Chapter 110
Chapter 110
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 110
Chapter Title: Lost Gold Coins
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“You're going to raid them?”
At the very moment Kyle was immersed in training, Wayne narrowed his eyes at the man who had come to see him.
“Yes, that's right. Aren't you preparing for a territorial war? We only wish to make your victory a little easier, my lord.”
The man, who introduced himself as Harding from the Brown Eagle Mercenaries, bowed to Wayne and said as much. They planned to ambush Viscount Lucas's army and inflict some damage.
“What damage could the likes of you possibly inflict? Their numbers must exceed hundreds.”
“Numbers aren't everything, my lord. Of course, a frontal clash would be impossible, but even a small band like ours can scratch their army.”
What Harding proposed was guerrilla warfare. But Wayne looked thoroughly unconvinced. No matter the process, this was a noble-versus-noble territorial war—using lowly mercenaries to sneak around like rats in the night?
Harding inwardly clicked his tongue at Wayne's conservative streak in such an odd place, but kept a straight face and spoke in a subtle tone.
“Why hesitate, my lord? Every other lord does it. And... it won't tarnish your honor in the slightest. We simply pick up some coin from the gutter and settle an old grudge with Viscount Lucas's army...”
“Picking up stray coin, huh... Ha!”
It sounded like a joke, but the joke drew a smirk from Wayne.
“Fine, then. How much do you think you'll 'pick up' from the gutter?”
“Fifty pounds... would spark a bit of resentment toward Viscount Lucas. A hundred... would make it burn deeper.”
It was an exorbitant price. But from what he knew, the Brown Eagles numbered nearly a hundred strong. And it wouldn't dirty his hands or harm his own troops. Just a bit more coin spent.
A way to scratch his nose without lifting a finger. Wayne cleared his throat and ordered a maid to fetch a coin pouch. He tossed it in front of Harding.
Clink!
“Hmph... What a coincidence. Losing money at a time like this...”
Wayne's nonchalant voice. Harding peeked inside the pouch, bowed his head, and saw at a glance it held more than fifty pounds. He swiftly tucked it into his bosom and smiled.
“Oh dear... To lose such coin. How unfortunate.”
“Isn't it? Enough to hire a whole mercenary band... If I don't hear good news soon, I'll have to track it down. Whoever picked it up won't like it—they'll have every noble in the Empire hunting them down.”
A veiled threat: take the money and fail, and he'd put out an empire-wide warrant. He wasn't the emperor, so no official bounty, but he could rally the nobles' cooperation.
The other nobles would eagerly hunt down scum who took noble coin and ran, branding them as filth who dared tarnish noble honor.
Hans, a castle resident of Lucas Castle, spotted a crowd while passing near the walls. The battlements, usually patrolled only by guards, teemed with people. Curiosity piqued, he approached.
“What's going on?”
One of the onlookers turned to him.
“Military drills outside—what else?”
“Drills?”
Why gawk at drills? The man shook his head at Hans's confusion.
“The lord himself is overseeing them. As for the rest... see for yourself.”
The man turned back to the wall. Hans squeezed through the crowd and peered out. What he saw stole his breath.
“Spears up! Spears!”
“Shoulder to shoulder—close enough to feel cramped, you idiots!”
“Orders changed! Switch to small-unit tactics! I repeat: small-unit tactics!”
The soldiers and mercenaries, packed tight in a spear wall, scattered in haste. The massive formation split into two, reforming into square phalanxes.
Swordsmen and archers, fresh from shooting and charge drills, slipped inside the squares. Pikesmen from the rear stepped forward, thrusting their sharp tips outward in a bristling hedge. Even seasoned knights would think twice before charging.
“Now that's more like it.”
Kyle nodded in satisfaction. In just three days of training, the soldiers and officers grasped tactics better than expected—their movements were superb.
Other domains had elites and veterans aplenty. But forging them took years of muscle memory. Teach them the why, and it accelerated. They already knew where to go and how to move.
“Long live the lord!”
“Glory to Lucas Domain!”
The castle folk cheered at the crisp display. Even to their eyes, the troops' discipline shone. In these turbulent times, a reliable army was nothing but good news.
A week later—five days of drills and two of rest—the march order came.
Polished gear gleamed like mirrors under the sun. Helm-shaded eyes burned fierce. The war they'd only talked of was now at hand.
As their commander and lord, Kyle, ascended the platform, all eyes turned to him.
Dong—dong—
Amid hundreds of soldiers and thousands of castle folk, silence fell so deep a pin drop would echo. Kyle gazed down from the platform, his voice heavy.
“The day has come at last. No one wanted war. Nor do I.”
No one craves war. But unavoidable war demands a fight. Sword raised, Kyle continued.
“That shameless Viscount Wayne craved territorial war. He sent mercenaries to raid our villages and eyed our magic beast pens to feed his greed.”
“...”
In the hush, Kyle roared.
“Remember the past! What became of greedy Count Sarisa, who waged war for gain?”
Planted cheerleaders shouted back fervently.
“He was hanged!”
“Death to the greedy! God save Lucas Domain!”
“We will triumph! Cast down the greed-soaked Viscount Wayne and bring peace to the domain! For the domain! For your families! Fight with your lives! All war spoils shall be yours!”
All gains from war—loot, reparations—to the troops. Soldiers and onlookers alike burned with desire.
No hint of defeat. Their lord Kyle was a war hero of countless victories; his drilled troops radiated blade-sharp morale.
“Waaah!”
“Long live Viscount Lucas Kyle! Long live Lucas Domain!”
“Come back victorious!”
“Great Lucas Domain! Forever!”
The crowd's victory-fever erupted in cheers and scattered flowers. Soldiers raised weapons, roaring.
“When the order drops!”
“We advance!”
Their endless training chant. Morale peaked, Kyle lowered his sword.
“March out!”
“March!”
Nearly seven hundred elites—no conscripts—moved as one. The cost stung Kyle, but they'd earn it in battle. He spurred his horse, thinking so.
Castle folk climbed the walls, showering flowers and cheers until the army vanished from sight.
“Light cavalry beginning scouts.”
They marched until the castle faded. The lead light cavalry bolted ahead, backs straight. Far from the battlefield yet, but raids demanded vigilance.
Crossbow-wielding mercenaries could wound troops otherwise.
“Any discomfort?”
“None! Thanks to your care!”
In a central carriage, under guard, rode Sichella—to bait Viscount Wayne. Or so he hoped others thought.
Crackle! Pop!
Coals snapped red embers in braziers. March-weary soldiers sweated through camp setup—tents, trenches.
“Dig straight, there!”
“Pitch it right or it'll collapse! Want to wake up buried under canvas?!”
Officers' scoldings echoed across camp. Knights and cavalry handed horses to squires and watched.
“My lord... er, Commander! Your tent's ready!”
Soldiers had pitched mine—a custom command tent, like Lenia's old one, bigger than a commoner's home, furnished just for me.
“Lord, this sweet potato's perfect—want one?”
A knight tending the fire by my tent grinned, offering one. He'd been poking it for a while, roasting potatoes.
“Thanks.”
I took it, scanning the area. We'd halted in a small plain—open surroundings deterred ambushes, easy to defend.
Even if Wayne hired mercenaries to raid, not here. But war held no absolutes.
“I have a bad feeling...”
A nagging hunch—the kind before trouble. I circled camp, but found nothing, as if my instincts lied.
“Tell the troops: double the watch. Bad feeling.”
Nothing seen, but better safe. That night, I ordered heightened alert.