Chapter 3
Chapter 3
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Battle of Chiptin Plains (1)
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Our Dalton Mercenary Corps advanced as one solid unit, marching in step at the command.
Not too fast, not too slow—just the light pace of a casual stroll.
Deep down, I wanted to break out of this formation as quickly as possible and charge into the fray, clashing swords with the enemy. But if I broke ranks now and rushed ahead alone, it'd be like begging them to come take my head.
So I kept my mouth shut, silently leveling my spear at the foe as I marched forward. The veterans, though, seemed to struggle with this stretch—short if you're counting seconds, endless if you're dreading them.
"You gutless bastards, I'll rip out your innards and make sashimi out of 'em! Hold still, I'll shove this spear right in your bellies!"
"With faces like you pounded 'em in a mortar, must've been hell just staying alive looking like that. Poor fucks."
"What're you dwarf shit-stains prancing around in all that flashy gear for? Trying to tempt us to rob you blind?"
With nearly 160 soldiers—including the other mercenaries hired by the baron and our Dalton crew—plus the enemy troops hollering back, the noise was deafening.
My ears rang, but with every step forward, the air grew heavier, pressing down on me like a physical weight.
In games, being the protagonist meant hopping on a horse, charging in, and hacking through enemies like wheat. But now that it was real—this war where lives were stolen and given—I felt the difference, and it hit hard.
"Rookie, you aren't scared, are you?"
I glanced sideways. There stood Veteran Mercenary Karin.
I shook my head, and she fixed me with a serious look, her voice unlike any I'd heard from her before.
"Keep your head down and eyes on the ground ahead. Don't look up until you're told to thrust your spear. If you don't want to die."
Her sudden order didn't make complete sense, but she had way more years as a mercenary than I did.
From our chats on the way here, she seemed playful at times, tough enough to shrug off crude jokes and profanity, even sweet when she'd tease me to call her "sis." But when it came to her job, she was all business.
No way she'd bullshit a first-timer like me in a war. So I immediately ducked my head and stared at my feet.
"Aaaagh, fuck! My eyes! My eyes! I can't see!"
"Can't die like this, damn it. Haven't even nailed that Sara bitch yet..."
"That dogshit Baron Tilen, fall in a latrine and drown..."
Hearing screams from dying men all around made me glad I hadn't lifted my head to scout the enemy.
If I'd ignored Karin and looked, I'd have seen allies dropping, panicked my legs into jelly, and lost the rhythm entirely.
Thanks to her, I marched on blankly, in sync with the others. Meanwhile, rookies nearby were getting chewed out.
"Fuck, you shit your pants? Wasn't even hit by an arrow or spell—why're you frozen like you crapped yourself?"
"Move forward when we say nice, or want a spear in the back turning you into a skewer?"
"Loved boozing on someone else's dime, huh? Acted like a damn hero back then, but now you're blubbering snot and tears at the first spear. Move!"
I followed Karin's lead, pushing ahead no matter arrows toward me or spells crashing nearby.
Didn't need to look to know the scene: green idiots losing their minds at the arrow storm, veterans wrangling them to serve as meat shields.
If I'd possessed some other rookie moron instead of Martin Meyer, maybe I'd be one of them.
Shaking off the stray thought, I kept marching when Mercenary Captain Dalton's aura-laced voice boomed from behind.
"Dalton Mercenary Corps, eyes front! No more arrows incoming!"
At that, I raised my head to face the enemy line.
From our squad's third row, I couldn't see their whole force, but at just over 20 meters, details popped: faces, beards or not, scars, even gleaming spear tips.
This close, I felt it again—this wasn't a game world; it was real.
"Your mom and dad birthed you worthless shits and still raised you? Saints, those two."
"Maggot scum. Drop the spears and cry for mommy's tit now, and I'll let you go."
"Pussy milk-stink brats who only know suckling tits—scram. Or crawl under my legs, fuckers."
Veterans like Karin, who'd slain dozens in battle, spat filth from their mouths, but tension etched their faces.
"I know Dalton's lot well. Full of kids who can't even grip a spear right? Look at that limp hold. How you gonna thrust at night?"
"Men need hip power, but you lot look like you'd blow your load from a dry hump."
"I'll slaughter you all, not one spared, to atone to your parents!"
Enemy soldiers hurled abuse right back—for the same reason we did.
Fear of the slaughter about to start.
But we mercenaries, me included, and those bastards we had to snap like twigs—they lived by killing foes.
We spat curses to shake off terror and marched to impale them.
Then, from their ranks, someone bellowed an incantation.
"O fire that burns all away, gather in my hand and reveal your mighty power." ⟨ Fireball ⟩
With each word, particles matching the aura hue I'd glimpsed from Captain Dalton gathered at the mage's wooden staff tip.
They shifted to a red glow, coalescing into a sphere.
Should've been thrilled seeing real magic—not just game CG—but excitement? Bullshit.
That fireball looked scorching hot, and knowing it'd fly our way soon turned my stomach.
"Fireball!"
The flaming orb streaked toward me faster than any arrow.
Heat like it'd roast me alive in my armor engulfed the air, followed by a deafening boom that left my ears ringing.
As the tinnitus faded, veterans' agonized screams hammered my eardrums.
"Gaaah, fuck! It's hot! Save me!"
"Water! Someone douse this fire! Help!"
The veteran in front of me: his screams, the stench of burning flesh and fat, blistering heat, crackling flames.
Back in Korea, this brutality was just CG and text in games. Now it unfolded before me—with heat, smell, screams.
My mind blanked white.
Luckily, the enemy mage aimed later fireballs elsewhere. No fiery end on possession day one.
Fuck, dying without a shot at glory? I'd haunt this life forever from the injustice.
"Spears up! Hold formation! Front ranks, fill gaps! Keep the line or we're all dead! You worthless shits!"
Captain Dalton's words echoed game commands I'd heard.
Player-me knew: broken formation meant total rout, like pins in bowling.
So I resolved never to retreat, planting myself at the front.
"Fuck, you millstone-faced mutt! Die!"
I stood at our forefront, spear aimed at the enemy, advancing.
The foe before me thrust first.
"Die, you old bastard!"
But slow. So slow I saw exactly where he aimed.
This I could handle. Come die on this rookie meat shield.
Using Martin's lingering muscle memory, I swept the several-meter shaft aside in one motion, then drove my long spear into the quilted armor over his heart.
Felt the squelch as it sank deep. I yanked it free, and the enemy mercenary crumpled, front soaked in blood.