Chapter 3
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Northernrocks (3)
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By the next morning, Lindelmann had breezed through every aspect of the troop handover like a gust of wind and begun preparations to return to the imperial capital, Alteria.
“You bastard!”
“Gahk!”
Lindelmann, who had been idly watching the Headgates defense troops packing up to leave amid the distant curses and screams, turned his gaze toward the commotion.
Thwack! Thud!
“Aaaagh!”
The ones getting mercilessly battered with wooden swords and spears—clad in crude armor patched together from rough leather and thin iron plates—were none other than the prisoners Lindelmann had brought with him.
And they’d started training the very next day after that grueling journey.
“Keurgh!”
“Get up, you bastards!”
The soldiers crawled across the ground like dogs, beaten just short of death.
Wooden swords and spear shafts hammered their torsos and limbs without mercy, and if they fell, kicks followed.
At least they weren’t being killed outright like when they’d been dragged here as prisoners—that was some small mercy. But to Lindelmann’s eyes, this seemed even more miserable.
Brutal bunch. Hoo...
Suddenly recalling the training he’d endured from his swordmaster as a child, Lindelmann shuddered lightly and turned his head away.
But curiosity nagged at him, so as he loaded gear onto a carriage, he beckoned over one of the defense troops who looked a bit older.
“Hey there. Mind if I ask you something? Ah, your name...”
“Yes, sir knight. Name’s Guard Drante. Just call me Guard, though.”
“Guard? A defense trooper named Guard... How fitting.”
“Heh heh! Guess I was born for the job.”
Guard grinned slyly, his bushy sideburns framing his face.
He looked to be in his early thirties, with a personality as affable as his appearance.
“Right, Guard. Not to pry, but hasn’t the fortress received annual reinforcements for about ten years now?”
“That’s right, sir. Including this batch, it’s exactly eleven years by my count.”
“Exactly. So if you’ve been sending that many troops every year, there should be quite a few who’ve been discharged by now, right? Yet I’ve hardly heard any stories about veterans from Northernrocks Fortress.”
“Hup!”
Guard’s mouth snapped shut at Lindelmann’s question. His face hardened, and his body began to tremble.
“Huh? What’s wrong all of a sudden?”
Puzzled by the abrupt change, Lindelmann asked.
Guard quickly scanned the surroundings before whispering,
“Sir Zaroph, you’re from the central regions, so you wouldn’t know. Up north—especially here in the fortress—it’s best not to bring up discharged soldiers unless you have to.”
“Huh? Why’s that?”
“Well, think about it. Excluding the ones who die on the way, we get around six or seven hundred reinforcements every year, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But the fortress numbers—and the other legions’ too—never grow beyond their original headcount. All told, just over ten thousand? It’s been that way for over ten years. What do you reckon, sir?”
“Well...”
Lindelmann started to reply but trailed off with a sharp intake of breath.
There was only one reason the total hadn’t changed despite a decade of reinforcements.
“Exactly. They all die. The reinforcements match the deaths year after year, so the numbers stay steady.”
“Hah...”
Pitying the soldiers—who faced death anyway after all that hardship—Lindelmann shook his head vigorously.
These were all heinous criminals sentenced to death or life imprisonment.
Even if only one or two survived out of the lot, they should be grateful for the emperor’s mercy in granting them that slim chance.
“Anyway, he’s running a bit late.”
“Pardon? Late?”
Guard’s eyes widened at Lindelmann, who smacked his lips.
“Mm. One soldier’s being discharged this time, and the fortress commander asked him to travel with us.”
“Y-Yes?”
Guard’s face drained of color, even more than before.
Inside the fortress barracks building, designed to house over a hundred soldiers at once.
As Blake packed his combat rucksack, two other soldiers stood rigidly at attention beside him.
“I’m off, then.”
Blake cinched the straps binding his bundled gear tight, slung the rucksack over one shoulder, and turned.
“Sir!”
The two soldiers, who’d been watching his mood, hurried after him.
Despite the lingering chill, they wore only trousers and sleeveless shirts of rough fabric.
A touch shorter than the man ahead, their bulging, brutish muscles and shaved heads made them look so fierce that an ordinary person wouldn’t dare meet their eyes on the street.
The younger man, of middling height and build, had a refined face that contrasted with his resolute expression and sharp gaze.
Two soldiers of utterly different vibes.
But they shared one thing: tension and relief mingled in the looks they directed at Blake—opposing emotions intertwined.
“Safe travels, Captain!”
“For the empire and the legion!”
At the end of the passage, the two saluted Blake.
“I’ll be back.”
He returned the salute and stood impassively for a moment before murmuring in a low voice.
“P-Pardon? Hup!”
The muscular soldier, who’d reflexively blurted a question, clamped his mouth shut and looked up.
A flash of irritation crossed the eyes of the refined-faced soldier, who shot him a wordless glare.
“I’ll complete the mission before summer’s end and return.”
“Y-Yes, sir! Understood!”
The muscular soldier masked his fluster with an energetic reply.
But his face flushed and paled by turns, betraying his anxious turmoil.
“Rickbear.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Damian.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The two responded in turn to Blake’s call, snapping to attention.
“When’s the discharge date set?”
“Probably late summer, I’d guess...”
Damian, the refined one, answered cautiously.
Blake pondered briefly, then grunted curtly and turned away.
“If you’re lucky, we might cross paths once more before you’re out.”
Thud. Thud.
He strode down the barracks passage without hesitation and soon vanished from sight.
Only then did the two relax their stance, collapsing onto the bunk beds like puppets with cut strings.
