Chapter 40
Chapter 40
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 40
Chapter Title: Roybit Battle (1)
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After deciding to join the Imperial Army, our mercenary corps hurried to the assembly point at Appelheim.
"...Hey, Mad Dog."
"Why do you call me, Captain Dalton?"
"Do we need a reason to call each other?"
I shook my head at his words.
"That's not it. Though it hasn't been long since we met, aren't we soulmates or something?"
As I joked around, Dalton laughed and smacked my shoulder a few times.
"What's with you, you flaky bastard? Save that shit for right before you croak. Damn, you're giving me chills in autumn—look at these goosebumps yourself."
To prove his cringey remark was real, Dalton took off his gauntlet and shoved his left arm at me.
Then he put on a serious face again and asked,
"Me, Heinz, and the other platoon leaders—we've all fought in battles between mercenary corps or noble houses, even nation-versus-nation wars."
"Yeah, you're saying I'm the only officer who's never been in a war this big? Don't worry, though. I've got full confidence I'll do just fine."
Honestly, my past life self had been a mercenary who made a name in nation-scale wars.
I'd fought guerrillas countless times, even civilians who suddenly turned on us with guns, and I'd killed more rebels than I could count while hired by African nations.
Dalton looked at my face and sighed.
"Hah, if you were some half-assed fodder spouting this crap, I'd chew you out for talking bullshit. But considering your track record, I can't."
I shrugged at that.
"I am pretty damn good. Turned those meat shield rookies into proper humans in just two months, didn't I?"
"Gotta give you that, you mad bastard. Anyway, check that out. That's the Rheinpfalz camp."
When we fought under Count Zaltzheim, security was lax as hell until we actually ran into the enemy.
"Already crazy tight. Thought they were statues. Holding spears at an angle in parade rest like that— no joke."
"Right? Well, when it's infighting like with Zaltzheim or the Pilloran guys, they follow some rules. But in nation-on-nation wars? Fuck rules. Ambushes on the march, looting, cutting supply lines, massacring civilians—it's all fair game."
Seeing the sentries' ironclad vigilance up ahead, and hearing Dalton's words, it finally hit me: this was a massive nation-versus-nation war.
Even though I hadn't laid eyes on the snail-eating Montmartre bastards' army yet.
The unique pressure of the battlefield weighed on my shoulders.
But more than that, my heart pounded like a boy's first love, my blood heating up.
'This is where I start building my fame across the continent...'
"Everyone calls Martin 'Mad Dog,' and damn if it doesn't fit. That fucker's a real mad dog bastard."
As I was about to fire back, a sentry thrust his spear our way and said,
"Halt. Mercenary corps name and proof of alliance."
"Name's Dalton von Prime. White Beard Mercenary Corps, 420 strong. Proof's right here."
The sentry checked the token, lowered his guard, and replied politely.
"Rheinpfalz silver token... confirmed. Please wait a moment."
"We've marched our asses off, so make it quick."
"Understood."
Soon, a knight and a mage appeared, both decked out in fancy armor.
"White Beard Mercenary Corps? You're Captain Dalton?"
"Yes."
"We'll verify the token right away. Ain, check it with magic."
The mage called Ain raised her staff and chanted a spell.
A light shone from the token in Captain Dalton's hand, revealing the silver Rheinpfalz Imperial crest.
"Verified. Good timing. I'll guide you to your camp myself. Captain, ride beside me. Got some things to pass on."
"Yes, sir."
"Call me Sir Sporcha. Let's get moving—I've got a ton on my plate."
Even if we're here for pay, we marched all this way to fight their war—least they could do is say thanks for coming.
If you're born noble, at least pretend to have some class. Makes you look good, and it cheers us up.
Whatever. If it pisses me off, I'll rack up merits and aim for the top tier.
'Gonna make a big name for myself this time too.'
Swallowing my frustration, I returned to the platoon, and Karin asked,
"Martin, something up? You look pissed."
I waved it off.
"Nah, nothing. Just hit me—we gotta show 'em what we got, like under Count Zaltzheim."
I glanced around as we passed through camp.
No one from baron, viscount, or count houses was openly trash-talking us, but...
"That the mercenary corps that did some shit under Zaltzheim?"
"Still just mercs. Not like us serving proper houses..."
"Even same commoners, they're different. Mercs live and die for coin—mayflies."
They're allies, but picking fights like this? Unbelievable.
The platoon looked deflated, glancing around nervously. Lucia fidgeted, her fox ears and tail drooping.
Back at Zaltzheim, I'd have comforted her quick, but...
I just watched.
Suddenly resolute, Lucia squared her shoulders, perking up her ears and tail.
She bit her lip looking at me, then...
"Platoon Leader said it, right? Can't let guys like that scare us..."
I nodded in agreement.
She stared at the mana stone staff I bought her, gripping it tight.
"Platoon Leader Martin believes in me, so I'll do my best to meet expectations. And I'll make this staff's worth in feats."
In the original story, she'd meet the protagonist in about four months.
Back then, she'd cower at a loud curse from anyone in the corps.
But my building her confidence, praising her hard—it's paying off now.
'Feels good seeing her turn my color.'
"Yeah, thanks."
I smiled brightly and stroked her head.
Lucia shyly smiled back, wagging her tail like a puppy.
"Hehe... I'll do my best."
Karin turned away, grumbling,
"Platoon Leader Martin's got a weird talent for charming people. Already got her hooked."
"I'm this good thanks to you, Senior. Always grateful."
"You sure can talk."
Then, to fire up the rookies trailing behind, I said,
"Listen up, you fodders. All that guerrilla drills and PT hell was for this moment. So no wimping out to these childish pricks picking fights, even if they're allies. I believe it."
The rookies gritted their teeth.
"Guerrilla drills, that goddamn PT... just thinking about it grinds my gears..."
I heard that punk—he thinks he's whispering, but nah.
"PT pissed me off most. Other mercs just spear-thrust drills, so why we roll like dogs?"
One rookie even glares at their soldiers, rookie or not.
Moment of truth: drill and guerrilla training boosted not just combat power, but morale too.
For a second, I even thought,
'Maybe brass make us do brutal training and pointless bullshit all day for this reason?'
But I shook it off. Pointless crap like repaving roads for division commander visits or fresh sand in the parade ground? No way.
Still, time to boost morale here.
"Looks like the Rheinpfalz Empire's noble troops are extra interested in us. Gotta cut loose proper on the battlefield. Right?"
Everyone agreed.
"Yes!"
Time to pour fuel on the fire.
"So if any fucker lags, fucks up, or cowers... PT numbers 8 and 11 as treatment."
A few months later, we faced off against the Montmartre Kingdom army.