Chapter 42
Chapter 42
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 42
Chapter Title: Roybit Battle (3)
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“Ah, the smell of unfledged chicks who haven’t even grown peach fuzz yet. Hey, you cockmeat bastards over there—we’re real pros with some scary skills. If you wanna stay alive, drop those spears and haul ass right now.”
“If you run like your dicks are on fire, who knows? Might even survive.”
“If my big bro had married his first love, he’d already have kids your age—that’s why I’m worried for you. This is all tough love for your own good, you cockmeat rookies.”
Up until now, every bastard we’d run into could only hurl curses at us.
But these Montmartre Snail fuckers we’d bumped into this time? They were top-tier trash—cursing like pros and mocking us like absolute scumbags.
Wow, fuck. Listening to their bullshit, it was like a bunch of washed-up old fogeys with nothing to brag about except racking up years.
‘Just hearing it makes me wanna puke. I need to kill them quick and force those mouths shut.’
And with that, I lowered the halberd blade below the waist of the old fart right in front of me.
So that when we clashed, I could immediately sweep aside his spear shaft and harvest his neck.
“What the—? Do they think we’re three-year-old kids or some shit? Alzheimer’s kicking in?”
“You’re the ones shitting your pants and dying to run, right? Your mouths are crooked, but spit it straight.”
“You retarded fucks, we’ll show you just how strong Martin’s platoon really is.”
These Montmartre Snail bastards—already riled up from morning wood—were trying to provoke our hot-blooded youths into losing their cool.
If this kept up, the second we hit their formation, one or two hotheads might break ranks and get themselves killed.
So I immediately channeled aura into my voice and taunted back.
“We’re young, so our cocks stand right up, nice and hard. But you old shits? You’ve shoveled years up your asses, and now you can’t even get it up anymore. Looks like you’ve got tons of experience pissing yourselves while running away. Old, limp-dicked weaklings! You’re already scouting escape routes as you come at us, aren’t you?”
I didn’t mix in any harsh swears, but hitting on an old man’s biggest insecurity—erectile dysfunction—did the trick...
“You fucking cock-sucking bastard! How can any man spew such vile shit?!”
“Oh, can’t get it up? Sorry about that.”
My platoon’s spears slammed head-on into the enemy mercenaries’.
As we all tried to sweep each other’s shafts aside, dull thwack-thwack sounds echoed everywhere.
“These kids grip their spears like they’ve got no fucking spine! That why you young punks can’t even stay hard at night?”
The mercenaries hired by these Montmartre Snails kept provoking us nonstop.
Maybe it was because they had no real achievements in life besides popping out on time from their mom’s womb—or maybe I was just numb to it from all the flaming trash talk in Korean online games.
Either way, their curses didn’t faze me personally one bit.
“Fuck, fuck!”
“You idiot, the platoon leader said stick to training! Keep sweeping those spears!”
“Fuck! Argh, this fucking sucks!”
The rookies had no room for stray thoughts—they were just fighting by the book against these battle-hardened vets charging with solid spearwork.
“Those snail fucks look like they stuffed vets into their first and second rows to seize initiative. Real dirty play.”
Holding their own against decent fighters like that? More than enough—they were doing goddamn great.
Because if I’d half-assed the training, our formation would’ve crumbled by now, leaving me to solo a tearful anal show just to hold it together.
“Ugh, fuck. You limp-dick who couldn’t get hard even if you tried...”
“I’ll show you cockmeat shits what this elder’s made of.”
As screams of guys from both our platoon and the enemy started dropping...
I charged at the foe in front of me with ferocious momentum.
“Fuck! Take that bastard down! He’s coming to break our formation!”
“Rat-faced vermin!”
“Show ’em the terror of the Golden Chicken Mercenary Corps! Turn ’em into porcupines!”
A few spears zeroed in on me.
Aiming for my neck, armpits, crotch, and face.
They all had iron breastplates—decent fighters for sure—but whipping up this kind of instant teamwork on the fly?
‘One day, I’ll command soldiers who can pull off links like this too, fuck yeah?’
I grumbled jealously, and they came at me in a rage, thrusting all at once.
“The fucker who’s dying today sure talks a big game!”
No way a halberd specialized for massacring peasants could sweep that many spears.
‘Gotta dodge.’
I shifted my body left by just half a half-step.
