Chapter 159: The Strike

Mercenaries were nothing unusual in this world. In fact, their history stretched back to the dark ages of the Gondor Empire—no matter how dynasties rose and fell, how civilizations flourished or crumbled, there always seemed to be a need for these armed men who operated in the gray areas of society. They were the “bloodied gloves” of nobles, the “moneyed warriors” of merchants, and when no employer was around, they became outlaws roaming the wilderness.

Mercenaries were legal, even organized into formal guilds with rough registration systems. Yet nearly every mercenary had done something illegal at some point. But so what? In this savage, backward world, “law” itself was hardly a shining beacon of fairness or justice…

According to scouts’ reports, about twenty well-equipped mercenaries had set their sights on a refugee settlement of over a hundred people. Among them were at least three low-ranking knights and one or two mages holding the fort. Even those without official ranks were likely stronger than ordinary soldiers. Such a concentration of elite mercenaries was rare in this line of work, sparking great curiosity and suspicion in Lord Gawain. To root out these unruly mercenaries, he quickly ordered Knight Philip to assemble a force of thirty men, preparing to lead the expedition himself.

No matter where these mercenaries came from, they threatened the refugees—who represented the future population of the Cecil domain. Gawain would not allow that to continue. After all, they were the labor force!

A legendary knight leading thirty fully armed Cecil soldiers against twenty mercenaries might seem like overkill, but Gawain had his reasons.

These thirty soldiers were the first batch of the new generation “magitech infantry,” freshly outfitted. Amid the clatter of the mechanical workshop, the first standardized magitech gear had rolled off the production line. Each soldier was equipped with a brand-new thermal ray gun and a magitech combat backpack, having undergone basic shooting and coordination training. Though still green and inexperienced with the new weapons—even if half were veterans—Gawain believed these soldiers, capable of firing high-energy beams at will, were far more formidable than traditional troops. He wanted to test them in real combat.

The thirty magitech infantry gathered on the southern bank of the Whitewater River, behind them a newly completed temporary bridge connecting both sides of the river. Curious locals—farm serfs and laborers newly arrived and not yet freed—crowded nearby, watching this unfamiliar army with wide eyes.

The soldiers wore neat, lightly enchanted armor with basic magical reinforcement. Each had a uniquely designed steel vambrace on their left arm, and on their backs were the new rigid combat backpacks replacing traditional marching packs. Enchanted longswords and spare blades hung from iron clasps at their waists and backpack sides, giving them an imposing presence.

Gawain had drilled them hard with strict discipline and a system of rewards and punishments. The soldiers themselves knew it was a special honor to be the first magitech infantry. So they stood tall and straight, ignoring the admiring and astonished gazes of the civilians pointing from afar.

Knight Philip approached. “My lord, the soldiers and supply wagons are assembled and ready to depart.”

Gawain nodded, glancing at Amber beside him. This time, besides Amber and Philip, he hadn’t brought anyone else. With thirty magitech infantry and his own presence, a mere twenty or so mercenaries wouldn’t cause much trouble. “Then we shall—”

Before he could finish, a commotion stirred among the civilians. A loud voice called out from the crowd: “Make way, make way… Thank the Holy Light for a path… Holy Light, you stepped on my foot… Please, just a little room, for the Light’s sake…”

Gawain watched in surprise as the crowd parted, and a figure burst through—a Schwarzenegger-type preacher named Light, sprinting toward them.

He wore a tattered Holy Light priest’s robe, ill-fitting and stretched tight over bulging muscles that strained beneath the fabric—looking like he was ready to charge into battle against heretics.

“Holy Light! I’m here…” Light reached the front of the troops and looked up at Gawain, who sat astride his horse. But after a few words, he froze. “It’s you? Aren’t you… the foreman at the construction site?”

No one had told this preacher in all these days that the lord of this land was the tall man who had once sat chatting with him on a pile of bricks…

Gawain hadn’t expected to meet him again under such circumstances, nor to have his identity revealed so easily. He smiled and nodded. “I didn’t lie back then—I do manage this land. Being a lord is managing, isn’t it?”

“Holy Light! You’re the lord of this land?! The legendary Gawain Cecil, who supposedly jumped out of his coffin in anger at his unworthy descendants?!” Light exclaimed, tracing the symbol of the Holy Light god over his chest. “I thought you were just the head foreman!”

Gawain was speechless.

Philip drew his sword in a flash. “Preacher! Watch your tongue! Or else—”

“Cough, cough,” Gawain quickly blocked Philip’s challenge. “Don’t get worked up. That’s just one of the rumors Byron spread back in the day…”

Amber rolled her eyes. “You brought this on yourself. Who knows how many folk versions will keep spreading?”

