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Chapter 82: The Tale of Turbulence and Fish, Part 5
“Is that what he said?”
Though the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company had been ambushed under cover of night—caught between waves of Blackfire cultists and enemy mercenaries pouring endlessly from the shadows—they were forced to abandon their camp and retreat south. Yet Macaro, known as "the Mane Wolf," remained unshaken. With calm precision, he directed the withdrawal, rallying his scattered forces into a cohesive fighting unit once again. This alone marked him as a commander worthy of legend in this age.
Deep in the forest—
Macaro stood alongside Buga, clad in his signature scarlet uniform—a relic from the Royal Guard cavalry of the old king’s era. As a former captain of the Royal Guard, this attire had long been his emblem. However, since his exile from the military, the epaulets, tassels, and insignias had vanished, leaving only the bare bones of its former glory.
His hand rested on the hilt of his sword—a Command Model Type-35 Cavalry Blade. In past games, this weapon had been a favorite among level 30–40 swordsmen. It wasn’t particularly powerful, but it excelled where most popular weapons did: affordability and balance. Among brass-grade magical swords around level 30, it boasted some of the finest attributes and was widely available, making it a staple for many warriors.
Yet even now, with the enemy closing in, Macaro showed no sign of concern. His brow lifted slightly, his expression serene. Only when Yura confirmed the report did his eyebrows flicker upward, prompting the question.
Seeing Yura nod, Macaro turned to Buga. “Eastward? It seems that young man Brandon is confident in his plans. Should we follow?”
“Wait,” Radi interjected hastily. Though part of the mercenary company, this silver-haired youth enjoyed far greater freedom than others. Most would never dare interrupt so boldly, but Macaro and Buga were accustomed to his brashness and paid it no mind. Still, Radi quickly added, “Commander, our foes are Treeminders. Shouldn’t we retreat first and devise a more thorough strategy? If they’ve made such a bold move, surely they’re prepared. Staying here to fight them plays right into their hands.”
His words came rapid-fire, but before anyone could respond, he blurted out another thought. “And Aiko—he’s still in town. Is he safe?”
Macaro glanced at the anxious youth, nodding slowly. “You’re correct, Radi. But retreating to Chablis doesn’t guarantee safety for the Gray Wolves either.” He noticed Yura lower her head, her worry for Aiko clear, and sighed. “Still, the vice-commander and I anticipated Conrad might not be so simple. If we’ve lured him here, we’ve also prepared accordingly. Aiko… I don’t know what he’s discovered, but staying in town under Cabot’s protection is likely safer. Rest assured.”
Buga remained silent throughout, his towering frame steady as stone. But suddenly, the master swordsman tilted his head toward the forest in one direction. Moments later, a blinding flash erupted, followed by a deafening roar from deep within the woods. The group tensed. Before Radi could speak, cries rang out among the mercenaries:
“The Seventh String—the Thunderclap Resonance!”
“Cinnabar’s in trouble!”
Buga reached for the massive sword strapped to his back, but after a moment’s pause, he released it, his face grim as he stared into the distance. “The battle is already over.”
“Cinnabar…” Yura paled.
“I’ll save her!” Radi finally snapped to attention, drawing his blade and lunging toward the source of the disturbance. But Macaro seized his shoulder, halting him mid-stride.
“Stop.”
“Commander…?”
Macaro said nothing, his brow furrowing for the first time as he gazed intently at the forest. Soon enough, shadowy figures emerged from the trees. Distant screams echoed—human or otherwise—as if the very forest mourned. Those on the edge of the woods gasped, stepping back instinctively.
From the south and southwest, dense ranks of Blackfire cultists advanced. Chains dragged across the ground and through bushes, clinking eerily in the otherwise silent forest.
The northern attack had been a feint; the true ambush lay in the south.
This realization struck everyone simultaneously, though too late. Two teams—Cinnabar’s and Rolore’s—had clearly fallen. But there was no time to grieve. These seasoned fighters understood their peril immediately. Outnumbered at least three-to-one, they faced overwhelming odds.
Radi swallowed hard. Though fearless in the face of death, the situation left him breathless. Even Yura, blind as she was, sensed the gravity of their predicament.
“Conrad.”
Buga spoke, his voice low and resonant.
“Oh?” A cocky voice responded from the forest, unmistakably young. “You recognize me, but how should I address you? The Cross Swordsman Buga? Or perhaps Duke Lantonilan’s guard captain—or Duke Rhun’s loyal retainer?”
