some, it might look like a suicidal mad dash, but plunging into their spear wall formation seemed safer than hanging back, wondering when the arrows or spells would rain down.
"You Filoran Count's mongrel dogs think you can stop Martin Meyer, Squad Leader of the White Beard Mercenary Corps? Get on your knees and beg for your lives, or hand over your heads!"
With that, I channeled aura into both legs and shot forward at full speed.
"We ain't like those retard bear mercenaries in front of us!"
"Take that cocky bastard's head! He's a slippery eel messing up the Count's army. Capture him!"
"They broke the first rank—no way they're breaking our second."
At the same time, even though they didn't look drill-trained, they zeroed in on the obvious weak spot in my armor—my neck—and thrust in unison.
Fast thrusts, precise aim, overwhelming numbers.
Even at a glance, deflecting spear tips with my sword or dodging with big moves while charging at this speed looked tough.
So as I ran forward, I quickly ducked my waist to evade the incoming spear tips.
Their spearheads, meant for a killing thrust, suddenly lost their target and wavered.
"Die, you vermin bastards!"
Straightening up from my crouch, I thrust my sword upward into the throat of the guy right in front of me.
Then I started slicing through the confused spear formation, one after another, at breakneck speed.
Mercenaries would've hesitated when I went berserk like this, but these were the Count's direct soldiers, synced up over years—they were different.
"Fuck, avenge the Squad Leader! Die, you damn bastard!"
"You think war's a one-man show? I'll rip you limb from limb!"
"Just touch me—hell, I'll separate your head from your shoulders!"
Every time I killed one, another sharp strike came flying at my neck or vitals.
'These crazy fuckers fight like absolute shit."
Sending them my highest praise in my head, I cleaved through them one by one, pushing forward. That's when I spotted some psycho.
Well, not really psycho—in this game's world, knights from commoner stock always show up this flashy and bold. It's practically the rule.
"Hear me, lowly peasant!!"
"Hm?"
"You're disturbing the Count's peace, so I, Hans Girheim, knight in service to Count Filoran, cannot abide it!"
In my old life, I'd seen too many high-and-mighty types get taken out for flashing their bling like that. As an ex-mercenary, it made my head spin a bit.
"Sure, I'm no knight now, but until a few months ago, I served a proper lord as one!"
"Have you no pride as a knight, as a noble? Sinking to mercenary scum."
Telling the truth would just embarrass me.
"Listen up, you punk-ass low-rank knight who can only bluff! Can't even ride—you're on foot, so you're the lamest in the Count's house, huh?"
I stabbed him with facts, and the guy trembled visibly even in his armor. Then he closed the distance in a flash.
"Insulting a knight! I'll make you pay with your death!"
And unlike the grunts I'd faced, he unleashed proper swordsmanship—textbook, clean strikes.
Attacks flying in with machine-like precision.
If this guy—with real sword skills and aura—had been my first real fight instead of Schmitz, I probably would've lost for sure.
"Fuckin' side swing and you trip—pathetic!"
But that's ancient history. Not anymore.
Matching his swing's angle, I swung back with aura infused. Our swords clashed with a sharp clang.
"You filthy trash!"
Hans kept swinging relentlessly after the first clash.
Attack after seamless attack, like a whirlwind.
I parried each one, waiting for an opening.
But with both of us in steel plate, weak spots were scarce—hard to rush in recklessly.
"Die, you worthless peasant scum!"
"Our knight's sword keeps wobbling like a limp dick. How you gonna kill this lowlife like that?"
"This lowly shit stuffed a rag in his mouth!"
I taunted him, waiting for his stamina or momentum to falter.
He knew it too, so he didn't bite easily. But duels are like fishing.
Cast the line in the river or sea, wait patiently, and when that one bite comes, reel it in for the big one.
After nearly five minutes of his fierce assault, he pulled back.
"Not bad with a sword for peasant trash."
"Thanks for the compliment, you small-dick low-rank knight."
"Drop your sword and surrender now, and I'll take you as my squire."
I flipped him off in response.
As expected, the hot-blooded gorilla lost his shit.
"I'll bisect you with the secret art passed down in House Girheim!"
With that, he poured all his aura into his legs and shot toward me like an arrow.
Then Hans smirked, like he'd already won, eyeing me.
Annoying nobleborn low-rank knight wannabe fuck.
But that thrust at my neck, slipping through the narrow gap? That was real.
As I scrambled for a block, I spotted a tiny gap in his technique.
'To catch a tiger, go into its den. To kill a cocky knight, get inside his guard.'
With resolve, I aura-boosted my legs, slipped into his range in an instant, and dropped my sword.
"Fool, you trying to commit suicide?"
I twisted to barely dodge his thrust.
Hans's face went from stiff to shocked. He swung again for my neck.
"You're still in my grasp, you lowlife..."
Before he finished, I drew the dagger from my waist and stabbed his throat.
Blood gushed out, soaking my right hand.
"Fuck off and die, you small-dick low-rank knight."
Saying that, I severed his head with my sword and hoisted it high.
Just one low-rank knight—big deal? But nothing crushes enemy morale or mocks them like a lowly scum like me taking their precious Count's knight's head.
"Martin Meyer, Squad Leader of the White Beard Mercenary Corps, has beheaded Knight Hans Girheim of Count Filoran!"
After rampaging a bit more, I got the retreat signal and fell back into formation with the rest.