Chapter 20
Chapter 20
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 20
Chapter Title: The Baron's Rage
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**Chapter 20**
Thwack!
“What did you say!?”
Baron Jetman hurled the wineglass against the wall and let out a guttural roar.
“Cancel the contract? Are you insane? Who the hell approved that? We need to hunt those bastards down and kill them right now!”
True to his reputation as a notoriously tyrannical lord in the region, he immediately started howling for blood and rampaging around.
The retainers, who knew their lord’s temper all too well, shrank back like turtles, exchanging only wary glances.
Stepping forward in such a moment meant not just a barrage of curses, but possibly a beating that could leave bones broken if luck was poor.
But Knight Erbin was different. He was the one who had gone to Alpfmarin in the baron’s stead to sign the mercenary contract and had accepted the cancellation this time.
“My lord, please calm down and hear me out.”
“Sir Erbin. Right, you accepted the cancellation. Fine, let’s hear your excuse.”
Knight Erbin met the baron’s murderous glare—which promised to deal with him first if things went south—without flinching.
“My lord, we’re talking 7.5 million dien. Paid in full via a Brelrian Bank draft. When I checked at the Alpfmarin branch, even they were shocked. They said they couldn’t handle that much in gold or silver all at once and would need about ten days.”
“Huh!”
“Ugh!”
Groans escaped here and there at the sum rivaling a year’s income for an average territory.
Even Baron Jetman, whose greed matched his savage temper, had eyes gleaming with avarice.
“And? Go on.”
“You entrusted me with the mercenary contract, my lord. So I used the penalty fee we received to post a 1 million dien advance and recruited more mercenaries. With just that million, we got about 700 more. Add our territory’s own troops, and we’re over 1,000 strong. That force outmatches Bolpart Territory.”
“That’s… not bad.”
For all his brutality, Baron Jetman wasn’t entirely dim-witted, and he nodded in agreement.
The ultimate goal here was victory over Bolpart Territory, putting them in a position of strength for negotiations.
No matter how much aid the Bolpart family got from their in-laws, their forces wouldn’t exceed 1,000—a clear path to Jetman’s triumph.
“It’s a shame we can’t use Stellen Zanstrick, but this war ends in our victory. Plus, we pocket millions in profit on the side. Isn’t that enough?”
“Hmph! Fine. No harm done. Zanstrick got lucky. But they dared to disrespect me, and that I won’t forgive. You get what I mean, Sir Erbin?”
Despite minimal losses and massive gains, Baron Jetman wasn’t satisfied.
He downed the fresh glass of liquor in one gulp, his eyes glittering with thick malice.
“Yes, of course. That’s why I’ve already made arrangements and rushed straight here to report.”
“Arrangements? How?”
“I’ve got eyes on that royal bastard Seilun and the Zanstrick side. They’re heading to Sion Dukedom, but the moment they leave Alpfmarin, word will come to me.”
“Oh ho. And then?”
“We send some of the new mercenaries. Two or three hundred should do. That’ll crush Zanstrick and salvage your honor, my lord.”
“Heh heh! Good, very good. But is that all?”
The retainers paled at their lord’s bottomless greed, but Baron Jetman paid them no mind.
Knight Erbin, who knew his lord inside out—and shared his ruthless ambition—grinned.
“As if. We should give that royal side branch a little lesson too.”
“W-what? Have you lost your mind, Sir Erbin? You know the retaliation if we harm royalty!”
One retainer shot to his feet in horror.
But Erbin kept his sinister smile, turning to him coolly.
“An unlucky injury in the heat of battle? That can happen anywhere, anytime. As long as it’s not fatal. A few broken bones, maybe a slight limp.”
“Even so! The capital’s already a mess over the succession. Stirring up trouble like this…”
“Idiot, Alvis.”
“…Pardon?”
Baron Jetman cut him off with a sneer.
“That’s exactly why the royals won’t care what happens here. They’re at each other’s throats over the throne—do you think anyone gives a damn if some no-name side branch gets roughed up?”
“T-that’s…”
“And think about it. We hold him on injury pretenses, then later apologize profusely and hand him over to whichever side looks like winning the succession. Might even score points with the next king, no?”
“...!”
“Throw in some apology money from the compensation we already got, and they’ll see me in a whole new light, right?”
“Brilliant as always, my lord.”
As the retainers gaped, only Knight Erbin chimed in.
But the Jetman retainers soon followed…
“It… does make sense.”
“No extra expense—we use the reparations we already received.”
“Better to back one side before the succession wraps up completely, no?”
“It’s… convincing.”
“Hahaha! See? You all agree now!”
The muttering retainers bowed to Baron Jetman, who was roaring with laughter.
“As you wish, my lord.”
* * *
The matter between Sion and the Zanstrick mercenaries wrapped up that day.
