Chapter 48
Chapter 48
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 48
Chapter Title: Pavane for a Dead Dwarf
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Dwarves are not human, so they cannot be protected under the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
The only international law for you is the Wild Animal Protection Law.
『Stalin's reply to the dwarf diplomats protesting the Soviet invasion.』
***
Jeong Ma-pil raised his greatsword, thinking of his mission.
The mission assigned to him by Colonel Jeong, who was full of ambition for a star, half threat and half persuasion.
The best outcome for this mission was for the opponent not to show up, and for him to just provoke and leave.
Even that much would have reporters writing articles calling it a humiliation for the mercenary corps, and the internet would be flooded with comments mocking the Seonjuk Mercenary Corps.
It was petty, but the most satisfying conclusion for both the military and Jeong Ma-pil.
Next, the middle or average scenario: Jeong Ma-pil thoroughly beating the opponent.
In that case, the result wouldn't change much, but the problem was that sympathy for the kid named Cheon Yeomyeong could arise.
And finally, the worst...
If the opponent was truly someone capable of slicing a dragon's rib.
‘We're screwed.’
Woooong—
The moment he saw the mana gathered on Cheon Yeomyeong's sword, Jeong Ma-pil smiled bitterly.
The mana he felt through his skin was extraordinary. It meant he had mastered some special martial art. Or there was that much of a difference in skill.
—Here we go!
—That bastard Jeong Ma-pil, challenging someone young enough to be his son to a duel?
—Newbie! Chop off that sturdy bastard's arm!
He ignored the jeers and curses from the onlookers.
Of course, that's why they sent him instead of a real military superhuman.
Now that he was here, he had only one thing he could do.
‘Fine, let's see you die.’
He gathered mana amid his stray thoughts and swung down his greatsword.
Clang!
The sword of a soldier who had rolled around Manchuria for over a decade clashed with Yeomyeong's standard-issue iron sword.
It was a dishonorable first strike, but fortunately, it had an effect.
Was his swordsmanship lacking compared to his mana control? The opponent's stance wavered.
Swoosh!
Jeong Ma-pil didn't miss that moment and swung his sword continuously.
The greatsword falling toward the head swept horizontally, barely blocked.
Trembling hands, repelling mana.
According to the original plan, he should have taunted here, but he gritted his teeth and infused mana into his sword.
His instincts, honed in real combat, were telling him. This wasn't an opponent to take lightly.
And those instincts were right.
The moment the exchanges surpassed ten, the guy's sword transformed.
The standard-issue iron sword accelerated in an instant. It flashed like hail, slicing through the air.
Creeeang!
The military greatsword barely blocked the iron sword. Numbing mana flowed back along the clashing blades.
A strike showing the difference in skill. Jeong Ma-pil's grip shook as if it would tear.
Jeong Ma-pil held his breath and tensed his muscles to block the follow-up. Even if it cost him an arm, he intended to protect his neck.
But contrary to his expectation, no follow-up came.
As if that previous strike was a lie, the opponent was swinging his sword in unnecessarily large motions. Slowly, as if telling him to watch and block.
‘Not finishing it? You bastard, no way.’
Intentional power control, glances at the reporters.
Since their swords were clashing directly, he could tell. The guy planned to make this his debut stage.
Turning the reporters and onlookers gathered to humiliate the Seonjuk Mercenary Corps into promotional helpers instead?
“This crazy bastard.”
Jeong Ma-pil was purely impressed. And at the same time, he realized that losing an arm wasn't the problem anymore.
Not only would the petty plan to humiliate them backfire, but it would become an opportunity to spread the name Cheon Yeomyeong?
‘The old fogeys are gonna lose their shit.’
He had to prevent that as much as possible. Or at least show he tried, to avoid the old fogeys' wrath.
Having finished his thoughts, Jeong Ma-pil swung his sword again.
Each strike filled with killing intent, enough to make the onlookers frown.
—What the hell is that in a duel?
—He got hit once and lost it?
—You'll kill the newbie at this rate! You madman!
He'd be the one dying at this rate. Leaving Jeong Ma-pil's bitter smile behind, the two swords began accelerating even more.
Mana-infused blades tore through the air. Dust and hair fluttered.
The reporters flashed in admiration, but Jeong Ma-pil felt like he was dying.
‘At that age, this level?’
Every exchange clearly revealed the skill gap. His roughening breath and sweat running down his back were proof.
‘Is he even human?’
The brief agitation created a short opening. In that instant, Yeomyeong's golden eyes flashed.
Through the gap as Jeong Ma-pil swung down, the standard-issue iron sword thrust in.
The tip of Yeomyeong's sword curved toward Jeong Ma-pil's arm.
Slaaash—
Sword light flashed, grazing the forearm. The mana-infused blade cut through bone and flesh as sharply as a surgical scalpel.
Thud. Jeong Ma-pil lost balance and fell on his butt. And belatedly, both of Jeong Ma-pil's hands, still gripping the sword, hit the ground.
Defeat. A miserable defeat at that.
“That swordsmanship just now... what was it?”
Jeong Ma-pil stared blankly at Yeomyeong and his severed arm alternately. He couldn't bring himself to ask if it was an adaptation of his own swordsmanship.
The mana contraction, wrist movement, and the way it targeted the opening at the end.
Everything resembled his swordsmanship... but he couldn't believe it.
That his unique swordsmanship—based on military standard forms, incorporating various martial arts and real combat experience—had been stolen in mere minutes?
“No way, you mean what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
A calm reply.
Watching Yeomyeong shake the blood from his sword, Jeong Ma-pil laughed unwittingly. A laugh full of absurdity rather than despair.
Pain rose late from his severed arm, but his lips didn't droop.
‘The old fogeys picked the wrong fight.’
