Eastern Frontline (2)
“What do you want?”
Creak!
The portly captain of the 7th District’s guard stood up, dragging his chair noisily. His belly jiggled between the gaps in his armor.
Wow, he must have really indulged himself.
Dalen just stared at him with a blank expression, prompting the captain to raise his thick eyebrows aggressively and speak again.
“Where are you from? You don’t seem to be part of the guard. What business does a mercenary have in a meeting of captains?”
“I brought him here, Captain of the 7th District.”
It was Gawain, the leader of the Silent Company, who spoke up.
“This mercenary played a crucial role in subduing the Telia Trading Company. Without him, the Bronze District would have already fallen into the hands of the cultists. I believe he has every right to be here.”
The captain’s eyes widened in surprise, his thick jowls quivering. Narrowing his eyes, he replied, “Ah, it’s you, Captain of the Silent Company. Always chasing after special cases, I see. Now you’re even bringing in mercenaries for help?”
“Captain.”
Dalen interjected, rubbing his temples with a weary look before letting out a deep sigh and tapping the table.
Tap. Tap, tap.
‘Should I just chop this table in half with my axe?’
A fleeting impulse.
A thought no sane person would entertain.
But ever since he landed in this world with the power to resolve any conflict, such impulses visited him often.
It was as if the axe at his waist was begging to be unleashed.
But.
’…That’s not a solution.’
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
He restrained himself with superhuman self-control.
In a game, he might have given in to the impulse, but this was reality.
A world where you couldn’t just click on a new game after venting your anger by cutting down humans and monsters alike.
He had to know when to draw his sword and when to use his tongue.
Dalen spoke up.
“The 7th District is known for its historic iron mines, isn’t it?”
”…!”
The captain’s eyes widened, as if he anticipated what was coming next. The murmurs in the meeting room quieted down.
Dalen continued, “These mines have been around for 50, 60 years, consistently producing high-quality ore.”
Tap. Tap.
His finger tapped rhythmically on the round table.
“But business hasn’t been so good lately, has it? Ever since the 8th District started producing high-quality iron about ten years ago.”
“How… how do you know that…?”
“I understand your hometown is also the 7th District. I hear many of your relatives manage large mines there. With the 8th District thriving, it seems their fortunes have dwindled.”
”…”
The captain couldn’t find words. His jowls quivered once more.
Dalen lowered his arm from his chin and clasped his hands on the table.
“The soldiers I saw on my way here had gleaming weapons and armor. That’s rare, given the Bronze Guard’s perpetual budget constraints. It seems your 7th District has managed its budget exceptionally well.”
The captain staggered back, and Dalen allowed a slight smirk to play on his lips.
He hadn’t actually seen the soldiers. He’d arrived at the frontline just minutes ago and headed straight to the meeting room, leaving no time to observe the 7th District guards.
Everything he was saying came from the background knowledge he’d gained from the game.
But now that he had seized control of the conversation, the source of his information was irrelevant.
“It seems your budgeting skills aren’t widely known yet. Perhaps it’s time more people learned of your capabilities.”
“You… you!”
The captain trembled, while Dalen watched with a raised corner of his mouth.
It was an open secret within the guard that the captain received substantial kickbacks from the mine owners.
But hearing it from an outsider, especially a mercenary who could spread rumors like wildfire, was another matter.
In simple terms, it was a threat.
I know your weakness.
And the moment you cross me, that weakness will be known throughout the city.
”…I apologize.”
The captain managed to stammer out an apology, his voice shaking.
Dalen responded with a smile still on his face.
“It’s fine. I hope this operation concludes without significant civilian casualties, and that the 7th District finds positive inspiration from the 8th District’s thriving iron industry.”
“Your consideration is… remarkable.”
With that, the captain left the tent, followed cautiously by a few commanders, causing a slight commotion.
Silence soon settled over the tent.
Tap, tap. Tap.
Dalen stopped tapping the table with his fingers.
“As you can see, I know quite a bit.”
Creak.
He leaned back in his chair, chuckling lightly.
“I have a good informant.”
Gawain’s expression tightened slightly beside him, but Dalen paid it no mind.
