Chapter 18
Chapter 18
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 18
Chapter Title: The Mercenary's Oath
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Sion was, at his core, an ordinary person.
Immortality making him ordinary?
Being able to sprint 100 meters in 10 seconds fully armed if he put his mind to it.
Being able to deliver eight lethal sword strikes in a single second.
Maintaining 80% of his physical capabilities even after going over a week without food or sleep—that being ordinary?
If someone called him crazy for that, he had no retort.
But setting aside those physical traits, he was confident his fundamental disposition and personality fell squarely within the realm of normal.
That was why seeing a descendant who had grown well without any help from him stirred feelings of pride and a desire to cheer them on.
And why seeing weaklings who had grown spoiled and reckless despite his material and moral support made him want to give them a piece of his mind—specific intentions aside.
That was just human nature.
Naturally, the former were Baron Kilburn and Piott, while the latter was the bear-like Stellman Zanstrick right in front of him.
* * *
"Guildmaster. It looks like you hold the Zanstrick Mercenary Corps and their captain in pretty high regard. Even if what I said comes to pass, can you still afford to show that consideration?"
"......"
Guildmaster Bicau could only sit there with a stiff expression, unable to reply.
He couldn't.
No, he mustn't.
The Alphmarine Mercenary Guild didn't consist solely of the Zanstrick Mercenary Corps.
Moreover, if things unfolded as described—which Bicau was ninety percent sure they would—he would have no choice but to abandon the Zanstricks outright.
Politics aside, they had neither the pragmatism nor the justification on their side.
In fact, lacking both made any political maneuvering impossible.
"But that's just your prediction, isn't it? I'll admit it's quite detailed and plausible. However..."
Sion's cold voice cut off Stellman Zanstrick's words, which sounded suppressed.
"We can just check right now."
"Pardon?"
"There's an information guild here too, right? Have them look into whether the Jetman family contracted only with the Zanstrick Mercenary Corps, or if they signed with other corps as well."
"......"
The two men fell silent once more, at a loss for words.
They too suspected—ninety percent, no, one hundred percent—that Sion was right.
No matter how strong the Zanstrick Corps' forces were, it made no sense to deploy just one mercenary band in a territorial war.
Especially for the Jetman territory, which had negligible troops to begin with.
They had likely contracted at least two, possibly three or four bands.
And if the others turned their blades on Zanstrick after the battle?
At Sion's prediction—no, prophecy—the two men sat in stony silence.
Knock knock.
A knock at the door shattered the quiet.
"Sir Sailun, it's Jena Allot. I've got the information you requested."
"She's my aide. Seems she's brought info you're both curious about too. Mind if I let her in?"
At their silent assent, Sion spoke.
"Come in."
Clunk.
Jena entered through the open door, gave Sion a light bow, placed a thick bundle of papers tied with string on the table, and exited again.
Sion untied the string, read the contents, then laid it out on the table for the others to see.
"It's a document from the Alphmarine Information Guild."
No need to say it—the seal at the bottom confirmed as much.
And its contents matched Sion's words without a single discrepancy.
"Two other mercenary bands besides Zanstrick have joined the Jetman territory. Not sure about one, but I know of Black Dagger."
"Haa..."
"Urk!"
As Guildmaster Bicau let out a long sigh, Stellman ground his teeth.
The Black Dagger Mercenary Corps was the third largest in Alphmarine City, boasting over two hundred combatants—a major band.
But they took any paying job without discrimination, and their high turnover from rough campaigns meant their actual strength fell short of Zanstrick's.
With such numbers, leaving them unchecked would threaten city security, so the guild had brought them in as a minimal safeguard.
'Head-to-head in peak condition, Zanstrick wins. But if they're down more than half, with the rest fatigued from battle, facing a fresh Black Dagger?'
Ninety percent Zanstrick's defeat—and with the other band joining, certain loss—which darkened Guildmaster Bicau's face further.
Worst of all, if it happened.
As a guild, they had to side with Black Dagger, still under guild affiliation—not Zanstrick, who had gone independent with barely any men left, worthless to Alphmarine now.
That very point weighed heavily on Bicau's mind.
"Stellman."
"......"
Whether rage, shame, or both, Stellman's face flushed red as he glared at the report. Bicau addressed him.
"Terminate the contract. I'll cover the penalty from my personal funds and guild loans—we'll manage somehow. You'll have to work like an ox nonstop after, but endure three, four years..."
"Five... times."
"What?"
"The penalty is five times the total compensation. Contract termination... impossible."
"You idiot!"
