Chapter 21
Chapter 21
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Michael's Guerrilla Force
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The Empire's most legitimate heir to the throne, Michael von Edbalt's special forces unit.
‘Mainly known as the rangers.’
Thrown into the most dangerous and grueling battles of the civil war to turn the tide—that was the mission of the ranger unit led by Damian.
Three years after the civil war broke out, the orthodox faction, deeming a head-on clash impossible, opted for small-scale skirmishes across the Empire rather than concentrating their forces.
Michael and Rubia were the reform faction's—no, the Empire's—greatest assets, but they were ultimately just two people.
With front lines stretched so thin, gaps were bound to appear somewhere.
Yet Michael had no fear of the orthodox faction exploiting those gaps to seize the throne.
On the contrary, he dreaded the possibility of some reformist rising as a hero amid the crisis.
The Empire Michael envisioned was one where all power converged on the Emperor.
No one but he and Rubia could emerge from the civil war with fame to rival theirs.
That was why he formed the rangers around Damian.
Men of proven skill who, for various reasons, could never take the spotlight. Loyal shadows who would fight silently for him, never claiming glory for themselves.
Saliba was one such man. Branded a traitor's spawn, he had lived a wretched life, and through his own failings, his sister had been sold into a brothel.
Saliba had enlisted in the rangers to clear her false name.
His talent was exceptional in its own right. But he had only discovered his gift for magic after mastering aura. His limits were plain to see.
The title of "magic knight" was little more than mockery. It meant he was mediocre at both aura and magic.
"Come on, everyone. Let's crack a smile. Even if we die tomorrow, we've got to laugh today."
In the rangers, forever dancing on death's edge, Saliba was the one who brought a bit of light to those around him.
He was the youngest, and his personality was naturally upbeat.
‘Though it was all an act.’
He feigned cheer to bury the rage seething inside. It was the only way he could hold on.
"Chomp, chomp. So, bro—no, big bro. What's the deal? What do you want with me?"
One meal, and his attitude flipped. That brazen streak was just as strong as it had been in his youth.
"Eat first. I'll explain later."
"Hmm. Not sending me away empty-handed, right? Yeah, better to die stuffed than starving."
Damian had grabbed Saliba and dragged him to Lirian first to apologize.
Then, when the kid tried to slip away, he'd caught him again and soothed him with the promise of a proper meal.
Byzantium, the Jewel of the Desert, came alive more at night than during the day.
The hawkers had doubled, their shouts blending chaotically with the clink of glasses, musicians' melodies, and the dancers' stamping feet.
The two settled into a restaurant near the market. Saliba attacked his food like a man possessed, one hand never empty.
Thin flatbread piled with vegetables, lamb, and spices—kebabs.
There was also spice-rubbed roast chicken, herb-crusted lamb ribs, and rice flecked with yellow spices.
A taste of the south Damian hadn't savored in ages.
After two years of building his body, his appetite had grown beyond compare.
Saliba didn't so much eat as shove it in with both hands.
It didn't take long for the table full of dishes to turn into empty plates.
"So, what's the favor? Gonna have me play tour guide? I'm a local—I know every spot worth seeing...."
As Saliba rinsed his mouth with a tart drink, a tattoo caught Damian's eye on his wrist.
Damian seized Saliba's wrist and rolled up his sleeve to inspect it.
A scorpion impaled on a spear. The emblem of the Imur Brotherhood, Byzantium's underworld crime syndicate.
Damian had known from his past life that Saliba had ties to them, but he hadn't expected him to be in this deep already.
"Ow, shit...."
He'd gripped too hard on instinct—Saliba winced and shook out his wrist.
"No helping it. For street rats like us to survive."
The easygoing vibe from moments ago vanished, replaced by sharp wariness toward Damian.
He had no desire to bare his personal troubles to a stranger he'd just met today.
Saliba wasn't wrong. Branded as a traitor's heir, he and his family had no choice but to wallow deeper in the muck to stay alive.
But he couldn't possibly imagine it now—that the Imur would betray him in the end, leading to his sister's sale into prostitution.
"Saliba, you little shit! What's this loafing around for?!"
A hulking brute appeared out of nowhere, kicking their table as he bellowed. The same tattoo loomed large on his shoulder.
A few patrons screamed and jumped up, but one scowl from the brute silenced them.
When the Brotherhood was involved, the guards stayed out unless it was life-or-death.
People either fled or watched from a distance. The owner trembled behind a pillar, frozen in indecision.
The kids who used to pilfer alongside Saliba stood there like prisoners.
Bruises mottled their skin—they'd clearly already taken a beating.
"Ah, n-no, Maht sir. I'm not loafing...."
"Forgot today's tribute day? The Brotherhood's rules don't spare brats!"
"But I thought it was next week...."
"You!!"
Maht raised a meaty hand high.
