Chapter 112
Chapter 112
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 112
Chapter Title: Chase in the Forest
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Clang!
Harding's sword clashed against Kyle's, sparks flying. In the blink of an eye, Harding—who had swung his blade—jerked his head back in horror as Kyle's hand shot right up to his face.
Thud!
"Nice reflexes."
Kyle chuckled as the hand that had aimed for his nape barely missed. His tone made it clear he could snatch him up anytime he wanted, disappointment or not. Despite facing nobility, Harding spat on the ground.
"Pah! Damn it..."
As the leader of a mercenary band boasting nearly a hundred men, he had skills to his name. But the real reason he'd risen to captain wasn't just combat prowess—it was his silver tongue and knack for accounting, the non-fighting stuff.
Truth be told, he had no confidence in winning. Even against a proper knight, he'd struggle—let alone this monster who'd clawed his way to lordship through sheer force.
"If you're talking about the client who hired us, will you spare me?"
Clutching at straws, he tried his luck. But Kyle just shook his head.
"Has to be Viscount Wayne, right? What's the point in asking?"
"It's not Viscount Wayne! The real client is someone else..."
Splat!
Before Harding could finish, a massive sword cleaved from his right nape clean across to his left armpit—like splitting firewood.
No need to listen. Kyle charged in an instant, bisecting him with a single stroke, then clicked his tongue. How could he trust a man ready to sell out his employer to save his own skin?
Leaving Harding's halved corpse to soak the ground in blood, Kyle took off after the mercenaries scattering in all directions.
"Sp... spare me!"
If they'd stuck together and fought calmly, some might've survived. But terror sent them fleeing every which way.
Water buffaloes can fend off even lions when huddled in a herd—but scattered, they're easy prey. Just moments ago, one mercenary had taken a hand axe Kyle hurled right in the shoulder, crumpling as he begged for his life.
Claiming he had a starving family at home. But in this world, who among mercenaries didn't? To Kyle, it was just empty words.
Sure, it might prick a softer conscience. But Kyle's hands were stained with far too much blood for that to faze him.
"Johnson! Shit!"
As comrades vanished one by one mid-flight, some mercenaries realized escape was futile. They'd whirl around, weapons raised, roaring challenges.
"Come at me, you monstrous bastard!"
Hoping their cries would rally the others... but it was Kyle who answered, not allies.
"Die!"
Spotting him, the mercenary gritted his teeth and swung. Balanced kit: shield in one hand, sword in the other. In their world, that meant lacking confidence in his armor.
"Grahk!"
Clad only in gambeson and kettle hat, he was effortlessly parried—then his chest split wide by the greatsword's arc.
"Gurgle..."
Bleeding out and crawling, the mercenary caught Kyle's eye for a split second. That's when a bolt whispered from the shadows—a killer shot in the gloom.
Twaang!
Bad luck. The perfect strike glanced off Kyle's armor in a spray of sparks, ricocheting harmlessly. Realizing doom, the shooter chucked his crossbow and charged with the mace at his belt.
"Damn you! Gahk!"
The greatsword pierced his chest and out the other side. With that, the brief forest skirmish ended.
"Hoo... no point chasing further."
After the last one dropped and a bit more prowling, Kyle called off the pursuit. He hadn't caught them all, but with maybe a dozen left at best, it wasn't worth the time.
"My lord!"
Returning to the army's position, knights and soldiers rushed over. They grimaced at what dangled from his hand.
"My lord? That's..."
"The mercenary captain. Didn't get far."
Kyle tossed Harding's head; it rolled pitifully across the dirt, bodiless.
"Keep it safe. Planning to gift it to Viscount Wayne on the battlefield."
A minor hiccup had stalled the march, but nightfall meant camp time anyway. He ordered soldiers to strip gear from the fallen mercenaries.
The walking wounded had grumbled it was first dibs on the loot—now they bolted eagerly. Kyle pocketed the hundred pounds from Harding's corpse himself, so this was small generosity.
