Elzion 4
The sound of grass rustling. Under the moonlight, black shadows began to reveal themselves one by one. Gleaming blades of every variety.
"We're under attack!"
"Get up, you worthless shits!"
The mercenaries, who had just been settling down to sleep, grabbed their weapons and leaped to their feet. It wasn't some sense of duty to earn their pay. If these were real bandits, they'd spare only the women or a few valuable hostages—everyone else was dead meat. Their visible gear and loose coin wouldn't last long either; it'd all be loot.
Licht and the other mercenaries knew this all too well. Killing and taking—that was just how it was. Even in the relatively safe areas around El Sion and Britten. There was always someone lower on the ladder. Licht, who had spent seventeen years cooped up in his family estate, only realized this after stepping out into the world.
But I killed them all.
Were there more? Licht spread his mana wide, then shook his head inwardly. No.
Rex gasped.
"Wh-why all of a sudden...?"
He glanced around; everyone's faces were grim. Just as Licht had said. There were exactly thirteen shadows. The caravan group numbered over thirty, including the mercenaries. Pure numbers favored them more than twofold. But everyone here knew better. The bandit gangs of the Norn Mountains numbered over a hundred. Wipe out the vanguard, and the pursuit squad would follow.
In the heavy silence, one man stepped forward.
"What's with the long faces? You'd think we were about to eat you alive."
The leader at the front stood out from the rest. His neatly groomed hair and beard, clean face and clothes—they set him apart from the ragged thieves around him. Even the sword at his waist told the tale.
Sword Runner.
Licht sensed faint traces of aura from him. Freshly entered the realm—not long since awakening it. Still, the gap between him and a true non-practitioner was unbridgeable.
Rex addressed the apparent vanguard captain calmly.
"Are you... from the Fang Bandits? You're not like the ones from before..."
"Fang Bandits? Oh, right, those guys. That was us until yesterday. Was that redheaded, squinty-eyed prick the one collecting your tolls?"
"......!"
Rex's mouth fell open. He couldn't respond.
The man chuckled.
"What happened to that bastard... Can't quite remember."
"The redhead? Didn't Big Bro cut his throat with his sword?"
"Oh, yeah. Forgive my shitty memory."
"Then..."
"Those remnants are all dead as of today. My bro's probably finished cleaning them up by now, so don't worry your pretty head. What matters is..."
The man drew a sharp dagger from his bosom.
"These little rats trying to cross the Norn Mountains without our permission!"
He hurled it viciously. Whiiish— Crack!
"Gah!"
A mercenary right in front yelped and jumped back. The blade had buried itself deep into the ground.
"Eek!"
"Fuckin' hell."
Shing! The mercenaries drew their weapons and stepped forward. The merchants had already retreated, wise to the value of their own skins.
The man twirled his hand a few times.
"Hoo... Wanna give it a shot?"
"......"
Jack said nothing. Neither did Rex. They had twice the numbers, sure, but half weren't even killers. Useless in a real fight. Even if they broke through with losses, no guarantee they'd handle the followers. And the horses, run ragged all day, were spent. They needed rest till morning to reach El Sion. Rex knew this, so he held back. The man's bravado had reasons.
He muttered like he was complaining.
"If you assholes act like this... what does that make us? Huh? We just cleared out the old dogs, ready to do real business, and now you ingrates try to sneak through without a proper tribute? What'll the other gangs think? 'Oh, the new guys let 'em pass for nothing, unlike the Fang Bandits.' No one'll hire us anymore. Great for you, right? Huh? Yeah, that's it!"
Wham! He kicked the dirt, spraying sand into the air.
No one spoke.
He brushed his hair back from his forehead and continued.
"Normally, we'd slaughter you all... but you're lucky. Saw too much blood yesterday. Killing like that on day one brings bad luck. Let's keep it easy."
"You mean...?"
Rex asked.
The man grinned like Rex was truly clueless.
"Tribute."
"......."
"Don't play dumb. We're not idiots. You paid those Fang pricks regularly. Bring it."
All eyes turned to Rex. He bowed his head briefly, then rasped an order.
"Bring it."
"Y-yes? Oh, got it!"
A merchant beside Rex hurried to the wagons. He returned with a small chest.
"Toss it."
"......"
Rex nodded. As the merchant hesitated, the chest thudded down before them.
A thief who called the man "Big Bro" picked it up and opened it. Golden coins gleamed in the firelight.
"Eighty gold for eight wagons. Check if you like," Rex said.
But they weren't listening. The bandits, arrayed around the wagons, swarmed the chest.
