Chapter 71
Chapter 71
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>Translator: Ryuma
>Chapter: 71
>Chapter Title: Calling a Meat Shield a Meat Shield
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The next day.
The First Base Camp was quite rowdy.
There had only been about twenty people when he sensed them with his magic detection the day before, but today nearly fifty men had appeared out of nowhere, breaking down the camp.
“Hey! That tent over there needs to be buried! Get some oil-soaked cloth!”
“The furniture gets burned! We can make more later!”
The rough-looking mercenaries moved as one, putting on quite the spectacle.
Aster watched the scene silently when a shadow approached.
“Uh, Mr. Mage. What the hell is going on here?”
It was Reiley.
He was rolling his eyes, scanning the First Base Camp’s atmosphere, dark circles heavy under them.
“You have no idea how shocked I was. Out of nowhere, in the early dawn, those Aviott mercenaries came barging in…”
He thought he was done for.
So this was it.
After all, he’d poked at the Chief’s temper so much the day before.
Reiley had crossed paths with Fixer countless times while coming and going from the First Base Camp, but he’d never seen the man that furious.
A mercenary group like Aviott wouldn’t bury someone just for offending the Chief, but…
‘It’s plenty possible.’
The campkeeper mercenaries at a base camp—and the Chief’s authority—were absolute.
But that wasn’t the case.
- I’ll pay you plenty. Share the info you gathered on the way here. A map would be even better.
An executive asking outright how to get out of the Great Forest.
In that chaotic situation, Reiley had been grilled half-asleep for a good while.
So how could he not play along in his panic?
“Uh, I really thought I was getting buried. What the hell is all this…”
“What do you mean? Just think of it as scoring a decent meat shield.”
“…Eek, Mr. Mage?”
Reiley gasped at Aster’s blunt words and glanced around.
“M-M-Meat shield? Talk like that, and you’ll get stabbed before you know it.”
What did mercenaries hate most?
Being called a “meat shield,” that slur.
They might use it to mock their own lot, but hearing it from an outsider was different.
Mercenaries sold their pride for coin, but they had their reverse scales too.
Aster just snorted at Reiley’s reaction.
“What’s it called if you don’t call a meat shield a meat shield? Right?”
“No, Mr. Mage…!”
As Reiley freaked out and tried to cover his mouth, a voice cut in.
“As unpleasant as it is, who cares about a damn label.”
A familiar voice.
“…!”
That voice didn’t belong to anyone who should be there right now.
“H-Ha… No way.”
Reiley broke into cold sweat at the voice right above his head and turned.
His neck creaked like an unoiled joint doll.
Reiley’s face filled with despair.
“H-Heh. Haha. Hahaha.”
The one he’d hoped wasn’t there stood right there.
The Chief of the First Base Camp.
Aviott’s mercenary captain.
Fixer.
“Ch-Chief, those words have nothing to do with me, they’re just the mage’s personal opinion…”
Trying to save his own skin.
Reiley quickly drew a line.
Fixer looked down at him like he was pathetic, then waved him off like he wasn’t worth responding to.
“No time to chat with trash like you. Get lost.”
“Ah, haha! Yes! Come to think of it, we still have some matters to discuss! Then I’ll just…”
Reiley fled with a pale face.
Aster watched him go, then turned back to the base camp.
“That guy’s somehow still alive.”
“Hard to find a pathfinder like him. Hell, he’s the best in the Hamern Great Forest.”
“Yeah… sure.”
Fair enough.
Aster hadn’t seen other pathfinders in the forest, so comparing was tough, but Reiley’s skills were top-notch.
A guy with weak magic detection piercing ahead like he had sharp senses.
Well…
“Eep! S-Sorry… J-Just passing through!”
Seeing that burly brute groveling, it was hard to believe.
Anyway.
Aster glanced at Reiley dodging an Aviott mercenary in a hurry, then turned to Fixer.
“More diligent than I thought.”
“Better to prepare fast, right?”
“Confirmation done?”
“…Hm.”
Fixer let out a low groan.
The day before.
- Yeah, I sent it off with my own hands.
