Chapter 292
Chapter 292
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 292
Chapter Title: [Same Time, Another Place (3)]
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The border region where the central Azerion Empire of the Ion Continent, the eastern Jephia Republic, and the southern desert areas converged.
Defying the harsh conditions of land too barren even for farming, a remarkably prosperous metropolis dominated the area.
The Free City of Drakal.
Independent from any nation, functioning as a city-state, Drakal served as a buffer zone between two superpowers and a hub for trade mediation.
Above all, it housed the headquarters of the Mercenary Guild, which had branches across the entire continent.
In truth, any merchant hoping to set up shop needed the guild's approval—the entrenched power of the city. Calling it the nation of mercenaries was no exaggeration.
And the man who held a position akin to prime minister in that nation... or rather, had held it, even if briefly, was none other than the current executive director, Patrick.
'What a headache.'
Patrick, a man in his late thirties with brown hair slicked back with oil and impeccably neat attire, struggled to maintain his composure. He looked more like a bureaucrat than a mercenary.
He pressed a hand to the corner of his mouth, which trembled faintly from stress.
'How did I climb this high... I can't just give it up now.'
He was an Earthling from Ireland.
One whisked away to this otherworld unusually late in life, right in the middle of a hectic career as an elite office worker.
Upon landing here, he had done everything in his power to survive.
This was a new dimension, rendering all his pre-transference research useless, and his support-type abilities were ill-suited for combat. His struggles were beyond description.
'No point going back to Earth now anyway—I couldn't live a normal life. Might as well grab everything I can here before I go.'
It had been over a decade since he clawed his way up in the Mercenary Guild, taking on every dirty job without complaint.
Yet now, just as he was about to enjoy the fruits of his labor, he was being forced out so pointlessly?
'No way. Absolutely not.'
He gritted his teeth, thinking of his new lifeline: the burly warrior.
After the thread connecting him to the former Mercenary King Kanble snapped, this was the backup he'd barely managed to secure.
Harley, a comrade of the Hero who shone in the crusade.
Thanks to that connection, he'd held onto his position as executive director for quite some time.
"Are you listening, Director?"
Apparently, the rivals from other factions couldn't tolerate that.
"Yes, of course, Lord Craven."
Patrick responded politely to the middle-aged man standing imposingly before him.
He took in the group that had barged into his office mid-work, as if plotting in concert.
'They came fully prepared. Planning to settle this today?'
From guild executives to heads of major mercenary companies.
Among the dozen or so, four stood out with overwhelming presences.
'Four pinnacle experts... Insane. How did he recruit so many?'
His mouth went dry from the subtle auras emanating from them.
A normal person might have fainted on the spot, but as someone with Karma Points and an innate skill, he wasn't helpless.
He swallowed a sigh threatening to escape and schooled his expression.
"But as I mentioned before, Lord Harley is occupied as a member of the crusade alongside the Saintess. We can't rush things while ignoring—"
No matter his authority as the director overseeing guild operations, it only held weight when backed by real power like a living Mercenary King.
Now, these men— the guild's very muscle and public face—were practically his superiors. He had to tread carefully.
"Hah, do you think we know nothing?"
"...Pardon?"
His cautious excuse was swiftly shot down.
As he faltered, a middle-aged woman from the back—who led the faction of mercenary mages, including the grand mage—spoke nonchalantly.
"He's been wandering the southern regions alone for quite a while now. What was it... the Fighting King of Kolkos?"
"...But in the tribal federation of Kolkos, that's more of an honorary title..."
Patrick hurriedly countered.
A mercenary guild sworn to strict neutrality couldn't serve under a 'king' from another nation, let alone one who wasn't even a Mercenary King.
Once someone became a ruler elsewhere, they could no longer be called a mercenary, so stripping their qualifications was only right... or so their logic went.
"Enough dragging this out—let's wrap it up. Things are getting annoying. Just lop off his head and—"
"Talum."
"...Tch, even if he helps, whatever. Handle it yourself."
The burly, bandit-bearded musclebound warrior—who'd threatened aggressively—was reined in by the middle-aged man at the front. He clicked his tongue and crossed his arms, stepping back in deference.
Another pinnacle expert, yet yielding to the man's will.
'Craven...'
Patrick's gaze shifted back to the man front and center.
A master-class knight, formerly a wandering one, who'd entered mercenary circles over twenty years ago. An ambitious figure now rallying other faction leaders to claim the next Mercenary King title.
"Director, you already know. Dragging this out helps no one, least of all you. If I were serious, we wouldn't need this tedious process."
He spoke the truth.
His prowess was formidable, but his political acumen allowed him to rival former King Kanble's faction.
Back then, he'd lost due to Kanble's purer mercenary credentials.
'This is trouble.'
Such pressure wasn't new.
He'd deflected it before using Harley's name as a shield, but now with their justification in hand, it was getting harder.
Craven seemed to respect procedure due to Harley's soaring reputation, but without the man himself, a proxy could only hold out so long.
"You don't plan to hand Drakal over to southern barbarians, do you?"
"...Of course not."
"Hm. Then you're still banking on that so-called Fighting King?"
Seeing Patrick waver, Craven pressed harder.
