Chapter 14: The Prelude Begins
"Boring."
Holding a spear and shield, Francis stood at the entrance of the Lord's Manor, gazing at the empty street before him. He couldn't help but sigh: "Not a single person around, yet I have to stand guard... Hiss—this weather is freezing!"
Icicles clung to the eaves, frost blanketed the white ground, and the winter morning wind was damp and bone-piercingly cold. It made his body shiver slightly. The steel armor offered no warmth, and the leather padding beneath was as thin as paper against the chill. But even so, Francis didn't let his guard down; he carefully scanned his surroundings for any movement.
He grumbled incessantly, but after more than a decade as a mercenary, he knew the principle: get paid, do the job. Guarding a door might be uncomfortable, but it was still better than fighting.
Francis had heard about the attack that had just occurred near the main city gates. He'd gotten word shortly after waking up. According to the messenger, the assailant was incredibly skilled, single-handedly defeating fifty heavily armored spearmen. The man was still lurking somewhere in the city, his whereabouts unknown. No wonder his employer was being so cautious.
Those weren't fifty farmers—they were fifty soldiers! Defeating them single-handedly was truly unbelievable. Even the captain of their mercenary company might not be able to pull that off.
Although Francis didn't think the attacker would choose this moment, when everyone was on high alert, to strike, he still intended to do his duty to the best of his ability. As long as he was paid, he would never slack off or cut corners. That was his code, his principle.
As for the guy who was supposed to be standing guard with him but claimed it was too cold, said he was going back to get warmer clothes, and still hadn't returned... well, people were different. He didn't want to end up like that.
Over forty years old, Francis still hadn't broken through to Silver High-rank. As a human, that meant he had little chance of advancing to Gold Glory. But even if he had no future prospects for improvement, he at least had a wealth of combat experience. He could still make a living as a mercenary for another seven or eight years, until his physical strength gave out in his fifties. Only then would he consider buying a plot of land somewhere and settling down for a peaceful life.
But did mercenaries ever get a peaceful life? That was a pretty good dark joke.
Chuckling at his own thought, Francis suddenly heard a sound other than the wind.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps echoed from the street corner.
At first, they were barely audible, but as they drew closer, the sound grew louder. Francis turned his head in confusion, looking toward the corner where the footsteps were coming from.
On a normal day, no one would pay attention to footsteps. But ever since the lockdown began, few people ventured out onto the streets. With the morning's commotion and the bitter cold, no one had come out at all today. Under these circumstances, the sudden arrival of such clear footsteps made Francis suspicious.
Before long, a tall, black-haired man appeared in his field of vision. Beside him walked a silver-haired girl with green eyes. Judging by their heights, they might have been father and daughter—or maybe siblings? But if so, their hair colors didn't match.
No, no, no. Whatever their relationship, the strangest thing was why they were out at this hour. The weather was freezing, and there had just been an attack.
His mind was in chaos for a moment, but Francis quickly snapped back to reality. Watching the pair approach, he didn't have time to dwell on the oddity. He stepped forward, frowned, and shouted: "You two, stop right there. This is a restricted area. Please take a detour!"
"...Pretty dedicated."
After a few seconds of silence, the black-haired man nodded. He seemed completely unfazed by Francis's stern expression and the weapon in his hand, commenting casually: "Out of all these people, you're the only one with a bit of a warrior's spirit."
"What... what do you mean by 'all these people'?"
As he pondered the words, Francis suddenly caught a faint scent of blood on the wind. A chill shot up his spine.
(That's right. There are still plenty of people patrolling nearby. Logically, these two shouldn't have been able to reach the Lord's Manor. Could it be?!)
His eyes widened as he stared at the man and woman before him. His mouth opened silently.
"They're all dead."
Seeing Francis's expression, the man's voice was utterly flat, devoid of any emotion: "You'll be the same in a moment."
He's the one who attacked the city gates!
It was just a guess, but it seemed he hadn't been wrong. Even though the man hadn't made a move yet, Francis felt as if he'd been hit by a fear spell just from meeting his gaze. His legs trembled uncontrollably, and his entire body shook.
Before him stood a terrifying monster—someone who had crippled seventeen heavily armored spearmen with a single sword stroke and silently taken out patrols on several streets. His aura didn't seem to have reached the Gold Realm, but he could easily dispose of Francis. They weren't even on the same level!
"...Please leave!"
Trembling, Francis forced his shaking hands to steady his spear, pointing its tip at the man before him. Though fear still lingered in his eyes, he didn't take a step back. Instead, he shouted: "I'll say it again—this is a restricted area. Take one more step, and I'll attack!"
The black-haired man wore simple leather and riding gear, with no visible weapons. A small stain on his trouser leg looked like blood—it seemed he hadn't even needed a weapon to kill the patrolling mercenaries. His strength was beyond imagination.
Precisely because he understood the man's power, Francis felt as if a hand were gripping his heart, squeezing tighter and tighter. The blood in his veins seemed to run wild—but he still didn't lower his weapon. Even though his hands had lost their strength from fear, he didn't retreat a single step.
Get paid, do the job. Take the commission, fulfill the duty. Guarding the door was his responsibility. Sure, there were mercenaries who had no bottom line and would abandon their missions for money, but Francis wasn't one of them. Even if his strength was lacking, his will would not waver.
Fighting wasn't frightening. Fighting to the death was the bare minimum of resolve for an Imperial citizen. And the toughness of the Northerners far surpassed that of other Imperials. As a Northern mercenary, Francis had his pride! Even with no chance of victory, he would still fight!
"Impressive willpower."
The black-haired man looked at the spear aimed directly at his throat, showing no reaction at all. He merely offered a faint compliment: "A bit of a shame."
And then... there was nothing more.
The black-haired man vanished in an instant. A gust of wind swept past, and Francis felt a dull pressure in his chest. The spear in his hands was snapped in two by an immense, sudden force. His body felt strangely light as he was sent flying upward, slowly descending...
His consciousness sank into darkness. Just before he fell into the deepest unconsciousness, the mercenary vaguely heard the thunderous crash of the tightly shut door being blasted open with a single punch.