Chapter 32
Chapter 32
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 32
Chapter Title: If You Want to Make It Big, Dive into the Tiger's Den (4)
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At those words, Dalton smirked and shot back.
"You bastards who can only call things vulgar are the real vulgar ones. You pint-sized knight fuckers!"
"What did you say?"
"You think I don't know you're prancing around on horses to hide your short legs, you stumpy little shit-for-brains dwarves!"
Calling someone bald who's never lost a hair on their head is just playful banter.
But calling a bald guy bald when you're not even close friends is basically asking for a fight.
The same went for mocking a short guy about his height—it hit harder than any other insult...
Just as I'd expected, one of the knights standing with the squire holding the banner emblazoned with their family crest flew into a rage.
"You filthy, sneaky mercenary scum! Didn't even you lowborn fucks learn you shouldn't mock a man's height?"
"I'm a senior knight myself—think I wouldn't know that? But your legs really are fucking short, aren't they? Or wait... oh, my bad."
Dalton then glanced meaningfully down at his own crotch.
The mounted knight grew even more furious, gripping his lance tightly as he charged straight at Captain Dalton.
"You goddamn lowborn mercenary fuck!"
Dalton smirked at the sight, gripped his sword with both hands, and waited for the bastard to come.
"My name is Charles Branheim! A formal knight of the Philorang Count's household and an honorable warrior of the Branheim family!"
The guy named Charles spurred his horse, aimed his lance at Dalton, and thrust as he charged.
"The Philorang Count's family must be a total shitshow if they let a stumpy little dwarf like you prance around calling yourself a knight."
"Shut your filthy lowborn mouth..."
Dalton enveloped his body and sword in Aura, then twisted his body to the right while holding his blade.
With a whoosh, he brought his sword down on the lance tip like splitting firewood, carrying the momentum forward to cleave the lance—and its owner—clean in two, armor and all, in the blink of an eye.
"Fuck... no way... I'm Charles of the Branheim family..."
Dalton sliced off the head of the bastard still babbling nonsense even as his torso split, then hurled it toward the Philorang Count's forces.
"Captain Dalton von Prime of the White Beard Mercenary Corps has taken the head of Charles whatever-the-fuck from the Branheim family. Come avenge him if you've got the balls!"
Dalton's provocation pushed the knights and soldiers under Philorang Count to the brink of fury.
"You fucking bastard! Are you even human?"
"Mercenary scum who knows no honor, desecrating the noble death of a knight who fell bravely in battle!"
"Not just once, but twice? Unforgivable! I'll take your head and burn your corpse to ash!"
The plan Dalton and I had cooked up was to draw all their rage and attention onto us, spark a fierce battle, shine like stars in it, then spread the word to Count Zaltzheim's army and flip the tide of the war.
That was my suggestion, anyway... but Captain Dalton, isn't this a bit much?
'Captain Dalton—this guy's a former senior knight who ditched it all to start a merc company, but damn, he's lost it.'
Still, I couldn't say I hated it.
"Fuck it, since we're in it this deep. If we turn this war around for them, doesn't that make our merc company war heroes?"
"Damn right, you idiot. Though it'll be this old man's name that rises the most."
I wanted to fire back, but sadly, there was no time.
Because the enemies we'd already pissed off were charging at us like madmen thanks to our taunts.
I gripped the blood-soaked hilt of my sword with both hands, eyeing the gaps in their formation.
The moment I spotted one, I dove right in.
"Die, you goddamn dogs of Philorang Count!"
**
Meanwhile, at the main camp in the rear, Count Zaltzheim couldn't hide his anxiety.
"...Goddamn it all. If we keep getting pushed like this, we're done for. Baron Winterheim, got any bright ideas?"
"My lord, this is open plain with no obstacles. All we can do is hope our men fight hard."
"Fuck. If we lose like this, we'll lose at least a barony..."
The count mentioned one barony, but defeat here meant losing at least a third of his county.
