Chapter 33
Chapter 33
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: If You Want to Rise in the World, Enter the Tiger's Den (5)
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Ain Baltrant, the guy who'd introduced himself as an intermediate knight, was on a whole different level from that Hans bastard I'd faced last time, right from his presence and the way he walked.
While Hans had this half-assed gait, forcing aura into his sword swings through sheer grit like he was pretending to be some kind of swordsman, this guy looked solid and heavy, like a massive boulder.
Tension gripped me so hard that my hands clenched tight around my sword hilt.
And then, all the eyes and attention around us zeroed in on me at once.
The reason was simple. The morale of everyone nearby was about to swing hard toward whichever side won this one-on-one duel.
"Martin, you bastard! Show 'em some young blood fire and guts! You got this!"
"Give 'em a taste of real mercenary spice—teach 'em a lesson!"
"Prove that taunt with Hans's helmet wasn't just hot air! Fuck 'em up, kill 'em all!"
With all that cheering, I could feel the weight settling heavy on my shoulders.
But for some reason, a baseless confidence surged through me that I'd win, and power flooded my body.
Ain clicked his tongue at the sight of everyone rallying behind me.
"Weak-ass mutts barking at each other for support—me, a formal knight of the Baltrant family and the count's service, don't need that crap. I win with skill and swordplay alone."
...What a crazy bastard. No, it's obvious everyone's expecting me to win, while he's just some nobody no one's cheering for.
Time to poke at the delusions of this pathetic escape artist, even if just a little.
"Must be 'cause Sir Ain's got such a shitty personality that his own men are praying he bites it right now. I know the feeling—back when I was a knight, I had plenty of those types myself."
I laid it on thick, explaining it was because he had no respect from his subordinates, and Sir Ain exploded in a booming rage.
"Defiling a knight's honor—you must really wanna die! Let's see you block this, you foul-mouthed, lowborn mercenary scum!"
Like Dalton had done, Ain concentrated aura in his legs and charged at me like a wild boar barreling toward its target.
Fast as a flying arrow, and heavy—exaggerate a bit, and it felt like a big-wheeled four-wheel-drive truck barreling down with all that mass.
Even without aura, anyone who got hit by that sword or just collided with his body would shatter like an egg smashing into a rock.
'Fuck, just looking at it makes my head spin.'
But I could use aura just like him, and through a few real battles, I'd honed my eyes to read an opponent's intent and movements.
In short, I had a solid shot at this.
"I don't know what the hell the Baltrant family's made of—dog bones or something—but don't they know words are a mirror to the man? You gullible fuck!"
With that, I met his aura-charged strike with my own sword laced in aura, blocking it clean.
What I really wanted was to deflect his attack aside and, riding that momentum like Captain Dalton had, stab into the gap in his armor.
But unlike Hans's relatively light swings...
'Aura in the blade makes it heavy as a boulder, fuck.'
With my current skill, I couldn't deflect Ain's attack that easily.
"Not bad for a green kid! Blocking a strike from me, an intermediate knight of the Baltrant family and the count's service!"
"Thanks a ton. Not that I'm grateful or anything."
"Lowborn mercenary scum can't even take a pure knight's praise properly. No wonder you're just a sellsword."
In comics or novels, sometimes the hero gets a kick out of the enemy praising their skill, but I can't relate at all.
Think about it: when these bastards toss me a half-compliment, doesn't it really mean this?
'You've got some talent, but you're dying to me anyway.'
It's basically a classy way to smack you down, and anyone who gets happy about that has shit for brains.
"Quit looking down on me, calling me mercenary this, mercenary that!"
"Can't you grasp the insurmountable wall of status between me—born to a noble house that's served Count Philorang for generations—and a worm like you?"
"That damn status bullshit! Trace your family tree back far enough, and your ancestors were probably lowborn scum just like me, right?"
Ain swung his sword in fury at my words.
"You dog-shit trash! How dare you insult my ancestors! Whatever happens, I'll rip that tongue out before I kill you!"
His attacks grew simpler and more predictable as he lost his cool.
Straight overhead to the neck, thrust to the armpit gap, stab at the waist-to-greave seam, or trying to body-slam me down.
A knight who's lost composure can't afford to skip feints or mind games against an equal—gotta read their moves.
One jab at his precious ancestors, and the guy's completely lost it.
"Sir Highborn Knight, your swordwork's so lackluster—how do you expect to win?"
"Shut your mouth, you bastard, or I'll kill you!"
"Then kill me if you can."
The more excited Ain got, the fiercer and stronger he pressed, like massive waves and howling gales shoving me back.
His simple, predictable attacks—honed over decades of real combat—were starting to wear me down as I kept blocking.
"Ugh..."
A low groan slipped out before I knew it.
My arms, after taking so many heavy blows, were starting to go numb like they were cramping up, and my legs felt like lead weights.
"Die, you lowborn mercenary scum! When you're a headless ghost in the afterlife, brag that Sir Ain praised your swordplay! It's the only thing a wretch like you has to boast about!"
"Fuck off with that nonsense—might as well pop a loaf in your side instead!"
"You bastard!"
Comparing our strengths right now, Ain's was a notch above mine.
It was a fight I could win, but to do it safely and surely, protecting my body... I had to seize the split-second opening and strike once, fatally.
Ain, blind to my intent, swung wildly in overconfidence that his skill outclassed mine, whipping up a storm to overwhelm me.
"You lowborn worm!"
"You're the lowborn one—'lowborn' is the only word in your pathetic vocabulary, you damn mongrel!"
"Calling a noble knight lowborn!"
I kept baiting him like squabbling kids, and Ain lost more and more control.
Then came a swing so telegraphed, stupidly obvious even to my eyes, aimed straight for my neck.
'Miss this, and I'm done!'
I tilted my head slightly left.
His blade grazed my neck shallowly.
Guess I miscalculated a bit.
Next time, no mistakes—do it right.
Even as I reflected, I calmly thrust my two-handed sword toward his neck.
"You filthy dog..."
Blood gushed like a fountain from where the blade sank in, soaking me, the sensation clear in my hands.
I immediately severed his head and hoisted it high.
"White Beard Mercenary Corps' Martin Meyer has beheaded intermediate knight Ain Baltrant! Long live Count Zaltzheim!"
All eyes turned to me.
Normally I'd savor the reaction, but right now, priority one was carving through as many of Count Philorang's men as possible to clinch the win.
So I raised my sword and charged straight into the enemy lines like a mad bull.
Naturally, the mercenaries serving Count Zaltzheim and his soldiers chased after me, piling on the support.
"Follow those White Beard bastards! Hurry up!"
"Kill 'em all, not one left! Fuck, payback time!"
"Ride this momentum—take Count Philorang's head!"
Even Count Philorang's standing troops—no, his knights—panicked.
"Hold formation! Formation, damn it!"
"Reinforcements are coming soon!"
"We outnumber them! Don't panic—advance, advance!"
War's fought with numbers sometimes, but victory always hinges on which side's morale tips.
So even against 1,000 foes, if your side's got the momentum, 100 can win easy.
But if you're winning and suddenly shit flips, getting crushed—how's that feel?
'No need to say it—fucking awful.'
From then on, me, the White Beard Mercenary Corps, the other merc groups, and the count's soldiers—all ramped up the momentum, mercilessly slaughtering Count Philorang's men.
As you'd expect... or maybe not so much.
That day, the mercenaries hired by Count Zaltzheim claimed victory.
Naturally, the White Beard Mercenary Corps were the top contributors.
The count knew it best of all and, unlike the other groups, promised us special rewards—which we happily drooled over as we followed him.