Chapter 35
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 35
Chapter Title: Silverlake (5)
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“...!”
The snub-nosed mercenary's shoulders twitched lightly, deep wrinkles forming between his eyes.
'Falling? Me?'
He had overcome countless brushes with death, including breaking through eight of the twelve gates at the Carvas Temple.
He couldn't even remember the number of foes who had collapsed, spurting blood beneath his anomaly blade.
Yet this man—he—had felt fear, if only for a fleeting moment.
And to top it off, it had happened right in front of the worthless trash he dragged around as "comrades" for stalling in emergencies. The snub-nosed mercenary seethed with shock and fury.
"Kill him!"
Swallowing the threat 'or you'll die next,' the snub-nosed mercenary hurled his anomaly first at the nearest target: Lindelmann.
His comrades, armed with hand axes and swords, charged Blake, swinging their weapons like madmen.
Clang!
Blake dodged the frontal mercenary's overhead hand axe with a subtle body twist, blocked the side-slicing sword with the dagger in his left hand, and whipped his right hand toward the attacker's jaw.
Slash!
The dagger gripped in reverse in his right hand cleaved through bone and flesh like paper. The severed jaw dropped away, and one mercenary perished on the spot.
"You bastard!"
In that instant, another mercenary—eyes wild with rage at his comrade's death—thrust his sword at Blake's flank.
Thwack!
Blake hooked the falling corpse's foot, yanking it to his side as he twisted away sharply.
Thud!
"Urk?"
The sword grazed Blake's coat and plunged into the dead comrade's body. The flustered mercenary struggled to yank it free.
But Blake, who had blocked the attack and scattered their focus with the corpse, seized the opening and swung his dagger.
Whoosh!
It was just a dagger, but the strike's ferocious speed and power didn't merely pierce the mercenary's throat—it snapped his neck as he slammed into the wall.
In a flash, Blake felled the two swordsmen and lunged at the first hand-axe wielder without pause.
"Raaagh!"
The mercenary bellowed at the sight of his two comrades crumpled in gruesome heaps and swept his hand axe left and right.
But the attacks sliced only empty air.
Crack!
Blake smashed the mercenary's wrist with his left fist, snapping it, then drove his right hand forward, jamming the dagger into the man's throat.
"Grrgh! Gurk...!"
The mercenary's eyes rolled back white as he spewed dark red bloody froth and collapsed.
Blake yanked the dagger from the fallen man's throat, spun on his heel without a breath to spare.
He had one last snub-nosed target to finish.
Boom!
In that moment, the snub-nosed mercenary slammed a kick into Lindelmann's side and exploded through the pub door, hurling himself outside.
"Ngh!"
Lindelmann toppled from the shock but scrambled up and dashed out after him.
Yet the snub-nosed mercenary's horse had already shot like an arrow into the sleet-shrouded darkness.
Blake followed Lindelmann out and narrowed his eyes, staring at the vanishing rider melting into the night.
"Shouldn't we pursue?"
"No point. By the time we fetch horses from the stable, he'll be long gone from the village."
Blake stared indifferently in the escape direction for a moment, then turned back into the pub. Lindelmann hurried after him.
"Bleurgh!"
The wizard knelt amid the horrific corpses and gore-slick floor, heaving up undigested food nonstop.
Ignoring him entirely, Blake strode past and addressed the pub owner cowering and shivering behind the bar.
"Is the nearest big town from here called Lancel?"
"Eek! P-Please, spare my life!"
The owner—already soaked in his own piss—flopped flat to the floor, wringing his hands frantically.
"I won't kill you. Just answer. Is the closest big town Lancel?"
"Y-Yes! Lancel it is!"
At the reassurance, the owner bobbed his head vigorously.
"How long by horse?"
"A-A donkey cart takes half a day... Horseback? Under a few hours."
"Got it."
Blake nodded faintly, pondered briefly, then fished a silver coin from his pouch and tossed it over.
"For cleanup. Haul off the bodies, bring the horses we rode in. Fill the saddlebags with water and wine. Don't dawdle, or I'll torch this place."
"Y-Yes, sir! Right away, sir knight!"
The mix of coin and threat worked wonders. The owner, lately fearing for his neck, staggered up and bolted from the pub.
Blake shifted his gaze to Lindelmann, standing there dumbfounded.
'Gah!'
Lindelmann jolted under the stare.
He'd forgotten amid the chaos, but he had sparked this whole mess.
