Chapter 26
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: Chapter 26
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: Recruitment Battle (3)
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Allen's recruitment targets this time totaled three.
One decent shield tank for the front line, one axe wielder for the second line, and one archer for the third.
Allen wanted to snag that front-line shield tank if at all possible, but on the first day visiting the mercenary corps, the leader had shot him down flat.
"Our relationship is rock-solid. We're in no position to transfer him right now, and we have zero interest anyway. Let's just pretend this never happened."
There wasn't even a sliver of room for negotiation. Even the target himself showed no interest in transferring.... Truth be told, it probably wasn't outright impossible if he'd dumped a massive pile of gold coins on the leader, but the guy wasn't worth that kind of investment.
So, the negotiation attempt for his first recruitment hopeful ended right there.
Allen moved on to his second target.
This corps' leader had the [Desire] trait. A cut above [Ambition], which meant negotiations were likely to get pretty sticky. ...Not that there were many normal ones among leaders, of course.
Sure enough, the moment he sat down at the bargaining table, the leader jumped straight into clowning around.
"200 gold coins."
Allen nearly spat a curse right in that smug bastard's grinning face. Seeing his expression sour, the opposing leader scrambled to justify himself.
"You have any idea how much I've sunk into whipping this punk into something halfway useful? This is just recouping my investment. Investment."
"Then keep pouring into him yourself."
Allen shot to his feet to leave, and the guy lunged to grab him.
"Fine, fine! Alright. As a grand gesture of goodwill, 180."
"Not a coin over 100. Decide right now. Deal or no deal?"
He shifted as if ready to bolt the instant a refusal slipped from the man's lips. The flustered bastard hesitated.
"Come on, even so, 100's straight-up banditry—!"
"Then we're done."
Allen whipped around and marched straight for the door. At last, the opponent caved.
"Ugh, alright, alright! 110. Can't go lower. Let's haggle at 110—!"
Allen didn't break stride. Finally, the man pounded the table with his fist and bellowed.
"Fine! 100. Goddamn it. Yeah, 100—! ...Shit."
Allen flashed a sly grin and sauntered back to his seat. The leader inwardly kicked himself for getting played, but he still couldn't wrap his head around why this guy was worth 100 gold to him. Sure, the punk had some talent, but that was it. Dime a dozen in this line of work.
Anyway, the two drew up a contract. With that, the corps-to-corps agreement was sealed.
Of course, things could change if the man himself flat-out refused the transfer or if salary talks fell through—but that rarely happened. Mercenaries were wanderers by nature; they didn't cling to one corps, and transfers almost always came with a pay bump. Who'd turn down more gold?
Negotiation wrapped, the pair exchanged a casual handshake.
"Take him off my hands."
"A profitable chat."
Once the man left, the waiting mercenary stepped in—the very guy Allen had settled on for 100 gold.
Truth be told, the stats weren't anything to brag about. Not compared to an old dog like Kallisman, who was saddled with [Frailty]. He'd probably been mid-tier at best in his old corps. No wonder the leader had questioned dropping 100 gold on him.
But Allen saw things differently. Forget the rest—[Late Bloomer] was a rare gem. Top-tier among growth-related traits. Sure, it took time to hit above-average stats, but the upsides were huge: no [Frailty] with age, and steady growth without stagnation.
Right now, with just three stats—Strength, Agility, and Stamina—totaling under 90, he wasn't even proper C-grade. But a few good years of growth, and he'd hit B-grade at 120 total easy.
No guarantees on keeping him forever, but a small bet on the future wasn't a bad play.
"Have a seat."
"Yes, sir."
The man was bald as an egg, not a single hair on his dome, but etched with some cryptic pattern instead. No scalp hair, but a thick, bushy beard made up for it. His eyes were sharp like any merc's, with a prominent nose and full lips that stood out.
The two men knew each other already—they'd spent ten days eyeing one another across the Romeln Plateau. Never exchanged words, though.
"Viktor Melson. Pleased to meet you."
"Allen Dwight Pomwell."
Introductions done, Allen rubbed his palms together lightly and kicked off the talk.