Admiration erupted from all sides.
"Whoa..."
"Bro, this is insane! With this much..."
"Hey, hands off!"
"How much have these bastards been skimping us?"
Eighty gold was a fortune. Enough to make any bandit's eyes spin.
But the man frowned, unsatisfied.
"Not enough."
"...Pardon?"
"Eight wagons, eighty gold? Nah. Once coming, once going. Total one-sixty. Where's the other eighty? You think this pittance shuts us up?"
"What...?"
Rex sputtered in disbelief. One-sixty gold? His lips trembled. Even the prior ten per wagon had strained him. Now double? Margins would vanish.
The lax air tautened instantly. Merchants trembled in fear; mercenaries gripped weapons in suffocating tension, glaring ahead.
Only one remained calm. Licht, gazing at the campfire flames, finally turned to the man. He sighed theatrically.
"Haa... Fine. I get it. Used to paying less, now double—tough pill. But here's the thing."
He glanced at his flanking thieves and pressed on.
"Those Fang bastards took what they took, but we've got our side too. They had just over a hundred; we've got two hundred. Mouths to feed ain't one or two."
His voice rose.
"Orphans no one took in, gutter-poor kids, guys grabbing swords they'd never touched to save their only parent. We're not like other bandit scum. Factor in families, it's over five hundred."
"Sophistry. Bullshit."
"Bullshit? Sophistry?"
The man sneered at Jack's words.
"When did we say we loot willy-nilly? Nah. More coin means tighter management, more mouths fed. Win-win, right? Rich folks show some generosity, everyone's happy. Why can't you get that? Huh?"
Thud! He kicked the ground again. Sand trickled down.
"You're heading to El Sion anyway."
"...So?"
Jack shot back; the man replied.
"The world's so fucking unfair. Don't you think? Some born to nobles or fat merchants, living cushy forever. Others, just bad luck, dumped in slums, scraping by. El Sion? Same shit. 'Knowledge open to all'? 'Just have the will'?"
Emotion crept in. As everyone held their breath, he bellowed in rage.
"Fuck that noise! Anyone can say it! The three great academies? All nobles. The rest? Scam outfits fleecing commoner hopefuls. You know it. Name one famous mage from the slums?"
Jack had no retort. It rang true. El Sion's Central Library was open to all in theory—no rank, wealth, or status barred. But in practice, only the elite passed through. Commoners felt the silent pressure and fled. Magic was that exalted. Jack, who once dreamed of it himself, couldn't argue.
The man shook his head slightly. Calmer now, his voice steadied.
"Losing my cool today. Sorry for the show. But business is business—we can't back down. So, we do this nice and easy? Or..."
Shing! He drew his sword for the first time.
"...You wanna try?"
The hired mercenaries glanced back at Rex. Their eyes screamed reluctance. Pay or no, life came first. Loyalty? Not for sellswords.
Rex peeked at the black-cloaked boy and white-robed girl by the fire, then slowly closed his eyes. Even a 4th Circle mage couldn't handle two hundred bandits—in their home turf mountains. Eighty gold wasn't worth all their lives.
Rex made his choice inwardly.
"B-Bro! Th-that's Barte's crest, ain't it?"
"What?"
A bandit pointed, yelling after scanning around.
Barte's. That single word drew all eyes to the fire. Hidden by mercenaries, in the deep night lit only by moon and flames, it had gone unnoticed. Beyond the flickering light, faint on the robe: Barte's crest.
Barte's?
In that instant, the man judged faster than any. He flung another dagger.
But it never landed. It halted mid-air, inches from a mercenary's chest.
"Wha...?"
Thieves who'd mimicked him stared in confusion.
Licht thought: These are all of them.
Nearby presences: just these people. He'd waited for reinforcements; no need now.
Licht rose slowly.
A bandit blurted dumbly.
"What the...?"
"That's enough."
Whoosh—! A single gust swept through like a scythe.
The dagger clattered down. Bandits blinked in unison, as if on cue.
In the boy's hand gleamed a golden holy sword, drawn unbeknownst. Its radiant sheen shattered the moonlight. Red lines traced their necks.
The carnage hit a beat late.
Splurt! Blood erupted everywhere.
Gurk, glurk! Thieves clutched throats reflexively, eyes bulging. Thud, thud. Severed heads rolled. Decapitated bodies toppled forward and back.
Eerie silence. No one could process the sudden slaughter. Horrified gazes locked on Licht.
Slash! Flesh parting rang clear.
The man's view spun wildly.