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Chapter 64: The Mercenary Company
On the battlefield, another mercenary was sent flying within moments. The young man, Aiko, seemed to have taken down three of his opponents in the blink of an eye, carving a gap in their ranks. Before anyone could react, he broke through the opening—though the direction he chose gave Brandon a slight pause. Waiting directly in his path was Cabot, the leader of the mercenaries.
The older mercenary held his sword across his body, leaning forward with lips pressed tightly together—resembling a beast about to pounce.
Brandon's mind stirred as he recognized the stance. It came from Imeria’s renowned fencing technique, Lantonilan Swordplay. Named after the legendary swordmaster herself, it had spread across the continent in earlier years but fallen into obscurity due to its complexity. Few in this world truly mastered it, and those who did were almost invariably masters of combat.
In the old game, Brandon remembered that advancing from level one to two in Imeria’s Fencing required 133 experience points—a steep cost compared to other intermediate techniques. While it offered double the hit correction and 1.3 times the damage adjustment of standard military swordsmanship, few players invested in it. The art itself commanded a price tag of 1.3 million torr, and rare copies (which reduced training costs) existed only in museums scattered across a handful of nations.
Aiko clearly realized his misstep too late. Retreat was no longer an option; he could only press forward. Though unarmed, his movements betrayed a foundation in swordsmanship. Specifically, Mevack’s Chivalric Swordsmanship. Brandon identified it instantly from the subtle nuances in Aiko’s motions.
Two mercenaries from the same company, seemingly on good terms, yet wielding vastly different styles—it was an amusing contrast. But such occurrences weren’t uncommon, so Brandon merely noted it briefly before refocusing.
At that moment, Aiko charged toward Cabot, attempting to alter his trajectory to evade the older man’s blade. Unfortunately for him, Cabot did not disappoint. With two swift strikes, he sealed off Aiko’s escape route, forcing the youth to leap aside awkwardly.
Now, all Cabot needed to do was step forward, positioning himself precisely where Aiko might retreat next. His longsword spun in preparation for a finishing blow with the hilt.
But then Brandon narrowed his eyes slightly.
Cabot hesitated by half a beat. In that narrow window, Aiko seized his arm and lunged, crashing into the older mercenary’s chest. The impact sent Cabot stumbling back five steps—a development that shocked everyone present, including Aiko himself. Brandon caught a fleeting glimpse of surprise in the young man’s eyes before he shook it off, glanced at the staggered Cabot, and bolted into the crowd without looking back.
"Remarkable," Brandon muttered inwardly. That mercenary, Cabot, had deliberately pulled his punches. His technique was so subtle that most wouldn’t notice—but Brandon wasn’t most people. A lifetime of gaming experience spanning over a century had honed his instincts far beyond what any mortal could imagine at his age. He estimated roughly 110 years of swordsmanship expertise under his belt, with barely a decade spent mastering other weapons. As a veteran warrior who’d lived through 140 virtual springs, certain fundamentals came as naturally to Brandon as eating or drinking.
Though his current strength hovered around mid-to-upper Iron Rank—far below Aiko’s apparent prowess—he knew better than anyone watching that raw power didn’t tell the whole story. If they clashed, even two Aikos wouldn’t stand a chance against him. After nearly a month of adventuring, Brandon’s mercenary rank had climbed steadily to level sixteen, and his proficiency in Eruin Military Swordsmanship now stood at (9+1). Combined with fragments of his grandfather’s memory, his skill far surpassed the clumsy novice he once was in Buchi. Even seasoned instructors among the White Mane Legion’s regular army would struggle to match him.
Still, despite glimpses of mastery, Brandon felt humbled when thinking of his grandfather. The elder’s mere presence exuded an aura that made even a hundred-level veteran like Brandon hesitate to draw steel. Was he merely a veteran of the November War? Retto, another survivor of the conflict, bore none of the same gravitas—and Retto had joined late in the war, while Brandon’s grandfather fought from beginning to end. Perhaps therein lay the difference.
This thought led Brandon to ponder the recipients of the Candlelight Medal awarded by the Temple of Flames during the war. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t recall specifics. His dealings with Eruin officials and later alignment with the Sanctuary of Light left little room for interaction with the Temple of Flames.
The fleeting distraction passed.
The battlefield froze momentarily in the wake of the unexpected turn. Whispers erupted among the local onlookers, dissecting the fight’s outcome despite many having missed its finer details entirely. Meanwhile, the mercenaries Aiko had felled rose one by one, exchanging glances. Strangely, they didn’t seem frustrated or angry. Instead, relief washed over them.
Brandon observed their reactions closely. When he turned to Antietta, their eyes met, sharing a silent understanding.
“Brandon, they don’t look like they’re planning to chase him,” Roma whispered from behind.
Brandon smiled faintly and nodded.
“Captain Cabot, are you alright?” One of the mercenaries approached cautiously. Cabot examined his wrist, paused briefly, then addressed the group solemnly: “I’m fine. Disperse and seal off Chablis. Don’t let Aiko escape. If anything goes wrong this afternoon, I’ll take full responsibility.”
“Yes.”
“Understood.”
“No problem, Captain Cabot.”
The mercenaries’ responses were sluggish, almost mechanical. Yet Cabot appeared oblivious, scanning the crowd until his gaze landed on Brandon. Earlier, Brandon’s intervention catching the airborne mercenary hadn’t escaped his notice, but only now did he have time to scrutinize the young man properly.
When Cabot first saw Brandon, he faltered slightly. Having only glimpsed him earlier, he hadn’t expected someone so young. From Brandon’s earlier display, he deduced the youth possessed at least upper-mid Iron Rank strength. A twenty-year-old nearing the upper echelons of Iron Rank was impressive anywhere.
Cabot immediately thought of Aiko. The prodigy was the pride of their mercenary company, adopted son of ‘Mane Wolf’ Macaro, who unlocked the Second-Level Strength at seventeen—a true prodigy. Only legends known as Enlightened Ones achieved such feats at that age. Despite Aiko’s selfish desertion, their captain merely ordered his retrieval, not punishment—a testament to how cherished he was within the company.
Thinking of Aiko calmed Cabot somewhat. Brandon’s prowess now seemed less surprising. Exhaling, Cabot approached, softening his expression. “Thank you all for your assistance. You may call me Cabot. And you, sir?”
“Brandon. No need for formalities.” Brandon studied him in return.
Cabot’s leaden-gray eyes carried perpetual worry lines, complemented by his silvery hair. His hands, long and elegant from years of swordplay, resembled a pianist’s—if one ignored the calluses. Such a figure would undoubtedly draw screams of admiration from girls on any street back in Brandon’s world. Jealously, Brandon reflected that his own appearance lacked the weathered charm of Cabot’s.
These mercenaries weren’t ordinary folk. But which renowned southern mercenary company did they belong to? Their attire offered no clues, nor did they bear distinguishing insignias.
It seemed they weren’t on official duty just yet.
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