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Chapter 69: The Wind Among the Peaks
"Never would I have imagined that Sir Brandon wields such mastery over the blade."
Antietta's voice carried an unreserved admiration as she walked alongside the others. It was only once, during their encounter at the underground auction in Braggs, that she had witnessed Brandon unleash his full potential. But even then, she and Roma were too preoccupied with escaping for their lives to pay much attention to how Brandon managed to deal with the Soul Puppets' captain.
The trio's footsteps echoed through the hollowed passageway carved into the inn's rocky interior. The sound stretched forward, a series of hollow reverberations fading into the dim recesses of the tunnel. The innkeeper had chiseled small stone windows into the rock face to let in light, and ahead, pale, faint patches of natural illumination dotted the darkened floor at regular intervals.
"Yes, Brandon has always been formidable," Roma added with a hint of pride, her eyes narrowing slightly—a gesture that came naturally to her, lending her an air of effortless charm. She glanced back at Brandon, her lips curling into a mischievous smile that made his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t help but wonder what strange scheme this young lady might be concocting now.
His concern was not unfounded. Before leaving the Forest City, Roma had been anything but well-behaved. First, she posed as a merchant from the Trade Guild to visit local nobles and investigate the market. Then, she secretly purchased a map of the route from Magitan to Chablis from members of the Thieves’ Brotherhood—a brazen act, considering that unauthorized mapmaking could land someone on the gallows in these times.
Of course, all of this had been done behind Brandon’s back—at least until he discovered her secret. If it weren’t for the fact that Roma could never keep anything hidden from him for long, he might still be unaware of her clandestine activities. Hoarding maps, impersonating nobility, forging documents—Brandon had always prided himself on his disdain for the ancient kingdom’s laws, but Roma seemed to disregard the very existence of the black-bound legal codex entirely.
Or perhaps, Brandon mused, she simply didn’t know it existed.
Still, Roma was cautious when operating outside their circle, clever as a fox and leaving no trace. Had Brandon not caught her counting coins alone in the carriage one day, he might never have realized that the little rogue had already turned a tidy profit using these illicit methods—her “pocket money,” as she called it.
Naturally, Brandon had sternly warned her about such behavior. Roma, however, responded with feigned contrition, nodding and murmuring vague promises. Whether any of it sank in was anyone’s guess—even Lady Marsha might not know for sure.
"What are you thinking about now?" Brandon asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
"Nothing," Roma replied hastily, shaking her head vigorously.
"If it’s nothing, why do you look so nervous?" Brandon pressed, suspicion deepening in his tone.
"Do I seem nervous, Brandon?" Roma touched her cheek, widening her eyes innocently.
"Don’t try to change the subject; that trick doesn’t work on me anymore, little Roma."
"Don’t… don’t call me that!" Roma scowled briefly before her expression shifted again. "Brandon, may I go out for a walk by myself?"
"Absolutely not."
Brandon’s refusal wasn’t born of fear that this picturesque town of Chablis would descend into chaos under Roma’s influence. No, his concerns lay elsewhere. Earlier today, he had faced Buga in a public duel, wielding his sword with masterful precision that left everyone awestruck—even Macaro, the famed ‘Mane Wolf,’ had fallen silent. Yet beneath the surface triumph, Brandon’s mind had cleared, and doubts began to creep in.
In his past life as a gamer, it was common for lone mercenaries or adventurers to temporarily join unfamiliar groups while traveling. Trouble was inevitable on the road, and relying on others for aid wasn’t uncommon. Though Article 314 of The Mercenary Codex rarely appeared in formal contracts, such temporary alliances were frequent. In practice, individuals within these groups often acted independently, wary of each other despite outward cooperation.
Thus, the provisions allowing mercenary companies to test newcomers were often mere formalities. So why did Macaro and Buga behave so oddly today? Brandon could clearly see the suspicion in the middle-aged man who stood beside Buga earlier. But why should they doubt him?
He frowned, recalling the scene he encountered earlier that afternoon. From Aiko’s words and actions, it seemed this band of mercenaries harbored more than just simple intentions. Were they pursuing something else, or had they run into trouble? That was what Brandon needed to uncover.