"Drink up! My treat!"
Once camp was set, the lucky looters bought booze and snacks from merchants, wandering the grounds half-sloshed. The unlucky mooched cups from them, laughing it up.
"My lord! Thank you! Hic..."
"Aigoo! He's a bit drunk... Forgive him, milord... Been griping about hard times at home—then stripped two mercenaries today. So he splurged on booze..."
"It's fine."
Kyle waved it off with a hearty laugh; the soldiers bowed gratefully. Booze before battle was iffy, but they weren't there yet—banning it outright felt too harsh.
The merchants tagging along needed to eat too. And they weren't freeloading; all had passed Kyle's strict vetting.
"Ahem! Sold much?"
Heading to the merchants—eyeing post-war scraps—they grinned.
"Thanks to your grace, milord, we moved a bit. But the real windfall's after the war, right?"
"You can count on it. Sell everything you've got, load up on spoils."
"Haha! Looking forward to it!"
One glanced around slyly, slipping Kyle a pouch heavy with pounds. He pocketed it with a cough.
"No need for this..."
"Just... remember my face when buying arms later."
"Don't worry. I never forget a face."
It was pocket change to him now, but hey—many hands make light work. Secret funds never hurt.
The next day.
Bwaaaah!
"Up, you lazy bastards!"
"On your feet before I kick your asses! Think this is a vacation?"
Trumpets and officers' bellows shattered the quiet woods. Dawn barely cracked the horizon, light seeping faintly—but the cadre woke the troops without mercy.
Kyle had been up earlier. One perk of this body: tirelessness. His old one needed eight hours and still dragged.
"My lord. Your wash water."
"Come in."
A maid—who'd ridden in Cisella's carriage to the front—entered with the basin. He smiled at her diligence, dropping a one-pound gold coin into her hand.
She'd risen before dawn to tend his tent's brazier. This was her reward.
Daughter of minor nobility, she wouldn't squeal over a pound—but she smiled softly, tucking it away. With a subtle look, she curtsied.
"Shall I assist with washing?"
"No need. You worked hard at dawn—go rest in the carriage. Catch some sleep."
Declined, she eyed him wistfully before leaving. Next: George, one of his three knights.
His old knights had all jumped ship for new lords. Then three wandering ones settled in his domain.
Rumors said they'd heard of him... He gave no extras—just armor, pay, and hard use.
Kyle wasn't sold on knights as a class, but he wouldn't turn away volunteers. They bridged him and the troops well.
"Milord? See that girl's eyes? She'd come running if you called her tonight."
George leered. Wandering knights were mostly like this. Kyle waved him off with a tsk.
"Enough. Report casualties. No non-combat losses overnight?"
"One dead, two wounded. Dead guy took a bolt to the throat—bad luck. Wounded from the fight. Non-combat: two drunks broke arms falling."
Zero war deaths? Unheard of. But against a hundred-man ambush, one KIA and two WIA was brag-worthy. No deserters? Excellent. Other armies lost twenty percent on marches.
Non-combat, though... He ordered the broken-arm duo and combat wounded homeward—with letters.
[10 lashes for the two with broken arms.]
Soldiers wouldn't peek; Gringem would handle the whip.
Prance!
The march resumed. Merlin, bored of the monotonous path, tossed his head with a snort. Everyone felt it now—nobles to grunts—shuffling on autopilot.
Fortune or not, the vanguard cavalry wheeled back grinning, dismounting to report.
"Milord! Plains ahead! We're at the objective!"
The flatlands for the showdown with Viscount Wayne. Two days' march complete.
"They haven't arrived yet."
A knight noted. No enemy in sight—just empty expanse. Even if they showed, time was needed to array forces anyway.
Kyle rode Merlin, scouting the plain, picking a slight rise.
Past or present, high ground was king in battle.
"Set camp there."
Sneaky? Tough—come first next time.