"Sir Zaroph, grab the gear and come down. We're leaving."
"R-Right."
Surprised Blake held him blameless, Lindelmann bolted upstairs, packed their things, and rushed back down like a gale.
"Uh, so... where to?"
Shame had crushed his spirit—this was all his fault, after all—but curiosity won out.
Fleeing made sense, but who would ferry them in this hour, this weather?
"Red Giant Mountains."
"Eek!"
Lindelmann recoiled at the blunt reply.
The Red Giant Mountains split central from north, infamous as the Northern Great Mountains for peril.
No—even riskier than the Gray Mountains, culled of beasts by Northernrocks Fortress troops.
"R-Red Giant Mountains?! Weren't we shipping to Whitenode Gate?"
Forgetting his own predicament, Lindelmann blurted.
"Never was. Came here to cross the Red Giants from the start."
"Why?!"
"Situation demands a tighter route. Crossing's the optimal path."
"E-Even so! That's impassable for humans. If it were, why wait for Silverlake's thaw to hit Whitenode Gate?"
"Not my problem. Map shows the range narrows sharply five klicks along the shore. Crossing halves the distance versus gate-to-capital road."
"M-Must be an error. Blake, listen—post-Imperial decree, no one's crossed the Red Giants. Adventurers tried; none returned. Ask the locals. H-Hey? Right?"
A villager dragging the last corpse out bowed frantically.
"T-True, sir knight. Closest village, sure, but we steer clear. Last adventurers, two years back? Vanished. And this thaw? Mountain giant howls carry here."
His voice quavered at "mountain giants"—trolls—and the others nodded, faces etched with dread.
The range's red name came not solely from ruddy rocks.
Carnivorous beasts dubbed mountain giants, trolls, lurked in folds and deep woods.
"See? Locals confirm."
Buoyed by their support, Lindelmann shot Blake a told-you-so look.
"Hah..."
But despair crashed in.
That iron-masked frontline soldier's face betrayed zero flicker, as ever.
"Trolls? Irrelevant. You and I can handle them."
"...!"
Lindelmann gaped.
Monsters where runts at three, four meters tall took ten soldiers to maybe fell—and two of them?
"Exact route's the snag. Map's fine, but a guide's preferable."
Blake's narrowed eyes swept the villagers.
"Eek!"
"No idea! We know nothing!"
They waved hands in blind panic.
"Blake, reconsider..."
Lindelmann geared up to plead again.
Then—
"Um... I know the path..."
A timid, drained whisper.
All heads whipped around.
The briefly forgotten wizard now adjusted his tall green conical hat, face weary and unkempt.
"You know it?"
The pretty-boy mage flinched at Blake's gaze but nodded bravely.
"Yes. Grew up there."
"Hm."
Blake eyed the wizard gauging his reaction.
This slight boy who'd toad-ified a healthy man was a mage, no doubt.
He knew post-empire, scarce wizards had vanished into abyssal ranges like the Red Giants.
Thus, likely this kid's master had claimed those peaks—his path knowledge rang true.
"Terms?"
"Huh?"
Expecting path queries, the mage's eyes bugged like a bunny's.
Flickering firelight flushed his face; wide eyes bewitched—even Lindelmann, no boy-lover, felt his pulse quicken.
But Blake valued looks not a whit in judgments.
"Knowing the way means joining. Altruism's a myth—name your price."
No slack for niceties, Blake cut straight.
"Uh, w-well..."
The mage fumbled at Blake's monotone drone but soon peeked up slyly.
"C-Could I ask your destination?"
"Why tell you?"
"N-Not precise, just rough... Uh, taking the Bran River?"
"Yes."
The mage snapped his head up.
"Ah! Balt Strait? Southbound? If south, take me along?"
"Pass."
"Eh?"
The snap rejection floored him.
"Why? Mountains await—you'd benefit from me..."
"Guides aren't comrades. Useful for peaks, sure. But zero journey value. Less than Sir Zaroph."
'Why me?!'
Lindelmann bristled, started to turn—then ducked, guilt-stricken.
"But I'm a mage..."
He'd heard it endlessly from master: world craves mages, covets them close.
Blake's chill crushed that dream.
Blake couldn't care less.
Solid grounds.
"I throat-slit humans faster than you toad 'em or slip 'em midair. Your spells? Superfluous."
"...!"
Flashback to Blake's slaughter: mage blanched bone-white.
Then drooped, shadowed.
'Hm.'
Blake regarded him coldly.
(Continued in the next part)