Philip and Gawain were left speechless.

After a brief awkward pause, Gawain shifted the focus. “I apologize for not telling you my true identity the first time we met. I just wanted to speak with you as an ordinary person, to better understand the clergy of this era.”

“That’s understandable—cautious and wise,” Light said with a carefree smile. “So I guess I don’t need to worry whether my documents really reached the lord’s hands.”

Gawain smirked, curious about this preacher. “Why have you come to see me? You must know we’re about to set out on a campaign.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Light straightened up. “I want to join you.”

Gawain was taken aback. “Why? You’re neither my soldier nor an advisor. Why come along?”

“How can an army march without a chaplain?” Light said matter-of-factly. “As the only Holy Light Church cleric here, I have a duty to help everyone on this land, especially when justice is being served—I heard you’re going to rescue a group of starving refugees in the wilderness. I can’t not go.”

Gawain’s brow twitched. Every word aligned perfectly with doctrine and moral ideals, but how many clerics in this age truly believed that? No wonder this guy had been kicked out of the central diocese church.

Just thinking about it, Gawain could guess how unwelcome this oddball was in the church.

Yet Philip, equally devout and a knightly spirit himself, praised Light’s words enthusiastically. The young, rigid knight seemed to have forgotten he’d just drawn his sword to challenge the preacher moments ago. Now he said, “A truly upright man’s words, Chaplain Light. You’re not only a good cleric but embody the knightly spirit!”

Gawain gave Light a once-over, pondering quickly.

His first instinct was to refuse this strange Holy Light preacher.

Military operations—even a small-scale strike against mercenaries—should be serious and disciplined. A chaplain suddenly demanding to “cut in line” felt off. But after a moment’s thought, he saw no harm in bringing the preacher along.

Perhaps it was a good chance to observe him. And Light was right—having a chaplain with the troops was important.

Though the soldiers carried healing potions concocted by Pittman and his assistants, having a professional healer was better. The old druid was busy with critical experiments to mass-produce plant growth serums and couldn’t come. Light could fill that gap.

As long as the preacher followed orders.

“Rest assured, this isn’t my first time as a chaplain with the army,” Light said confidently when Gawain voiced his concerns. “Though the central region is peaceful, lords often organize forces to root out mountain bandits and monsters. The church frequently sends me as chaplain—I’m very familiar with this.”

Gawain eyed the preacher’s muscular frame skeptically. He wondered if this guy was more likely to lead charges than tend to the wounded…

In the end, the odd Holy Light preacher joined the ranks.

Under the watchful eyes of the locals, the force set out.

Meanwhile, beyond the northern bank of the Whitewater River, past the forests and plains, past the starving refugees and the greedy thugs who preyed on them, the ancestral castle of the Kant family stood quietly on a hill beside Quirin Town, just as it had for centuries.

This noble family had ruled these lands for over three hundred years. Even before the decline of the Cecil family, they had been one of the rare “independent nobles” in the southern region. After the Cecils’ fall, the Kants had been fortunate to avoid the storm that reshaped the south, firmly rooting themselves here to this day.

Three centuries had weathered the once-glorious fortress. Despite multiple renovations, the Kant Castle bore the marks of age. Its traditional narrow windows were set high in thick stone walls, casting shadows that filled every room with gloom even at noon.

The elderly Viscount Viktor Kant sat in his study, a sliver of sunlight streaming through the narrow window behind him, casting a somber glow on his stooped figure. He leafed through a stack of freshly written parchment covered in cryptic symbols and scrawled words. Then he looked up at his equally aged steward.

“Mr. Carter, have the ‘hounds’ found new prey?”

“Yes, my lord,” the steward bowed slightly. “In the southern woods, a group of malnourished homeless refugees. They have no idea what fate awaits them—but the hounds have yet to strike.”

“They want money—more money,” Victor Kant’s head trembled slightly, as if with anger, yet his voice carried a hint of a smile. “Dogs only work hard for their masters when there’s food as a reward. Two-legged dogs are no different… so give them their ‘food.’ Mr. Carter, send someone with the money bags to find those hounds. Tell them to act quickly and bring me those vagrants—if they delay again, there won’t be a next time. It’s Frostmoon now; they should know well enough that chances to make this kind of money won’t last much longer.”

“Yes, sir.”

The steward left, and Victor Kant lowered his head once more, burying himself in the chaotic symbols and lines before him. The midday sun struggled to pierce through the narrow window, casting a dim, muted light as if filtered through a thick, heavy fog.

In that faint, blurred sunlight, Victor Kant’s shadow stretched long across the desk—flickering and indistinct, no longer quite human in shape…

(End of chapter)