Chapter 86
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 86
Chapter Title: Aftermath (2)
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Entering the captain's room, Dalton sighed as soon as he saw me.
He stared at me without a word. The desk was piled high with papers crammed full of handwriting that looked sloppy even from a distance.
'Those papers are all probably reports about Hans, the Hundred-Man Squad Leader.'
Mercenaries might be a band of perverts who love booze and women to a fault, hacking away at anyone labeled an enemy just because someone's paying them, but executing one of their own required a proper review process and solid evidence.
This case was extra messy because we had to nail down whether Hans—who'd requested reinforcements during the battle—truly couldn't send aid to my squad due to circumstances, or if he could have but chose not to, deliberately or by mistake.
"Martin, you're here? Grab that chair in the corner and sit."
I swallowed hard at those words.
If it was going to be quick, he wouldn't have told me to fetch a chair. This had to be a long, heavy talk.
I pulled over the chair and sat. Dalton slammed the desk and ground his teeth.
Is he pissed at me?
My thoughts must've shown on my face.
Dalton shook his head right away.
"Ah, not mad at you. Just thinking about that Hans bastard—who deserves his limbs ripped off—makes my gut boil, fuck."
His distant gaze and heavy sigh screamed inner turmoil.
A clueless idiot would've chimed in with "I see?" and made it worse.
But I wasn't the type to butt in at the wrong time or stick around too long and get an earful.
'Better give Dalton a moment.'
I waited in silence. He let out another bone-deep sigh.
"Alright, before we dive in, got something to say. Cool?"
I nodded.
"Sigh, only telling you this straight-up 'cause it's you. Hans didn't earn that Hundred-Man spot with killer combat skills or leadership. He was just a founding bro from day one, so I gave him a boost."
"I see."
"When he got the nod, he swore he'd bust his ass harder than ever. Sure, combat wasn't his strong suit, but he hustled elsewhere and nailed his duties as Hundred-Man Leader."
I hated that damn Hans Hundred-Man Leader, no question.
But objectively? From the day I joined until now, he'd never botched his responsibilities big-time.
Even his haters griped but admitted his work ethic.
'That's got jack shit to do with this mess, though.'
Dalton ground his teeth, face hard as stone.
"Trusted him, and the fucker stabbed me in the back."
He shot to his feet, balled his massive fist, and smashed the desk so hard I half-expected it to crater.
"Honestly, as an ex-knight turned merc, I get jealous sometimes watching you level up so fast, Martin. So yeah, Hans could've been jealous too—talk shit, nitpick promotions, whatever."
Sucked feeling that envy from Hans, but humans get jealous of betters. Natural.
My feelings aside, ugly thoughts like that were human nature, unavoidable.
Of course, understanding it didn't mean I'd let slide him trying to fuck me over and nearly doom the whole corps. I'd repay him—neck snap or whatever.
'Repay grudges hundredfold. That's class.'
"But fuck. Turns out, after rounding up testimonies, that Hundred-Man Leader fucker could've sent reinforcements to your squad but didn't. Grilled the grunts for why—they said he was seething with inferiority toward you, badmouthing you nonstop. Got the request, but Hans stonewalled, so they asked if they shouldn't aid Martin's squad. He snapped, 'Why help that hotshot? No need.' Conclusion?"
Dalton inhaled deep, exhaled, then spoke.
"Gutless prick got jealous of you surging ahead and tried venting it on a battlefield with 500 corps lives on the line. Nearly got us all killed."
"......Figured as much."
Even I hated Pior's pre-promotion bullshit.
Petty personal jabs, sure—as long as it didn't hurt the corps. Battlefield calls? He backed us up.
Never dreamed a Hundred-Man Leader would pull such cheap shit into catastrophe territory.
'Dumbfounded doesn't cover it.'
"Crime's too heavy—corps law says execution only. Few days, round up the crew, chop his head. Thoughts?"
He targeted me and the whole corps. Execution fit.
'Simple beheading, though? Too soft...'
Guy tried killing me. Needed flashier.
"Dude endangered the whole corps. Hack limbs one by one, then head. Steal five-plus gold coins? Behead. Needs distinction."
"We'll do it. Anyway..."
Dalton forced a grin, slid an order across.
"What's this?"
"Read it, kid. Why yap like that, big man?"
The order read:
[White Beard Mercenary Corps hereby appoints Martin Meyer, First Squad Leader of Second Hundred-Man Squad, as Third Hundred-Man Squad Leader in place of Hans.]
Noble army would've flowered it up. Mercs? Short and sweet.
"Killing Hans don't stop promotions. War's ongoing—no bonus yet—but vacancy fits you. Cool?"
Frankly, I could hack it.
Hundred-Man Squad? Manageable.
"Who turns down promo? Hans pays up—no complaints here."
"Fair. Execution—who handles? You want it? You do Hans yourself."
Killed plenty enemies, but ally? First.
Hesitated—then saw Dalton's face. Rethought.
No tears from the tough guy, but eyes sunken...
Captain should swing, but...
'Crime's death-worthy, rational call—but years together make the axe heavy.'
No sweat for me. Burden for him. Plus, my grudge?
Me doing it? Cleaner. Sweeter.
Revenge best self-served.
"Sure. I'll handle it."
Dalton's face eased.
"For real?"
"Tried screwing me. My hand fits."
He clapped my shoulder.
"Thanks, man. Post-execution, Pappenheim wants face-time with you. Wants army plans input. Talk sense into that moron—keep him from fucking up. Begging you."
......Fuck. Brain stalled.
A few days later, open field outside Marseille Castle.
I'd execute ex-Hundred-Man Leader Hans for Dalton.
Hans—who'd decapitated countless foes—shook like a leaf pre-scaffold.
Gagged, no coherent pleas. Ungag? Begging frenzy.
Charges read. Done.
Mercs pinned him to the block.
I bound arms and legs taut to the cross-frame for clean limb work.
"Gag off. Last words."
They yanked it.
"Fuck, mercy! Ain't death-level! Exile tops? Martin, beg Captain for me. Blunt: me dying helps you how? Hundred spot's mine—thanks to me. Let me live after you feast."
Itched to smack him silly, but no pummeling cons.
"Shut shit-talk before I rock-grind your mug. You know you nearly corps-wiped us? Still beg?"
Crowd erupted in boos.
"Fuck, hate Martin Hundred-Leader or not—lines you cross!"
"Duel it, coward fuck!"
"Our boys nearly croaked thanks to you! Man up, shut up, die!"
Amid the roar, I whispered in Hans's ear.
"Thanks, though. Lucia's mine soon—your spot too. Grateful."
Thanking the doomed? Ultimate salt.
"Execute!"
Sword up—I cleaved one leg clean.
"Arrrghhh! Fuuuuck!!"
Amateurs hack multiple swings. Not me.
'Botch here? Skill questioned.'
Other leg, both arms—sequential.
Hans shrieked for quick death. Crowd clapped cheers.
"Martin Hundred-Leader's form! Badass."
"One-stroke leg? Tough shit..."
"Fuck, end him! End him!"
Crime plus spectacle vibe—they're lit.
I played along, sword sky-high.
"Final one!"
Neck slash.
Head thunked into the bucket. Cheers tripled—huzzah!
No pang of regret. Pure catharsis slicing my would-be fucker.
A few days later, Pappenheim summoned me.