Chapter 10
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: First Expedition (5)
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As the sun dipped low in the evening sky, the subjugation force arrived at the city of Verher. Their companionship ended right there. With the mission complete, the mercenary corps scattered to their own paths.
The cart carrying the porters and the Allen Mercenary Corps came to a stop in front of the grand Pomwell House mansion. Allen hopped down from the cart, feeling a strange surge of emotion, as if he'd been away from home for months.
He couldn't find the words to describe his mood. So he slowly spat out a silent curse.
Shiiit...
The squad members seemed to feel the same, each muttering their favorite curse as they dismounted.
Allen instructed the welcoming servants to guide the squad to the drawing room, then headed straight for his father's study.
Though the sun had nearly set, the workaholic Pomwell Baron was surely still at it.
As expected, the baron was in the study. He seemed to have already heard that Allen had safely completed the mission in the demon realm.
"The mine?"
"We didn't wipe out the beasts completely, but we dealt them a heavy blow. They won't be sniffing around the area for a while."
"That's still not reassuring enough."
"We tried to root them out if possible, but there were far more beasts than anticipated. Our side took heavy losses too, so we couldn't stay longer. Plenty of injuries as well."
At the mention of losses, the baron's eyebrow twitched. Painfully sensitive to anything involving costs, he probed relentlessly.
"How bad were the losses? Any deaths? What's the damage total?"
"One porter dead, another badly hurt. One mercenary took a serious wound too, but luckily no fatalities. We'll just have extra compensation for the dead porter."
The baron's stern expression softened slightly. Even the lowliest mercenary was worth more than a porter, after all.
"...Good. After all, we can't have mercenaries dying just from hunting a few beasts."
The word "just" twisted Allen's mood a bit, but he didn't show it. The baron was a master of commerce but clueless about the mercenary trade... He must not know the details, hence the remark. Besides, he wasn't the type to listen to any enlightenment on the matter.
"Anyway, got it. Go rest. Submit a report, even if it's basic."
"Understood."
True to form for someone running a major trading company, the baron wanted a report with expense details. He considered nothing done until his seal was stamped.
Allen left the study and headed to the drawing room where the squad waited. His arrival cut short their rowdy chatter for a moment before it resumed.
After five days without washing and brutal combat, the mercenaries looked rough enough to scare off beggars. Their presence alone turned the lavish drawing room into a hobo den.
The youngest, Karakul, who'd lost an arm in a major injury, had apparently gone straight to the temple and was nowhere in sight. Honestly, after so much time, it was hard to say if they could reattach it.
Still, Allen sincerely hoped the kid pulled through. He was a bit of an idiot, sure, but a pure-hearted one.
"I hope Karakul's arm can be saved."
"Even if it can't, he won't starve. The kid survived this shitty mercenary life—what's one arm? Don't worry too much. Accidents happen on missions. It's his fate."
Harsh, but not wrong. Unexpected accidents were just fate in this line of work.
Amusingly, mercenaries loved invoking fate. It made it easier to let go. Lingering regrets in a mercenary's life usually ended badly.
"Anyway, you all did well. I'll pay the remaining wages right here, right now."
Allen preferred to handle money matters quickly and cleanly, especially wages—dragging them out benefited no one.
He handed each squad member a pouch with their seven remaining gold coins. They untied them on the spot, checked the contents, and grinned slyly.
Having paid the seven excluding Karakul at the temple, Allen rubbed his palms together lightly and drew their attention with a "Hey."
"Contract's done. You're free to go."
They looked a tad reluctant. The job hadn't been easy, but the pay was solid, and they liked the employer.
They'd have to work again when money ran out, so sticking around seemed ideal... but Allen didn't want that.
...These guys won't cut it. I'm not running a charity.
At first, time was short and it was hard to gauge their stats, but after one mission, he had a feel for them.
They'd improved a bit working together, but Allen wasn't soft enough to let sentiment sway him. As the baron's blood, cold merchant instincts ran in his veins.
"Take care, everyone. Have a good night."
"You too, Young Master."
The title shifted from "Captain" to "Young Master." They'd let go. Quick to move on—good.
The squad trickled out. The drawing room emptied, leaving Allen alone. But he stayed seated, as if waiting for someone... And soon, a man appeared.
"Young Master."
"Ah, come in. Sit."
Allen gestured to the seat across from him. It was Aiden, who'd served as interim captain.
"The reason you called me..."
A veteran who'd scraped by and even dipped into a famous mercenary corps wouldn't ask out of ignorance.
Still, Allen explained kindly.
"I need you."
In the mercenary business, mercs were merchandise. In that sense, Aiden was the most usable item here. Even resale value later wouldn't be bad.
Allen rested his elbows on the table, chin on his hands. A faint smile ghosted over his refined features.
"I'm thinking of starting a mercenary business."
"A mercenary business, you say."
"Yeah."
"...Not an easy road."
"I know. Felt it this time. But it's an inevitable trend. Even us down here in the south will get swept up soon."
An unexpected take for Aiden. Southern nobles scorned the mercenary trade, but this young merchant saw it differently.
"You think so."
"I guarantee it. Bet on it if you like."
Allen's tone carried unshakable conviction.
"So, you're hiring me?"
"Yes."
The affirmation turned the room into a negotiation table. Aiden, seasoned in these waters, sensed the shift instantly.
Allen's posture changed too. He crossed his legs and leaned back fully.
"How much?"
Simple question, loaded math.
Short-term hires didn't need haggling if near average, but long-term? Even one gold coin sparked brutal mind games. Hence "negotiation battles."
Aiden paused. He wouldn't bite easy bait. He'd have to eventually, but tease it first to frustrate the fisherman.
"...Twenty gold a month."
A high opener, as expected. Who undervalues themselves?
"Twenty?"
Allen's expression turned subtle. The smile faded; his eyes cooled.
"...A bit much."
"That's my worth. Few in the south have my experience."
This was why experience mattered. One solid line made or broke your leverage.
"Accounting for that."
"No less than twenty."
"I had fifteen in mind."
"Five more, then."
"Can't splurge, thinking of future hires."
"It's my pride."
"Fine, sixteen. Deal?"
This fucker.
One up and acting like a big shot—
"...Nineteen?"
"Sorry. Limited capital."
"Then no."
"I see. ...Fair enough."
Sigh... Allen deflated audibly.
"Pretend this didn't happen. Nice chatting."
Bold counter. Aiden couldn't back down.
"Got it. Later."
He stood abruptly.
Stable long-term gigs appealed to mercs, but not at a discount. Stability meant less freedom—who'd sell cheap?
"Take care."
Aiden walked to the door. No call from behind.
Not some naive kid. True merchant's son—negotiation skills beyond typical nobles.
He gripped the knob. Twisted it.
...Still quiet. He cracked the door.
Fuck this.
He gave up and turned back. Anyone else, he'd have walked. But after seeing Allen coldly dismiss the squad, he couldn't.
That noble youth wouldn't have stopped him anyway.
"Fine. Seventeen, how's that?"
But Allen shook his head firmly.
"The moment you opened that door, negotiations ended. Want to talk? Come back tomorrow. Properly. ...Or don't, if you don't feel like it."
He smiled brightly.
"Take care."