Saliba flinched and cowered, but the slap never landed.
"Hey, big lug."
Damian nudged Maht's shin with his foot.
The outlander had poked the bear out of ignorance. Maht peered down at him in bewilderment.
"And who the hell are you, chowing down with this punk? Oh, into that kinda thing? I can point you to a nicer spot...."
Thwack. A dull thud, and Maht's lights went out for a moment.
When he came to, his men were propping him up unsteadily.
His jaw throbbed. What the...? Maht stroked his bushy beard, still lost.
He'd just been trying to do a favor for the outlander—hook him up with someone better, thinking they shared tastes.
Then blackness. Felt like a fist to the chin. That outlander...?
Piecing it together, Maht's face flushed purple with rage.
He was the Imur Brotherhood's action captain—a low-rank cadre, sure, but a cadre nonetheless. And he'd let himself get hit.
In the underworld, the Brotherhood prized face above all. He had to make this hurt, or his position was toast.
"You bastard!!"
Maht whipped a curved sword from his belt. Standard southern make.
Onlookers screamed at the glint of steel.
Clang. Damian's hand blocked the blade. But Maht was more stunned by the feel at the tip than the parry itself.
No give of flesh. Like striking rock.
"Yeah, perfect. Been too long since I spilled some blood!"
A translucent aura bloomed around Maht. Channeling it, his mana-amplified strength bore down on his foe.
Damian's face remained impassive.
Perhaps from studying prime auras lately—Agnes, the Hashashin—Maht's display was just garbage prettied up on a plate.
Derek had said raw strength and skill alone couldn't overcome a certain mana threshold.
Maht was well below that line.
And Damian wasn't relying on pure physical power anyway.
Crunch! Damian clenched his fist, and the sword shattered like glass, pulverized against the stone scales coating his palm.
"What?!"
Maht wasn't the only one—everyone around gawked in disbelief. Damian was built well enough, but nothing like Maht. And no aura in sight.
Total chaos. But the longer this dragged, the worse for Maht's rep. He could kiss his rank goodbye.
"What're you gaping at? Get him!"
Maht drew a fresh sword and roared. His dazed goons snapped to, weapons out, charging Damian.
They poured every ounce of mana into their bodies, but to Damian, they were just crickets chirping on a summer night.
Speed, power, focus—every physical trait fell pitifully short of Damian's, aura or no.
Damian countered with black magic—stone scales forming gauntlets over both hands. No danger from those sluggish blades anyway.
The next thug swung wide. Damian slipped low, burrowed inside his guard.
Crack. An uppercut to the jaw sent the man's eyes rolling back as he crumpled. Blood trickled from his lips—he'd bitten his tongue.
Damian toed the falling man's gut, launching him into the next attacker.
The rear guy was smaller, so he ended up pinned and thrashing.
Now two at once. But Damian's straight punches hammered their chests before their swords could arc down. Even with aura reinforcement, cracked ribs for sure.
"Whoa, shit.... No match at all...."
As Saliba groaned, Maht and the rest finally grasped the gulf between them. No blind rush this time—they hung back, gauging.
Four down in seconds. Those weird gauntlets looked magical, but Damian had never seen a mage brawl up close like that.
"R-retreat! You won't show your face in Byzantium again!!"
At least they didn't ditch their wounded—maybe the Brotherhood meant something after all.
In front of the trashed restaurant, the owner sat slumped, legs gone to jelly. The remaining kids stared at Damian with shining eyes of awe.
Thugs they'd never dared meet eye-to-eye had been smacked down like misbehaving toddlers.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Bro—no, Eric big bro! Insane, insane. What was that? Not a knight—a mage? Or were those stone fists your aura?"
Saliba buzzed loudest. Unlike the others, he'd awakened to mana early, so he saw more than most.
But the thrill faded fast. The kids' faces drained white. They'd scraped by for now, but the fallout....
"Uh, so what now, big bro? Maht and his idiots are handled, but the Brotherhood's the real headache."
The Imur never left debts unpaid. Outlander or not, starting this meant steeling for death.
Damian's expression stayed bored. His gaze drifted to the other kids Maht had dragged in.
They clutched empty stomachs, pathetic after starving all day.
"Owner."
Damian tossed a fat wad of cash to the still-seated proprietor.
"For the kids' meals and fixing the table."
The kids whooped and scrambled to seats. Damian sat, munching dried fruit the owner fetched in thanks.
Saliba's eyes sparkled at the sheer balls of it all. He plopped down beside him.
"Big bro, seriously, what's your deal? Got a grudge with the Brotherhood?"
A grudge...? Nothing personal with the Imur.
But no fondness either. Even now, they were unrivaled trash among the reformists.
‘I've lightened my load.’
With things like this, the Imur would come knocking first.
None the wiser that it'd spell their doom.