Chapter 6
Chapter 6
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Chiptin Plains Battle (4)
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By the time I'd resolved to absorb everything those two had to offer through my own experience, Max the Thirty-Man Leader had leveled his short halberd at the enemy.
Though I couldn't see aura clinging to the halberd like it did with Captain Dalton's, I could feel the battle-hardened intensity of a man who'd likely killed dozens—maybe even hundreds—during his years as a mercenary.
If this had been a duel between knights, they might've spouted all sorts of nonsense about honor and their noble lineages, going through those ridiculous pre-fight rituals before clashing swords...
But true to form as mercenaries who valued profit, coin, and pleasure over empty honor, they skipped the pointless theatrics and swung their weapons straight for the kill.
Unlike the clean swish when I swung my sword, their blades cut the air with a vicious whistle, like a heavy crossbow bolt loosed at full power.
And when the weapons collided, a sharp clang rang out clear as day.
Neither had formal swordsmanship training like knights or nobles, so their movements seemed a bit clumsy—maybe even clumsier than mine, at first glance.
Yet they wielded superhuman strength beyond mortal limits with effortless grace, thanks to the aura coursing through them.
"Dalton, you ugly-mugged bastard—even your ragtag crew has a decent fighter or two! Get on your knees and lick my boots right now, and I might just spare your worthless life!"
"What the hell did that filthy rag in your mouth make you choke on? If you're gonna spew crap like that, go suck your mama's tit and come back when you're done!"
"Fuck, I can take a lot of shit, but no one badmouths my parents! I'll rip your limbs off and it still won't be enough, you disrespectful prick!"
The two traded insults designed to shred each other's egos while locked in a deadlock of a fight. Even as soldiers from Dalton's Mercenary Corps and the Tristan Mercenary Corps battled around them, a few started cheering on their champion with sidelong glances.
"Squad Leader Schmitz, fuck that lanky pig up and slit his throat!"
"Platoon Leader Max, prove that Captain Dalton's mug isn't that ugly!"
"Schmitz! Schmitz!"
It might seem bizarre, like fans hollering at a wrestling match, but this clash was a captain's duel of sorts. Whoever won here could swing the entire battle's momentum.
If Schmitz triumphed, the tide would turn toward the Tristan Mercenary Corps, overturning our Dalton crew's current push in one fell swoop.
But if Platoon Leader Max lopped off Schmitz's head, our side would steamroll the Tristan bastards and smash them to pieces.
"Max, was it? Not bad with that halberd, but damn, boy—got no balls at all? Morning wood not working for you? No wonder your swings feel so limp."
Max paused, catching his breath before firing back.
"Shut your trap, you oversized, flaccid fuck who looks like he couldn't get it up if he tried. You a eunuch or what?"
"Don't you know just by looking? This old man's standing at attention day and night—no problems there! Hell, I had to ditch a girl on the way here 'cause it wouldn't quit!"
"Fuck, all you know how to do is fuck, you perpetual horn-dog..."
Regardless, the Tristan Mercenary Corps goons saw Max tiring and figured Schmitz would turn things around, pulling them out of their pinch.
Even as they fought our mercenaries, they snuck glances our way or bellowed cheers whenever they had a spare breath.
"Squad Leader Schmitz, you're badass! Fuck, grind that Max-or-whatever fucker's head into the dirt!"
"Take out that knight-wannabe prick over there yapping like a bitch!"
"Rip his head off! Yank it clean off and chuck it at 'em!"
Schmitz responded by gripping his two-handed sword with one hand, stretching like he was loosening up, then letting out a theatrical yawn to show his boredom.
Then, in a flash, his face twisted into a sinister grin laced with thick killing intent, like a different man had taken over.
"Wanted to play a bit longer, but my boys are begging me to stomp these clowns quick. What can I do? Been going easy till now, ass relaxed and all. But playtime's over—I'm cranking it up. Come at me, you Mark fuck who ain't worth a flea's fart."
I could sense the subtle shift in his aura. Up till then, it had felt like a brutal slugfest between brawlers.
Now, pure murderous intent poured from him, bent on killing. Max, too, seemed to muster every last ounce of strength, steeling himself to end the bastard.
"You bloated, wobbly slab of pig fat!"
His aura-charged foot stomped the ground, cratering the earth slightly.
Then, channeling his full body weight through his arm and wrist in perfect sync, he unleashed a heavy, blinding-fast strike straight for the enemy's solar plexus.
"Die, and jerk off next to Maria in heaven!"
Schmitz dropped his sword tip low, then slashed upward, snapping the halberd's shaft clean in two.