The Lord of the Swamp.
Fixer had heard the shocking claim that he’d finished off that ancient beast himself.
Of course, words alone weren’t easy to believe.
- …The Lord of the Swamp, subjugated? By a single mage? Ridiculous!
What kind of ancient beast was the Lord of the Swamp?
Lethal to ether users, but a natural predator to mages, disrupting ambient mana to seal magic.
What mage could stand against that?
But.
‘…Who’d have thought it was true.’
To confirm, he’d sent Aviott’s fastest executive to the swamp.
And before sunrise, a message via communication crystal.
- …Chief, looks like the mage was telling the truth. No… it is the truth.
The corpse floating in the swamp, damaged here and there, was definitely the Lord of the Swamp.
That’s why Aviott’s mercenaries were breaking down the First Base Camp.
“What… the hell are you?”
Fixer recalled the footage his quick executive had recorded and asked.
The ancient beast’s pathetic corpse adrift in the swamp.
The traces left on it looked like it had been torn apart by a massive monster, not a person.
But unlike Fixer’s complicated mood, Aster’s answer was simple.
“What else? Your employer.”
“…Hm.”
“Oh, still haven’t decided? Thought you’d made up your mind since you’re packing up. Need more time?”
Fixer shook his head at the cheeky question.
“Decision’s made.”
It was decided the moment they confirmed the Lord of the Swamp was dead.
That’s why they were dismantling the First Base Camp, calling back those out on early forest recon.
“But let’s make one thing clear again.”
“What?”
“As I said, only the oldbies go to the Fourth Base Camp. The young ones…”
“Head out of the Great Forest, right?”
“…Yeah.”
It was the deal from the start, but Fixer wanted it firm.
The Lord of the Swamp.
A mage who’d slain it could drag them all if he wanted; they couldn’t resist.
He’d realized the power gap.
Of course—
‘We won’t go down easy.’
They’d thrash in their final struggle.
As Fixer steeled himself for the worst, Aster replied.
“Yeah, alright. When’s prep done?”
“Camp breakdown’s almost over, but a few haven’t returned yet. Should be all wrapped by morning.”
“Morning, huh…”
Aster figured the time.
Plenty worth waiting.
Worthless scrubs, sure, but Aviott mercenaries—no, Fixer as unexpected reinforcements? A few hours were nothing.
“Then hurry it up.”
Aster said, brushing off his hands.
As he turned to walk, Fixer’s voice came.
“What do you want? No, what do you desire?”
“…”
Fixer had switched to polite speech.
Not groveling, though.
How to put it.
Moments ago, he’d treated Aster like a base camp visitor as Chief.
Now, like a mercenary facing his employer?
Aster met his gaze squarely, then spoke.
“Told you, right?”
“What…”
“Meat shield. Destination… yeah, up to the Fourth Base Camp. After that, you do what you want. You escort us till we get there. That’s the job. Sound good?”
“Understood.”
Despite the raw “meat shield,” Fixer bowed politely.
Escort, really?
Did a mage like that need it?
But—
“I’ll see you safely to the Fourth Base Camp.”
As one mercenary, he’d etch the client’s orders in his heart.
“And one more thing.”
“…?”
“Speak casually. I’m two years older, but we’re both getting old—no need to be stiff. Right?”
With that, the masked mage sauntered off.
Fixer watched, a bemused smile on his face.
“That cocky…”
Sticking to the two years to the end.
Obviously way younger.
‘Or maybe not?’
Exposed skin and voice suggested same age as that kid mage.
But slaying the Lord of the Swamp? Age was anyone’s guess now.
A young mage taking down the terror that ruled Hamern Great Forest for ages?
‘Easier to believe an old mage chugged a youth potion and turned young.’
Though such potions were legend only.
“Chief?”
“Hm, yeah.”
Fixer snapped out of it at the approaching mercenary’s call.
“All recon teams are back. Camp’s nearly packed.”
Faster than expected.
Fixer eyed the young mercenary, then spun on his heel.
“Stop the camp breakdown here.”
“Then…”
“Burn everything left. Don’t want goblins setting up village.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young mercenary took the order without question.
