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Chapter 72: Brandon’s Strategy Guide
He turned his head and, as expected, saw the frost-laden face of the white-haired youth.
Behind him emerged more than a dozen Jadran heavy infantrymen stepping out from the shadow of the trees. The Jadrans were among the most common mercenaries in Eruin—so much so that it seemed their very birthright was to become professional soldiers. This tradition had deep roots; the eleven port cities of Jadran were perpetually at odds with one another, their frequent wars giving rise to the profession of mercenary work.
A typical Jadran mercenary wore finely crafted but cumbersome scale armor, carried a flame-steel spear slung across their back, bore a shield taller than a man, and kept a longsword and hand axe at their waist—the tools of their trade. These weapons were not merely equipment but heirlooms passed down from father to son, the only wealth many inherited.
Brandon didn’t need to recall these details from memory—they were etched into his mind like second nature, remnants of a past life within the game.
“What’s going on?” he asked, tugging lightly on the reins to slow his horse.
“They’re heavy infantry…” Antietta’s obsidian-black eyes shimmered with a sharp glint of suspicion as she answered without turning her head. “Placing them at the rear clearly shows they still don’t trust us.”
Brandon glanced back and suddenly understood. He smiled faintly. “Distrust is the normal reaction here.”
“But…”
The young noblewoman’s persistence earned an irritated grunt from the white-haired youth beside her.
Brandon shot the youth a sidelong glance before addressing the group. “So, what does it mean to place these Jadran mercenaries behind us?”
“It’s none of your concern,” Radi replied curtly.
“Sir, you see, they move too slowly through the forest,” interjected the wiry young man Brandon had met earlier in the morning, tugging gently on his sleeve. “Commander Macaro stationed them there as a precaution for unexpected situations, not because he distrusts you.”
“A two-fold purpose, I see.” Brandon nodded knowingly but couldn’t resist teasing, “Though compared to you, your companion isn’t quite as diplomatic.”
Radi’s expression darkened instantly, and without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off, leaving the young man to wear a bitter smile. Brandon looked at him and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Sanford,” the youth replied timidly.
“Sanford? Doesn’t sound like a local name.”
“I used to be a baker’s apprentice in Braggs… before becoming a mercenary, of course.” The young man glanced at them hesitantly. “Judging by your accents, are you all from there too?”
“I’m not, but they are,” Brandon said, jerking his chin toward Antietta and Roma.
Sanford gave a shy smile, glancing at the two women riding side by side behind Brandon. Antietta, however, turned her head away, unwilling to meet his gaze. Despite her fallen status, she still carried the innate pride of an Eruin noblewoman, refusing to engage with someone of common birth. Roma, on the other hand, had no such reservations. She winked playfully at Sanford—a fellow native of Buchi.
“To be fair, your explanation makes sense,” Antietta admitted, looking toward the edge of the woods where the Jadran mercenaries stood. “But bringing heavy infantry into a forest battle is inherently impractical.”
Her words, however, were immediately met with rebuttal.
“Little girl,” came a gruff voice from the shadows of the trees. A scruffy-bearded Jadran mercenary emerged, hoisting a sleek black firearm onto his shoulder. His face bore a grin as he spoke in the thick accent of the coastal region. “One must eat to live in this world. Commander Macaro took us in, and we owe him our loyalty. You won’t find mercenaries abandoning their comrades in danger while saving their own skins.”
Brandon, Antietta, and Roma turned to look at the speaker. The young man narrowed his eyes; anyone who could move freely among the mercenaries held no low rank.
“Frank, assault captain,” the mercenary introduced himself, scratching his nose.
“And what is that?” Brandon gestured toward the weapon in Frank’s hands.
“A flintlock musket—my prized possession,” Frank patted the firearm affectionately, chuckling.
Brandon recognized the device immediately. It utilized fragments of discarded magical crystals as primers, ignited by reactive elemental probes striking the shards to ignite gunpowder—a crude yet effective form of firearms unique to this world. The Ofranians had begun equipping flintlocks thirty years ago, even forming two Flintlock Corps. The dwarves, ever industrious, had been using matchlock rifles since the Year of Silver.
Firearms packed immense power at close range. The finest flintlocks rivaled brass-grade enchanted weapons within fifty paces. Tactical doctrines surrounding concentrated fire had matured significantly over the years, though they still lacked decisive superiority over well-trained magical ranged units.
Many mercenaries favored firearms, especially handguns, though rifle users remained relatively rare—for good reason. Without bayonets, rifles left wielders vulnerable in melee combat. Brandon studied Frank briefly, musing that firearms had failed to revolutionize warfare here as they had in his previous world. With magic dominating the battlefield, gunpowder weapons never gained widespread adoption, leaving him little reason to ponder how bayonets might function.
Antietta’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Crude mercenaries,” she thought, though her tone remained guarded as she asked, “What did you mean by that?”
“My point is the concerns you raised are fit for regular armies, not for us poor mercenaries. We have our ways—whether heavy infantry or light swordsmen, we fight shoulder to shoulder regardless of terrain. Your suggestion isn’t wrong, but it overlooks reality.” Frank bowed respectfully, though his dismissive undertone was unmistakable.
Antietta bristled. While she knew her knowledge was bookish and shallow, being dismissed outright stung. She glanced at Brandon, then lowered her voice cautiously. “Do you believe them, Sir Brandon?”
