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Chapter 65: The Mercenary Codex
Brandon was well-versed in the lore of this world, a veritable old hand compared to Antietta, whose knowledge was confined to books. As he stared into the eyes of the mercenary captain before him, he could tell that while the man had deliberately held back earlier, his skill level was still evident from the subtle nuances of his movements.
Somewhere in the upper-middle tiers of Silver-rank strength, Brandon surmised.
This was no small feat—already comparable to the captains of the White Mane Legion and only a hair’s breadth away from matching a legion commander. It was clear that the mercenaries they faced were not to be underestimated. And yet, Retto and his companions, though retired veterans, each possessed Iron-rank strength in the lower-to-middle range. Brandon guessed that in their prime, they wouldn’t have been much weaker than the fighters standing before them now.
He had tried to inquire about Retto and his group’s origins once or twice, but the older man seemed reluctant to speak of it.
Meanwhile, Cabot, the mercenary captain, felt an odd sensation creep over him as Brandon’s gaze lingered on him. It was an instinctive reaction, one born of years spent in the field. He looked into those dark, inscrutable eyes—calm, deep, and seemingly without end—and couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was under this young man’s control.
Cabot had seen many people in his travels: Eruin nobles, wealthy merchants, estate lords, northerners, southerners, mountain folk, tower-dwellers, even desert tribesmen. He’d crossed paths with a wizard or two, enigmatic figures cloaked in mystery. But none of them had eyes like this youth—eyes that betrayed nothing, save for a faint smile that hinted at absolute confidence, as if he knew something no one else did.
It was the look of someone who had already unraveled every secret.
For a fleeting moment, Cabot felt as though all his own secrets lay exposed before this stranger. He frowned, shaking his head to dispel the absurd notion. Little did he know, Brandon had indeed pieced together more than enough about him from just a few exchanged blows.
In this age, few recognized the swordsmanship of Imeria. Cabot himself was unaware that his technique stemmed from that school—he had merely learned it from a mentor in his youth. And for him to reveal so much of his strength in just two strikes? Preposterous, unless the young man before him was a master swordsman hiding his true abilities.
Cabot’s gaze shifted to the attire of Brandon and his companions. They hailed from Braggs, where the local fashion was similar to the broader southern styles of Eruin but distinct from the rugged garb of mountain dwellers. Noticing this discrepancy, Cabot opened his mouth to comment—but Brandon beat him to it.
“You’re outsiders, aren’t you? Mercenaries?” Brandon feigned disinterest, his eyes flicking past Cabot to the men behind him.
Antietta and Roma stood silently at Brandon’s sides. The former, a noble-born maiden, understood the etiquette of such moments and remained quiet. Roma, ever the quick learner, blinked innocently and listened intently, her demeanor perfectly suited to the role she played.
Cabot hesitated for a fraction of a second. “That’s right. And you are?”
“We pass through Chablis several times a year,” Brandon said smoothly, spinning a tale out of thin air. “Though we’re not locals, we’re familiar with the area. In fact, when we entered town earlier, I was wondering when Chablis had become so crowded with travelers. Then I saw your group and realized—you’re mercenaries.”
Antietta’s eyes flickered behind him, her expression unchanged. Roma, meanwhile, smiled sweetly, buying into the lie as though it were gospel truth. She had a natural talent for this kind of deception.
“We’ve been hired to deal with lizardfolk bandits in the forest,” Brandon continued, his tone measured and convincing. His calm demeanor left no room for suspicion, and Cabot, seasoned as he was, accepted the explanation without question.
Still, caution gnawed at Cabot. He didn’t press further on the matter. Instead, he asked, “You come here often, then? A merchant, perhaps? If you ever need assistance from our mercenary company, don’t hesitate to call upon us. We offer the finest services.”
As he spoke, he glanced back at his men. “However, we’re currently dealing with a minor issue, and I must take my leave soon. If you have the time, feel free to visit our encampment. Our commander, Macaro the Mane Wolf, would welcome you.”
Brandon smiled inwardly. This man clearly wanted to cut the conversation short, likely intending to privately pursue the young man he had secretly let go earlier. But Brandon pretended not to notice. “Ah, I see.”