“See you if we’re lucky? Bullshit. He’s got us spooked right up to the end.”
“Big talk now? What, gonna rush him just ‘cause it’s the finale? Rush my ass...”
Damian eyed the scowling Rickbear with pity.
“Dammit. I’d love to, but standing before him just shrinks my guts every time. I faced down hundreds of Rata tribe bastards without flinching—why only with that guy? Argh!”
Rickbear sighed deeply, the sound ill-suited to his rugged, muscled frame brimming with grievances.
“It’s the difference in blood and stature, man.”
“Blood? Stature? Explain it plain.”
Rickbear blinked his big eyes.
Damian scowled, his already prickly face twisting as he snapped back.
“You brute. Does that monster look human like us to you?”
“Nah. He ain’t human. Wait, that sounds off.”
“Same difference. He’s not our kind.”
“Then what’s this ‘stature’ bit?”
“You asking ‘cause you don’t know? Nobles, knights, whatever—he’s got a centurion folding before him, and you’re just a squad leader. You really think you’re on his level?”
“Fair. But you talk like you’re above it.”
“...”
Damian fell silent.
No denying Rickbear’s point.
“So what now?”
“What?”
“What if he really comes back before we discharge?”
“...Sigh.”
Damian, who usually chided Rickbear endlessly, found himself speechless multiple times today.
“What can we do? If he wants to come back after we’re gone, that’s that.”
“True. Still, with him around, we never had to worry about dying wherever we went...”
“Yeah. Probably the same anywhere else.”
For once, Damian agreed with Rickbear wholeheartedly.
Pleased, a smile cracked Rickbear’s fierce face.
“Right? Come to think of it, following him never did us wrong.”
“Definitely. Our recon squad’s got the highest survival rate in the northern army—all thanks to him, when you boil it down.”
“Kinda late for this, but... I was thinking of sticking by him as a mercenary after discharge if I had nothing else lined up.”
Rickbear mumbled hesitantly.
Surprisingly, Damian—who’d been listening quietly—nodded shortly.
“...Me too.”
“Huh?!”
“What’s with the shock, man? We’re sword-swingers—what else can we do out there? At best, some swordsmen corps or mercenary band.”
“Yeah, true.”
“Swordsmen corps means kissing noble ass, which neither of us can stomach. So mercenaries it is. I’ve got skills, but ‘better safe than sorry’—to swing a blade long-term, best bet’s shadowing Captain Blake.”
“Dunno what that proverb means exactly, but yeah—stick to Blake and stay close, best way to keep swinging and living.”
“Same here, man.”
“He even looked out for us in all sorts of ways, telling us not to die.”
“For mission success, sure—but we ended up surviving. Plus, he only beat us those first few months.”
“I got beat the whole time.”
“‘Cause you’re an idiot.”
“...”
“...”
Rickbear and Damian lapsed into silence for a while.
They stared off in different directions, lost in thought.
Rickbear stroked his veiny bald head; Damian glared neurotically at the ceiling. Soon, both wore glum expressions as they surveyed the barracks.
The same old place, yet today it felt strangely empty for reasons they couldn’t pinpoint.
Why isn’t he here yet?
Torn between eagerness to leave and curiosity about this potential Rebel King subjugation force veteran, Lindelmann paced anxiously around the carriages.
The defense troops seemed just as jittery.
Fully prepped for departure, they huddled in small groups, murmuring with grim faces.
“What’s there to worry about? Everything’ll be fine.”
Lindelmann flashed Guard and the troops an awkward but reassuring smile.
But their expressions didn’t brighten.
“Sir Zaroph doesn’t know the Northernrocks Fortress troops well, so you can say that.”
“No, I...”
Before Lindelmann could bristle, Guard pressed on.
“Even those escort soldiers who came with us yesterday? They’re just past their first year. The top trainees get picked for escort duty like a sort of vacation. But in the whole fortress army, they’re small fry.”
Glancing warily lest the “small fry” overhear, Guard kept his voice low.
“I-Is that so? Just a bit less seasoned than the veterans?”
Shocked but trying not to show it, Lindelmann ventured.
“A bit? First-years just train, do chores, and guard. They enter the mountains maybe twice a year, never past three peaks. But second-years? Totally different. And the recon troops—handpicked from five-year vets—are devils incarnate.”
Shuddering at the mere thought, Guard trembled.
“What’s so bad about leaving the fortress for the mountains?”
“Savages and beasts crawling everywhere... I don’t know the details. But Sir Zaroph, mind if I ask you something?”
“Hm? What’s on your mind?”
“No offense, but how many people have you killed so far?”
“Eh?”
Caught off guard by the question, Lindelmann flustered.
He grimaced reluctantly before answering.
“Well, uh-hum! Around seven or eight, I’d say. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
In truth, just one—and he’d vomited for days after—but Lindelmann puffed up proudly.
“Second-years and up in Northernrocks face twice as many barbarians and beasts as the comrades they lose in battle. Meaning, surviving long here means you’ve slain dozens of them yearly.”
“...”
As Lindelmann’s face paled, Guard drove the point home.
“So how many do you think someone who fought deep in the mountains for over ten years—and got discharged—has killed?”
Even asking made Guard’s voice quiver with fear.
“Th...”
A chill ran down Lindelmann’s spine; he couldn’t utter “thousands.”
“H-Hey, look over there!”
Then, one of the defense troops by the campfire beside the carriages let out a hushed exclamation.
All eyes turned.
Thud. Thud.
Someone emerged from the shadows inside the walls, approaching.
(To be continued in the next installment)