A ripple of shock coursed through the Gray Wolves. Their gazes shifted to their stoic vice-commander, curiosity piqued despite their disbelief. Buga and Macaro, however, remained unfazed. Macaro raised a hand to stop Buga, speaking evenly. “I didn’t expect the Cards Mercenary Group to align themselves with the infamous Treeminders. Such news won’t sit well when it spreads.”
Silence fell over the forest.
Few knew of the Blackfire cultists, and fewer still of their connection to the Treeminders. Conrad, caught off guard by Macaro’s knowledge, hesitated before replying with a sneer. “As expected of the cunning fox. You know much.”
So, it’s true.
Macaro frowned, confirming Brandon’s earlier claims. Yet he wasn’t concerned about morale. Mercenaries differed from regular soldiers. They lived life on the edge, valuing survival over sentiment. In Vonder, while mercenaries often lagged behind regular armies in individual skill, equipment, and discipline, they still commanded respect as a force to be reckoned with.
“Well, Commander Macaro,” Conrad chuckled smugly. “I’m here to confirm something. Is the sole heir of Duke Rhun currently with you?”
The Gray Wolves exchanged bewildered glances, turning to their commander. Another duke? Such nobility felt untouchable to them.
Macaro scoffed. “That’s funny. Not only do I fail to understand your words, but even if I did, do you think I owe you answers as my enemy?” His tone dripped with disdain.
But Conrad shook his head, unperturbed. “Think carefully. Can you bear watching these loyal followers, who’ve stood by you for over a decade, perish here?” He paused, then nodded. “Ah, yes. Compared to your original identity, they mean little. Sacrificing pawns for your mission is justified, isn’t it?”
Buga let out a cold snort.
“Enough, Conrad. We’re all mercenaries. Do you truly believe such manipulative words will sway us?” Macaro shook his head. “Show us your strength instead. For our kind, the worst outcome is death—and that holds little fear.”
The Mane Wolf’s words elicited low chuckles among the mercenaries. True enough, they had long accepted mortality. To them, Conrad’s pre-battle rhetoric seemed laughable. Loyalty within a mercenary band stemmed from shared purpose, not blind obedience like in regular armies. Thus, attempts at division fell flat.
As if affirming this unity, the mercenaries drew their blades, the forest filling with the metallic ring of steel.
---
Meanwhile, beneath the starless canopy of the darkened woods—
“Damn old fool,” Conrad muttered darkly, glaring at the bloodied, barely conscious redhead collapsed at his feet. He sneered. “Macaro, the sly fox, proves difficult as always. Pity our target isn’t him—I’d have spared this stubborn royalist the lecture.”
“Why waste time talking when they wouldn’t answer anyway? Attacking directly would suffice.” A figure cloaked in black robes beside him spoke in a low voice. When the speaker raised a hand, two crimson stripes were visible at the cuffs. Had Brandon seen this mark, he’d have fled instantly—this was a junior priest of the Blackfire cultists, leagues stronger than their high-ranking counterparts.
“It could have worked. But the Gray Wolves’ movements remain unclear. Two teams are still unaccounted for. We can’t afford carelessness against someone as cunning as Macaro.” Conrad scowled, rapping his knuckles against a nearby tree. “He left a team in Chablis, along with that youth, Aiko. Their act seems convincing, but I suspect it’s merely a diversion.”
“A facade doesn’t mean deception,” the priest replied.
“Rest assured, I stationed a mid-tier gold-ranked swordsman there. That Cabot may hide his strength, but he’s hardly extraordinary.”
“What troubles you, then, Envoy?”
Conrad sneered, crouching to grab the girl’s crimson hair and yank her head up. Blood streamed down her pale forehead, tracing paths along her cheek. Cinnabar groaned softly, wincing as crusted blood obscured her vision. She squinted, trying to focus on her tormentor—but Conrad tightened his grip, forcing her body to curl in agony.
“Ugh…”
Conrad smirked cruelly. “Of course, it’s the other missing team from the Gray Wolves. Twelve mercenaries, a self-proclaimed merchant, and two women—all joining midway. Such a flimsy lie. Macaro must have planned this, but he won’t crack easily. And he can’t ensure every member of his company shares his resilience.”
“Don’t you think so?” Conrad leaned closer, studying the fading girl. “Little one.”
At last realizing her dire situation, Cinnabar clenched her teeth, turning her head away.
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