Consider it free advertising for your friend’s shop, old man.
Inside the tent, with the commanders’ focused attention on him, Dalen began to speak again, slowly.
“Those of you who participated in the raid on the cultists’ hideout know what I’m talking about. How they create abominations and the kind of power those creatures wield.”
A few nodded, while others murmured. About a third of those gathered seemed to understand.
Dalen nodded and continued.
“They’re capturing beggars and vagrants from the streets, turning them into weapons through abomination rituals.”
More murmurs followed. These were likely the commanders hearing this for the first time. In a medieval-style army, sharing time-sensitive information was no easy task.
“It won’t be long. The fact that the Apostles of Reversion seem quiet now is proof they’re accelerating their abomination work. Soon, half the citizens of the 8th District will become abominations. The rest will be their food.”
Dalen turned his head. The tent entrance flapped in the winter wind.
Through the flickering torchlight, the shadows of guards on watch danced.
One by one.
More commanders turned to look in the same direction.
“Among the soldiers outside, there must be guards from the 8th District.”
Dalen spoke again, aware of their gazes.
“They must be anxious, having lost their homes and families.”
Someone ground their teeth. It wasn’t hard to guess who it was.
Probably the young captain of the 8th District, who had lost the most, with dark circles under his eyes.
“I understand your feelings. Even though I’m just a mercenary, I know the fear of failure all too well.”
The years.
The time Dalen had spent as a mercenary.
Losing the comfortable, peaceful life of a modern man and adapting to a world where swords and fists were the law was no easy feat.
Even with a superhuman body, inside he was still a thirty-year-old man who loved chicken and canned beer.
“One wrong decision can cost lives. Not just mine, but my comrades’, my subordinates’, my friends’.”
Dalen had lost a comrade on his first mission.
It happened right after he sliced a bandit in two.
Terrified by the sight of the disemboweled corpse, he had fled to a corner of the battlefield, throwing away his weapon and trembling.
‘Rookie! Hey, you damn rookie, get up! If you don’t, you’re dead! Grab this sword and cut down those bandit bastards!’
His fellow mercenary had tried to encourage him, to lift him up, even as he became a sitting duck for enemy arrows.
Sigh.
Dalen let out a low sigh and continued.
“Even if you oppose a preemptive strike, even if you argue we should wait for support from the Silver District, I understand. I, too, had a time when I was afraid of losing and retreated.”
The blood of a comrade splattered on his face.
The weight of a collapsing body.
The eyes of a dying comrade, filled with distrust and reproach.
It was only after all his comrades had perished that he picked up his sword again.
Even if everyone else died, he wanted to survive.
That day, he completed his first mission.
“But the lesson I learned in the end was this: the moment you retreat out of fear of losing, you only lose more easily.”
Whoosh—
The wind rustled the tent entrance. The flickering torchlight cast varied shadows on the commanders’ faces.
“Though the 8th District’s guard has retreated, the opportunity to reclaim their homes and families with their own hands still remains. That opportunity lies with you.”
Creak.
Dalen sank back into his chair.
He had said all he needed to say.
A deep silence enveloped the tent for a while. Then, after some time.
“How much time do you think we have left?”
Gawain, who had been silent, finally spoke.
“Three days.”
Dalen replied with certainty.
“We need to strike within three days.”
The meeting wrapped up quickly.
Once the decision for a preemptive strike was made, the seasoned commanders swiftly devised a plan.
The essence was simple.
Before the cultists could grow stronger, they would tighten the defensive line and press in on them. Then, on the third day from now, they would launch a full-scale assault on the cultists’ stronghold.
With nearly unanimous agreement from the commanders, the wide defensive line buzzed with activity from that night onward.
Trained guards, even when summoned in the dead of night, sprang from their sleeping bags, armed themselves, and stood ready.
The preparations were swift and thorough.
By dawn the next day, half of the forces remained to guard the line, while the other half moved inward.
Dalen accompanied the 8th District Guard.
Having suffered a defeat before, they were considered the weakest, so Dalen was sent as a wildcard to balance the odds.
Thud. Thud.
Two hundred guards marched down the street.
Three-quarters of them were the demoralized 8th District Guards, who had already tasted defeat.