"I've squared things with your leader. Now we hash out salary. ...Not against transferring, are you?"
Viktor gave a faint smile and slapped his palms flat on the table. His exposed forearms and the backs of his hands were littered with small scars.
"Gotta go where I'm needed. No point forcing it—bad for everybody."
"Admirable mindset."
"Mind if I ask something?"
"Shoot."
"Why me, specifically? ...Honestly, we've got better options."
Allen's lips curved into a growing smile, laced with some strange magnetic pull.
"You wouldn't know, but my ancestors were merchants. Got that blood in me too. Know what that means?"
"What?"
"I don't invest in dead ends."
He planted his elbows on the table, chin on his fists. Took a breath, then continued.
"I saw investment potential in you. ...That answer your question?"
Not crystal clear, but he got the gist.
"...Yes, sir."
"Good. Let's get to it then. ...What're you after?"
Allen had seized the high ground first.
"I'm on 11 gold a month now. Not asking much—just bump it to 13."
13?
Allen was mildly surprised. With [Ambition], he'd figured at least 15. Calling the line at 13 right off the bat was unexpected.
He considered pushing for one more coin, then dropped it. This was long-term, not short; who knew how long they'd rub shoulders. No sense reddening faces over a single gold—especially when Viktor might stick around longer than expected.
"Done. We'll contract at that."
"Thank you, sir."
And so they agreed: 13 gold monthly for two years.
With that, Viktor Melson transferred to the Allen Mercenary Corps.
The landmark first recruit.
Count Herrera stood by the window, puffing deeply on his cigar. He was lost in heavy thought.
His daughter's resolve—taking that shocking news on the chin and powering through—was worthy of applause. As expected from a lion's cub; she sure as hell wasn't some kitten.
...But the real issue came after.
"I've decided to leave, Father. I'll head out into the world, gain some experience, and come back stronger."
As a father, he ought to cheer her determination—but worry gnawed at him. The world was brutal! For a fragile woman to weather its savage storms? No easy feat.
"I'll be going with Leader Allen. I've watched him up close. I can trust that man. He's the kind worth emulating."
That name again: Allen, the mercenary leader. Just how impressive was the guy for both his daughter and his captain to sing his praises nonstop?
...Clear he wasn't a lightweight, but still.
The man had shown real guts and backbone even in front of him. But you couldn't judge the whole book from that. The count hadn't seen him up close yet.
But the situation had gone past the point of no return. All he could do was trust his daughter's eye and let her go.
The sting on his fingers snapped him back; he stubbed out the spent butt in his wine glass. He reached for another, but someone knocked.
"Father, it's me."
Ah—.
It was daughter Elena. The count set down his cigar and schooled his face to sternness.
"Come in."
The door creaked open at his word, and Elena stepped in, dressed in comfortable travel clothes. She bowed politely to her father.
"...So, you're off now?"
"Yes, Father."
"I've said it before: I respect your decision. But think it through—once more, then again—before committing. Understood?"
"I'll keep it in mind."
"Good. You're a smart girl; I trust you'll handle it well. ...No requests? I could assign someone if you want."
"No. I'll go alone. This is something I need to do myself."
...She's really grown. Shot up all of a sudden.
The count felt a strange pang. Like the fledgling he'd cradled had suddenly spread wings and soared away.
Not quite the picture he'd painted, but the Herrera nest had grown too small for her, apparently. ...If leaving was the natural path, then so be it.
"Then, until we meet again, stay safe, Father."
"...You too. Stay safe. Send word now and then."
"Yes."
Elena bowed deeply one last time and left the study. The count let out a long, pent-up breath.
Still basking in the moment, he called for his old butler.
"You called, my lord?"
"Send a suitable gift to Baron Pomwell's house in the southern territories. A vase or some ornamental piece."
"What message shall I attach?"
Hmm—. The count stroked his chin.
"...Let's keep fostering strong ties going forward."
"Understood."
The butler departed, and the count returned to the window.
...Not sure how much good it'll do, but it's the last thing I can do for you, daughter.
Sadness welled in the count's chest, yet the sky stretched clear and blue overhead.
A perfect day for setting out.
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