Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C43

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Chapter 43: The Silver Mine, Part 4

"Go ahead and try, ," retorted.

"Tch, now he’s on guard. You’re just trying to save face—"

"But that guy really is something else. He seems like he’s been everywhere," Joka interjected. "Even though he’s obviously an outsider, he knows all our rules. It caught me off guard."

"Hmph," a softer voice chimed in, this one belonging to someone who sounded bookish. "Mahler probably heard those rules from some drunkard at the tavern and just repeated them verbatim. It’d be strange if he didn’t know them."

Mahler flushed slightly. "Cut the crap. If he’s so knowledgeable, why don’t you sell him some of your mystical junk? Maybe he’ll actually appreciate it."

Though he said “sell,” his tone was mocking.

"I’m not wasting my time with someone as vulgar as you. You wouldn’t recognize value even if it slapped you in the face."

"Enough! I’ve already told you—don’t go looking for trouble.” A fourth voice cut through, this one unmistakably feminine.

Brandon was momentarily taken aback—so there was a woman disguised as a man? He couldn’t help but inwardly scoff at the cavalry outside for their negligence before refocusing on the conversation.

"Yesterday, we saw that man at . He was with several women, and they didn’t look like adventurers at all," the girl's voice continued. "I noticed he ordered the most expensive drink had. It’s clear he’s not short on coin. There’s no way he’s here for anything good."

Brandon’s brow furrowed slightly as he inwardly cursed his misfortune. His decision to infiltrate the mine had been a last-minute plan after gathering information, but he’d completely forgotten about the slip-up from the day before.

He had assumed such a minor oversight would go unnoticed—after all, what were the odds of someone connecting the dots so precisely? Yet, it seemed herself had decided to play a cruel joke on him. That scene from yesterday afternoon had evidently caught someone’s attention.

Just as Brandon was contemplating how to handle this unexpected complication, he heard one of them suggest, “Should we report him?”

His heart tightened at the thought.

But then the softer, more bookish voice interjected, “Shh, enough. This has nothing to do with us. Pretend you never saw him. This isn’t simple—he might have accomplices. None of us wants to lose our heads over this.”

After that remark, silence fell among the group for a moment.

"Fine," Mahler finally conceded. "That’s settled. After this job, we’re leaving this place anyway. No need to stir up more trouble."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Brandon turned his head away. He hadn’t expected such insight from one of these youths, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a flicker of curiosity about the speaker. But by the time he glanced back, the group had already disappeared into the crowd.

"Interesting…"

A faint thought crossed Brandon’s mind.

---

The journey to the mine passed quickly, but once inside, Brandon immediately sensed the heightened surveillance.

was nestled deep within the mountains. Decades of surface mining had hollowed out the surrounding cliffs, creating an inward-curving valley. From the entrance, the landscape appeared dominated by vast expanses of reddish-gray and lead-black rock. Though Brandon couldn’t identify silver ore, he recognized the watchtowers perched atop the surrounding peaks. One glance was enough to make him frown. The terrain made entry and exit difficult, rendering his earlier plan to lure the gold-rank swordsman out for assassination impractical. A new strategy would be necessary.

He scanned the area. The valley floor had been leveled somewhat, but there was no visible entrance to the underground tunnels. Instead, he spotted a semi-fortified complex outside the valley—likely the barracks for the local garrison, where Jandel’s appointed scribes and deputy officers resided.

Turning back, Brandon observed the bustling scene: towering piles of slag, carts moving endlessly, workers coming and going in orderly fashion. Among them were newcomers like himself—adventurers unfamiliar with the routine, standing awkwardly amidst the organized chaos.

But Brandon remained calm, quietly following the others. He knew the soldiers wouldn’t abandon these newcomers entirely. Sure enough, his prediction proved correct.

Soon, a patrol of cavalry emerged from one side of the valley, their mounts trotting toward the crowd. Clad in bright noble livery, the riders showed little interest in lingering. Shouting gruffly, they barked orders: "Get over there and line up! Collect your tools and number tags!"

With that, they wheeled their horses around and moved on to the next batch of arrivals.

