Chapter 81
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 81
Chapter Title: Pasutek Hills Ambush Operation (5)
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The captain of the Golden Barley Mercenary Corps spotted me and greeted me warmly, brimming with gratitude.
“You bastard, you fucking shit! How the hell are you still alive after rampaging around like a wild animal?”
Getting cursed at in everyday life is never pleasant, but on the battlefield, getting sworn at by the enemy is a compliment.
Especially when the curses drag on—the longer they go, the higher the praise. It's basically them admitting how much weaker they are than us.
'I'm gonna get addicted to this.'
Still, I had no desire to get hooked on that bastard's voice, so I needed to sever his neck as quickly as possible, even a second sooner.
“Quit your barking bullshit. If your mercenary corps got wrecked, it's because you're weak—what else could it be?”
The bastard's eyes bulged with veins as he pointed at me and drew his sword.
“You filthy son of a bitch!”
Filthy son of a bitch? Hell, looking at these mercenaries, hardly any wore armor, they were all grubby and scrawny as hell.
Probably bottom-tier second-rate mercenaries...
'That's still a step above street-thug thugs with knives, I guess.'
The guy in front of me, as the captain of such a corps, proved my guess right with his filthy mouth.
Then he swung his sword, wrapped in aura, straight at my neck.
A single strike crashing down from the upper right diagonal like a fierce gust of wind.
“Die, you fucker!”
The aura clinging to his blade, the speed of the sword flying at my neck, his stable stance, the intent to kill me burning in his eyes.
Taken all together, his skill was about on par with mine, maybe a touch higher?
'Even if you pray for my death, I ain't dying.'
So in the end, the one dying in this clash wouldn't be me—it'd be that bastard right there.
“Cut the bullshit!”
With that shout, I channeled aura into my legs and kicked off the ground.
I shot forward, sword aimed at his neck, but the guy twisted his head to dodge my strike.
I was inwardly disappointed that my blow missed, but so did his.
And without losing momentum, my body kept flying straight toward his torso.
“Ugh!”
The mercenary captain took my headbutt and flew back a good distance.
His stance naturally crumbled, making this the perfect chance to finish him.
“Die!”
I stabbed at his vital spots as he lay sprawled on the ground, but he rolled aside to evade, then used the momentum to spring back up.
His whole body and face were caked in dirt from the roll, and the stylish cloak he'd been wearing had turned into rags.
Seeing him like that, I let out a hollow chuckle.
“Now you look the part.”
“You goddamn bastard I could chew up and spit out!”
“Oh yeah? Give it a try.”
He immediately raised his sword and charged at me again.
The same simple neck-targeting strike as before. Seeing it, I doubted my eyes for a second.
Why repeat the attack that just got blocked?
“Give me your neck, fucker!”
He feinted a downward chop at my neck but instantly shifted the blade's path toward my waist.
Considering how hard it is mid-swing to change your target or trajectory—and how rare it is...
'If my level were just a bit lower...'
I might not have even had time to react and could've died right there.
“No more cheap tricks!”
I parried his strike with my sword right away.
“You punk!”
After deflecting his attack, we exchanged dozens of blows, probing for openings.
Maybe because our skill levels were so evenly matched, every attempt to seize the advantage ended in a stalemate.
My breath started coming heavier, stamina draining from my whole body.
When I was the one dominating, adrenaline surged like crazy and kept me going, but this was tough.
He smirked at me and asked,
“Tired already?”
The captain bastard saying that had his shoulders heaving pretty badly too, so he looked worn out himself.
Pathetic mercenary captain, full of hot air.
“Drop the bluffing. You look beat too.”
With that, I heightened my focus even more.
From my battlefield experience so far, guys who talked like that always had some ultimate move up their sleeve.
“I'll give you a parting gift on your way to hell. I'm Hugo Rangrail, captain of the Golden Barley Mercenary Corps. What's your name?”