“Then assemble everyone once done. Can’t keep the client waiting.”
* * *
The emptied First Base Camp.
Once bustling with mercenaries, adventurers, and merchants, now only about fifty Aviott mercenaries remained.
Under the stifling silence, the fifty stood in perfect ranks, facing forward.
Far from the wild, freewheeling mercenary image—seasoned elite soldiers from rigorous training.
Yet untamed ferocity lingered.
A razor-sharp military air.
Fixer stood before it like an immovable mountain, taking in his Aviott mercenaries one by one.
‘…’
Faces of all kinds.
Veterans who’d shared his rookie days, faces known for decades.
Down to greenhorns of barely a year.
Fixer took them in, then opened his tight lips.
“Time to go.”
“…”
“Half of you deep into the forest, half out.”
Aviott had guarded the First Base Camp for over two hundred years.
Their nest was emptying.
“No long speeches. Directions differ, but our resolve is one. You know it without words.”
How could they not.
Aviott had no place else.
The First Base Camp was home for wanderers without parents, siblings, or masters.
No blood ties, but to Aviott mercenaries, they were brothers, parents, children, masters to each other.
So they guarded it. The First Base Camp.
No—Aviott’s name.
Thus, their shared resolve: one.
‘Aviott’s survival.’
That’s why some marched to death.
To guard their brothers’, children’s, disciples’ home, foothold, haven!
The departing felt the same.
As all burned with one heart, one will, a bursting voice erupted from the ranks.
“…Chief!”
A young mercenary.
“I… I’ll go too!”
Unbearable.
Them alone escaping for life, fleeing!
No dishonor.
Mercenaries knew no honor.
No shame.
Mercenaries knew no disgrace.
Just fear.
Fear of surviving alone, sending comrades ahead, enduring endless time.
That strange fervor spread.
“…Th-Then.”
“I-If he goes, I…”
Not spread—contagion.
All young ones harbored it, pent-up emotions bursting free.
“Chief! My sword’s better than that punk’s!”
“I suck with a sword, but my legs are fast, right?!”
Military air crumbled, emotions surged.
Shouts everywhere, suppressed feelings exploding outward.
Who’d want to send comrades to death and live?
Aviott had held the First Base Camp for nearly two centuries thanks to such bonds.
Even the oldbies wavered.
‘…These damn fools.’
‘Rotten…’
Were they fearless of death?
No.
‘Then let those punks take my spot…’
I want to live.
Swap one in my place, escape Hamern Great Forest, survive.
But.
“You little shit…!”
One oldbie roared in fury.
He broke ranks, stormed the first shouter, smashed his face with a brutal fist.
“…Guh!”
The mercenary toppled from the blow.
“Where do you get off, punk! Trying to swim with the big boys! Huh?! Think you’re equals? You fucks!”
He rained merciless blows on the fallen man.
Long unconscious, but the oldbie pummeled with murderous eyes, like he’d kill him.
“Gonna enforce discipline for you?! Huh? Easy for you? Easy for us? Punk! Who the hell you think you are!”
No one stopped him.
Oldbies watched with conflicted eyes, young ones froze.
A voice came then.
“Enough.”
Fixer’s low tone.
Would it calm the raging mercenary?
“…”
Oddly, the oldbie stopped instantly.
His eyes on Fixer held no excitement—colder than ever.
Fixer exchanged glances with the oldbie, then scanned the young ones.
“Discipline’s loose, alright. No arguments. Get out. Wait for judgment outside, you worthless shits.”
That one line settled it.
“What’re you waiting for? Move!”
Young mercenaries scrambled at the angry shout.
Fixer watched, then turned away.
No goodbyes, no “take care.”
Oldbies to the forest depths, young to the outskirts.
But…
What moved the young ones wasn’t that.
- Wait for judgment.
Words unlikely kept, but that one line.
Heavier than a hundred farewells, lightening their steps.
Aviott’s mercenaries, guardians of the First Base Camp.
23 oldbies, to the Fourth Base Camp.
A feeble step to block the impure existence passed down from ancient times. The Destroyer.