Chapter 45
Chapter 45
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 45
Chapter Title: Burn Their Supplies First (1)
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White Beard Mercenary Corps command tent.
In conclusion, Captain Dalton didn't pay up for the meat or booze.
But it didn't exactly count as breaking his promise, so right now Dalton's grin was so wide it looked like it might split his ears clean off.
"Yeah, fuck. You really do get treated right when you're playing in the big leagues, even if you work yourself to death. Ain't that right, you bastards?"
Deputy Commander Heinz gave a wry smile and grumbled.
"Honestly, that night I was planning to get the captain pickled on booze and then squeeze the squad for cash to wring 'em dry. But fuck, how'd you slither out of it like this?"
Dalton ground his teeth a bit at that.
"You goddamn punk."
"Honestly, don't captains always splash cash like crazy when they're buzzed and happy? I wanted to see your wallet run bone dry."
"You, you little shit. You think I'd blow money like a total retard no matter what?"
"Nah, you're not that bad. If you did, we'd kick your ass to the curb, fuck."
Our captain might splash cash freely when he's in a good mood, but he's not the type to go overboard and bankrupt the mercenary corps' finances.
Hell, if he were, he never could've run a group like this in the first place.
That said, Heinz shot a knowing glance at the other officers.
The other platoon leaders snickered as they looked at Dalton.
"Captain, wasn't it that time with whoever in Zaltzheim? You liked some chick named Alice's tits so much you tossed ten gold coins from your wallet."
"This armor I'm wearing? You bought it for me from that camp merchant at three times market price when I got you drunk."
"Honestly, that's why I was kinda hoping. I'd been eyeing some expensive broad myself."
Our captain just let out a hearty laugh at that.
"You sneaky fucks, like a bunch of crows dying to pick my pockets clean?"
I wanted to chime in with something like, "I've got a short career, but have you done that too?" and pile on...
But his face was beet red, and poking him more seemed like it'd end badly.
I'm no gentleman, but even Confucius said to steer clear of danger if you wanna live long.
The other platoon leaders eyed Dalton's face a few more times, then suddenly whistled and changed the subject.
"So why'd you call us all of a sudden? Yesterday you said there wouldn't be much going on anymore, so no need for meetings like this."
Dalton grinned and shrugged.
"That was true up till yesterday, but today—fuck—Viscount Gatten, the formations officer, singled us out for some important orders. You shitty bastards."
Formations officer—another way to put it, he's the guy in charge of bunching up mercenary groups of various sizes into proper units.
For example, a company formations officer might handle four thirty-man mercenary groups.
And our viscount oversees the formation of around three thousand men, including the White Beard Mercenary Corps.
That got the platoon leaders' attention.
"Ha, fuck. Finally getting some recognition for our worth?"
"Yeah, you shitty bastards. Looks like word of you fucks fighting your asses off reached the bigwigs' ears."
A smile crept onto my face too, and my shoulders shook with excitement.
In the middle of a war, catching the eye of the 'higher-ups' and getting an opportunity like this is a stepping stone to boost my skills and value even higher.
It'd mean tons of new challenges ahead.
As I was thinking that, Dalton shot me a glance and nodded.
A short, simple signal, but damn, this felt like a really good sign.
The other officers seemed to think the same, 'cause they started going wild.
"Fuck, didn't I say? A crew like ours can hang with the big leagues. We're not quite first-rate with five to ten Aura Experts, but we could get there with effort."
Platoon Leader Walter smacked the guy on the back of the head.
"Full of shit coming out your hardtack-stuffed gut, you moron. That's why chicks hate your ugly ass."
"Like you're some stud, fuck."
Dalton watched them for a bit, then clapped a few times.
"Cut the crap and listen up. Recognition or opportunity means shit if we don't pull it off. Fuck up after all this hype, and we'll be worse off than rotting in a corner."
Wherever you go in this world, opportunities come around now and then if you live long enough.
Grab one, and you climb even a little—but fuck it up, and you'll crash to the rock bottom of hell, and not just once or twice.
So hyping up now was straight-up retarded.
"Viscount Gatten wants us to sever one of the enemy's supply lines completely."
Cut off the enemy army's supply route.
The officers all let out sighs and gave hollow laughs.
"Fuck, had to be some shitty-ass order."
"Still, fuck, we pulled off cutting those Montmartre snail bastards' supplies—that dangerous shit. Nail this, and our rep skyrockets."
"You think I don't know that? But starving 'em means they get real pissy, and it ain't easy. Think those snail fucks only got dicks for brains like some green recruits?"
The importance of supplies boils down to one thing.
'Cut the supplies, and everyone starves.'
Sit on your ass starving and you'll drop dead—but in war, a few days without food and you'll go mad and keel over.
Deputy Heinz asked,
"So, specifically, when do we smack 'em from behind?"
"Three days from now, the camp merchants are hauling food and booze through near Alpenroot Mountain. We hit 'em then."
"Ha, fuck. Good thing the damn merchants ain't crossing the open plains. They'd have those goblin-gold-grubbing bastards and their mercenary guards swarming."
Dalton laughed at that.
"You moron, you think even I'd pick a fight on empty plains against who-knows-how-many?"
"If they force it, what choice we got?"
"Even if they pay top coin and the guy's a noble, if they say 'kill 'em for no reason,' we tell 'em to fuck off and bail. Worst case, we die—what's left?"
Soldiers under a nation get pensions or compensation if they die in battle, but we get jack shit if we croak.
No wonder employers secretly pray mercenaries shine bright then die in some 'accident.'
Work 'em like dogs, no payout.
Dalton cleared his throat.
"Anyway, here's my plan."
He pointed near Alpenroot Mountain and lowered his voice.
"We're exempt from marching starting tomorrow for this op. Pack up tomorrow afternoon and move to Alpenroot. Scout their position, numbers, the terrain around the likely paths."
Know your enemy and yourself, and you won't lose a hundred battles—even if not a hundred wins.
As expected from a guy who's a senior knight and five years as merc captain—textbook stuff. Gotta learn from this.
"Then, by the book, we ambush when they hit the mountain path. What do you all think?"
They pondered a bit, then nodded.
"Numbers unknown, so yeah, that works."
But I shook my head and objected.
"I'm against it."
"Why you?"
I sighed like the ground might cave in.
"Captain, you think they won't expect that? The Montmartre snail bastards might be weak, but their heads ain't rotten."
Platoon Leader Walter chimed in.
"Martin's got a point. If they've got brains, they'll think the same."
Heinz nodded too.
"Could fuck us if we assume they're like the trash we've fought before."
Seeing them agree, I spoke with confidence.
"So hit 'em when they're most off-guard. They know mountain paths are prime ambush spots. Right after the mountain, there's that forest."
"True."
"Tougher for us to hide, but one strike from the woods catches 'em slacking."
Dalton asked,
"What do you think of Martin's take? I say it's solid."
The other platoon leaders didn't object much.
"If they've got half a brain, they'll watch the mountain paths..."
"Worst case, forest's better for bugging out than mountains."
"Let's do it. That crazy dog Martin got us out of hanging with the Zaltzheim count."
With consensus, Dalton grinned.
"Scout once, gauge their size, then ambush from the forest and fuck 'em up. Prep accordingly."