Chapter 54
Chapter 54
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 54
Chapter Title: The Mercenary Captains' Fate
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"Give these bastards some rough treatment and keep them properly locked up."
Having ordered the handling of Sanders and the mercenary captains with their Achilles tendons severed, Sion headed to Priel.
To Priel, who was a mess of dirt and blood from the battle, Sion spoke with genuine apology.
"Sorry, but I need you to tough it out a bit longer."
"Just give the orders."
There was a clear difference between simply knowing Sion's identity and witnessing his true nature firsthand.
She had always been polite before, but now Priel bowed her head with genuine deference.
"I need to track down the ones who fled and wipe them out. They probably won't make it out of the forest alive, but it's better to be thorough."
"Understood."
"Think you can finish up and catch up to us in three days?"
"They couldn't have gotten far, so one day should be plenty."
"Then take two days. It's rare for warriors from all three tribes to gather like this, so while you're at it, clean up any monsters drawn by the blood scent. Leave a few guides and we'll head out right away."
"Yes."
Convinced that the monsters in the area would be scarce for a while, Priel turned to the elf warriors.
Then Yonas, who had been listening to the exchange between Priel and Sion, chimed in slyly.
"Grandfather, are you planning to move separately from the elf friends? Wouldn't it be better to chase the fugitives together?"
"You have your own tasks."
"Tasks...?"
Sion told him to wait a moment, then went to the mercenary captains who were groaning under emergency treatment.
"Huh!"
"Ugh..."
As Sion approached, the mercenary captains' faces instantly paled, fear etching into their expressions.
Being the leader of a mercenary band meant surviving at least five years through countless battles.
They wouldn't flinch at ordinary threats.
Yet even to them, Sion was something beyond norms—like a calamity no human strength could counter.
That calamity now gazed down at them indifferently. Even amid the pain of their severed Achilles tendons, they swallowed hard.
Sion, staring at them like the Grim Reaper, slowly opened his mouth.
"From now on, you'll come out one by one for a private talk. I'll ask a few questions. They might be the same or different.
But your answers must match. If they don't, the one who differs dies. If both differ, you both die. If they match, I spare you both and give you a chance to serve as slaves."
"..."
No reply came, but the two captains' expressions mirrored each other.
Just being spared might mean they'd be left to die slowly.
But offering them slavery meant they'd be cared for to some extent after survival.
With their Achilles tendons cut, their mercenary lives were ruined anyway—better to live out their days as slaves under a master who took responsibility.
"You first."
With that, Sion interrogated them one by one.
No torture was needed.
Their desperation for life made them spill answers at the mere questions.
In under five minutes, Sion finished with the captains and gave Yonas his orders.
"Send these guys to Iron Mountain once everything's wrapped up. They can handle menial labor."
"Yes."
Relieved that their stories matched, the tense captains let out long sighs.
Yonas was dying to know what questions Sion had asked and what answers he'd gotten, but he didn't dare inquire.
Sensing his great-grandson's curiosity, Sion spoke.
"Did you think these guys were just blindly charging through the forest to hit the Dukedom without a plan?"
"No, that couldn't be."
Even crude mercenaries wouldn't be that thoughtless.
Especially not with Sanders, a knight of the Pamell Count family, among them.
"I asked about their route through the forest, who they were meeting, and how they'd move."
"Ah..."
"They both didn't know who exactly. Makes sense—no one would spell that out to mere mercenaries. But I got the route and destination."
"So they planned to link up with someone there."
"Yeah. And that someone was probably sent by your brother."
"...My apologies."
"What do you have to apologize for? You didn't expect this either. It's all Gede's doing."
Yonas's face flickered with complexity at Sion's gentle tone, but he soon hardened into resolve.
"As a bloodline of the Sion Duke family—not Gede Sion—I will unconditionally follow the founder's judgment and decisions."
"You can call me Grandfather."
"Yes, Grandfather."
Patting Yonas's shoulder, Sion continued.
"Have the soldiers gear up with the weapons scavenged from the dead mercenaries."
"Yes? Ah! You don't mean..."
"Yeah. We'll make the contact think we're the mercenaries. Our numbers are low, but we can pass as the vanguard or scouts."
If the contact was suspicious, they might get caught, but Sion didn't care.
To suspect them, the contact would have to approach close enough to check—and within fifty meters, capture was guaranteed.
* * *
"..."
Marcos, one of Paloma Castle's stewards, stared tensely into the misty forest at dawn, fog still lingering.
It was his second day waiting here.
He'd arranged to meet the Pamell Count family here, but only a rough timeframe, not an exact date.
The Echo-less Forest wasn't something you crossed on a fixed schedule anyway.
"Hope they make it within three days."
The Pamells were confident the mercenaries would traverse the forest in under seven days, preserving two-thirds of their force.
Normally, he'd call it nonsense, but this time it seemed plausible.
