Please support the translation by reading the translation and commenting on otakutl official site.
Thank you.
Everyone from Otaku Translation
Chapter 71: The Approaching Omen
In an age dominated by steel and blade, war was rarely the glorious spectacle people imagined it to be.
Before one has faced the raw brutality of close combat—before one has stared into the predatory eyes of death prowling amidst chaos—it is nearly impossible for those raised in peace to fathom the true nature of a battlefield. Battle is not just a clash of arms; it is a bone-deep chill, the glint of steel slicing through flesh, spilling crimson rivers that stain the night. The dying writhe, their fading gazes locked onto the last sights they will ever see—a scene that grows dimmer, slower, until it freezes entirely. Then, as blood foams into their lungs, the wounded cough themselves hoarse, curling into agonized, pitiful heaps before succumbing to the void.
Yet many persist in conflating the romanticized skirmishes of novels and tales with the grim reality of combat. This was true for the first wave of players in Amber Sword, and for those who followed. Back then, Brandon had gone by another name—"Su Fei." He remembered his first real battle in that game, a farcical affair that bore little resemblance to the heroic clashes he had envisioned.
There were no grand formations, no orderly lines of soldiers facing off against one another. Instead, the fight unfolded in the tangled wilds of Delthaltar Forest—a place Brandon still recalled vividly. Dense jungles stretched along rugged coastlines, their cliffs riddled with labyrinthine caves where slavers and their private armies played cat-and-mouse with intruders. The true skirmish began among the elite scouts, while the player-controlled forces spread out in a loose skirmish line, outnumbering the slavers threefold or more. Yet numbers alone did not dictate the outcome. From the start, chaos reigned supreme. Players scrambled to regroup, losing sight of their commanders, and most could only form small squads to fend for themselves.
For hours, the flanks of the player army were harried by relentless attacks, while the center—a thousand strong—was held at bay by a mere handful of cavalry.
Yes, most understood that the flanks were under assault.
But where were the scouts?
And where exactly were the flanks?
When you find yourself on a sprawling battlefield stretching kilometers wide, the ability to survey the entire scene from a forty-five-degree angle becomes not just a luxury but an unattainable dream.
Brandon remembered being surrounded by comrades in that forest, banners fluttering everywhere—guild flags, personal sigils, knightly emblems, pennants of squires—but none of it made sense to him. Most, including himself, simply followed the crowd, blindly advancing for hours. Occasionally, they encountered small bands of slavers, and the players would charge forward with overwhelming force, buoyed by early success. Victory seemed within reach. But if one could have looked down upon the battlefield from above, they would have seen the once-cohesive force fractured into pieces.
Two or three professional mercenary companies moved like parasites through the shattered remnants of the player army, hollowing it out from within. By dusk, enemy banners surrounded them on all sides.
Looking back on that conflict, later dubbed the "Delthaltar Massacre," the name aptly described the fate of the seventeen hundred players drawn from three guilds. These warriors were undeniably brave, fighting to the bitter end in small, scattered groups. Yet bravery alone could not save them; the result was total annihilation.
The irony was stark: the damage inflicted by the players during the daylight hours paled in comparison to the havoc wrought by their fragmented resistance after nightfall.
Recalling that battle brought not just a bitter smile to Brandon’s lips but also a cold sweat. It wasn’t until much later, during the Buchi War (the Second Black Rose War), that players began to learn how to properly organize a battlefield. They learned which banners to raise, how to distinguish between the bizarre crests of noble knights’ armies, and how to position themselves on gentle slopes beneath high ground so their commanders could oversee vast stretches of terrain.
This was precisely what Macaro the "Maned Wolf" was doing now.
Of course, skirmishes between mercenaries and bandits could hardly be called warfare. But the principles were the same. As Brandon tightened the reins to calm his restless steed amidst the dense underbrush, he glanced back and caught fleeting glimpses of green-cloaked figures wielding lacquered greatbows. To the untrained eye, these hunters might have gone unnoticed entirely.
They were not lizardfolk, Brandon thought. The lizardfolk of Balrogan Forest were jungle-dwelling tribes, their granular, scale-covered skin a deep mossy green. But these creatures were shorter, slighter than the burly mountain folk. No, these were the finest hunters among the mountain clans—the famed Woodrunners.
It was a title given to them by the Cruzeans who had invaded this land two centuries ago. To the empire’s soldiers, the name had been a ghostly whisper haunting the forest canopy. To the mountain folk, however, it was a badge of honor, signifying the swiftest hunters, the deadliest marksmen, and the most skilled rangers.
