Chapter 95
Chapter 95
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 95
Chapter Title: Driving the Small Monsters
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"Status on the reserves and trainees?"
"Reserves number 821, and Sparrowhawk Unit trainees number 266. For the trainees, we expect at least half, up to seventy percent, to drop out once training ends."
"I see. So the ones who pass can be mixed in with the guards for a basic herding operation?"
"Yes. That's correct."
Stellman replied at attention.
He had always been respectful when serving Sion as his master in the past, but it had intensified since learning his true identity.
Even the knights who had followed Sion to the Dukedom after the Demon Dragon War weren't this deferential.
But Sion never told him to loosen up or anything like that.
He couldn't always enforce discipline personally every time new troops arrived.
The fact that the people the existing Sparrowhawk Unit members feared most—Stellman, Priel, and Blaho—treated him with such respect naturally tightened discipline down the chain.
Stellman, in particular, intimidated with his sheer size and fierce looks alone, making him the most dreaded figure among ordinary young men, regular soldiers, and even mercenaries.
Just seeing Stellman stand before Sion unable to breathe, ramrod straight with perfect military bearing, made maintaining discipline far easier.
"Good. For now, mobilize some guards to push the small monsters out beyond the designated route. Then we head straight to Flan."
"Understood. I'll prepare the unit members and guards."
Stellman saluted and exited.
Piotr, who handled duties akin to Sion's aide, then cautiously spoke up.
"But will the guard force be enough? We're shorthanded by a hundred men ourselves, and I'm worried about problems arising in Rozin."
Rozin didn't have as large a permanent population as Sionia, but it still exceeded ten thousand, so pulling over a hundred troops from here raised concerns about maintaining public order with the remainder.
"It's fine. That's exactly why I didn't call all the reserves to Rozin at once but had them rotate in weekly."
"Ah, so you plan to use the village militias?"
"Exactly."
* * *
What Sion had in mind was rotating cards—or rather, rotating troops.
Rozin wasn't a place with poor public order to begin with. Its guards weren't elite standing army like the Black Eagle Legion, but their skills were solid enough.
Losing over a hundred guards suddenly might degrade city security.
But what if that gap was filled by village militia members—not as skilled as guards, but young and strong?
Shortcomings in skill could be made up with numbers.
The militia men rotated in shifts of two hundred every two weeks, doubling as training while standing guard, plus fifty existing guards and around ten Sparrowhawk members stayed behind to train them on rotation.
"Then city security shouldn't be an issue. We can definitely push out the small monsters without heavy losses."
"Yeah. Goblins, kobolds, trolls—properly armed soldiers numbering in the dozens can annihilate them. With guards and our boys added, there probably won't even be any serious injuries, let alone deaths."
Goblins, kobolds, trolls—these small monsters were real headaches.
In truth, the monsters that killed the most people weren't mid-to-large types like trolls or ogres.
No, these small ones actually claimed the most human lives.
Creatures with the stamina and strength of early-teen boys? How could that be?
It made perfect sense. Because there were so damn many of them.
Their habits were sneaky too—nine times out of ten, they targeted groups smaller than theirs, especially unarmed civilians.
In an ordinary village, how many people had chain mail or brigandine? Forget that—even gambesons, basic cloth armor? None.
Small, not particularly strong, but when dozens swarmed at once, stabbing, slashing, and biting, ordinary farmers—not to mention unarmed mercenaries—often got caught off guard and died.
But gather armed adult men, and the tables turned completely.
Even just in basic cloth armor like gambesons and holding 1.5-meter spears.
'Cloth armor. Turns out it's surprisingly tough defensively.'
Something Sion had learned rolling around this world.
Think about it: made by layering at least twenty layers of canvas. How could it be weak? The Dukedom guards even wore 32-layer gambesons.
An elementary schooler slicing through that with a sword?
Stack twenty bandages or Dad's linen shirts at home and shred them all with one kitchen knife strike, then he'd concede.
Moreover, the small monsters' weapons weren't modern high-tech kitchen knives—they were mostly wooden, or if metal, poorly maintained with dull or chipped blades.
Crude junk like that could harm unarmed villagers, but piercing armed adult men in cloth armor? Tough luck.
That's why small monsters stood no chance against Rozin's guards and the Sparrowhawk Unit.
"Wish we'd dispatched some guards earlier. My father used to send 30 to 40 men right away whenever goblins or kobolds showed up in the territory villages."
"Too many such villages here. Plus, they bolt at the first sign of mercenaries or soldiers and don't come near. Unless you pinpoint their lairs and strike at the source, it's pointless. Can't do that with just a hundred guards."
"So it's a mobility issue, then."
"Right. We're all mounted on Gou, so we can."
The guards take the role of large shields, preparing for contingencies, while the Gou-mounted Sparrowhawk Unit handles the main intercepts.
