Chapter 66
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A mercenary company for war. A mercenary organization whose operational capability was stronger than that of many clients.
But building such a massive organization wasn’t something that happened overnight. Therefore, the very first thing they had to do was only one thing.
Raise the reputation and value of the mercenary unit itself—pure and simple.
Their first employer was a noble who wanted to hire mercenaries for a domain war.
At first the noble hesitated at the absurdly large fee, but soon he swallowed hard when he saw the representative of the mercenaries standing there.
“……!”
There stood the world-renowned “Black Prince.”
He was the future heir who would inherit the Saxen dukedom—so what on earth had driven him to act as nothing more than a mercenary captain? It was incomprehensible. But that didn’t matter.
For a battle which decided the fate of a domain, spending that amount was not regrettable in the least.
Some time later.
Two noble forces contesting a territorial war faced off across the rolling hills.
And the Blackarmor Company’s mercenary captain, Dale, was there as well.
Not under the Saxen duke’s night-raven banner, but beneath the Blackarmor Company’s own black-plate insignia. A standard-bearer carried the company flag, and a black-plate cuirassier clad in custom-made black armor and wielding a greatsword served as the ensign.
Blackarmor Company commanded the left wing of the formation. Facing them on the enemy’s right wing were the elite cavalry that the opposing noble proudly boasted.
And then the battle began.
The enemy cavalry charged in to smash into the stationary, defensive formation of heavily armored infantry posted on the ridgeline.
“Do not break the defensive formation!”
“Hold your stance!”
On the frozen ground of the Saxen duchy, it was time to show the fruits of sweat poured like rain. But then—
“Barrett M98B. 8.58x70mm.”
Dale muttered calmly. His shadow cloak fluttered, the shape of a firearm beginning to form, and a muzzle yawned open toward the charging enemy cavalry.
This was no mere stylistic projection Dale had shown previously.
That day, he devoured the magical power of a sixth-circle black mage and, drawing yet deeper into the abyss, produced a black magic the likes of which had not been seen before—
A Shadow Weapon with a definite, unmistakable form was projected.
The Shadow Rifle.
Grasping an otherworldly weapon without a shred of doubt, he aimed the muzzle between the ranks of the heavy infantry and took aim at the enemy cavalry commander’s helm. Dale pulled the shadow’s trigger.
Bang!
“One.”
A sniper’s bullet struck true. The charging enemy commander, burning with reckless resolve, toppled from his mount.
“W-what?!”
“The commander went down in one hit…!”
“W-was he hit by an arrow?”
“That’s impossible!”
Even so, the enemy right-wing cavalry, who could not simply stop their charge, began to show a deep unease.
“No way.”
A third-circle mage summoned to a dispute among low-ranking lords should not possess the destructive power to pierce a knight’s heavy armor. That was how it ought to be.
“He took down the cavalry commander!”
“H-how? Is that magic?”
“I heard third-circle mages can’t pierce a knight’s armor!”
A cry of astonishment erupted from among the Blackarmor Company’s heavy infantry.
“Reload.”
As the distance closed, he opened his breath and fired again.
The more precisely and concretely you can summon an image of the target, the stronger the destructive power becomes. That was far more potent than indiscriminately firing shadow bullets on the spot.
Range, power, accuracy—each parameter was amplified by dozens of times.
Even if Dale specialized in close-quarters fighting, he had not abandoned the advantages of a spellcaster who could engage at a distance.
Bang!
“Two.”
Dale pulled the Shadow Rifle’s trigger and muttered. A dark bullet struck. Each time a round hit, a charging cavalryman collapsed.
Helmets shattered, skulls cracked, brains burst and splattered. Instant death without a doubt.
“Three.”
Bang!
The armored cavalry couldn’t comprehend the terror of a battlefield raining bullets. The horror of death that might come from anywhere; the fear of a comrade beside you being struck dead by a single shot.
The courage that powered a cavalry charge crumpled helplessly before that dread.
“Four.”
Coldly put, the number of cavalrymen Dale’s bullets took was not large—only a few. But the fear born from those seemingly insignificant deaths was not small at all.
Fear spread like a plague.
Distance closed and emotions reflected in the helmets of the cavalry—an infectious dread that the next victim might be them—was quickly passing through the ranks.
“Five.”
Bang!
A steady downpour of death. No matter how much training and bravery one cultivates to face death, unknown terror that summons death is not to be scoffed at.
After several sniper shots, the gap between the two sides had closed.
But terrified, the enemy cavalry now pushed their mounts to an even faster gallop, and in doing so their formation grew chaotic.
The disordered, makeshift cavalry’s lances plunged toward the Blackarmor Company’s heavy infantry. But what the lance-bearers carried within their spearheads was not the surge needed to drive through—only fear and panic spreading like disease. The strike was not a decisive blow.