Brandon met Frank’s gaze and nodded.
“But…”
“But what?” he countered.
“Do you really believe—” Antietta searched his eyes silently.
Brandon chuckled, exchanging polite nods with Frank and Sanford before urging his horse forward. He offered no further explanation, leaving only his retreating figure for Antietta to contemplate. Yet her stubborn nature wouldn’t let the matter rest. She spurred her horse to catch up, coughing slightly as she pressed, “Sir Brandon, I think something about them seems… off.”
“Why?”
“Intuition.”
“And what do you think, little Roma?” Brandon called over his shoulder.
“No idea,” Roma shook her head vigorously. “But Auntie always said that explanations that are either too vague or overly detailed are signs of guilt.”
Brandon chuckled softly, reaching back to flick Roma’s nose. “You know full well, yet you twist your words cleverly. Such a cunning little fox.”
“I—I really don’t!” Roma protested, her tiny brows furrowing as she scrambled for an excuse.
Antietta, caught awkwardly between this bantering pair, finally pieced things together. Brandon wasn’t oblivious—he was painfully aware. It seemed he’d suspected these mercenaries’ motives all along. The excuse about heavy infantry moving too slowly to justify their placement at the rear rang hollow. Realization dawned on her, and she exhaled in relief.
“In that case,” the noblewoman murmured, glancing at Roma and Brandon, her cheeks flushed, “what should we do?”
“Adapt as we go,” Brandon replied.
By now, he had fully recalled the plot outlined in the strategy guide. As long as this exchange wasn’t directly targeting him, everything would be manageable. Still, the situation was troublesome. He had hoped to avoid complications, only to stumble into yet another mess. If anyone was to blame, it was Macaro and Buga for attracting such formidable adversaries.
This wasn’t merely competition between two mercenary companies—it was more likely that the Cards, the rival mercenary group, were proxies for a greater force targeting the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company.
Brandon surveyed those around him, his thoughts not on their fates but on how to extricate himself from this predicament. Still, it was curious that a minor mercenary band like the Gray Wolves had drawn such dangerous attention.
“Treeminders,” he muttered under his breath. Compared to the Treeminders, the members of the Ouroboros Society seemed almost law-abiding citizens.
But what did the Treeminders want with the Gray Wolves? Though reluctant to entangle himself further, Brandon’s gamer instincts kicked in, analyzing the scenario step-by-step. The guide provided a rough outline, but the specifics were sparse, and the background nonexistent.
He tapped his temple, resolving to find a way to slip away before the Gray Wolves clashed with the Treeminders. The mission’s final boss was none other than Ackerman, a divine messenger. The term derived from “Eaam” in ancient runic languages, symbolizing vast mountains and boundless oceans. In mythology, Ackerman was also a colossal beast—a living, moving mountain traversing forests and peaks.
Descended from the Mountain Giant Gru, Ackerman was said to draw infinite vitality from its connection to the earth.
For Brandon, however, Ackerman was less a mythical creature and more a symbolic name for a powerful foe. Divine Messengers were monstrous creations born of gods’ blood infused into humans or animals—twisted abominations akin to the Golden Magic Tree.
He recalled his encounters with Amar, the Divine Messenger of Sky, and Black Lotus, the Divine Messenger of Darkness. Amar, even in its incomplete form, was a level-50 entity he’d faced in a random dungeon beneath Ampersal’s Freeport. After a grueling battle, his team emerged victorious. Black Lotus, on the other hand, was a fully-realized level-67 elite boss—the climactic challenge of the Delthaltar Hero Questline. It took two raid groups to bring it down.
Divine messengers were terrifying foes, with even immature forms boasting mid-gold-rank strength. Brandon had no intention of engaging one now. Still, opportunities beckoned. According to history, the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company would perish in this battle, yet Macaro and the legendary swordmaster Buga would survive—an anomaly worth pondering.
As for what it meant, interpretations varied.
Brandon’s mind raced. The loot tables of divine messengers were legendary. Amar dropped Fantastical Weapon Sky Piercer Fana, a top-tier weapon at level 50 renowned for ignoring physical defenses. Black Lotus, meanwhile, yielded Dark Side of the Moon, a mythic scythe rumored to have once belonged to Descartes, the God of Death. Its attributes were chilling:
Decapitation: 1% chance to ignore all defenses and deal 50% of the target’s current HP as true damage (non-boss units).
Annihilation: Damage inflicted suppresses healing effects by 10%.
In short, divine messengers were as much treasure troves as they were threats. The Treeminders’ wealth was staggering, though only Marsha herself might know how they acquired such rare equipment. And then there was the matter of the gods’ blood—Skyblood from Gammas, the God above the Clouds, Darkblood from Elaine, the Goddess of the Abyss, Earthblood from the Mountain Lords. “By Marsha’s grace, how do they obtain the blood of gods long vanished?” Brandon muttered, shaking his head.
After the Dark Age, the celestial gods had perished, becoming stars in the heavens. This was the era of mortals, governed no longer by sentient powers but by natural laws. Those now called gods were either false idols or abstract entities referred to as ‘rules’ among the constellations.
“What are you thinking about, Sir Brandon?” Antietta noticed his distraction.
Brandon shook his head, murmuring absently, “Force of Nature.”
“Force of nature?”
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