Chapter 381
Chapter 381
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 381
Chapter Title: Intermission (2)
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Outerica’s free city of Drakal.
Located at the border where the Azerion Empire in the center of the Ion Continent, the Zepia Republic to the east, and the southern desert region converged, that metropolis was bustling with people hurrying to and fro today as always.
Though built on barren land too poor for even farming, its position as a transportation hub and headquarters for the Mercenary Guild—with branches across the continent—more than made up for the drawbacks.
‘As expected, this is Drakal!’
The group that had just entered the city gates was one of many drawn here by that reputation.
Merchants towing several wagons for trade over a long journey, accompanied by the numerous mercenaries they’d hired.
‘It’s enormous. Nothing like the cities I’ve seen before.’
Among them was Billy, a rookie mercenary venturing beyond his birthplace for the first time on this trade run. He marveled at the legendary Drakal he’d only heard tales of, eyes darting everywhere.
The town near his village didn’t even compare, nor did the decent-sized cities they’d passed through.
“Hey, Billy! This is your first time in Drakal, right?”
“Huh? Y-Yeah!”
Just then, a fellow mercenary from the same trip clapped the dazed Billy on the shoulder.
He was a senior from Billy’s hometown—big and strong even among peers—who’d heavily influenced the young man’s decision to join the trade.
Without his tales of heroic exploits fueling dreams of the wider world, Billy would still be mucking out stables and tilling fields back home.
‘If not for Senior, I’d never have landed a gig like this long-haul escort.’
True, his inexperience meant a contract as a gofer handling odd jobs rather than a full mercenary. But didn’t everyone start that way, learning on the fly?
Stepping into the big world to broaden his horizons wasn’t a bad deal at all.
“Kid’s totally spaced out. Over here! Escort’s done, pay’s in hand—I’ll treat you to the best spot in town!”
“Yes! Thanks, Senior!”
Whether from a sense of duty as a fellow villager, the man had looked out for Billy in all sorts of ways, helping him adapt quicker than expected.
Taking him to famed eateries for meals, like now.
A bit full of himself, sure, but a decent guy.
“Gotta hit this place when you’re in Drakal!”
They ducked into the meat specialist ‘Ogre’s Table’ on his senior’s lead.
True to the hype, it was a fantastic meal...
With his belly somewhat full, Billy finally had leisure to scan the room. A certain group caught his eye.
Four men and women claiming a whole table, inhaling meat at a ferocious pace.
Stealing glances, curiosity won out. He whispered to his senior.
“Uh, Senior. Those folks over there...”
He’d been too frazzled since arrival to ask sooner, but they’d stood out from the start.
Scattered casually around Drakal were people in wildly unusual garb he’d never seen back in Zepia Republic.
“...Huh? Oh, Southern Warriors. Don’t stare—they get pissy.”
“Southern Warriors?”
Billy snuck another look, intrigued by the casual dismissal.
Muscles and tattoos bared on upper bodies regardless of gender, decked in hides and fangs that looked fresh from the hunt.
Barbarians straight out of legends.
“Oh, and don’t call ‘em barbarians to their faces. Just in case.”
Billy flinched guiltily and glanced at his senior—
“Ugh, filthy barbarians killing my appetite.”
“Eww, they reek of hick.”
“Kekeke—What scraps are these barbarians scavenging to crawl here...”
Thwack—!
> Crash—!
“Guh!”
“You little shit!”
“Get him!”
Chaos erupted where the Southern Warriors dined.
The restaurant corner devolved into pandemonium as four Southerners clashed with over ten mercenaries.
“...Exactly.”
His senior sighed and rose slowly.
Meal done anyway—no sense sticking around and getting dragged in.
“Ptoo! Been waiting for this. Perfect—you’re done!”
“Barbarian shits! Know where you are? Crawl back to your dungheap!”
“Fuck that—whose country is Drakal?”
“I’ll make you shit bricks!”
Over a dozen tangled in a cursing melee. Onlookers shrugged indifferently.
Just routine—heads shaken, seats vacated.
Drakal was the ‘Nation of Mercenaries’ after all. Such scraps were daily bread.
Mercs who turned brigand off the beaten path, crammed together? Inevitable.
Hot blood they couldn’t rein in, egos bloated with bluff, stamina to burn—all collided into everyday drama.
“Let’s bounce. Ballsy move fighting indoors—losers foot the whole bill.”
Unless pure ambush, Drakal’s unwritten code for brawls.
With ‘no weapons’ and ‘no kills,’ the Guild enforced it—no weaseling out.
Servers acted unfazed too.
Some spectated with glee, even wagering on winners.
The owner halted work, hawk-eyed on who’d cover smashed furnishings.
Creak—
But before Billy and his senior slipped out—
The door swung open. Another barbarian... no, Southern Warrior strode in.
“Huh? What’s this? Why the tense vibe?”
