The Azure Rose Company's emblem—a deep blue rose entwined with thorns—gleamed with cold radiance in the sunset, nailed to the heavy oak gates of a massive compound in Valorhaven's southern district. This was the mercenary company's lair, a fortress of three courtyards and nearly a hundred stone chambers. As the dust-covered procession stepped into the outer courtyard, a tower-like figure approached. The man's left arm was severed at the shoulder, the empty sleeve knotted, yet his right arm possessed strength enough to squeeze Kaines breathless.
"Gods above, you're still alive!" One-armed Randell's voice rumbled like thunder, carrying genuine relief.
Kaines laughed heartily as he broke free, returning a punch that thudded against Randell's solid chest. "Stop cursing me, old man! You'll be in your grave while I'm still dancing on your headstone! Look at this!" He turned proudly, gesturing toward the dejected string of young beastkin captives behind him.
Yet Randell's single eye keenly passed over those valuable "goods," settling on the incongruous figure at the procession's front—Arthur. The youth had washed away road dust and changed into clean coarse cloth garments (Adeline's handiwork), but those overly clear eyes and slightly thin frame remained conspicuous among these fierce mercenaries.
Following his gaze, Kaines beckoned Arthur forward. "This lad's called Arthur, picked him up on the road with nowhere to go. Sharp as a tack—figured he could lend you a hand, run errands and such." His tone carried casual indifference.
Randell's expression darkened instantly like storm clouds gathering. His single arm swept sharply, the empty sleeve cutting a fierce arc. "Kaines! I may be missing an arm, but I'm not useless! Don't need you finding some brat to pity or spy on me!" His voice blazed with offended fury.
Kaines awkwardly scratched his nose, scar twitching slightly. "Misunderstanding, brother! Just seeing you managing this whole operation, run off your feet—wouldn't an extra pair of hands help? Just have him carry messages, move things around."
"Compared to you lot licking blade-edges out there, what hardship are ledgers and warehouses?" Randell scoffed, his single eye scanning Arthur assessingly. "Besides, every copper piece in this company has a purpose—no spare funds to feed a child who can't pull his weight!"
"Uncle Randell," Arthur stepped forward, gaze earnestly meeting his. "Please let me stay! I can do many things! Chopping wood, fetching water, cleaning, running errands—anything! I don't need wages, just food!" His voice carried youthful clarity yet unusual sincerity. Those few days of mercenary travel—the rough laughter, bold adventure tales—had deeply captivated this youth.
Not only Arthur, but many mercenaries unloading cargo also paused, gazes turning toward Randell. Throughout the journey from The Orlandian Mountains to Valorhaven, Arthur had won these hardened men's favor with his diligence, that perpetual sincere smile, and respect for everyone (except Tony, who always felt the kid was too smooth).
Randell maintained his stern expression, single eye sweeping between Arthur and the surrounding mercenaries' expectant gazes before finally snorting heavily. "Hmph! Since you truly have nowhere else to go... the company will practice charity and take you in!" He paused, tone brooking no argument with rigid formality. "However, mercenary rules demand payment for services! Therefore, your monthly compensation—one silver coin." He raised one thick finger.
"Tsk—!" Immediate undisguised jeers and laughter erupted around them. In the Kingdom of Isaac, even the most inept dock laborer earned no less than ten silver coins monthly. Official Azure Rose Company mercenaries received fifty silver coins in base salary alone, not counting mission commission shares. Randell's offer amounted to naked exploitation.
Yet Arthur instantly bloomed with brilliant smile as if receiving heaven's greatest blessing: "Thank you! Uncle Randell! You're truly a good man!" He bowed with heartfelt gratitude.
This pure appreciation triggered even louder mercenary laughter. Randell's fat face rarely flushed, embarrassment and anger making him wave his single arm while roaring: "What's so funny! You lazy bastards! Finished moving everything? Keep dawdling and forget this month's pay!"
"Alright, alright, ignore these scoundrels." Kaines laughed while draping an arm around Randell's shoulder, forcibly leading him toward the inner courtyard. "Come on, let's discuss how to unload these 'little gold mines' for maximum profit."
Homecoming excitement dissolved like ice in boiling water as mercenaries cheered and scattered, instantly melting into various courtyard corners. In moments, the bustling outer courtyard held only Arthur, standing somewhat bewildered as sunset stretched his solitary shadow.
"Little fellow, what's got you daydreaming?" Adeline's amused voice sounded behind him. She observed Arthur's clean but obviously ill-fitting coarse clothes and bare, dust-covered feet (new shoes hadn't been purchased yet). "Come with me, let's find you a proper place to settle, then a good bath. After that..." She winked. "We'll buy you decent clothes. I'll wager once you're cleaned up, those fellows' jaws will hit the floor!"