He certainly didn’t want them eyeing the same prize he sought—that would complicate matters greatly.
As these thoughts churned in his mind, Brandon unconsciously furrowed his brow.
"Brandon, what’s wrong?" Roma blinked up at him. "Are you angry with me?"
"Of course not," Brandon said, shooting her a glance. He knew perfectly well that Roma wasn’t afraid of angering him; she was merely filling the silence. Turning to Antietta, he asked, "What did they say their mercenary company was called again?"
Something about this felt off—an issue he hadn’t encountered before.
"The Gray Wolves Mercenary Company."
"The Gray Wolves?"
"Is there a problem?" Antietta asked.
"No, nothing," Brandon muttered distractedly, then murmured to himself, "...Gray Wolves? Shouldn’t it be the Bluewood Mercenary Company? Isn’t Macaro the ‘Mane Wolf’ that man? Yes, that middle-aged man matches the description exactly. There’s no mistake. So why is the name different?"
Could history have taken a turn? Another possibility was that the company had changed its name—but renaming was no trivial matter. Registering the change with the Adventurer’s Guild under the Temple of Flames was a cumbersome process, and approval was rare unless some monumental event warranted it.
A monumental event?
Brandon looked up, watching the sliver of natural light filtering through a stone window ahead. His deep brown eyes flickered with uncertainty.
---
"What do you think?"
The red-haired man touched the scar on his face, turning to ask the question.
Standing atop the ridge, the cool breeze brushed against his skin, bringing a sense of calm. He squinted, gazing down at the winding paths of Chablis below. The town resembled a man-made hillock, its terraced staircases climbing higher along the slopes.
The name ‘Mane Wolf’ Macaro had echoed through mercenary circles for nearly seven years now. It stemmed from his first days in the trade, symbolizing his ferocity in battle—a warrior who fought like a relentless alpha wolf. In the southern mountains of Eruin, alpha wolves were known as silver-maned beasts, hence the nickname.
"Hmm." Buga raised a hand to shield his eyes, smiling. "That young man’s military swordsmanship is extraordinary—almost at the level of a grandmaster. Even among soldiers..."
He coughed abruptly. "You know what I mean. When it comes to raw talent and skill, I’m no match for him. That Brandon is a true prodigy, born for the blade. It’s hard to believe someone his age possesses such profound understanding. I couldn’t even fight freely in front of him—"
He chuckled. "Before meeting Lord Aiko, I never believed in geniuses. I thought success came solely from effort and sweat. But after seeing Lord Aiko—and especially after today—I realize I’ve made a mistake."
With that, he flashed a grin, revealing pearly white teeth.
"You’re comparing him to Lord Aiko?" Macaro turned, the scar on his cheek rumored to be from a battle with the Children of Night. Those who knew him understood it dated back to before his mercenary days. "I didn’t see that level of skill in him."
"That’s why you’re the commander, and I’m the swordsman."
"So, you hold him in high regard?"
"Yes, though he reminds me of someone."
"Who?"
"A rigid fellow. Never mind him. What I will say is that I don’t think the young man is a spy sent by the Cards." Buga paused. "If they had someone that talented, it’d be common knowledge by now."
Macaro shook his head, smirking. "It’s hard to say. This season is too delicate. I can’t believe the Cards came here just to compete for a single mission. Chablis is a small, insignificant town. What allure could it possibly hold?"
"You’ve mentioned that already. You think they have another motive?" Buga turned to ask.
"Indeed."
"And what might that be? Do those lizardfolk brigands hide some deeper mystery, or...?"
"I’m not sure. But Aiko has been acting strangely these past few days," Macaro closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "It worries me. I won’t let a group of ill-intentioned individuals trail us indefinitely. They interfered in our last mission, and I intend to resolve this once and for all."
Buga studied him silently.
"Does the Master agree?"
Macaro nodded, then shook his head. "The Master said nothing."
"Then shall we wait a bit longer?"
"We can’t afford to. The Treeminders are closing in. Haven’t you noticed? We depart within three days at most."
"And the young man?"
"Let him follow if he wishes."
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