Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Battle of Chiptin Plains (2)
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The guy who'd been jiggling his spear in front of me dropped dead, and right away, the bastard behind him thrust his long spear forward to fill the gap.
"This flea-bitten shit killed Peter? A moron like you got damn lucky."
In war, the one who lets their blood rush to their head first is the loser. So why the hell was this guy mouthing off like that from the start?
Here we were, spears pointed at each other's throats, killing or being killed—getting all hot-headed like that wouldn't do anyone any good. Seeing him shake with rage, this asshole seemed like a scrub too. I hoped so, anyway.
Facing a tough opponent in your first real battle, scraping through a near-death experience—that was bad enough. Worse was running into a real monster and only being good for Meat Shield duty, dying pointlessly. Way better to safely take down a bunch of morons like this and survive, right?
"Sir Zakri here will drill a hole right through your neck!"
The guy's eyes were locked on my throat, but the real target was my armpit.
A feint before the thrust.
I had to admire the sharp, precise strike aiming for the narrow gap under my arm, but I just nudged his spear shaft to deflect it completely.
His long spear flew aside with a whoosh, and I drove mine straight at the heart of the bastard in his padded cloth armor.
"Die and go chase Peter and his mommy, you son of a bitch."
That quilted armor, nothing but a few layers of cloth, was useless against my heavy thrust. Soon, the sensation of piercing and mangling his heart traveled up my hands.
The subtle feel transmitted through the shaft—like stabbing meat with a kitchen knife—the blood coating it wasn't mine, but from the two dying bastards.
This time, unlike my first kill, I felt that sensation clearly.
"Laughing to yourself like an idiot. Or does cursing a dead man do shit?"
I'd skewered two enemy mercenaries in a flash, but no guilt whatsoever.
In novels, games, or even real wars, plenty of folks' mental game crumbles from the agony of killing with their own hands, even when it's kill or be killed.
But me? I felt the anxiety I'd harbored before stepping into battle melt away inside.
Probably because the original owner of this body I possessed was a merciless bastard who shed no tears or blood for enemies.
"Ha, easier than I thought."
Muttering that, I took a deep breath in and out, and suddenly the tension in my body and mind eased.
Was that why? My vision, locked only on what was right in front of me, suddenly widened. I could see my surroundings now, and my ears picked up the sounds around me.
Some three hundred soldiers from both sides clashed spears in a battle of wills; the ones who faltered got ruthlessly impaled and died.
In the midst of it, the rookies who'd joined the mercenaries with me were living up to the "Meat Shield" name—barely able to thrust properly, just desperately trying to deflect incoming spears.
"You rat-headed piece of shit, shit yourself to death!"
"Can't even curse right with that ugly mug. Fuck, you're a virgin, aren't you, you pathetic prick?"
"You limp-dick rookies! Hey, fuck! Ram that spear into the asshole in front of you like you're pounding a whore!"
Meanwhile, the highborn from the baron's house—not the Mercenary Captain—were swinging useless swords from the rear, striking poses and barking orders.
"Fight for Baron Tilen! Fight without sparing your lives!"
"Victory brings great rewards! Fight! Fight, I say!"
If they wanted to win so bad, those noble fucks should step up front and fight themselves. Hiding in the back, just yelling encouragement? Made no sense.
Hell, on a battlefield full of dudes, if they really wanted to hype us up, bring some cheerleader babes. But bearded manly men shouting like that? Kills the fighting spirit...
"Die! Grind your mouth into the dirt and eat shit, you bastard!"
"Go jerk off in front of your dead mom's grave."
I helped end the pathetic life of the third bastard charging at me with his spear.
As I pulled my spear from his body and reset my stance, a loud shout came from behind the corpse.
"Wearing full armor? Looks like you're worth something. Hand it over, you gravel-faced rookie punk!"
He attacked at the same time, trusting his iron armor to block my spearhead. Then, an arrow whistled past right behind me.
"Fuck, a homo shooting arrows..."
The arrow slammed dead-center into the throat of the guy trying to skewer me.
The man gurgled blood and collapsed. From behind, Karin's voice rang out.
"Rookie, keep your head in the game. Or I'll be in danger too."
I spun around quick, ducking my head in thanks.
"Thank you, Senior Mercenary Karin. You saved my life."
She glanced at me, looking a bit shy.
"Backing up rookies so they don't die is a senior mercenary's job. No need to thank me."
A bearded dude acting like that might've looked lame, but coming from a pretty girl, even her bashfulness was picturesque.
"Pior's squad! Rally up! Rally!"
Hearing the Squad Leader call for assembly, I quickly scanned around.
A decent number of soldiers from both sides had already died.
In games, this was when formations broke, and the real brawl for momentum began—pushing through to deal massive damage.
"Yes, Squad Leader!"
Following the order, I moved to the Squad Leader. Our ten-man squad was down to eight—two of the veterans who'd been ribbing me as a rookie were dead. It hit like the dark side of war, different from games.
But Pior didn't give me time to dwell, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
"Rookie, stick shoulder-to-shoulder with the guys around you—no gaps! We're gonna boar-charge their lines like a pack! Get ready!"
The veterans who'd been joking with me moments ago now wore grim, serious faces. Even without game knowledge, I knew this was the critical turning point of the battle.
Pior slapped Karin's shoulder.
"Karin, you're out! Support from the rear with the lord's hired archers!"
Our original ten-man squad was down to seven. Then Dalton the Captain's order blared with the trumpet sounding.
"Full charge! Fuck, ram your spears into those rookies ahead like you're balls-deep in a whore—pierce 'em through!"
With that, we advanced slowly, matching pace, tension high but steady.
"Argh, fuck!"
"Help! Someone put out the fire! My body's burning! That fucking mage who can only cast from the back..."
"You premature weaklings jabbing like limp-dicked grubs under that shitty baron—drop your spears and go suck mommy's tits!"
For nearly two minutes, we pushed forward, eating arrows and spells, until their spear tips were close enough to kiss ours.
The Squad Leader saw it and roared loud enough to burst eardrums.
"Thrust! Just ram your spears into the bastards in front of you!"
After clashing spears a few times with the guy ahead, I gripped hard and smacked his spear left.
It whipped aside, and I followed the momentum to stab him.
Then Dalton the Captain's Aura-amplified voice boomed like a megaphone, rattling my eardrums.
"Break their formation! Find the gaps and dive in! Fuck, penetrate 'em deep and hard like you're fucking!"
Right then, the bastard I'd been facing died, creating a brief gap before the next one stepped up.
This body—Martin Meyer's—urged me: now was the time to trust my armor and swordsmanship and plunge in.
I agreed; perfect timing. I tossed my long spear, drew the bastard sword at my waist, and stepped forward.
"You thumb-sized runt begging to die? I'll skewer you on my spear and make you squeal!"
The guy ahead was skilled, thrusting fast with his spear, but I leaned right to dodge.
Then swung my sword, severing his head.
His neck sailed into the sky where my blade had passed, and I dove deeper into their formation, hunting the next victim.