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ A hulking frame towering a head over most, body etched with tattoos dwarfing any other Southerner’s.
“Tch. Kicking up dust in a restaurant? Amateur hour.”
He scowled at the brawl, tongue clicking in annoyance.
End of critique.
“Owner! Thirty special assorted grills!”
Order tossed casually to the sidelines spectator, he lumbered into the fray.
Numbers favored the mercs riding high—he tapped one’s shoulder amiably.
“Hey, buddy? Playtime’s fine, but I’m starving now. Wrap it up...”
“Who the—...Huh? Another barbarian!”
Kindness met with crude reflex.
Battle rage boiling over, the merc swung wild without a thought.
Thud!
Bare fist, aura-charged—enough to snap civilian bones like twigs.
Slammed into naked abs.
Crunch—
Horrid crack from the attacker’s arm.
“...G-Gaaah!”
“What the—?!”
“Barbarian at our back! Rob’s hit!”
“Reinforcements?!”
Scream drew comrades’ eyes.
Three-to-one odds? One more backstabber was chump change.
“...That guy. No way.”
“Huh? Know him, Senior?”
Unlike the fighters, distant watchers sensed trouble brewing.
They’d seen exactly what pulverized that aura fist.
“...Pure body recoil did that? Hell, not even a mega-beast...”
No scrub either—that merc was a vet, elite in big outfits, monster-slayer extraordinaire. One-shotted.
“Gaaak!”
“Nngh—what’s this?!”
“Stop! Halt!”
Rushers fared no better.
Excitement peaked, they struck the lone figure—then clutched mangled limbs, writhing on the floor like clockwork.
One aura-maxxer even hacked up clotted blood from organ damage.
Escalation yanked focus from the frontlines.
Fierce trades tapered to tentative probes, then deadlock—sides parted paces apart.
Wary glares flicked sidelong to the disturbance.
Spotting wildcards meant life or death.
“...Great Warrior’s Mark?”
“No—that’s...!”
Same-stock Southerners clocked it first.
Tattoo leagues beyond their chest ‘Warrior Marks’ in splendor.
First live glimpse, but prepped intel nailed it.
“War King’s Mark!”
“Conqueror of Kalcos...?”
Southern king after centuries, trendsetter reviving old garb over geezer relics.
War King Hari.
Intruder’s identity.
‘Shit... We’re screwed. Why fucking now...’
Leader twigged late too.
Garb akin enough, but that ink, build, presence? Untouchable.
MIA for ages, popping up like this?
Pupils jittered; sweat beaded cold.
Gaze swept clueless mates, eyes bugging.
“W-what now? Pile on?”
“...Nuts? Solo your suicide.”
Fight over, naturally.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The rowdy clash fizzled anticlimactically, one side slinking off tail-tucked.
“Heh heh... Sorry for the meal disruption. J-just a tiny misunderstanding sparked a scuffle...”
“Misunderstanding? They provoked first—!”
“O-of course! We’ll cover everything—responsibility full! Repairs, their tabs... Ah! And disturbing Hari-nim’s meal too. Included, yes!”
Merc spokesman groveled near-begs, grin strained; his Southern backups stood tall, piping up bold.
Hari nodded offhand at the desperation.
“Yeah? Sure it’s fine? I pack it away.”
“Yeeesss! Absolutely! Ha, haha...”
No skin off refusing gratis.
Lenient for riling ‘War King Hari’—but inwardly? Beneath fly-buzz.
Too trivial amid prime eats.
Persistent pests? Squish. But tribute and tuck tail? Spare the mess.
‘Old me would’ve wrecked ‘em regardless.’
Hari, endless frenzy and brawl incarnate.
Post-Otherworld jaunt and 「Mad Emperor Heart Technique (Revised)」, discernment dawned.
Bonus: aura outflow tamed to taste.
‘Back then, wouldn’t have dared rush.’
Entry alone would’ve yanked stares, crushed wills.
Boiling point still low vs. norms, mind—
‘But these chumps...’
Sweeping gaze over self-watching mercs, Hari smacked lips.
Pathetic enough to underwhelm even that.
Grilled or boiled? More productive.
“Special assorted grill up!”
“Oho! Killer aroma. Next—special boiled assortment!”
“Right away!”
Dilemma solved: both.
‘Wasn’t budgeting anyway.’
Plus a patron now, eh?
Free grub’s the world’s finest.
“Twenty more...”
“Mm, prime. Thirty...”
“Specifying’s a drag. Bring it all!”
Surviving mercs blanched.
Hours later, faces ashen as corpses.
‘Ogre’s Table’ shattered sales records, meat wiped out; fundless mercs doomed to labor off debt.
“Mm, shy of stuffed but call it. Great chow, pals! Uhahahaha!”
“Ah... Aaaah...”
The ruckus rippled through Drakal as eyewitness fanfare heralding the king’s return.