Chapter 69
Chapter 69
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 69
Chapter Title: Your Nape Looks So Smackable?(1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“Captain Dalton, if we keep going like this, the men are all gonna die, honest to God! Martin’s putting up a hell of a fight, but he’s got his limits, damn it.”
“I get that, but if we push just a little harder, we can win this.”
“You’ve been saying the exact same thing from day one till now, haven’t you? Meanwhile, seven percent of our Mercenary Corps has either died or been crippled.”
We call a full wipe in battle thirty percent, and in historically famous major wars, battles where you lose over ten percent of your forces are common.
So you might think losing seven percent isn’t that big a deal...
But battles that go down in history are rare outliers to begin with. In real wars, if you lose over five percent dead or wounded, that’s already considered a massive toll.
‘I get why that guy Hans is pissed.’
That said, I don’t agree with his argument.
Dalton yelled so loud my ears hurt, his face flushed with anger.
“Who doesn’t know that, damn it? But if we retreat now, it’s all for nothing! The sacrifices of the dead and crippled will have been in vain!”
“Still, avoiding even bigger losses...”
“Our reputation will tank too. The fame we got from Martin chopping off that pervert maniac Expert’s head, the renown from grinding our men to capture Viscount Bishi alive—that’ll all go down the drain!”
We call that a “sunk cost” in professional terms.
It means if I give up now, all our investment so far becomes irrecoverable—literally “buried cost” if you break down the hanja.
Anyway, I stepped into the tent where those two were arguing.
Inside were Captain Dalton, Vice Captain Heinz, Hundred-Man Leader Hans, and the other key officers from platoon leader and up.
The moment Hans saw my face, he ground his teeth like he had a grudge.
“Why the hell are you barging in uninvited? Don’t you know when to butt in and when not to?”
Our Mercenary Corps rank structure goes Captain, Vice Captain, Hundred-Man Leader, Senior Platoon Leader, Platoon Leader—so yeah, Hans outranks me and can pull rank...
‘But that doesn’t mean I’m someone he can just walk all over.’
I straightened my shoulders, locked eyes with him, and said,
“I’m not some snot-nosed meat shield rookie. I’m a full-fledged Senior Platoon Leader. I’ve got every right to be here.”
Hans’s face turned red as he glared daggers at me.
“This bastard gets a little praise for his heroics and now he’s straight-up disrespecting me?”
What nonsense.
Sure, everyone including me respects that Hans has twenty years under his belt as a mercenary with the White Beard Mercenary Corps and others.
Mercenary work is the kind where you could drop dead any day, so surviving two decades without dying means he’s damn competent.
But I’ve racked up achievements in just two years to climb this far, and my rep is such that any noble house would knight me on the spot if I applied.
‘Doesn’t that make me way more valuable and capable?’
Still, picking fights with the veterans would crack my own reputation.
I took a deep breath, lowered my voice, and said,
“I’m not disrespecting you. I’m just saying I’m not some green kid anymore. I’m a Senior Platoon Leader.”
He just ground his teeth at that—no comeback.
Dalton sighed and said,
“Damn it, Hans. You’re a Hundred-Man Leader now—cut it out. What’s with picking on a kid half your age?”
“Sorry.”
“Fine, our situation sucks, so I’ll chalk this up to bad moods. But Martin’s a proper Senior Platoon Leader, a pillar holding up our Mercenary Corps’s rep. Don’t mess with him.”
The captain crushing Hans’s face while backing me felt damn good.
My position had climbed this high—I couldn’t help but puff out my chest.
“So, you got something to say?”
“Yes. I have a tactical proposal.”
Dalton raised an eyebrow, shrugged, then said,
“Oh? A plan in this mess? Can’t wait to hear what our Senior Platoon Leader Martin’s got cooking.”
I’d proposed ops to Captain Dalton before, but the moment always tensed me up.
Last time it was just us two, but now everyone’s watching—extra nerves...
‘Still, my plan will work.’
I clenched my fist tight and spoke with full confidence.
“Feigned retreat, then hit that fortress with a surprise attack. We can take Seriz Fortress that way.”
Hans scoffed at that, while the others including Dalton tilted their heads.
“Not totally crazy, but you think the baron guarding that place will fall for such a cheap trick? Better to just keep pushing than risk some half-baked plan.”
In most cases, fake retreats followed by day-one strikes are cookie-cutter tactics that won’t land.
That’d just give the baron time to rest.
The second we pull out, he gets that one or two days to shore up defenses.
‘Attacking a beefed-up Seriz Fortress again would cost us way more lives.’
Just imagining it made me want to puke.
“If the fortress garrison was regular conscripts, standing troops, or mercenaries, Baron Seik would ‘fortify defenses first’ and regroup while resting. Since who knows when we’ll hit again.”
“Looking at that Baron Seik, yeah, he’d hunker down and chill first.”
I clicked my tongue and shook my head at that.
“Captain Dalton, but sixty percent of Baron Seik’s troops are local serfs, right? And our White Beard Mercenary Corps—including me—has mowed them down countless times. Their morale’s shot to hell right now.”
Dalton and even Hans nodded at that.
“Mercenaries or regulars can hold morale somehow even with heavy losses, but serfs? They’re shaking and begging for mercy at the sight of a drawn sword. They’ve held up this long—that’s miracle enough. Now, if the enemy pulls back, they’ll think it’s good news but still order repairs and reinforcements on the walls ‘just in case.’ What happens then? Morale, already rock bottom, plummets straight to hell.”
Baron Seik ordering “fortress defense upgrades” after brutal fighting is like this:
Running troops through full-kit winter training for eight straight days and nights, then right back to base amid a blizzard where the camp might collapse—hand them shovels for massive entrenchment work.
After surviving hell worse than winter drills—watching neighbors, family, kin like brothers die in war—doling out that order?
‘They’ll grab hoes and flails and go for the baron’s neck.’
“So the baron will find a compromise.”
“Compromise? What kind?”
“Day one fake retreats are too common, so he’ll persuade the serfs to at least man the watch properly. But day two...”
Dalton cut in, eyes gleaming, smirking.
“He’ll call in sutler merchants or whoever to let them booze and gorge on meat. Or those serf troops’ll grab swords backwards.”
No choice.
Day one they endure, but by two, those serfs cooped in the fortress will revolt—they can’t take it anymore.
I’d stake my arms, no, both wrists on it.
And to drive it home, I kept going.
“Honestly, pushing the siege like this won’t stop at seven percent—we’ll lose over ten percent KIA/wounded and that much combat power. Even if not a wipe, it’ll hamstring us for bigger wars ahead, right?”
Vice Captain Heinz groaned in agreement.
“Seven percent we can tough out, but over ten and combat effectiveness tanks—hard to shine after that.”
The other officers nodded, chiming in.
“I’m all for bigger shares from taking this fortress, but not at more of our guys’ expense. Let’s try Martin’s idea.”
“Martin fights like a mad dog, but the man’s always spot on.”
“Captain, damn it, let’s go for it. Blindly ramming this fortress has limits anyway.”
As consensus built, Dalton met my eyes seriously.
“You confident?”
I nodded firmly.
“Alright, then pack up and retreat at dawn tomorrow, damn it. Only you officers know it’s a feint—the rank and file think we can’t hold and are bugging out.”