Chapter 91
Chapter 91
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 91
Chapter Title: The Black Proposal
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“……!!”
Ralph's pupils shook violently at the weight of the name that burst from Manus's mouth.
Wilhelm Kalia.
Ralph's uncle, and the man reigning at the pinnacle of the Kalia Soldier Clan, one of the three great vassal houses.
Even if you scoured the entire Lichtenauer Martial Clan—with its countless organizations and powerhouses as numerous as the stars—there were almost none above him except for Paon.
He was one of the most vital executives within Lichtenauer itself, a giant among giants.
No matter that Manus was dubbed a "small star," it wasn't a name to invoke lightly in some empty promise.
Which meant... for him to utter Wilhelm's name, Manus's proposal right now wasn't mere drunken bravado.
‘He’s almost hooked.’
A sly grin tugged at Manus's lips inwardly as he watched the conflict flicker in Ralph's eyes. He pressed his persuasion once more.
“Judge wisely, Ralph. Will you waste away playing children's games, lagging behind the strike team, getting discarded, rotting as some nobody warrior...? Or seize the golden rope and rise as a legend whose name echoes through history?”
Dr-r-ruck!
Manus yanked open a drawer and rummaged abruptly for something.
“Sure, you've bonded with those Latent Dragon Squad brats. I get it—no hard feelings. Comrades who've bled through hellish missions together. Sticking with them forever... wouldn't be the worst.”
For a moment, he feigned empathy, nodding along with Ralph's turmoil.
Swish!
He drew a box from the drawer and leaned close to Ralph's ear, whispering.
“But... do those guys even want to keep running with you? You, who's already fallen behind, turned into dead weight?”
“…….”
Thud!
Ralph fell silent, speechless. Manus slammed the box onto the table with a resounding crack.
“I'm not like those punks.”
He slid the ornate box toward Ralph—its lid embossed with the Kalia Soldier Clan's emblem of crossed axe and spear.
“This isn't just pretty words. I can guide you down the path to true glory. Open it.”
“…….”
Under Manus's repeated urging, Ralph extended a trembling hand and lifted the lid.
Crack!
A crystalline fragrance tickled the nose the instant it sprang open.
An auspicious aroma saturated the vast room.
The scent alone screamed that this was no ordinary treasure.
... Gulp!
Ralph's throat bobbed with a dry swallow, audible from across the room.
“My offer's no joke tossed out over drinks. Take down three or more of 'em. Or cracking that halfwit Ian's skull from behind ain't bad either. No need to get your hands dirty. Just... in the heat of crisis, move a little slower.”
“…….”
As Ralph wavered, Manus slapped his knee like a man seized by resolve.
“Hell, fine! It's the vibe. Direct hit or passive assist—don't care. Long as the outcome I described happens... it's yours.”
As if reacting to the temptation, the elixir inside glowed with even brighter promise.
The Kalia Soldier Clan's masterpiece: the Myriad Arms Pill.
A secret tonic boosting not just aura, but muscle growth to wield heavy arms.
To the Kalia Soldier Clan's warriors, who mastered countless heavy weapons, it outshone even the Lichtenauer Martial Clan's guardian squads in worth.
“...If I just... don't help...”
I could have this priceless gem.
Shatter the novice barrier. Ascend to mid-tier expert.
‘Not attacking myself—just holding back aid... that could work, right?’
Ian's briefing painted the mission as brutally perilous, time-sensitive.
In chaos like that, self-preservation would be miracle enough.
Just... prioritize myself a touch more. That's all.
Manus patted Ralph's shoulder, eyeing his tangled expression.
“Hope you choose wisely.”
With Manus's dark proposal, Ralph's final night in Lichtenauer slipped away.
Corpses charred black, shriveled and twisted by flames.
Crows swarmed in unexpected glee, ripping into the carrion with abandon.
Boom!
Earth-shaking footsteps menaced the feasting flock.
Wings beat in frantic flurries as the crows exploded skyward, scattering every which way.
Caw! Caw!
Resentful at the interrupted feast, perhaps—their cries wailed mournfully overhead.
But Olga and his great tent trolls spared not a glance for such petty vermin.
“Grrruk... tch, too late here.”
Olga tsked lowly.
Heeding Aelion's half-assed "advice," he'd retraced every Tak River tributary he and his trolls had poisoned.
En route, unluckily bumping orc packs got diced, their bodies dumped belatedly.
Fortune smiled: most sites hosted returning lizardmen probing the rot-poison, perfect for corpse-mingling.
But luck soured here.
Lizardmen had apparently finished investigating; only Olga's burn-scars lingered, lonely.
Crows alone gorged on the windfall.
The overseer here... Oro Captain Regulus, right?
‘Sauron, huh... yeah, no ordinary lizardman.’
Dull-brained Sagui relied on brute force, goblin-small wits. Sauron? Annoyingly sharper.
Olga licked his chops, bumping Sauron higher on his mental hit list.
“Gruk... most tributaries got the orc mix. This'll do.”
One pristine incineration amid dozens? Wouldn't raise brows.