As one of the guild's top experts, his confidence was ironclad. Though unspoken, his tone dripped with condescension.
He knew of the famed great warrior Harley and respected his renown... somewhat.
'What? A legendary dragon? A giant over ten meters tall? ...Hah! Ridiculous.'
Rumors always exaggerated; he dismissed them as nonsense.
Who would believe such tall tales? It was laughable.
Probably Patrick's ploy to prop up his shield, embellished beyond reason.
'Should've joined the crusade myself. Then I wouldn't be scrambling like this.'
He'd cowered after Kanble's death, fearing he'd be summoned in his place. That fear was gone now.
The crusade was succeeding, fueling unfounded arrogance.
I could've shone just as brightly.
That drove his recent expansion within the guild.
Standing still meant losing the throne again.
Clashing with Patrick, Harley's supporter, was inevitable.
"...Director, I have something to—"
But fate had other plans.
Events veered off Craven's script.
Suddenly.
"...In the lobby on the first floor..."
His secretary entered cautiously, crushed by the high-ranking officials' pressure. She gulped and forced out the words.
"...Lord Harley has arrived."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ 'Let's see his face.'
Candidate for Mercenary King, Craven, strode confidently.
He headed to the lobby with not just Director Patrick but the guild elites who'd stormed the office.
To confront the legendary Harley in person.
'Even if rumors are exaggerated, he won't be a pushover.'
Perhaps in raw power, he might even fall short.
The Hero's comrade in the crusade couldn't be all hype.
'But Mercenary King isn't just about strength.'
Unlike Harley, newly risen, Craven had over twenty years as a mercenary, ten as a guild representative.
That intangible asset was invaluable.
And he wasn't alone.
'I don't care about concessions to others. Once I claim the throne...'
Brimming with confidence alongside his pledged experts, he entered the lobby.
Then he sensed the unnatural tension permeating the space and scowled.
"Hm?"
The lobby of the Mercenary Guild HQ—Drakal's de facto rulers—was vast.
Counters, desks, amenities galore.
Always bustling with users...
"......"
"...Ahem."
Yet now, an eerie silence hung over it.
Despite the crowd.
The newcomers instantly grasped why.
'That's him...'
A man sprawled on a sofa by a pillar, hands draped over the backrest.
Then, like a sated lion stirring, his gaze turned to them.
'Ah.'
That alone froze the bold arrivals, stiffening them like everyone else.
"Oh! Long time no see, Patrick! How've you been? Hahaha!"
Ignoring their reactions, the man spotted Patrick in the group, laughed heartily, and slowly rose from the sofa.
Creeeak—
The already sagging sofa let out a final groan.
He'd lightened his tonnage with energy, but it couldn't withstand a frame beyond human norms.
"Whoa, sorry about that! Looks like I broke the sofa."
"...Ah, must've been defective. No issue, Lord Harley. We were due to replace it soon anyway."
"Tsk tsk, this is the guild HQ—put out better stuff."
"Hahaha, my apologies. I'll be more mindful going forward."
The musclebound giant sauntered over, clucking his tongue, while Patrick stepped forward, bowing and scraping.
Yet Craven and the elites remained silent.
'Huge.'
That was everyone's first thought.
The bearded giant among them topped two meters, but paled beside this man.
...No, it wasn't mere size.
Density of presence.
A lifeform of higher order.
The space itself seemed crushed under him, like a boulder on a bed.
'Damn, what is that thing?!'
Craven barely swallowed.
Nothing overt, yet breathing grew labored.
As the beast approached leisurely, his body reacted wildly against his will.
'No way.'
A first since reaching the pinnacle; realization dawned late.
'...This intense?'
Instinct's alarm.
His body screaming that death loomed.
Yet the figure chatted casually with Patrick, ignoring them.
"Oh! Who's this crew? Pretty solid level."
Then his gaze swept over them.
Locking eyes with that inscrutable something, Craven knew instantly.
'...I'm dead.'
No contest.
Exaggerated rumors? Patrick's lies? Unfit for Mercenary King?
Utter bullshit.
Before that monster, such notions were meaningless.
His petty schemes—public opinion, factions, assembled experts—futile.
What use against one who could shred them all solo?
"Ah, these are practically guild executives. We were just discussing guild direction."
"Ah, got it! Then why're they so stiff? I won't bite—loosen up! Kahaha!"
Harley boomed another laugh at Patrick's reply.
Finally perceiving surroundings, Craven realized he wasn't alone in his reaction.
No wonder the hush earlier.
Regardless of pinnacle or not, all his allies sweated, faces taut with tension.
He decided survival protocol swiftly.
"...My apologies for the rudeness. Your reputation precedes you, Lord Harley. An honor to meet you. I am Craven, captain of the Golden Crow Mercenaries."
A deep, deferential bow.
Unmistakable submission.
"Oho! Looking forward to working with ya!"
Harley appeared at his side, clapping his back heartily with a grin.
...A light tap, surely, yet Craven staggered, forcing an awkward smile.
A servile grin born of pure survival instinct.
"Looks like we'll stay friends from here on out! Hahaha!"
"Ha, haha... That's fortunate..."
And it was the perfect call.