“Fuck? He dodged that...?”
“Montmartre Snail bastards are slow as shit, but they fuck like rabbits?”
“Cock...”
I channeled aura into my left foot, kicked off the ground, and swung the halberd with full power.
The hammer head on the blade smashed the guy in front’s skull like a bursting watermelon.
Brains, eyeballs, blood, and chunks of flesh exploded out like fireworks.
“Thought you snail fucks would have transparent blood. Guess not.”
After scraping their insides good, I started hacking through the surrounding bastards wildly.
With the spear-tip on the blade, I stabbed the guy dead ahead; with the hammer, I leaped at those a bit farther, smashing down or up into torsos and heads to pulp them.
This might look no different from my meat-shield or squad leader days.
‘But when your position changes, you gotta change with it.’
“Martin’s platoon, push in! Stick to formation like we trained—sweep the spears you see and stab right after! Vets and squad leaders, if the rookies freeze, call out the cadence!”
“Yes, Platoon Leader!”
“Just do it like training! If you can’t, I’ll survival-train you so hard you’ll wish I’d just let you die today!”
Manga, anime, novels—they all say “just like training” a lot.
It’s textbook gold that works every damn time, anywhere, anytime.
Real combat’s different from drills for sure, but sticking to training minimizes fuck-ups in the field.
“Argh!”
Even I, back when I fought Count Zaltzheim, had just charged in leading my squad willy-nilly...
‘One platoon going rogue ain’t worth it if the whole corps gets fucked.’
So I shelved any wild rampage ideas completely.
‘Holding our ground and fighting’s plenty.’
“Push forward! Time to show these hunched-back old farts how hot our spear shafts burn!”
“Fuck survival training again? I’d rather die! Fuck, fuck!!”
“You dog fucks know what those shitty number-eight stretches are? You don’t?!”
Rookies and vets alike, venting their rage from the hell of survival training.
To me, it was just a heartwarming sight. To the enemy? This:
Elite troops moving in perfect sync, charging like rabid zombie fucks screaming about survival drills.
‘Gotta make this a regular thing for morale and stamina boosts.’
As we broke through their first and second rows, slowly overwhelming them...
“Fuck, you shits! Why the hell are you still gripping spears and bitching?! Thrusting at enemies pushing in is no different from fucking the air!”
“Pull back! You crazy fucks! Hit ’em all at once!”
“Men my ass, getting scared like this—fuck, rip your dicks off!”
The enemy merc officers stepped up personally to rally morale, and they started resisting again.
“You primitive shitheads who only know beer! I, platoon leader Dilten of the Golden Chicken Mercenary Corps, will send your necks straight to Deus!”
Some prime bastard like the ones I used to face showed up, dual-wielding a sword as big as a torso and rampaging.
Every swing took one of my platoon guys’ lives.
“You fucking hook-nosed son of a bitch! After all the work I put into raising those kids.”
I tossed the halberd, grabbed my sword, and was about to charge—
When I spotted Karin nocking an arrow at him.
Her ent-branch bow glowed faintly green with concentrated mana, wind stirring around her.
‘Looks just like a mage.’
As I paused to watch, the Golden Chicken heads swarmed me like dogs in heat.
“Die, you mad dog fuck!”
“I’ll make you fuck the air!”
“Gimme that armor!”
Amateurs bunching up? Still weak-ass scrubs headed for dog death.
Why do they think numbers make ’em strong enough to beat me?
I batted their weapons aside with my sword.
“Fucking... shit.”
Then sliced their necks and torsos.
“Did your moms teach you to gangbang one chick during sex? Why else would weak shits like you cluster up and throw tantrums?”
Meanwhile, Karin aimed her arrow at the enemy.
“Armor or not, arrows still pierce flesh.”
Their platoon leader charged her with a sneer, but I didn’t move to protect her.
The enemy platoon leader scoffed.
“Think that flimsy arrow with no power can pierce this armor?”
Karin didn’t reply.
She just loosed the wind-wrapped arrow.
It punched straight through the big bastard’s visor eyehole. He crumpled.
‘......Fuck, that’s badass. Falling for her again.’
At the same time, the Golden Chicken heads called for reinforcements.
They looked panicked, but they’d brought a mage knowing this might happen—no worries.
“Go fuck yourselves.”