***
“Wow, look at that clean cut. One healing priest and it'll reattach right away, right?”
On the rooftop of a military building overlooking the mercenary zone.
Wallard exclaimed in admiration while watching Yeomyeong and Jeong Ma-pil's fight. If he'd been right in front like the other onlookers, it would have been killer.
He barely swallowed the words wriggling in his mind. Because it was in front of the sister he respected, no one else.
“Wallard.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“How is that kid?”
Morine asked. The woman in a blue coat, wearing a rat mask covering half her face.
It was a question with much omitted, but Wallard read the intent and answered.
“He's talent that'll be one of our company's VIPs within ten years.”
“Generous evaluation.”
“If we're talking growth speed alone, no one's a match. First one like that since Jeon Yun-seong.”
The moment he heard Jeon Yun-seong's name, Morine licked her lips. Comparable to America's pride, huh.
She fell silent for a moment, looking down at the mercenary zone.
Among the Seonjuk Mercenary Corps members finishing departure prep and boarding trucks, one mercenary in a poncho caught her eye.
A female mercenary with two assault rifles, three revolvers dangling all over her, still hugging an anti-tank rocket tightly.
She didn't need anyone to tell her. Her beloved daughter, the Saintess.
Fortunately, none of the surrounding onlookers realized she was the Saintess.
Who would think that was the Saintess, anyway.
Morine smiled faintly and spoke again.
“What about the task I ordered?”
“...The laundering is done.”
“No loose ends?”
“You know our skills. Even if someone from our industry investigates personally, they won't find out that kid was Dung Beetle.”
Wallard didn't hide his fatigue. Completely laundering one person's past in just two days wasn't easy.
The paperwork side was simple since he was already reported dead...
“How many did you handle?”
“Just one janitor named Park Gu-sik.”
“...Just one?”
Wallard shrugged and pulled a palm-sized paper from his pocket. A spell scroll containing the memory before the boastful blue rat.
“Better check it yourself.”
Morine received the scroll and instantly infused it with mana. The next moment, various memories and info flooded her mind.
Info on the janitor called Dung Beetle. She slowly reviewed the mental information.
A back-alley janitor with no family, a typical third-rate life scattered in the slums.
Too little info, if anything.
No idea how he'd lived, but his education was just the high school equivalency exam, and he hadn't even signed up for a phone.
If anything stood out, maybe the record of the foreman who'd raised him.
The rest matched what she already knew.
Reported killed by the Incheon Murder Ghost, but actually alive and active.
Corpse photo exists—how did he survive? Unknown.
How did he become a superhuman? Unknown.
Martial arts he's mastered? Unknown.
Seems related to recent Incheon incidents, but details unknown.
This unknown, that unknown.
She could dig into an old man named Jang Man, but... he was someone her daughter had pledged the relic's safety for.
No way she could investigate when she already had to protect him.
Having thought that far, Morine spoke again.
The moment Yeomyeong boarded the truck amid the onlookers' cheers.
“Keep managing the identity of Cheon Yeomyeong steadily too. Fix any shortages, and if anyone's tracking, find them instead... You know without me saying?”
Wallard nodded.
“Got it. Sister, but...”
“But?”
“...Is it worth investing this much in that guy? Past laundering, separate info protection. And... you even gave him the Tear of Blood key?”
“Dissatisfied?”
“I said he'll be a VIP in ten years, but... isn't it just from one meeting? The Saintess too... Honestly, I don't get why you're investing this much.”
Morine looked down at the trucks preparing to depart and answered.
“...Wallard, are you suspicious? You're talkative today, unlike you.”
“We—I'm always on your side, Sister. Just... the board's not normal. Some might use this as an excuse to stir things up.”
“Let them. I don't care what the remnants of the fallen nation do.”
Morine's voice grew cold. She seemed about to say more, then shut her mouth.
Sudden silence.
Wallard glanced over, wondering what was wrong, then realized and closed his mouth.
The mercenary corps' trucks were leaving the Manchuria base.
Wallard didn't break the silence. Wasn't it a mother seeing off her daughter? He had that much tact.
Only after the trucks vanished beyond the horizon did he speak again.
“...Sister, did you make some deal with him?”
An uncharacteristically sharp question. Morine looked at Wallard and replied.
“Does it look that way?”
“You used a telepathy scroll. I have that much sense.”
Sense, huh? Morine smirked.
“A deal... If you can call it that, sure.”
“The Saintess knows... Ah, she wouldn't.”
“Of course not. What, gonna snitch?”
Wallard knew this was the timing to laugh, to toss in a light joke.
But facing her chilling smile, he couldn't muster one.
“Is it really okay? The hero candidates we found...”
“This one, that one. None have anything to do with my daughter.”
“...Blasphemous thoughts, Sister. What if the gods get angry?”
“Who knows. If they'd get this angry, they'd have punished me already when a Soviet commie born in the USSR birthed the Saintess.”
Only then could Wallard laugh. Hearing tales of his fallen homeland always brought a hollow chuckle.
“...Ha, really. Is that something for the woman who married a Holy Knight to say?”
“Family and faith are separate. Think of Stalin's mother.”
Short jokes flew back and forth, lightening the mood a bit.
Morine turned her gaze to the dispersing reporters and onlookers.
“Wallard. One more task to finish?”
“...Sister, any more work here and I'll die.”
Wallard pleaded earnestly, but Morine ignored it.
“Contact the major media reporters gathered in front of the mercenary corps earlier.”
“...”
“I'd like those reporters... to write positive articles about Cheon Yeomyeong. Not hard, right?”
“Sounds difficult, but...”
Wallard trailed off, but that was it. He couldn't refuse outright and sighed deeply.
Do as told.
That was the ancient tradition of the rats, passed down from Siberian days.
* * *