That would slash the Zaltzheim family's income overnight, forcing them into debt with those sleazy merchants just to feed their remaining vassals and hold the house together.
"Damn it all!! No matter how I think about it, there's no answer! Screw this, Baron! Sitting here twiddling our thumbs till we lose, or going out in a blaze of glory—either way we're fucked, right?"
"The end result is the same, but..."
"Then let's do something. Even the mercs—if I lead the knights out..."
In the middle of his rant, a messenger burst in.
The count cut himself off and gestured for the man to speak.
"Report! The Brown Wolf Mercenary Corps has taken heavy losses! Too many dead—they say they can't fight anymore!"
The count and everyone else ground their teeth at the news.
"Goddamn it! I poured so much coin into those Brown Wolf fucks, and they couldn't even match half of the White Beard Mercs, and now they can't fight?"
"Lowborn scum who chase gold should deliver the value!"
"As expected from trash—useless, every last one..."
Everyone knew venting wouldn't change the battlefield.
They just couldn't help reacting to the hopeless reality like any human would—frustrated, slamming against the wall.
Regaining his composure amid it all, the count started pondering.
'If I get captured or taken prisoner in this war, it's truly over for me.'
But at this rate, Count Zaltzheim's army had no choice but to lose to Philorang Count's forces.
So if they were going down, better to try something first.
After all, in this world, a noble's worth wasn't about smarts or managing lands well—it was about proving your mettle by fighting like a man when war broke out.
Even in defeat, drawing his sword and charging the enemy lines would at least let him save face and hold his position better.
And who knew? If he led personally, maybe the mercs' morale would surge and turn the tide.
'But honestly, a count like me charging the front lines...'
As the count agonized, another messenger arrived.
Everyone eyed him half-resigned, expecting more bad news.
But this messenger's face looked decent—actually, pretty bright.
'Fuck, please let this be good news...'
Everyone there prayed for it.
"Report! The White Beard Mercenary Corps provoked the enemy, drawing concentrated attacks, but they're holding firm and even gaining momentum! They're now clashing with Philorang Count's direct troops!"
The count clapped his hands and broke into a dumb grin.
"Is that true?"
"Yes, my lord!"
Overjoyed, the count shoved a gold coin into the messenger's hand.
His instincts screamed.
'My direct knights and soldiers are getting wrecked right now. If even the one useful bunch—the White Beard fucks—gets pushed back... we're royally screwed.'
"We can't miss this chance—there's no next one! Order the whole army to charge behind the White Beards! We have to seize control of this battle's flow!"
With that, the count bolted out.
His face lit up with hopeful smile—the first ray of light in what had seemed a doomed war.
"I'll lead them myself!"
**
"Martin Meyer, you filthy bastard! How dare you handle Sir Hans's head like that?!"
The guy shouting that came at me with sharp intent, stabbing for the gap in my armor.
"Hey, what am I supposed to do? The guy's weak as shit. You fucks wouldn't do the same if I dropped dead?"
"Fuck!"
"This shit-for-brains sure swears a lot."
I whipped my sword up fast and separated his head from his shoulders.
Next, the one behind swung a halberd at my neck.
No Aura, but a fierce thrust.
Still nowhere near enough to kill me.
"Die, you rag-in-mouth fuck!"
"All you do is bark loud—you some kinda rabid dog?"
As I cut down one after another, I heard the thunder of Count Zaltzheim's men charging toward us from afar.
Fuck yeah—we'd grabbed 'em by the throat, set the stage to win, and now they were finally moving their asses.
Just hold out a bit longer, shine a little more, and we could claim victory in this goddamn war.
But they say the real crisis hits when you think it's over?
A knight appeared before me, radiating presence that made Hans look like a joke.
"I am Ein Baltrant, head of the Baltrant family and a mid-rank knight under Philorang Count. I'm here to skewer that smart mouth of yours."
Hah, fuck. Now that's more like it.