Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 002
Chapter Title: Elephants Need Their Tusks
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Flames, swirling ash, the stench of blood, and screams.
Philog squinted his one remaining eye at the battlefield scene, which felt more like home than anywhere else. It wasn't that some long-forgotten conscience from his mother's womb had suddenly revived.
'Two dead in a dump like this? What idiots.'
Considering they'd slaughtered nearly ten times their number with just sixteen men, the casualties were low. But given that these weren't your average bandit rabble, it was pathetic.
Tsking his tongue, Philog was interrupted by his second-in-command.
"Boss."
"What."
"Shouldn't we give them a breather this time? They're grumbling under their breath."
War for mercenaries was supposed to be far from this kind of one-sided slaughter.
Raiding villages was meant to secure supplies and funds, and satisfy primal urges.
But this fight offered no chance for either.
"I told you. If they find out it was us, it's the gallows for sure. After we're done, check their belongings—anyone with loot gets rid of it."
"......Understood."
"Tell them rewards will make up for what they can't get here. Just hold out."
His employer's orders: Erase a few villages in the kingdom's northeast without a trace.
For run-of-the-mill mercenaries—thugs who'd picked up a weapon because they hated farming—that was impossible.
Assembling enough to raze a village like this would spread rumors far and wide just from moving. They might even get repelled by local militias.
That's when you needed real pros like Philog and his crew—mercs raised in mercenary villages, learning footwork and discipline alongside their first steps.
Truth be told, he didn't know exactly why they had to do it this way.
Negotiating with the employer was the chief's job; he was just the captain carrying out orders.
If he had to guess, it was probably some scheming between high-and-mighty nobles.
His thoughts were cut short as he spotted someone bursting from a barn in the village center.
Black shaggy hair, small stature, threadbare clothes patched to hell: a boy.
Gripping a short curved sword, the boy glanced around and bolted toward the unguarded side.
But the path they hadn't blocked was obviously obstructed by terrain—
"What?"
The mercenaries gawked as he leaped over a wall more than three meters high in a single bound.
Even if kids were lighter than adults, this was no untrained acrobat's feat.
Of course, that didn't mean the boy could escape alive.
Archers were posted on the village outskirts precisely for runners like him.
But mocking their assumptions, the boy flicked a glance, swung his sword, and batted away an incoming arrow.
And not by luck—he charged the archers' direction, deflecting three more in succession.
Soon after he vanished into the forest, screams—presumably the archers'—echoed out.
"That crazy little..."
"What the hell is that kid!?"
"Did I just see a ghost?"
Veteran mercenaries—even knights rarely attempted such skills. The crew stood dumbfounded until Philog snapped first.
"Don't just stand there like idiots! Chase him! Check if the archers are alive! The rest finish up and follow!"
"Got it!"
A few lightly armored men dashed after the boy.
"Hah, hah."
Deep in the dark forest, Shan didn't stop until the village was out of sight, then caught his breath.
He'd never had trouble controlling his body before, but extreme excitement and terror made his heart pound like it would burst from his chest.
'I did it......'
The moment arrows flew from the outskirts, time seemed to freeze for Shan.
In that sluggish world, only the arrows hurtled toward him swiftly.
Swatting them with his heavy, water-like swings was easier than expected.
The last one, from less than ten steps away, was a close call.
Reaching the forest and dispatching the three hidden archers was simpler than his first kill.
Demoralized by the mystery assailant batting arrows, they'd turned to flee. Shan pounced like a cat on fleeing prey, tearing their necks.
Sitting on a stump sturdy enough for a chair, he massaged his trembling legs.
They'd ordered no survivors, so they wouldn't want any.
He could just flee and live, but Shan chose to fight.
Not for sentimental revenge on the villagers.
A boy who'd lived his life as prey now reveled as predator, ripping flesh with unknown fangs and claws. It thrilled him.
'Wonder when they'll come.'
He'd retreated to the forest instead of fighting on-site because it was too risky against fifteen-plus foes alone—even idiots flailing about.
But here? Different story.
The dense willow forest that named Willow Village, too thick for moonlight to pierce.
Against fifteen blind men relying on crude torches, he'd win handily.
His cursed eyes pierced pitch blackness like daylight.
After quick preparations, he waited minutes.
Then, distant clamor and approaching torchlight.
"Ugh, what roots..."
"Quiet. Voices carry in forests like this."
Roughly sixteen or seventeen bandits—probably all from the village, taking time to arrive.
