Chapter 10
Chapter 10
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Grand Duke's Heir, You've Run Away
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To my life that should be free, a strange piece of gum has stuck.
A storm of blood raged. Mercenaries fell, spurting fountains of blood without even a chance to resist my sword as it spun in a curving arc. To them, I—a Master swordsman who had appeared out of nowhere—was pure terror. They merely thrust out spear tips and sword tips, too busy scrambling backward.
“Don’t come any closer! If you do, I’ll kill this woman!”
A nearby mercenary pressed his sword to a woman’s throat and threatened me. Her name was Beni. Shura, who had barely wriggled free of the net, was on the verge of screaming when I thrust my blade toward Beni and the mercenary’s chest with murderous eyes.
The mercenary panicked, instantly shoving Beni aside and dodging. My sword soon traced a bizarre trajectory, curving inward to sever one of the fleeing hostage-taker’s legs.
Shura rushed over, supporting the ashen-faced Beni.
“Ma... Master...?”
I wore a brazen grin.
“That’s just how it is. A bastard who grabs a hostage to save his own skin will ditch them and run the moment he thinks he’s done for, instead of wasting time killing them. Heh.”
“Ah...”
“Anyway, you’re free now, so get fighting. I’m shorthanded.”
Shura snatched up a sword. I sliced off both arms of the hostage-taker flopping on the ground, then eyed Beni, who was half-naked.
“I’ve pinned him down, so you finish him. If you can’t, come back here and I’ll kill you instead. I get really pissed when someone I bothered saving turns out to be a coward.”
“Y-Yes...”
“But don’t touch his pockets. Search the pockets, and you’re dead too.”
Beni nodded frantically under my killing glare.
At that moment, a chilling sensation hit me as an arrow whistled from behind. I spun around, snatching it midair, then bellowed at the milling mercenaries.
“Which one of you fuckers?!”
No mercenary dared step up to my bloodthirsty roar. My face twisted grotesquely as I hurled my sword, skewering the nearest archer’s forehead. Then I flung every weapon littering the ground, picking off every bow-wielding bastard.
“Mon... ster... wa... ter...”
I killed that one too—with Survival Swordsmanship, Chapter 2, Form 1: Gotcha! Jar Smash. Anyone hit by that move gets pulped from forehead to crotch, unrecognizable as human.
“Where’s Jess! Show me what this prick’s got!”
I kept hollering for Jess. Letting him slip would nullify the whole point of hitting his mercenary band first. To conquer the ordeals ahead, I needed his head.
But Jess never showed. Instead, a trembling middle-aged mercenary pointed shakily at a spot—right at the half-pantsed corpse twitching in rigor, the first one I’d killed.
“That’s Jess?”
“Y-Yes.”
“That worthless shit. First to die, my ass. Fuck.”
I cleaved the middle-aged merc in one stroke. With Jess dead, I could peddle my wares worry-free. I plunged straight into the mercenary pack, unleashing Survival Swordsmanship, Chapter 1: Civilian Massacre.
Morale shattered, the mercenaries bolted like sheep from an enraged lion. Seasoned fighters or not, war turns them into sniveling cowards worse than kids when the fight’s gone out of them.
Too weak. Even that seven-year-old from my past life put up a better show. Tearful but swinging a broom at a monster to save her blind parents behind her—that made her a warrior. These fleeing fucks? Not even close. Strength and gear mean jack if you’ve lost the will and run; you’re just defenseless rabble, worse than brats.
That’s right. I wasn’t fighting mercenaries anymore. Just butchering civilians.
“They’ve invaded our village—we won’t forgive them!”
Shura, having rescued the cornered vigilantes, herded the mercenaries toward the gate alongside them. Looked like they aimed to seal the entrance, trapping the raiders inside. Strategically dumb, though. Cornered rats bite cats.
Tsk tsk tsk. Does she have a brain at all? When herding, leave ‘em an out. And what’s with that swordplay? Even a moron swings better.
I fretted, but didn’t intervene. Not like I planned to let any slip away either. All that loot? Every merc here was prime stock for my fun fund.
“What the hell happened here?”
Raiding parties caught wind and trickled back to the fray. But none dared join, hovering pale and jittery. Piles of mutilated comrades loomed like mountains at the gate.
They dumped valuables and village women, backpedaling frantically.
No escape, though. Aim Village sat cliffs on three sides; only way out was the stockaded gate, held by Shura, vigilantes... and me, the Master swordsman.
I yelled,
“Hey! I know nearly a hundred of you are still in the village. I’m not that tough—come at me! Hurry up!”
Panic gripped them. They’d thought the village theirs, eased into looting—now this chaos. Half-convinced it was a nightmare.
Brave fools always crop up. A few charged; Aura Blade quartered them into meat slabs, thudding down.
The rest mob-rushed. Perfect, I thought, sword ready—then things twisted. They skirted me and the gate, vaulting the stockade.
“Hey! Think you can just run? No pride at all?!”
I pursued, hacking climbers. But one man versus near a hundred? Most vaulted free.
Fuming, I nearly gave chase—but couldn’t. Villagers clustered up.
Sword trained on them, I roared,
“Stay back! All this is mine! Anyone looting corpses dies by my blade!”
As I rifled pockets feverishly, seven armored but unarmed figures approached—the ones I’d ignored.
“What’re you?”
“Uh...”
“Mercs? Vigilantes?”
“Mercenar...”
My sword danced before they finished. Shura lunged to stop me—too late. Heads rolled.
I blinked at her.
“What? They said mercs.”
“V-Village mercs.”
“Village mercs?”
“The ones our village hired.”
I rolled my eyes. Oops—untouchables, per Shura.
Glancing around, I clasped hands subtly and murmured a prayer.
“Ah, true heroes who gave their lives defending the village against bandits. Brave, noble mercenaries all. God’s blessings on your final road.”
Everyone got the picture now. Those village mercs died heroes battling Jess’s raiders. Continent-wide exemplars.
After, I stripped villagers’ and mercs’ corpses of coin, armor, garb. Meant solo, but 100-plus bodies? Impossible.
So I shared. Pocketed coin, armor, valuables—tossed rest to the toiling villagers. Beautiful, equitable division.
Dawn neared, yet Aim Village buzzed. Corpse disposal snagged them.
Entrance pile—100-plus—easy dump off rear cliff for beasts. But the 30 wounded in outlying barracks? Pre-me sweep, too far for quick handling.
Villagers struggled; work stalled hard.
“One, two, three-four, five-six...”
Squatting in a housing alley, I tallied earnings. 233 gold rif, plus pocket change. Jess’s chest yielded a sub-space pouch too—trash-tier magic item, handbag-sized, but sale-worthy for 30 gold rif minimum.
Decent haul overall. Monsters rarely paid this; mercs did. Tempted to merc-hunt professionally.
One hitch: Smithy and armorer balked at buying gear/jewels/clothes—raiders stripped ‘em bare, no payout. Damn, those escapees cost me.
Still, goods handed off; I’d collect with Jess’s head later. Good enough.
To my life that should be free, a strange piece of gum has stuck. End