The remaining quarter were the silent company members who had joined to support Dalen and the guards.
A low mist blanketed the streets at dawn. Dalen walked at the front, his senses spread wide.
Beside him walked the captain of the 8th District Guard, looking even more haggard than the night before.
“Are you worried?” Dalen asked.
The young captain nodded slowly.
“What worries you so?”
“Those creatures… they’re not something we can handle on our own,” the captain replied quietly, ensuring his men couldn’t overhear.
“They kept coming even with limbs severed and spears through their bellies. And the masked cultists healed their wounds in an instant.”
“Hmm.”
Dalen scratched his chin.
It seemed the cultists had undergone some incomplete regeneration procedure.
No wonder they were desperate. In just a few days, more than half of their silver-masked apostles had been killed, and now the guards were launching a massive assault.
Contrary to the young captain’s sighs, the situation was clearly in their favor.
“Honestly, I’m still not sure. Can we really win…?”
“We will win. Your men will return to their families.”
“I hope so. It would be reassuring if we had reinforcements…”
Does he not realize I’m standing right here as his reinforcement?
Dalen paused his chin-scratching but replied in a calm voice for the captain’s fragile state of mind.
“If you’re waiting for reinforcements from the Silver District, they’ll be here soon.”
“Really? But I heard the command hasn’t received any response yet.”
“It’s not an official request. I have a personal connection.”
Last night, while everyone was busy preparing, Dalen had sent a messenger to the Silver District through Gawain.
He had chosen the best rider from his company, so the messenger should have reached the destination by now.
Dalen was confident.
Reinforcements would arrive by today, or tomorrow at the latest.
“But how could just… no, never mind.”
“How could a mere mercenary summon reinforcements from the Silver District?”
The young captain coughed awkwardly, embarrassed by his own words.
Dalen chuckled softly. Then he suddenly stopped and drew his axe.
“Stop.”
“Stop! Everyone, halt!”
The coughing captain raised his hand, and the entire unit came to a standstill.
The 8th District Captain glanced at Dalen.
The mercenary, with his hair tied back, was staring intently into the mist.
Following his gaze, the captain saw nothing but thick winter fog.
No sign of life beyond it.
”······?”
Just as he was about to ask what Dalen was looking at—
“Stop playing games and come out, you bastard.”
Dalen spoke.
Amazingly, a response came.
“Heh, you’ve got good instincts. I thought you were just a muscle-brained barbarian.”
Sssss.
The mist parted.
Like a curtain being drawn back, part of the fog that covered the street lifted like an illusion.
Revealed were hundreds of grotesque creatures and dozens of cultists.
At the forefront stood a small, slender figure wearing a silver mask.
“I didn’t expect you to have a knack for magic. I set it up hastily, but I didn’t think a mere swordsman like you would see through my concealment spell.”
Dalen raised an eyebrow.
The staff in her right hand, the sharp voice, the thin limbs marked with arcane tattoos.
She was a rare silver-masked mage among the apostles, one who hadn’t yet killed him, specializing in formations and fire magic.
In simpler terms, just another boss to defeat.
He spoke.
“A chatty spellcaster, aren’t you?”
“Oh, don’t be so crude. Such words are for halfwits like Delric, not me, haha!”
The silver-masked mage laughed, spreading her arms wide.
The crystal on her staff began to glow ominously, as did the tattoos on her hands.
Sssss—
The mist around them, as if alive, began to swirl as she shouted.
“I am one of the Apostles of Regression, the only mage bestowed with a silver mask by the Grand Apostle! A disciple of the Great Tower of Vulcanus, and master of the art of mist—!”
Her head snapped back.
As if yanked from behind, she flew backward and crashed onto the stone road.
The 8th District Captain’s eyes widened. The mage lay sprawled, an axe embedded in the center of her forehead.
It was lodged so deep, her head was nearly split in two, her body twitching.
Dalen muttered beside him.
“Same as always, just talks too damn much.”
Ssshing—
Dalen drew his sword, unstrapped his shield, and held it in his left hand.
Facing the silent horde of creatures and cultists, he spoke.
“Come on, you fools. Let’s get this over with.”