“It seems we’re both after the same thing,” he added casually.
Cabot paused, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Brandon began, seizing the opportunity, “I’m not here on business this time. I’m searching for something.”
Cabot’s brow furrowed. “And what might that be?”
“A stone tablet inscribed with ancient writings. Such artifacts can be found among the ruins of Balrogan, recorded by the Silver Elves in their historical archives. However…” Brandon paused dramatically, “…as you may know, those ruins have been occupied by lizardfolk for over a year and a half.”
Cabot’s expression hardened. “Go on.”
“The last time I came to Chablis was three months ago, investigating the lizardfolk brigands in the forest. This time, I brought some mercenaries with me, hoping to infiltrate the ruins and retrieve the tablet. Imagine my surprise when I ran into you and your men.” Brandon’s delivery was flawless, his story believable.
Cabot stared at him, stunned. “You mean…”
Brandon nodded. “Yes. To avoid conflict, I propose we follow Article Three Hundred Fourteen of the Mercenary Codex. My companions and I will temporarily join your ranks, aiding you in battle without putting ourselves at undue risk. Once the mission is complete, we’ll part ways, each pursuing our own goals. What do you say?”
The rules governing mercenaries were largely unwritten, passed down through tradition rather than law. Yet these customs carried weight, resolving disputes and maintaining order within their ranks. A century ago, the Temple of Flames’ subsidiary organization—the Adventurer’s Guild—had compiled these traditions into a formal code known as the Mercenary Codex. Over time, it had evolved into a comprehensive legal framework, though certain archaic clauses remained obscure.
Article Three Hundred Fourteen, for instance, dated back to practices common in the northern highlands of Eruin a century and a half prior. By modern standards, it was rarely invoked, which explained Cabot’s initial hesitation.
“The Codex itself isn’t an issue,” Cabot admitted, still eyeing Brandon warily. “But I lack the authority to make such decisions. If you’re serious, you’ll need to speak with our commander, Macaro the Mane Wolf. He’s staying at the inn—you should find him there.”
“No problem,” Brandon replied with a nod. “Then I’ll take my leave. I won’t keep you from your duties any longer.”
Cabot, having regained his composure, gave a perfunctory nod in response.
Brandon paid little heed to the mercenary captain’s reaction. From the moment he’d seen these men, he’d formulated a plan. The lizardfolk in Balrogan Forest weren’t particularly formidable foes, but tackling them alone would be challenging. With the aid of these mercenaries, however, the task became far more manageable.
To the untrained eye, the Philosopher’s Tablet was nothing more than a slab of stone. Its value had only skyrocketed due to the increasing frequency of cross-regional quests in the game. Brandon was confident he could persuade them.
But who was this Commander Macaro again? The Mane Wolf? Brandon paused, realizing he’d nearly overlooked a crucial detail. The Bluewood Mercenary Company—it was one of the twenty-two most renowned mercenary groups in the southern territories. Yet something nagged at him. Hadn’t they risen to fame five years later, during the Year of Spring Dawn?
He rubbed his temples, confused. Was he misremembering, or had history shifted somehow?
Unbeknownst to Brandon, Cabot was equally perplexed. “Captain, who was that?”
Cabot turned to his subordinate, shaking his head. “Not sure. Probably a local merchant.”
“He seemed awfully familiar with the Mercenary Codex. Three hundred fourteen—I’ve never heard of that article. Do you think it’s fake?”
Cabot shook his head. He knew it wasn’t fake; he’d simply forgotten about it until Brandon mentioned it. With over seven hundred articles in the Codex, remembering every detail was impossible. Outside the core thirteen principles, most were supplementary interpretations loosely followed in practice.
What troubled Cabot most, however, was Brandon himself. There was something about the young man that didn’t sit right.
“More hands are always better,” one mercenary remarked.
“Maybe not,” another countered. “Who knows if they’re spies?”
“That’s true…”
“Relax. Even if they join us temporarily, they’ll still need to pass the commander’s test. Gab will handle it. Too bad Aiko’s in trouble now—he’d have been the one to shine this time.”
At the mention of Aiko, the group fell silent.
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