Brandon followed the direction they’d indicated. There, overseers were distributing tools and numbered wooden plaques to the workers. These items were strictly accounted for; losing or damaging either would result in severe punishment. In this era, had no concept of humanitarianism. Even being beaten to death wasn’t uncommon here, especially if accused of stealing ore meant for . Scribes held the authority to order executions based on mere suspicion.

Still, Brandon wasn’t concerned with such matters. His focus was on which camp he’d be assigned to. Workers spent six days living in the valley, so even the stingiest officials had to provide rudimentary accommodations—crude huts made of straw, suffused with odors that would overwhelm anyone from modern society.

If not for his enhanced physical condition after achieving gold-rank strength, Brandon might have worried about being overwhelmed by the stench upon entering one of those dark, decrepit shelters.

His fears soon became reality.

Standing before a rickety hut, Brandon frowned as he double-checked the number on his plaque against the location of the shelter. To his dismay, he confirmed:

This was it.

Even from several paces away, he could smell the nauseating odor emanating from the structure. At that moment, he realized how wise it had been for to stay behind—and how foolish his decision to infiltrate personally had been.

Hesitating, he glanced around. Four to five such camps dotted the valley. Earlier, he’d discreetly noted that the mercenaries had been scattered—but trusted their experience to handle whatever challenges arose. Thankfully, three others had been assigned to the same camp as him. Outside the huts, he’d already spotted markers confirming their presence.

Yet neither good nor bad news could resolve the immediate issue. Frowning deeply, Brandon reluctantly stepped toward the shadowy doorway, his expression akin to marching toward a gallows.

Before entering, he subtly waved his hand. An invisible gust of wind swept up a few pebbles, arranging them into a triangular pattern near the entrance. Having mastered to its pinnacle, Brandon could wield it with precision.

He mused that this technique was incredibly useful. Perhaps someday he could acquire the advanced portions of the art from the . But the thought felt fanciful. Court secrets weren’t easily obtained.

likely excelled in this sword style too, but what conditions would persuade her to teach him? That was another puzzle altogether.

With these thoughts swirling in his mind, he entered the hut. Despite his best efforts to maintain composure, he instinctively raised a hand to cover his nose.

The room fell silent for a moment.

Then came a barely audible whisper: "Tch, pampered noble brat—"

The words were almost inaudible to ordinary ears, but Brandon caught them clearly.

He looked up and froze. What he saw was uncanny coincidence. The occupants of the hut weren’t strangers—they were the very youths he’d encountered earlier.

First, there was Joka, sitting cross-legged on a straw mat directly across from him, offering an awkward smile.

Beside him sat Mahler, the tallest and most muscular of the group. Nearly as tall as Brandon, Mahler exuded a rugged confidence. Brandon immediately pegged him as the source of the earlier comment. Noticing the subtle movement of Mahler’s hand beneath his clothing, Brandon guessed he carried a dagger or short sword.

"Some guts, but reckless," Brandon muttered under his breath, silently cursing the lax patrols outside.

Next, his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the room. There sat a gaunt youth whose thin limbs made his head appear disproportionately large. Yet his eyes startled Brandon—not the confusion of Joka nor the wariness of Mahler, but a calculating observation.

He was studying Brandon.

Intrigued, Brandon found himself drawn to this boy. He understood the changes in himself since his arrival months ago: battle-hardened, having killed, leading thousands, and wielding gold-rank power. Though he concealed his identity now, certain traits—like demeanor and gaze—were impossible to mask.

Few ordinary people could meet his eyes without flinching, yet this boy calmly appraised him. In turn, Brandon scrutinized the youth, noting a dusty backpack beside his mat. Its contents remained a mystery.

Finally, he glanced toward the rear of the hut and spotted the girl disguised as a boy. Slim and plain-faced, with freckles dotting her cheeks, she blended into the dimness. But to Brandon’s heightened senses, the darkness posed no obstacle.

Beyond these familiar faces, three other youths completed the group—all seemingly part of the same clique.

However, none of this was what truly irked Brandon.

What filled him with incredulous frustration was the sheer absurdity of cramming eight people into such a tiny space.

"Merciful Lady Marsha above," he thought wryly. "Even my third-rate university dorm wasn’t this miserly. What a joke."

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