The Pamells, Gede's in-laws, said they'd hired not just mercenaries but wandering elves from who-knows-where.
Though the Echo-less Forest wasn't their territory, elves were born rangers dubbed "children of the forest"—with their warrior escorts, it was feasible.
The plan was set and underway.
Marcos didn't know the big picture, but his task was to link up with the incoming Pamell mercenaries and guide them.
"Hey, check the cargo again. Everything good?"
"Yes, sir."
The soldiers who'd come with Marcos inspected the wagons covered in straw and cloth. It was perfunctory at best.
"No issues, Steward sir."
"Tch. Fine."
He wanted to snap at them, but Marcos just clicked his tongue.
The dozen or so soldiers were from Paloma, but green guards unused to real combat—not elites.
The elites were elsewhere.
'The Viscount's side is fine. Iron Mountain should be wrapped up by now, right?'
Gede was Paloma's governor and the Dukedom's viscount.
In Obla Kingdom, counts and above could grant titles themselves, especially in the semi-independent Sion Dukedom.
As the founder's direct great-grandson ruling Paloma, Gede commanded hundreds of direct troops.
All but the hundred-odd left for city watch had gone to the Three-Headed Eagle Fortress and Iron Mountain.
"Ten days, fourteen at most. Then Viscount—no, His Excellency the Duke—will be lord of these lands."
Better for everyone if the bold, vigorous uncle took the Dukedom over the weak nephew, right?
Legitimacy? Pretext?
Seize the seat for pretext, and for legitimacy, they were direct descendants too.
No shortages, and in talent, they surpassed.
"It's fine. I'm doing the right thing."
Muttering self-assurance, Marcos glanced at the distant soldiers.
It was a secret known to few that the Pamells—an outside force despite being in-laws—were aiding them.
Even these soldiers thought they were waiting for Gede-hired mercenaries.
Once delivered the wagons, they'd return to Paloma separately.
At least, that's what the soldiers believed their mission was.
But no.
Those young, sloppy guards yawning boredly would all die once the mercenaries arrived.
"Sacrifices for the greater good. An honor for you."
Muttering again as he eyed them, one soldier suddenly shouted.
"Hey! There? Over there!"
Marcos whipped his head around.
Someone emerged from the thinning fog at the forest edge.
Spotting them, the figure gathered something and waved it high.
Distant, but unmistakably Paloma's crest.
"They're here! Come on! Hurry!"
Face lighting up, Marcos urged, and a soldier waved Paloma's crested flag in response.
"Over here! This way!"
Marcos bellowed, and the flag-waver from the forest approached slowly.
Tall and sturdy, the man wore a dark helmet, sturdy canvas armor topped with chainmail—a dead ringer for a mercenary captain.
Relieved, Marcos stepped forward with a friendly smile.
"You made good time. I'm the overseer and guide, sent by the Viscount."
"...Supplies?"
The man stared long at Marcos, skipping greetings and cutting to the chase in a low voice.
'Insolent cur of a mercenary.'
Irritated but unwilling to risk the plan, Marcos forced a smile and pointed aside.
"All ready over there. Three hundred each of crested surcoats and helmets. Threw in a hundred wooden shields just in case."
The wagons held basics to disguise the mercenaries as Paloma troops.
Mercenaries' gear varied wildly.
Sending the Pamells' men as-is risked exposure.
But crest Paloma blue surcoats over leather or chain, unify helmets, and they'd pass as regular Paloma forces.
Minor, but crucial.
"Where are the others...?"
Marcos cautiously asked the man rummaging the wagons.
The man turned slightly, put a whistle to his lips.
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!
At the signal, mercenaries in motley gear burst from the forest brush, bloodstains on armor and shields.
The escort soldiers stared in dismay.
Yet they held firm.
Paloma guards or not, they were 'Sion Dukedom' troops.
The soldiers shed their lax demeanor, gripped spears sharply, and swiftly formed ranks.
"Not bad. Discipline's solid."
The man seemed impressed. Marcos sidled close, whispering low.
"They're just guards at the end of the day. We process them here per plan."
"..."
The man's eyes iced over, but Marcos, watching the soldiers, missed it.
The man—Sion, clad in a dead captain's clothes and armor—glared coldly at Marcos's rat-like profile with its curly whiskers and spoke.
"Dead men tell no tales. Extermination?"
"Why ask what you know? Now's the chance while they're bunched. Quick... Gahk!"
Marcos never finished.
Sion seized his frail neck, hoisting him up.
"Gk! Kek!"
The rat-faced man's visage flushed crimson.
"What the hell!"
"You bastard!"
The 'mere guards' leveled spears at Sion without hesitation.
Three times their number in mercenaries loomed, vanguard or not—they didn't flinch.
Sion, gripping Marcos's throat aloft, swept his gaze over the soldiers, then locked back on Marcos.
"The men you ordered killed are the ones trying to save you. Look closely, you rat bastard. These are the real Sion."
(To be continued)
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