This much... no second-finger fallout.
Besides, solid Tak River turf.
Lingering like houseguests risked tails—trouble.
“Grrruk! No helping it. Torch the hauled orc bodies like be—”
“Grrrr! Lord Olga!! Weird tracks here!”
His adjutant's frantic bellow cut him short.
“Gruk... nothing major, clean it sloppy.”
Olga flicked a lazy hand.
They'd already ravaged Tak and Golden Stream domains once—their foes' playground shrank hourly.
Yet the adjutant dug in.
“Grrruk! Come see!”
... Twitch!
Unyielding, Olga's glare sharpened.
Handle it, I said. Questioning orders?
Nothing there... no mercy.
“...What.”
Swish!
No words—just stepping aside for clear view.
“……!”
Damn. It was major.
Adjutant and trolls' spot.
A vast swamp.
The one overlooked during the sixteenth waterway strike—no eyes on it, Olga included.
Made sense.
Not a single lizardman then.
So... why.
Why now, a single long drag-mark snaking from this swamp deep into the woods.
“...Grrruk, this... what?”
Olga blanked, mumbling. Adjutant delivered grim truth, pained.
Denial fixed zilch.
“...Gruk, back then... looks like one rat hid here.”
Why overlook it.
Lizardmen潜 long in swamps.
Collective brain fart, no excuses.
But Olga's inferno rage demanded blood.
“Grrruk... who cleared this swamp zone then.”
Murderous query—trolls nearby snapped gazes to one hapless soul.
Instant suspect flailed defensively.
“Gr-grruk! L-Lord Olga! N-No worries! Lone flood-stranded lizardman surviving this long? Impossible! If by fluke alive, I'll pers—”
Zzk!
Excuses choked off unfinished.
Olga's axe buried in his brow—instant kill.
... Thump!
Beat later, corpse crumpled limp.
Gurgle, gurgle!
Crimson spurted rhythmic from cleft skull.
Chills iced fellow trolls' spines.
Bad mouth now... death.
“Hunt it.”
Olga's verdict brooked no dissent.
“Grrruk, drag back whatever—monster-gnawed bones, live catch, shredded scraps. Any means. Caught faking with randos... swear, most agonizing death I know.”
... Dare false report on "safety"?
Trolls iced over, lies unthinkable. Adjutant edged forward gingerly.
“...Gruk, Lord Olga. Time allowance?”
“Three days.”
Olga decreed.
“Three days. No yields? All pay.”
Ludicrous. Month-plus post-incident; track in three days?
Scent faded ghost-thin...
Silver lining: no rain past month.
No—for them, curse.
Rain? Trail erased clean.
“Bu...”
Tight deadline retort died at Olga's glare—adjutant muzzle-locked.
No guts facing those killer eyes.
“Spit it.”
“...Gruk! Best effort—guaranteed delivery.”
Best adjutant mustered: total commitment.
“Move. Immediately.”
Swish!
Olga's finger speared forest depths—trolls gale-vanished inward.
Rat-hunt zeal fused fleeing Olga's wrath.
Reports henceforth: real-time Olga feed.
“Grrruk! Whatever rat fucker... catch, flay alive. Guaranteed.”
Sunset swamp night.
Olga's icy glare pierced gloom, flickering feral.
“Today, was it?”
“Yes. Spot on.”
Pre-dawn dark. Two redheads faced off, voices hushed.
“Kekeke! Vowed you'd roast Ralph. No idle boast.”
Wilhelm's low chuckle praised, but Manus stayed taut, measured.
No toying with this snake's banter.
Process only. Botched endgame? Praises turn blades.
“...As I warned you then, Father—in this setup, hauling Ralph Kalia was impossible.”
“Kekek, true. Cocky as hell.”
Last winter, Manus dared buck the "fetch Ralph" order.
Cocky then... yet trusted gut, executed long-game.
Wilhelm approved. Son or no, heir apparent to Soldier Clan.
Judgment vindicated? Delight inevitable.
“Snag Paon's guardian unit, fake elixir to stall his growth... insane scheme even retrospectively. But results? Solid.”
“Shuraton days, he flopped unlike Ryu An. Poke inferiority complex... self-destruct inevitable. Spot on—mind fracturing slow. Talent aside, teen punk still.”
Indeed.
Ralph's aura drought? No fault of his.
Manus greased the guardian overseer—innocent pawn—rigged fake for Ralph.
“Pre-mission cornering was gift. Flaunted Myriad Arms Pill, rattled him. Promised: cripple Ian's Latent Dragon Squad catastrophic... pill's his.”
Drag forcibly? Ralph never bends.
Biddable type? Folded under thumb ages ago.
Ralph's breed... torch own bridges personally.
No havens left? Kalia shade eternal.
“Kekekeke! Vicious to the core, my boy.”
Tone belied Wilhelm's grin—pure glee.
True Kalia heirs nursed such venom.
Manu's return smile brimmed certainty at Father's approval.
“Watch. Mission wraps... Ralph crawls to Patriarch's feet under own steam.”