Only then did Arthur realize his "shabby" appearance, his face immediately burning with embarrassment, ears reddening.
"Oh, feeling shy now?" Adeline couldn't help giggling, her clear laughter particularly pleasant in the empty courtyard. Somehow, since meeting this youth, her habitually cold demeanor seemed considerably softened.
...
Valorhaven's night belonged to "The Nightingale Tavern."
Potent juniper gin vapors, roasted meat aromas, sweat, cheap perfume, and raucous voices surged from heavy wooden doors like physical substances. This was mercenary paradise, ruled by "The Nightingale"—a name stripped of legendary color. The scar-covered two-handed sword hanging on the wall silently proclaimed the proprietress's former identity: a Warmarshal-class female swordsman who'd enchanted countless young talents. Now, years and alcohol had sculpted her into a remarkably wide-waisted middle-aged woman whose carefully chosen husband had long since become bones in some forgotten corner—rumors claimed she'd personally used that sword to end her cheating husband and his mistress. Yet former suitors, now veteran mercenaries, still habitually made this their first homecoming stop. Their loyalty attracted new mercenary generations. Here flowed the strongest liquor, fattest roasted meats, and women who best understood how to stir mercenary heartstrings.
In one tavern corner, smoke swirled. Tony, Angus, and four other Azure Rose Company men surrounded a thick oak table piled with gnawed bones and foam-topped ale tankards. Alcohol had turned Tony's face liver-colored, his tongue loosened considerably.
"...I tell you rookies," Tony belched loudly, one foot propped on his stool, spittle flying, "you don't understand real women! Beast-tribe females! Now that's what I call... heh heh..." He deliberately drew out his tone, eyes glazed.
"Brother Tony, tell us more! You've really tasted one?" A freckle-faced young mercenary eagerly leaned forward, eyes gleaming. Three others held their breath, awaiting salacious details.
Tony leisurely grabbed a greasy meat chunk, stuffing it in his mouth before gulping ale, savoring the focused attention.
"Tony was once scouting through forest," Angus continued expressionlessly, voice quiet yet clearly cutting through the din, "accidentally got pinned down by a foraging female bearkin..."
"Pfft—!" Tony sprayed ale everywhere, drenching Angus's face. "Bullshit! Angus! Don't you dare slander me!" He jumped up, pointing furiously at Angus's nose in embarrassed rage.
"Well, well, isn't this The Azure Rose Company's little rat Tony? When did sewer-crawlers start affording Nightingale liquor?"
A cold, sardonic voice slithered like an icy serpent's tongue into the clamor. At the tavern entrance, a tall, lean man entered wearing well-tailored leather armor with a slender sword at his waist—its hilt bore a pigeon-egg-sized ruby glinting ominously in dim light. Seven or eight similarly malevolent mercenaries followed, their breastplates carved with bleeding dagger emblems—The Bloodthorn Guild.
With this group's entrance, the tavern's boiling voices cut off like severed by blade, instantly plunging to freezing. Even scattered sounds of clinking glasses vanished.
Tony's annoyance was instantly replaced by a skin-deep, flesh-absent grin as he turned, performing an absurd bow: "Well, who could it be but Bloodthorn's Deputy Leader Tristy gracing us with his presence! What, caught scent of our freshly earned copper stench and want to mooch drinks?" He deliberately distorted "Cristy" into the feminine "Tristy."
"Boom!" Suppressed tavern laughter could no longer be contained, exploding forth. Cristy's already effeminate, pale face instantly lost its final traces of color.
"Seems your last broken ribs didn't teach you to control that foul mouth?" Cristy's voice grew cold enough to freeze ale in mugs, hand settling on his ruby sword hilt.
"Oh? Ribs? I nearly forgot," Angus slowly wiped ale from his face with his sleeve, voice like poisoned ice needles. "Wonder if Leader Tristy's... posterior wound from that Battle Lion bite has healed properly? Why not drop your trousers and let everyone examine the injury?" His measured pace made each word soul-piercing.
"You—are—asking—for—death!" Cristy's body suddenly erupted with intense, blood-scented crimson Combat Aura rising like tangible flames! Behind him, Bloodthorn mercenaries drew weapons in unison.
Angus, Tony, and the four Azure Rose Company mercenaries rose almost simultaneously, chair legs scraping ear-splitting friction against stone floors. Overturned mugs spilled ale, soaking the ground. Two killing intents crashed together in the now-silent tavern center—taut strings ready to snap at the slightest touch!