Typical penalties ran 1.5 to 2 times compensation.
Five times? Even stripping guild reserves bare might not cover it.
"You fool! That's why I told you to contract through the guild! You wouldn't have signed such absurd terms!"
That was the guild's purpose.
But after years of deficits pushing him to the brink—planning disbandment after this job—Stellman's narrow vision led to this unilateral blunder.
And Sion saw it plain as day.
'Father and son, both dull and inflexible.'
Indeed. Sion had known from the start that Stellman was carrying on the Zanstrick Mercenary Corps properly.
He knew Stellman's father, Perko Zanstrick, very well.
Long ago, during the Oak Dispute, Sion had fought alongside Perko, playing a decisive role in founding the corps.
'Jeez, he takes after his old man—total bear. Say something in your defense, you lump.'
Sion inwardly clicked his tongue at Bicau berating them as if ready to smack the back of Stellman's head, while the bearish man hunched silently and took it.
'Still, he's upheld his father's legacy this long. Never joined a territorial war till now.'
Otherwise, Sion would have let the corps fall and walked away.
Not everyone in his life had met his expectations.
Baron Kilburn and Piott were rare exceptions; more often, they fell short or even stabbed him in the back.
The bear before him and Perko were middling—slightly below expectations, but not a total mismatch.
'Then.'
His course was clear.
The old monster punished backstabbers ruthlessly but didn't cull or torment those merely falling short.
Well, maybe a little torment.
Like now.
"I'll cover it."
"You dumb bear bastard! If I didn't owe your father a debt... Pardon? What was that?"
Bicau, slapping Stellman's broad back, whipped around in shock.
"Enough with the hitting. Man's old enough, and that hide won't feel it anyway."
"Ah, sorry about that."
Stellman still fell in the 'only I can beat my own' category, so Sion grumbled a bit. Chastened, Bicau lowered his hand.
"But what you just said...?"
"I'll cover it. The penalty."
"Yes!?"
As Bicau's eyes bulged, Stellman straightened his hunched back and stared at Sion.
Sion met the man's bulging gaze—shocked yet fierce, almost predatory—and continued calmly.
"But we'll adjust the terms. I cover the penalty, so advance stays at 7.5 million, deductions as original. Term... let's see..."
Gulp.
Bicau swallowed involuntarily, calculating swiftly.
'Roughly four years? No, five? Wait, the pay for this solo deal was high, so...'
"No need to calculate—five years it is."
Exactly as expected, Bicau felt relieved inwardly.
But his gaze toward Stellman grew heavy and complicated.
One mistake, and Stellman had lost everything.
Worse, accepting this could see half the corps—or two-thirds—rebel.
Five years essentially collared and unpaid—who'd say 'Sure thing'?
Stellman, knowing it best, bowed his head with an even darker expression.
"Accept it. It's that or you and your boys die."
"......"
"Tell them straight. Die like dogs per the contract, or work hard for years and plan for later. Let the dissenters go. Brace for the resentment."
"......Yes."
"Resentment? Why resent?"
Stellman's reply drowned in Sion's voice.
"What kind of rookie band is this? Decades in a major city—you chose Zanstrick yourselves. No one held a sword to your throats."
"Ahem. True, but..."
"And strictly speaking, it's not unpaid."
"Pardon? Not unpaid?"
"Food, lodging, gear provided—that unpaid?"
"Even gear?"
Even Bicau gaped, alongside Stellman.
What made mercenaries mercenaries?
Pay per term—that was it. Field rations aside, everything else was on them. Even generous lords rarely supplied gear.
Otherwise, why hire mercenaries over raising regulars?
"You were selling out to Jetman assuming victory, right?"
"Yes...?"
Crude phrasing, but accurate.
"Under me, just a change of affiliation. And arguably, better terms."
"What do you..."
"Three-plus years Alphmarine guild activity. Mounted combat capable. Literate. Strict contract adherence. No looting incidents."
Reciting his original hiring criteria, Sion smiled for the first time since eyeing Stellman.
"Think I hired thirty elite mercs for three months to lounge and tour the south?"
"......!"
Stellman's eyes widened.
But not just shock this time.
Excitement. Thrill.
The primal hunger for 'blood and battle' gleaming in any true mercenary's eyes.
"Five years—you'll fight to your heart's content. Peacetime unpaid, but spoils and loot split halfsies. Still just 'selling out'?"
Clunk!
He shot up, chair toppling, but Stellman ignored it.
Eyes blazing, he dropped to one knee and rasped.
"Contract sealed. Looking forward to five years, Master."
(To be continued in the next installment)