Small monsters' nature meant that if another group fled toward them, they headed the opposite way.
Push two or three larger packs, and the rest behind them would reverse course—straight toward the mountains.
This was all pro-level knowledge from Sion, a pro among pros who'd smashed thousands, tens of thousands of monsters over long years.
"Evasion? Detours? Small monsters don't know the concept. Push 'em, they flee right back where they came from. That's their instinct."
"Then mid-to-large monsters..."
"They'll think it's free food at first when the small fry come running. But if too many swarm in, even they catch on. That an army's coming their way. Then it's one of two things."
Sion strapped on his forearm guards, clipped his helmet to his side, and grinned.
"The brave ones go back where they came from. The cowards come at us."
"Pardon? Uh... isn't it usually the reverse?"
Piotr tilted his head, wondering if his revered great-grandfather had momentarily mixed things up (he couldn't bring himself to think dementia).
"Nah. Anywhere else, you'd be right—the reverse. But in our Dukedom, my way's correct.
"The smart, brave mid-to-large monsters living here know what I and the Dukedom are like, so they'll figure fighting their kin in the mountains beats us.
"The dumb, cowardly ones will fear the stronger kin in the mountains and choose to fight us instead."
"Ah..."
Piotr got it instantly, and an image flashed in his mind: a wyvern pierced through the chest by one of Sion's javelin throws, dead.
"So the wyvern Great-Grandpa took down recently—was it dumb but brave?"
Sion clicked his tongue lightly as he walked.
"Those are the worst. But only a few like that. Someone'll handle 'em for me anyway, pen 'em up and farm 'em."
"Ah!"
Piotr didn't know what penned farming was, but he knew who Sion meant, and his expression brightened a bit.
Still, even trusting Sion, part of him found it hard to believe.
'Can that really happen? Eh, whatever. If Great-Grandpa says so, it must be.'
Feeling excitement and tension for the real monster hunt ahead, plus anticipation whether his revered grandfather's bold claim would come true, Piotr followed behind Sion.
* * *
"Grrr rumble..."
Letting out a low growl, it shook itself awake.
Propping up its upper body, it swiped a hand vaguely, grabbed whatever touched its thick finger, and shoved it into its mouth.
It crunched through the bear thigh it'd shredded days ago, then spat out the bone with a "Ptoo!"
It could chew bones fine, but this gourmet preferred tender meat for its first meal after waking.
"Grrraaaahhh..."
Finishing the thigh and tossing the bone, it stretched long and rose.
Thud!
Its massive head bumped the ceiling. It scratched irritably, briefly pondering a move.
But after over ten years here (amazingly, it could count days) with no issues, it didn't want to leave this cave. So it resolved to wake more carefully starting tomorrow, hunched its neck, and stepped forward.
Thud! Thud thud! Thud!
Roooar!
After five or six big steps, noise erupted, and the scent of moss and water flooded its huge nostrils.
Its lair was a cave behind a thirty-meter waterfall.
Naturally formed, but it'd widened it out and even added stairs.
Splash!
Mid-waterfall, so leaping into the deep dragon pool below sent spray skyrocketing with a boom.
Birds and small animals drinking nearby fled in panic.
"Grurl! Lurl!"
Humming a bizarre tune, it swam and bathed, then hauled out onto the bank.
Obsessed with hygiene and appearance, it snapped leafy branches to clean its teeth and scrub its body.
It even stripped off its loincloth (made of beast hide; it had three more!) to wash and shake it clean.
Finishing its morning routine but one step, it planted hands on hips, naked with its huge, ugly manhood exposed, took deep breaths.
"ROOOAAAAARRRRRR!!!"
It bellowed forward for three seconds.
The sonic blast shook branches, shed leaves. Its roar alone weaponized foes' hearing and balance temporarily.
Routine complete, it hummed up its handmade stairs with thuds.
Then it paused.
'But why do I do this every day?'
Smart for a monster but long-lived, so memory fuzzy, it tilted its head with a "Kuung?"
Did this daily, but when and why it started? Hazy.
Far beyond elite, nearing champion level—not your average monster—it scratched its massive fangs habitually, lost in thought.
Then it hit him.
That his pride, this giant fang, was the only one left.
Why the other had vanished, leaving just this.
It remembered.
"......"
Sweat poured, making its refreshing bath moments ago pointless.
Right. That inhuman, terrifying human had ordered it.
The one who'd beaten it half to death all day and yanked a fang raw.
-Wash up good every day, brush your teeth. Then you can live long on my land playing king. Don't kill 'em all in a rage or eat 'em—manage the numbers. If I drop by unannounced and it's not kept right... You know.
The Brandin Mountains' monster king, elite ogre 'Big Tusk', sensed shit was about to hit the fan.
(To be continued in the next chapter)