See? Just like a boss mob in a game, spouting his name like he's acknowledging me deep down...
But that attitude still looked down on me, like you're strong, but you're dying to me anyway, so you're beneath me.
'Fuck, I'm definitely killing this guy.'
“Martin Meyer, senior squad leader of the White Beard Mercenary Corps.”
“A mere senior squad leader who's an Expert? Impressive... but you're dying here anyway.”
With that, he charged straight at me.
Unlike before, when I dodged his neck strike, he immediately kicked at my waist.
“Ugh!”
Even through my armor, it felt like getting whacked with a wooden beam—shock and pain shot through me.
Then he kept raining sword strikes down on me.
His attacks relentlessly targeted vitals like head, neck, waist, armpits, groin—sharp enough, but not overly threatening.
“That all you got?”
The moment I said it, he swung at my neck again.
Did he really think he could kill me with such an obvious, telegraphed move?
Or was there some trick?
I hesitated for a split second, but the answer in my head was simple.
'That bastard's definitely got something up his sleeve.'
As I swung my sword to block, I kept a close eye on his hands.
“Die!”
The aura pouring from his blade grew stronger, but...
As I'd expected, he started pulling some dirty trick.
He was gripping his sword with just his right hand...
'What's he holding in his left? Where?'
I widened my vision briefly, and there it was—he was stabbing a dagger toward my right armpit.
Figured a single sword stab might not kill me outright, but it'd weaken me enough to finish easily.
Like I'd let that happen?
I immediately channeled aura through my body and smacked his sword away hard with both hands.
“Fuck?”
Even for him, blocking my sword with just one arm wasn't enough—his right arm flew up.
I grinned crookedly and shoved his torso back with my foot.
As his stance collapsed and he slammed into the ground, I swiftly thrust my sword at his neck.
“Urk, fuck...”
Blood from our captain—Hugo, he'd called himself—spurted through his helmet's gap and splattered onto me.
I sliced through his neck with my sword, then hoisted his head high into the air.
“I, Martin Meyer, have beheaded Hugo Rangrail, captain of the Golden Barley Mercenary Corps!”
Raising Hugo's head skyward drew every eye around me.
This gaze I'd felt so many times before—the shocked expressions, the sudden halts in movement—it never got old.
The Golden Barley soldiers' reactions were predictably bad.
“Fuck, our captain's head flew off!”
“Calm down and follow the vice captain's orders!”
“Goddamn it! Why'd that captain asshole go off on his own and get himself killed?”
The response from my White Beard Mercenary Corps was exactly as I'd hoped—ecstatic.
“Martin's cut off the enemy captain's head!”
“Don't fall behind! Kill 'em all!”
“Don't let a single one escape—every one of those bastards' heads is money!”
Surrounded on all sides, I doubted those ragtag losers could run, but either way, they were done for—couldn't fight back and would just keep getting pushed.
And from the rear, Captain Dalton drew his sword and joined the fray personally.
“Now's our chance! Whether it's Golden Barley or Golden Cunt, kill 'em all!”
Dalton unleashed aura a full level above mine—once seemingly unreachable, but now within sight if I pushed a bit more—and massacred the enemy relentlessly.
As we kept cutting them down, a loud trumpet blared from the enemy lines.
Fuck, whenever I heard trumpets from the enemy side, it never meant good news.
“Retreat! Retreat! Break through the rear somehow!”
Hearing that, curses spilled from my mouth unbidden.
“Ah, fuck...”
Still, my heart pounded with excitement.
Because from here on, the bastards we'd face weren't the half-assed scrubs—they'd be the real deal.
Dalton sidled up beside me, grinning.
“Martin, brace yourself. The ones coming to punch through us here ain't playing around.”
I nodded at his words.
At the same time, Dalton signaled with flags for maximum reinforcements here...
And the Montmartre Snails charged forward, led by troops with colorful flags fluttering every which way.
“......This has to be the last of them.”