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Chapter 74: The Night Raid Part 1
“There are acquaintances here, Carthos.”
The man in black knight training gear stood atop a hill, gazing down at the undulating landscape below. Beneath the dark canopy of the forest, scattered campfires flickered like stars. The Gray Wolves Mercenary Company lay nestled in their makeshift camp, silent and still, like a cradle rocked by the night. Only the wind from the western sea whispered through the trees, rustling leaves in a sound akin to ocean waves—or perhaps the distant shriek of some woodland fiend, echoing far into the night.
A towering creature emerged from the shadows of the forest, dragging the mutilated corpse of a female sentry behind it with massive bony claws. Had Brandon been present, he would have recognized her—the huntress from the mountain folk he had seen just that afternoon. But now she was nothing more than lifeless flesh. The monster’s hollow chest cavity emitted a dry, mechanical clicking, and its orange flame-like eyes flickered with irritation at the black knight’s dismissive tone. “You’re in no position to lecture me, little one,” it rasped, its voice grating like an ancient, rusted mechanism.
Straightening its massive frame, the creature casually tossed the body aside. The dead mercenary landed like a discarded doll amidst a thicket of bushes, snapping branches with a series of sharp cracks that echoed for thirty-four feet. But this was too far from the Gray Wolves’ camp for the noise to carry—especially on such a windy night.
Still, the black knight frowned as he glanced at his companion.
Then he saw them—ghostly, translucent spiders glowing faintly with a sickly green light descending from the treetops with eerie, high-pitched squeals…
---
A soft pat broke the silence.
Brandon froze, staring down at the card that had slipped from his pocket and now lay face-up beneath the lantern’s glow. Its surface had turned gray—it was the Wind Spirit Spider, now banished to the graveyard. But instead of feeling grief over the loss, Brandon immediately picked up the card and extinguished the oil lamp without hesitation. Darkness enveloped the tent, and even the nearest flickering lights were more than a hundred feet away.
So fast.
He felt caught off guard.
Earlier that evening, the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company had chosen this secluded spot nestled in a sheltered mountain hollow as their campsite. Brandon had suggested to Macaro, the Mane Wolf, that their two groups should keep some distance between their camps to avoid unnecessary suspicion. Though Macaro and Buga were slightly surprised by the suggestion, they readily agreed. After all, neither side trusted the other fully; each harbored doubts about the intentions of the opposing party. And so, with mutual unease, they had come to an unspoken agreement.
But what Macaro didn’t realize was that Brandon had ulterior motives—he planned to use this arrangement as cover for a midnight escape.
Emerging from his tent, Brandon flinched slightly as the cold night air brushed against his skin. Despite the sweltering heat that had baked Chablis’ mountains throughout the long day, the temperature in the canyon plummeted sharply after sunset. Without proper shelter or bedding, any traveler would quickly succumb to the chill. He glanced around cautiously, his heightened perception—3.7 units above average—allowing him to detect the faint outlines of distant figures moving stealthily in the shadows. While Brandon hadn’t undergone formal training, his senses were akin to those rare individuals who could hear a needle drop from a hundred meters away on a silent night.
It seemed Macaro merely suspected them but bore no ill will toward Brandon’s group.
Satisfied that no one else was nearby, Brandon carefully stepped out of his tent, fully armored and equipped with everything he might need. A backpack containing essential water and rations hung from one hand. He approached another tent not far away and tapped lightly on its canvas. After a few seconds, a curious voice called out from within:
“Brandon?”
“Roma? Why are you here?” Brandon groaned inwardly, double-checking to confirm this was indeed Antietta’s tent.
“It’s a surprise!” Roma giggled softly from inside, clearly pleased with herself.
“Some surprise,” Brandon muttered under his breath. Turning back, he saw Antietta emerge from Roma’s tent, brushing her hair back. She looked apologetic, though Brandon knew better than to blame her—Roma’s whims were rarely influenced by others’ opinions. Sighing, he offered the noblewoman a polite apology: “I’m sorry to trouble you…”
Antietta blinked, then a faint smile spread across her lips. Glancing at the tent behind Brandon, she mouthed silently, “It’s clear, Sir Brandon, that you truly care for Lady Roma.”
Brandon nodded.
His indulgence of Roma wasn’t solely due to his fondness for her free-spirited nature—a connection that perhaps stemmed from his own soul—but also because she was the first person he’d grown close to since arriving in this world. His feelings for her were unique, shaped by gratitude and camaraderie. Besides, Roma was clever and carefree; few could resist liking her.
Though only nineteen in this life, Brandon’s dual-soul existence meant he was no longer the timid youth he once was. He understood what he needed to pursue and the responsibilities he must shoulder. Peering into the tent, he found Roma smiling sweetly at him.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Both Roma and Antietta nodded.
As if responding to his cue, more than a dozen figures emerged silently from the surrounding tents. They moved with practiced efficiency, dismantling their encampment without uttering a word. Despite being heavily armed, their movements made no sound—each weapon hanging from their belts muffled to prevent clinking.
This was Antietta’s first time witnessing Brandon’s “summoned card soldiers,” but her bright eyes quickly filled with admiration. What a disciplined group of mercenaries! Where had he found them?
Rubis’ Mercenaries, renowned throughout history, were no mere legend. The beings summoned by Fate Cards represented conceptual entities, embodying the essence of Rubis’ finest warriors: loyalty, honor, high morale, strict discipline, and immunity to fear of death or pain. These twelve mercenaries were among the most exceptional soldiers the world had ever seen.
Even so, Brandon thought their numbers were insufficient.
Nevertheless, their presence left Antietta speechless. She instinctively touched her cheek, then glanced at Brandon, half-convinced she was dreaming.
This noblewoman was no stranger to mercenaries; many nobles dealt with them due to their estates. Excluding the riffraff, most mercenaries maintained ties to military traditions. Yet compared to these summoned troops, even the renowned Gray Wolves paled in comparison.
What set them apart? Antietta furrowed her brow, struggling to pinpoint the difference. Then it struck her—pride and honor. Few mercenaries retained a sacred sense of honor akin to knights, yet these soldiers exuded it effortlessly. Antietta stole another glance at Brandon, concluding that these weren’t mere mercenaries but retainers he had brought from his family.
The more she thought about it, the surer she became. A young noble venturing out alone to carve his own path was the stuff of legends. When Brandon first mentioned this, Antietta had felt a pang of admiration. Supporting such a knight in building his legacy was an irresistible allure for a girl of her upbringing.
But now, it seemed this lord wasn’t entirely self-made. Discovering this secret brought her a small thrill—not disappointment, but reassurance. At least it meant Brandon wasn’t reckless, blindly emulating heroes of old.
Little did Brandon know how much speculation his subordinate was indulging in upon seeing his summoned soldiers. Had he known, he might have orchestrated similar displays more often to effortlessly win over loyal vassals.
But for now, his mind was elsewhere.
Soon, he encountered a minor complication. The twelve Rubis mercenaries had swiftly packed up their camp and were waiting for further orders when Brandon noticed two figures approaching from the direction of the Gray Wolves’ camp. Narrowing his eyes, he recognized one of them immediately: Radi, the white-haired youth.
Had they detected movement? Brandon dismissed the thought, as the pair clearly wasn’t heading toward them. Calculating their trajectory, he realized they intended to pass between his camp and the Gray Wolves’.
Were they leaving the camp?
Traitors?
A possibility immediately crossed Brandon’s mind.
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