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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Mercenaries' Tavern
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Her eyes scanned me from head to toe. The lady's gaze, which had seemed utterly cold until now, flickered with a hint of interest. And who could blame her? She had probably never seen anyone over two meters tall before. To avoid drawing any unwanted attention from a noble, I bowed my head even lower.
"No, miss. I was just passing through..."
"What a shame. You look like you could make a fine elite swordsman."
"Thank you for the high praise."
I had no idea what an elite swordsman even was, but I bowed deeply as if deeply honored. Sure, it wasn't like she'd chop my head off on the spot if I caught her eye, but nobles could make life endlessly troublesome. There was no upside to standing out.
But my calculations were a bit off. This lady was far more interested in me than I'd anticipated.
"Where are you from?"
"Just a nameless little village, milady. Nothing a noble like you would know."
She seemed slightly amused, as if her earlier sharpness had all been an act. Her expression hadn't changed, though.
"Have you worked with nobles before? You seem awfully practiced at this."
"I did some work for a baron's family in this city when I was young, milady."
At that moment, I sensed her falter. A flicker of unmistakable unease crossed her icy eyes. After a brief silence, she parted her tightly closed lips.
"...Which family?"
"Well..."
But she never heard my answer.
"Milady! Milady! It's war! The count has declared war!"
War. War had broken out. The messenger was so frantic that he'd ridden straight from the barracks to the inner keep where the count was staying. We'd heard rumors of war brewing ever since arriving here, but there was a world of difference between talk and reality.
The vast barracks fell silent enough to hear a pin drop. And yet, why was this blonde lady here in the first place? A messenger rushes in to report war to her? Noble ladies from good families were usually kept far from the barbarity of battle.
"I'll head there now. Lend me a horse."
"An honor!"
The messenger handed over the reins, and she took them with practiced ease before mounting lightly. The blonde lady atop the horse paused as if lost in thought, then looked down at me.
"It would be good if you served in our army. Even one more man would make a big difference in times like these."
"...I humbly accept the offer."
"Hyap!"
I bowed to avoid her gaze, and she spurred the horse into a gallop. No spurs needed on those boots.
"You really gonna enlist? Like the lady said, become an elite swordsman and..."
"Are you insane? War's broken out—why enlist?"
The sergeant major looked crestfallen at my words. Insane? Being a mercenary was better. Soldiers had to give up 60% of their war spoils, after all.
"War... war, huh..."
Having narrowly escaped the clutches of both the sergeant major and the count's lady, I walked along murmuring the word "war." I'd decided to become a mercenary, but now that war was real, hesitation was only natural.
Could I really survive a battlefield unscathed? Of course, I wasn't the same as my old self back on Earth. I could feel it clearly. Strength, stamina, agility—every physical attribute had surged. It was innate talent, beyond what effort alone could achieve.
But that didn't mean it'd protect me in the heart of battle. No matter how superior my body, I was still human. A spear thrust or arrow would kill me just the same.
"His noble lordship the count will hire mercenaries for this war! Base pay of 6 crowns each, with bonuses for valor! Those with proper gear get an extra 1 pound!"
"No one seeking honor and coin? Valor brings elite status in the count's forces—1 pound 2 crowns a month!"
The tavern entrance was chaos: mercenaries leaving at the war news, others arriving to cash in, and soldiers trying to hold them back. That recruiter, though...
"That's just wartime pay of 1 pound 2 crowns."
The recruiter cleared his throat and shoved a few coins into my hand.
"Don't mess with business here—go get a beer elsewhere."
"You're full of it."
"Hey, I didn't lie. Enlist now, and you could make 1 pound 2 crowns in wartime, right?"
True enough. Wartime rates. He snatched the coins back from my hand. Stingy bastard.
After finishing with the recruiter, I approached the soldier handling mercenary sign-ups. In this world, mercenary guilds were managed by the local lord, so telling this soldier I wanted in would get me a mercenary token too.
The token wasn't fancy—just a wooden plaque with my name, height, and registration city.
[Kyle] Height: 205cm Registration City: Cligrove
That was all the info on the wood. They burned the Cligrove count's seal into it to deter fakes, but anyone could forge that easily enough. Not that there was much point.
"Welcome aboard. Registration complete—head over there."
Following the clerk's directions into the tavern, I was hit with the stench of unwashed men packed in tight. Professional killers, bandits, thieves at a glance. Specialists in crime. It was like walking into a prison block instead of a tavern.
These guys had probably turned to mercenary work to legally sate their bloodlust after tiring of straight crime.
"..."
Clang!
But as I entered, the rowdy chatter died like they'd rehearsed it. Only the clatter of a dropped pewter mug echoed.
Looks like the new guy had them licking their chops. Time for a show of strength. Couldn't let them underestimate me. In places like this, once you were seen as weak, it never ended.
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Cutter, a third-year mercenary, had come to Cligrove on his own two feet chasing this rare big score.
"All the riffraff's gathered. Big war's got everyone hyped."
He laughed with the others over beers. Riffraff or not, more bodies meant lower odds of dying.
"Haha! You were riffraff yourself not long ago. Anyone'd think you've been at this a decade!"
"Shut it, Loban. You're barely year two."
"That's why I'm quiet, yeah? Speaking of, you fought in a war before?"
Cutter nodded at Loban's question. Just a minor skirmish three years back, but it counted. That's why he saw the others as amateurs.
"Does fighting a war give you an eye for talent or something?"
"Kinda. At least I can spot vets from greenhorns."
"Pfft, bullshit."
Loban snorted, so Cutter set down his mug and pointed across the room to a man in gambeson, one-hand shield, and arming sword.
"See that guy?"
"The one in gambeson?"
"Yeah. What do you make of him?"
"Rookie, right? Gambeson's rookie gear."
Gambesons were cheap enough for newbies. But Cutter shook his head.
"No rookie. Plenty of battle scars. Look at that shield and sword—not worn out, but heavy use. Blocked arrows, bludgeons, you name it."
"Could be secondhand."
"Maybe if that was all. But check closer. He's drinking with his sword loose, but right within reach. Stretch and grab."
"So, a vet?"
"Yep. Or he's taken tons of jobs since starting. Not riffraff either way."
"Even in gambeson."
Loban guffawed, and Cutter smirked. Vet or rookie, didn't matter. Geared right, anyone could pull their weight. He raised his mug.
"War anytime—could die tomorrow. Drink up! Die drunk!"
They clashed mugs hard enough to ring, then chugged. But as they drank, the door opened, and the din faded.
"Ugh... what? Why the sudden quiet?"
It wasn't the barkeep shushing them—he wouldn't bother with these parent-defying types anyway.
As he followed the others' stares wondering that, he saw the giant standing in the doorway.
Clang!
A dropped mug rang out, but no one cared. The giant, head and shoulders over any normal man, stepped inside.
Thud! Thud!
That sword he carried looked brutally heavy. The wooden floor groaned under his steps.
"That's a two-hander...?"
"Fuck... can he even swing that?"
"Look at the size. He could swing a man."