But there were loose ends—settling debts and such—which the Bicau Mercenary Guildmaster handled swiftly, given his fondness for Stellen.
From the guildmaster’s view, it wasn’t ideal for Zanstrick to half-dissolve and leave Alpfmarin entirely, but he knew it was the best option.
Moreover, while Stellen had canceled his solo contract with Jetman, Sion had the guild oversee the new one with Zanstrick.
Naturally, the guildmaster—who pocketed a hefty fee thanks to Sion’s courtesy—treated him with utmost respect.
So he pulled strings to help.
Moving over 50 people required plenty of food, supplies, and gear. Through the guildmaster’s connections, they got everything cheap and fast.
What should’ve taken four or five days shrank to two. Sion’s group and the mercenaries under Stellen finally departed Alpfmarin.
The Zanstrick mercenaries who stuck with Stellen out of loyalty numbered 42.
About 30 fit Sion’s initial criteria; the rest were poor at mounted combat, illiterate, or both.
Still, all had three-plus years as mercenaries, so their baseline skills were solid. As Zanstrick men, they were rare model(?) mercenaries who shunned pillaging villages or defying employers.
Sion bought wagons for the supply management of those bad with horses, leaving no one on foot. The group moved swiftly and steadily.
No lunatic bandits or brigands dared touch a party with 30-odd mounted, armed soldiers.
Starving beasts or monsters stayed away too.
Zanstrick specialized in beast hunts and monster subjugations over territory squabbles, so their gear reeked of monster blood.
The group, leaving Alpfmarin at dawn, reached a 30-meter-wide stream by late afternoon.
“That’s the Marin River, Master.”
Stellen pointed to the old stone bridge mossy in spots, fidgeting despite his massive frame.
The more Sion watched, the more he resembled his father. Sion chuckled.
“What’s wrong? Need to piss? Go do it by the riverbank.”
“No, it’s… Couldn’t you reconsider one last time?”
Stellen couldn’t hide his worry.
And for good reason: crossing that bridge put them in Jetman Territory.
They’d paid a fortune to cancel and all, but no one expected the notoriously spiteful Baron Jetman to let Zanstrick mercenaries walk free.
Stellen fretted over his benefactor and employer Sion getting caught in potential trouble.
“We could follow the river a day upstream to Bolpart Territory. From there, the central highway gets us to Sion Dukedom.”
“Fine, whatever. Except this bridge saves us at least ten days.”
“T-true, but…”
Stellen trailed off, rolling his eyes desperately at the refined young man right behind his employer and the slender, pretty woman with fiercely sharp eyes.
“Pfft!”
Fioto, the refined youth, whipped his head away to stifle a laugh at the bear-like man begging for food.
Jena eyed the stubborn oaf Stellen with displeasure before cautiously addressing Sion.
“Sir Seilun. It’d delay us, but do we really need to invite trouble? Your… test can wait for another chance on the road.”
“Can you guarantee Bolpart’s lord will let us pass nicely?”
“Uh…”
“They’re on edge too. Think they’ll just watch 50 armed troops cross their land? And if I were Baron Jetman, I’d have spread word first that Bolpart contracted Zanstrick.”
“...!”
“B-but we canceled!”
“What if Bolpart sees that as Jetman’s ploy to lull their guard?”
“…”
Stellen shut his mouth after the swift rebuttal.
“Either way, Bolpart’s lord will summon us to check. Worst case, they hold us till the territory war ends.”
“Then we show our strength and…!”
“That turns suspicion into certainty.”
“Ah.”
“Jetman’s predictable. Bolpart isn’t. Which do you pick? Always the former.”
“Well said.”
Stellen couldn’t hide his admiration.
The resting mercenaries, listening in, nodded with similar expressions.
A far cry from their wary departure from Alpfmarin that morning.
They trusted Stellen but not Sion—and certainly didn’t believe in him.
Some squad leaders even suspected Sion of exploiting Stellen’s bind.
But this young royal, oozing suspicious wealth despite his age, proved profoundly wise.
‘A few years under someone like this wouldn’t be bad.’
‘Educated royalty? He’s reliable when it comes to brains.’
Oblivious to their employer’s true nature, the mercenaries gave Sion their grudging respect.
“So, we take the Jetman route. Camp here tonight and move at dawn?”
Fioto cited basic mercenary tactics he’d studied.
Resting after a long march made sense, prepping for potential fights tomorrow.
But Sion shook his head.
“No. Eat dinner here, rest till midnight, then cross.”
“Pardon? Why?”
Fioto blinked in confusion.
Stellen answered.
“It strikes the enemy off-guard. And as Master said, we pick the battlefield.”
“Exactly.”
In Sion’s mind, Stellen earned more points.
(To be continued)