Max yanked a dagger from his belt to parry, but Schmitz's aura-infused blade was far quicker.
The two-hander whipped up a gale like a fan on full blast, bisecting Max's body in an instant. Blood sprayed everywhere.
Schmitz gripped his bloodied blade in one hand, shook off the gore, then thrust it skyward.
"Your boy Schmitz just turned one of their officer pigs into bloody rags! Any of you short-lived fucks under that ugly mug Dalton wanna step up and face me?"
Max was one of our top five fighters by raw power, yet the moment Schmitz got serious, he was cleaved in half like nothing.
No way any of us lesser scrubs could step up without courting instant death. No one dared challenge Schmitz, now dominating the battlefield's flow...
That's when I pushed through our side's heavy mood and strode toward him.
It looked insane to anyone watching—veterans yelled at me to stop—but I'd decided to face this aura-wielding monster head-on, even if it meant courting death just for the fight.
The reason? Even I thought it was ridiculous.
In this godforsaken game world, if I wanted wealth, fame, power, and beauties, I couldn't kneel to that smug bastard now.
This was my first war, first day even—like a moth diving into flames.
'I won't run, even if it means I drop him or die trying.'
Part of it was the influence of this Martin Meyer body I'd possessed, sure. But between fleeing and getting called a coward, I'd rather bet everything on a miracle and fight—that suited my style.
"I'll avenge Platoon Leader Max, you rock-carved ugly fuck!"
Schmitz clutched his gut, laughing at me.
"Fuck, now a cocky rookie who doesn't fear heaven jumps in? That armor looks way too fancy for your ass. Toss it over, and this old man might let your sorry hide live."
I flipped him the bird.
"How's a flabby pig like you gonna fit in my armor, you ignorant one-eyed twat?"
"Fuck, I can take a lot, but calling me ignorant? You look like a gelding, you prick!"
He swung his meter-long two-hander at me with full force, lightning-quick.
A whoosh slicing the air, the blade vanishing from sight in a blur, massive power barreling down...
Watching from the sidelines during his fight with Max was worlds apart from feeling it firsthand.
"Skinny little bitch good for whoring—let's split you helmet and all, see that pretty face!"
I angled my two-hander to deflect his overhead strike.
A crushing weight and shock slammed through my grip, rattling my whole body. One hell of a thrill.
"Fuck, you're heavy. That lumbering bulk make your swings as dumb as you?"
"Cute kid—just admit it's too much for your scrawny ass! What's so hard? Do that, and I'll halve you clean like your officer pal!"
His next blow came from the right. I dropped low, dodging just in time.
"Think running'll save you, greenhorn?"
Schmitz swung for my neck, but I tilted into it, letting my armor take the hit.
An Aura Expert who could cloak his blade would've bisected me armor and all...
But his level was just body reinforcement—no piercing my steel plate.
"Guh... fuck..."
I flew like a baseball smacked by a bat.
But fighting an aura user must've awakened the dormant potential in me. It felt like my body had finally grasped it.
Proof? I'd already cut down nearly ten foes, and after eating Schmitz's heavy hit, I should've been spent.
Yet battling for my life had naturally awakened my aura—now I felt stronger than before the war.
Bruises everywhere from his blow, but realizing my body's state gave me the guts to rise and fight again.
'Keep pushing, and I might take that bastard's head.'
With a clear goal in sight, that hulking wall blocking my path now felt like a mountain to climb—and I was itching for it.
"Big dumb pig, all you do is squeal!"
"If you were just gonna scurry like a rat, why come back? Guess you wanna die!"
"Shut your hole before I stitch it—I'll avenge Platoon Leader Max, Martin Meyer swears it!"
I clashed blades with the bastard.
The impact dwarfed anything before, but thanks to my faint grasp on aura...?
My body could take it, even if it hurt like hell...
Or so I thought. Suddenly, my strength ebbed away.
Dread flashed—am I dying here?—as he raised his sword high, sneering.
"Not bad for a rookie scrub, but meeting this old man ends your story. Don't feel too bad about your luck. Die!"
I steadied my breath, bracing to block somehow—then retreat horns blared from both armies.
Schmitz sheathed his blade, thumbing his throat in a slashing gesture.
"Fuck, retreat call. Can't break rules killing a green punk like you. Lucky bastard. Next battlefield, I'll halve that cute face."
The Tristan Mercenary Corps troops turned and left me behind.
I gathered my strength, stood tall, flipped 'em off, and yelled.
"Your mug's so ugly, even pigs'd spit it out! Next time, I'll check if it looks better off your shoulders. Worse than a wild boar's snout."
Then I rejoined Pior's squad veterans back at our lines.