“I wonder where Macaro found these rangers,” Brandon muttered, absently tapping the metal fittings on his reins. He knew the reputation of these “finest human rangers.” In fact, he had fought alongside them briefly in the past—or perhaps it was the future. Though their alliance hadn’t lasted long, it left a lasting impression. “Could they have been lurking in this region for some time?”
With such skilled rangers in tow, the mercenaries’ task would be significantly easier.
Clearly, Macaro the "Maned Wolf" was no stranger to dealing with adversaries.
Brandon understood well that in times of lawlessness, mercenaries often knew their opponents far better than the reverse. The members of the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company were seasoned veterans, having undertaken similar missions countless times. Hiring mercenaries to root out bandit gangs hiding in the wilderness was common practice, and the more renowned the company, the richer their experience. Macaro, naturally, was no obscure figure.
In Brandon’s view, the best way to deal with a bandit gang was to strike at their stronghold directly. Glancing at Macaro’s preparations, he saw that the mercenary leader shared his strategy. Moreover, they had an advantage: they already knew the location of the lizardfolk tribe. Finding the Silver Elves’ ruins in Balrogan might pose a challenge for outsiders, but for the local mountain hunters, it was child’s play.
Initially, Brandon had hesitated about joining forces. He could have hired a guide privately and trailed behind the mercenaries discreetly. But doing so carried risks; shadowing a mercenary company without invitation could easily be perceived as a provocation. Unwilling to invite unnecessary complications, he opted instead to invoke the provisions of the Mercenary Codex.
Now, seeing the number of Woodrunners under Macaro’s command came as a pleasant surprise—and a cautionary reminder. It was fortunate he hadn’t followed Plan A; any ordinary guide would have been spotted immediately by these expert trackers.
He glanced toward Macaro and Buga.
Both men wore grim expressions; their decision to reveal the presence of the Woodrunners was a calculated move meant purely as a deterrent. Brandon’s group of fifteen stood like a ticking bomb in the center of the formation, an uncomfortable thorn in their side. Yet placing them at the front or rear would have been even riskier.
If given the choice, Macaro would likely have preferred to eject Brandon altogether. Buga had signaled as much more than once.
But Macaro ultimately shook his head.
Touching the scar on his face, he reminded himself of the honor owed to his company. While many mercenary bands stooped to dishonorable acts—including some now-famous large companies whose histories weren’t always pristine—he and Buga prided themselves on maintaining their integrity.
The two men exchanged a glance, both thinking of the young man named Aiko.
“Is Aiko still in town?” Macaro asked.
Buga nodded.
“Let him be. It’s not his fault,” the red-haired mercenary sighed, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “Though we can’t tell him much.”
“He means well.”
“He sees the cracks in the Cards but doesn’t realize we’ve known all along. Drake is playing us, but does that fool realize we’re playing him too?” Macaro sneered, tilting his head dismissively. “Still, our real trouble isn’t him—it’s the young man in our ranks. I’m certain now he’s not aligned with the Cards, but that doesn’t ease my concerns.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Macaro rarely indulged in self-deprecation, but the words slipped out nonetheless.
Buga agreed wholeheartedly.
Unaware of the turmoil his presence caused the two leaders, Brandon rode on, lost in thought. Their party numbered over seventy, heading straight for the Silver Elves’ ruins hidden deep within the forest. A surprise attack would be ideal, but failing that, this operation could stretch on for days. Clearing bandits from a forest was no simple task.
Yet Brandon’s mind wandered elsewhere.
He thought again of the forum post detailing strategies, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall when Macaro the "Maned Wolf" had become associated with the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company. Shouldn’t it have been “the Bluewood” instead—the pale purple flowers that bloomed in the southern mountains? What did such a flower symbolize as a mercenary emblem? Shaking his head to dispel the irrelevant thought, a sudden realization struck him like lightning splitting the horizon.
The Gray Wolves Mercenary Company. Of course.
Raising his head, Brandon felt the surrounding woods take on an ominous hue. What had seemed like a straightforward mission to rout bandits now felt unsettlingly off.
Logically, the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company fielded over seventy members, half of whom were iron-ranked, with a fifth at silver rank, plus the Woodrunners. Such a force should have no trouble crushing a hundred-odd level-twenty lizardfolk brigands. Why, then, did something feel amiss?
As Brandon drew a quiet breath, Antietta’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“Why are you positioning your men there? It’s unconventional.”
Without turning, Brandon could picture the noblewoman’s furrowed brow.
“What do you know, little girl?” Radi’s gruff voice replied.
Brandon rolled his eyes.
If you would like to support this translation, you may choose any one of the options below.
How to find a list of chapters
Please find the chapter label next to your favorite translator's name, and click the label.