Having seen three archers slain effortlessly, they'd know he was stronger and skilled in ambushes than expected.
Watching silently from the dark, Shan nocked an arrow as they entered range.
'Let's see.'
He'd never been properly taught archery.
Skills for survival were property, not shared with lowly Altoin slaves.
But mimicking the archers' motions he'd just seen made him serviceable.
Predicting fast targets was beyond him yet, but hitting slow walkers? A few practice shots while waiting sufficed.
Legs spread for balance, back straight, left arm extended on the bow, right pulling with full weight—
Twang. The arrow struck the lead torch-bearer's chest.
"Ack!"
"Arrows!"
"He's shooting the ones he stole from us!"
As they fumbled shields, Shan fired the arrows he'd stuck in the ground: two, three, four.
Two hit shields, one the knee.
'Not as good as I thought.'
Bigger than the hunter's bow he'd seen, it stung his forearm and fingers each shot.
But the arrows flew faster, harder.
No more, or he'd lack sword strength. He dropped the bow and met the charging bandits.
"That damned Altoin brat..."
"Kill him!"
Giants a head or two taller charging with weapons—a normal person might wet themselves.
But Shan glared, reading their speed and formation.
And—
'Now.'
Crash. A kick toppled a nearby tree onto the rushers.
A primitive trap: half-sawn base earlier when time allowed.
It ruined the sword from his first kill, but he had the archers' daggers. Weapons aplenty—or loot more from corpses.
"Ack!"
"Help lift this!"
"Damn it—"
Formation crumbled naturally.
Shan thrust his dagger through branches into an enemy's throat beyond.
Seeing their comrade drop silently, the bandits yelled.
"There! Past the branches!"
"Can't see—shine the torches!"
No reason to fight in the light.
With spears, two-handers, swords, shields—they couldn't hold torches too. At most three or four fires.
Shan shadowed the flickering lights, slashing with dagger, hurling an axe from a corpse into another's chest.
Two hands in perfect sync, like two minds in one body.
The mercenaries adapted, encircling like hunting a beast, thrusting spears.
But Shan scaled a tree, bounded branch-to-branch, slipping the net effortlessly.
Always skinny, lighter than peers his size—monkey-like agility.
"No way."
"What kind of bullshit..."
Bandits gaped, like dogs chasing a monkey.
Dropping from the tree, Shan hid in shadows, grinning at them.
The feel of blade carving flesh, crunching bone; chill of steel whistling past; eyes filled not with contempt, but terror.
He'd never imagined wielding power as the strong could be this fun.
Now he understood why villagers itched to bully him.
It repeated: They charged, encircled; he climbed or toppled trees to break through.
In these fights, Shan learned volumes.
Thrusting torches blinded night vision temporarily.
Move on their blinks—they couldn't track him.
A light tap toppled those over-swinging off-balance.
Stabbing torsos? Slide blade horizontally between ribs.
From boy who'd only slit animal throats, he became a seasoned killer targeting human vitals—in moments.
After over ten dead, survivors fled screaming, morale shattered.
"S-spare me......"
"Run! He's a demon! Not human!"
"Deserters die by code! Attack! It's just one kid!"
The cyclops boss bellowed, personally beheading a runner—but it didn't stop the rout.
Torchless in utter black, green glints claiming them one by one—the fear uprooted even discipline.
Realizing he was alone, the boss met the creeping gaze and asked,
"What... what the hell are you?"
"Shan."
He hesitated at the sudden question but answered.
Introducing himself as Willow Village's lowly Altoin slave felt wrong; he didn't know how else to define himself.
Unhappy with the curt reply, the boss grimaced and charged with a roar.
Far sharper, faster than the first bandit.
But to Shan, just another flailing fool—worse, with half vision from one eye.
As the boss blinked, Shan ducked low. Guessing left (under the eyepatch), the boss swung there.
But the spear thrust from right, piercing leather, ribs, shredding guts.
"Grk, urk."
Shan stared as the cyclops spewed blood and died, then discarded the spear for the boss's sword.
Handle wrapped in pig-or-cow hide, sized for adult grip.
Blade longer than his arm, grooved midline.
Bloodied, greasy from kills, but unbent, sharp—far better than others' gear.
Unlike hasty pickups, this was his first true possession since birth.
"Heh."
A satisfied chuckle escaped Shan—then his legs buckled, dumping him to the ground.
Adrenaline spent, his overtaxed body quit.