Chapter 37
Chapter 37
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 37
Chapter Title: Victory and Rewards (4)
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As I entered the mercenary corps headquarters barracks, the other executives who had arrived first all rose from their seats and greeted me enthusiastically.
“Hey, Mad Dog Martin’s here. In my long mercenary career, you’re the first punk I’ve seen climb to platoon leader at your age. Martin, you crazy bastard!”
Walter the platoon leader kicked things off like that, and the others chimed in, ribbing me right away.
“Whoever came up with that nickname nailed it. From the first time I saw you, I thought your head was a bit off, but the shit you’ve been pulling lately? Yeah, you’re a real mad dog.”
“Honestly, when you got told to fuck off to another corps and get treated like a veteran mercenary, and you still volunteered as a meat shield to start out? I knew right then your leaves were yellow.”
“Fuck, you guys are relentless. Martin, you little shit, you gotta buy your big brothers a round, right? Gonna get wasted off your drinks tonight.”
If there’d been even one asshole like Pior here, he’d have spewed all sorts of bullshit to keep me in check.
But the guys talking to me now, different as they were, were all genuinely congratulating me on my promotion.
“Then the baby of the group will buy a round. But I don’t know any good spots, so you brothers pick the tavern.”
“Sweet, there’s a decent place nearby. After the meeting wraps up, I’ll...”
Dalton, standing behind me, smacked Walter the platoon leader upside the head.
“Captain, why hit a perfectly fine guy in the back of the head? That shit hurts like hell, fuck.”
“You’re talking shit, so you get hit, dumbass. You lot wanna mooch drinks off a guy who just got promoted to platoon leader?”
At that, the other executives whistled and turned their heads away dramatically.
“These fuckers got no shame, no shame at all. What, did they ferment their conscience in a beer keg or something?”
“Still, as a sign of respect from the rookies to their seniors...”
“Cut the crap and pool your money to treat Martin. If it weren’t for that mad dog bastard, our corps would’ve gotten fucked too, right? That’s the least you assholes can do to be human.”
Dalton wrapped up the mood like that.
“Everyone sit your asses down. We gotta get this started quick so you can use those bonuses you pocketed to buy Martin drinks or hit the brothel for some top-shelf whores, whatever.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The playful vibe from moments ago turned dead serious in an instant.
“Quartermaster, how long can we hold out doing jack shit?”
“Count Zaltzheim gave us a generous payout, so half a year—no, about eight months. If we cut salaries and such, maybe up to a year.”
Dalton let out a hollow laugh at that.
“We pull a dying bastard out of the fire, and he pays us fat stacks. Fuck, next time that guy hands out a job, we’ll come running like dogs and bite. Right?”
“Yes, unlike those other nobles who stiff you on payout no matter the deed, he rewarded us proper for our merits. About 2.5 times market rate, so no complaints there.”
“Thanks to that sucker, we could chill for two months. Fuck it, just rest up...? Or keep grinding since we’re on a roll?”
If it were up to me, I’d love to take a break and hunt for spirit herbs...
But intel from tavern crawls says a full-on war—the kind where the White Beard Mercenary Corps and I can jack up our rates—is about to explode like crazy.
So we gotta ride this wave now.
‘Chance for a huge score’s right in front of us—if I don’t step up now? That’d make me a real idiot.’
While I was lost in thought, Vice-Captain Heinz slammed his fist on the table.
“Strike while the iron’s hot—time to make bank, fuck! Rack up fame so we can build to 500, hell, one day like that bastard Manshtein with his 30,000-plus mercs. Right, Captain?”
“Like that horny Mercenary King with 20 wives? You nuts?”
Heinz scratched his head at that.
“Not that far, but we gotta scale up the corps. Gotta bulk up when fame’s hot. No guarantee another shot like this comes around.”
The other executives jumped in too.
“Dalton, Captain, honestly, we wanna trade this platoon leader shit for something flashy like Hundred-Man Leader, fuck. Means we gotta grow the outfit.”
Walter the platoon leader even clapped.
“Ride the momentum and scale big, yeah, Captain? Then hit wars started by dukes or kings for a fat payday and snag a title.”
No wars now, but this world’s about to get way more chaotic.
Like he said, tons of nobles’ll crash and burn, and mercs’ll slide into those spots as new lords.
“Fuck, a title for the likes of me? Cut the bullshit. Keep it up, and I’ll snap your necks.”
Dalton said that, but he wasn’t hating it—his lip twitched up then down.
“Hey, Martin. What’s your take?”
“Obviously, blow up the size when our name’s hot. Can’t keep scraping by in backwaters forever.”
Heinz gave me a baffled look.
“You smoke some mana grass or what, fuck?”
I answered calmly.
“How long you think the fame lasts for dragging Count Zaltzheim back from the brink after he almost got his throat slit by Philo and his baron? A year tops before it fades in this dump.”
“Fair.”
“Mercs can’t live like fancy knights or lucky standing army dads, training at home under some ‘elite’ banner, right?”
Dalton nodded along.
“True, we gotta grab the next gig when rates peak to hold our spot. Industry might call one big score luck, but twice? That’s skill.”
“Plus, tavern talk says the Rhinepalz Emperor’s on death’s door. No crown prince to inherit either. What happens then?”
Tavern rumors ain’t gospel, sure.
But in this game world, the Emperor kicking it soon is straight fact.
“Princes’ll beat the shit outta each other for the throne. You wanna dive in with a puny 200-man crew? Or roll deep with thousands of elite mercs like Manshtein that horny fuck and grab a real cut?”
Most execs dream of borrowing big, building a countryside mansion, stuffing it with hot chicks for a harem.
And some actually cash out huge, retire, and live it.
Even if not, unless you’re a small-timer like Pior hoarding pay for retirement, hitting platoon leader means dreaming Hundred-Man Leader or better.
Retire as that, not quite knight-level, but slide under a secure baron or count for ‘near-noble’ perks and easy living.
The other platoon leaders piled on.
“Fuck, Dalton, Captain. Our rates are skyrocketing now, right? We yanked a count from hell—time to blast off.”
“Martin’s right. War or no, we bulk up, won’t starve for gigs.”
“One life, not two.”
Dalton sighed and nodded.
“Fuck, you’re not wrong. Peak fame now, land another big one, we’re near top-tier. Huge win.”
Then he stomped right up to me.
Stuck a smug look on his face, stared me down, and taunted.
“But kid, if we go your way, vet rates skyrocket too, and we’ll fill with cannon fodder scrubs... You handle that? Half the guys under you this time were useless shits outside your crew. Can’t war with that.”
Mercs—or soldiers this era—drop like flies in a hundred-man company if a few limbs get hit.
Scale sloppy with rookies, and strength dips.
But...
‘That’s ‘cause this era’s mercs don’t drill basics hard.’
“Guys like Baker and Max under me—snot-nosed shits—what made ‘em different? Lump all the rookies on me and gimme two months.”
Dalton smirked.
“Why two?”
“That’s how long to forge cannon fodder into men. Grind ‘em till they puke blood—they’ll shape up.”
“Fucking mad dog fits you perfect.”
“Thanks for the praise.”
Dalton stared into my eyes for a full minute, then sighed deep.
“Everyone’s on board, so let’s scale big this time. And fuck, word is Rhinepalz Empire and Montmart Kingdom are about to clash hard. Perfect, heading to Zaltzburg anyway—recruit there. That’s the plan. Dismissed.”
Before war glory, gotta turn hundreds of rookies human in two months. Whatever, fuck it, it’ll work out.
And more importantly, date with Karin’s coming up soon?