“For the captain!”
Facing them were a hundred heavy infantry whose morale had been stoked to the highest pitch.
From among the heavy infantry, their leader, Sir Yones, raised his voice.
“For the Blackarmor Company!”
“We die standing our ground!”
Blackarmor Company shouted their war cry with vigor. They truly were an unbreakable formation.
—
—
“Life’s like this—what matters is who can hold the spoon right.”
Dale muttered as though it were someone else’s concern.
That night. A victory celebration was held at Baron Rusvelt’s manor to commemorate the triumph—honoring the Blackarmor Company’s role.
Wine and meat and women. Indulgences rarely afforded to ordinary mercenaries spread out before them.
“You truly are our captain!”
“To be treated like a noble at a manor—who would have thought!”
A mercenary bawled, arm in arm with a woman, tearing into the meat on the table. Was there any greater heaven for a mercenary than this?
“Don’t get too carried away. You’ll see this scenery a lot from now on.”
Watching that, Dale added as though commenting on someone else’s affairs.
“Oh my, it’s Prince Dale himself!”
“I heard of your exploits from my father today!”
“You routed the enemy cavalry with the prince’s wit, didn’t you?”
Shrieking admirers clustered around him, the daughters of Baron Rusvelt desperately trying to flatter him.
“You are so handsome and gallant!”
“It was only possible because of my subordinates’ actions.”
It was fervent flattery, unbridled.
And why not—standing beside her was the eldest son of a ducal house. A low-ranking noble’s daughter would never ordinarily be given the chance to speak to him. It was not out of affection for the Rusvelt girls; it was how people of this world played the game.
The gulf between nobility and commoners, the divisions of rank—even among nobles—was not unique to any one world. It would be the same wherever one was reborn.
A bitter, bitter reality.
—
—
The next morning.
When Sir Yones staggered to his feet with a hangover, the small captain of their mercenary band was sitting before him.
“C-captain!”
The prior night’s hall at Baron Rusvelt’s still bore the traces of the revelry; Yones and the other mercenaries lay slumped over tables or sprawled face-down on the stone floor.
“Are you beasts or men?”
“I’ll wake them all up and form ranks at once!”
Dale muttered as though it were someone else’s problem. As Sir Yones was about to bark orders in a hurry—
“No, leave them. They should’ve had the luxury of such a night once in their lives. Let them lie a little longer.”
Dale shook his head lightly.
“I’ve been waiting on you because I have something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
Dale nodded.
“After we return to the Saxen ducal estate, I’ll assign several people to teach you.”
“Teach me?”
Surprised by the unexpected comment, Sir Yones cocked his head.
“In the future, when we build a reputation greater than this and the Saxen duke’s eldest son is the head of this organization… On that trust, nobles will entrust us with their troops and the entirety of their operations.”
“Yes, of course.”
An organization with operational capability stronger than a client’s—such was Blackarmor Company’s raison d’être.
“But even if that’s true in the long run, who will lead this company to seize victory in war when I am absent?”
“Well, I’m the lieutenant. It should be my duty.”
“Exactly why you must learn. How to win on the battlefield, how to fight in different circumstances, where to fight. So that Blackarmor Company can become—without me—the organization that guarantees ‘victory in war’.”
Dale continued.
“As soon as we return, the Saxen high officers will run you hard day and night. Don’t skip sword training under our knights.”
“……Why me?”
Hearing Dale’s words, Sir Yones asked again.
He understood the weight of the situation: a younger son from a low noble family had the audacity to act as the military arm for a great noble family. That was not something to take lightly.
“Because you happened to be there.”
A path to unrivaled advancement lay open before him—a road even his father and brothers could not tread.
“Is that all?”
“So did you think we were bound together by the thread of love?”
Dale answered as though it were someone else’s affair—no different from before.
“Then if not me, would you have let anyone else take that spot?”
Sir Yones asked again. Dale replied bluntly.
“Who else could have been there instead of you?”
“Well…”
Sir Yones stopped midsentence and swallowed. He finally understood the true meaning behind Dale’s words.
When the mass migration of demons threatened, and the Saxen duke summoned his vassals, Sir Yones had been there too.
He had left home at sixteen to make a name as a wandering knight, starting from nothing and rising to command a hundred mercenaries.
He had believed that the have-nots could defeat the haves. That was why he had challenged the Saxen ‘Black Prince’ and lost. And at the same time, that defeat was precisely why Sir Yones was now in his present position.
“Captain… No—Prince Dale.”
Understanding Dale’s intent, Sir Yones quietly dropped to his knees. Bowing his head in a loyalty that could not be more sincere.
“I am Yones of Kenneth, captain of the Blackarmor Company. I will never disappoint Prince Dale.”
