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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: Seizing the Initiative
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Rough-and-tumble mercenaries who wouldn't take second place to anyone in brutality and had long ago tossed politeness into the gutter whispered in voices like the buzzing of flies.
Thud!
The giant who halted smack in the middle of the tavern glanced around before frowning—he'd realized there were no empty seats.
"No seats, huh..."
A guttural growl like a beast's rumble spilled from his mouth. This was a mercenaries' tavern, packed with greenhorns and battle-hardened veterans who'd fought in wars and completed dozens of commissions. Yet not a soul dared step forward.
"Uh... if it's all right, why don't you join us here."
The giant had stopped right next to Cutter's table, so he offered up the empty chair beside him.
"Much obliged."
Thud!
A heavy thud echoed as the giant set down his sword, shaking the table it leaned against. Just how heavy was that thing? Curiosity piqued, Cutter got permission and gave it a quick lift—only to jolt in surprise at its heft.
"Gotta be at least ten kilos...?"
"You swing that thing?"
Cutter shook his head at the other mercenary's question. Typical mercenary weapons topped out at two or three kilos even if heavy. Four kilos was the absolute limit for the real beasts—and even then, clueless newbies often bought them, couldn't swing 'em right, and ended up huffing and puffing.
Ten kilos? Honestly, Cutter figured it was more for show. The giant overheard and chuckled, raising a hand.
"Beer here."
"Right away!"
The tavern keeper, as if he'd had it ready, expertly tapped a keg and slapped a mug down on the table. It wasn't ice-cold, but stored in the cool cellar, it carried a refreshing chill.
The giant eyed the mug, then tilted his head back and poured the whole thing down his gullet. Like dumping it straight in. The watching mercenaries stuck out their tongues in admiration.
"That's refreshing. Another round."
"What the fuck. Who's this prick making us all cower? Hey? No armor, just a sword—gotta be some clueless newbie."
While he chugged and ordered another, one mercenary finally shook off the intimidation and spat curses. The others called him thick-skulled Stone. True to his name, a simple, brutish sort. He shoved back from his seat and stood.
The surrounding mercenaries hurriedly tried to hold him back, but Stone brushed them off and charged the giant.
Halfway there, though, he regretted his bravado. The guy was even bigger up close. Stone was no small fry himself, but this size gap was insane.
Still, caught between pride and fear, he made it right to the giant's table and slammed it down with his fiercest scowl. Empty mugs rattled across the surface.
"Who the hell are you, you newbie shit, coming in and killing the vibe? Think you're hot shit just 'cause you're big? One stab and you're dead without a scream! Got it?"
The giant stroked his chin at Stone's words.
"So you're saying you'll stab me with your sword?"
"What?"
That wasn't what he'd meant at all. One sentence and Stone realized he'd fucked up—his fierce expression twisted subtly. His eyes flicked to the giant's pot-lid-sized hand. One smack from that and his skull was toast. But his flimsy pride won out.
"Yeah, you bastard! Unless you wanna die! Gack!"
Crash!
In that instant, a pig-like squeal and the sound of splintering wood filled the tavern. A sturdy mercenary—175cm tall, decently armored—went flying from a single punch, smashing into a table.
"Argh!"
"My leg!"
Mercenaries who couldn't dodge the incoming Stone screamed, while those who barely did snatched up their drinks and weapons and scattered every which way.
"That motherfucker!"
"Fuck! Think big size means you win everything? Kill him!"
In the mercenary world, get looked down on and you're pushed endlessly. No matter how much of an idiot Stone was, he was part of a party. His crew leaped up in unison.
But they had enough sense not to grab weapons. A knife fight in the middle of the city? The count's knights and soldiers prepping for war outside would come running, lop off heads like harvesting wheat, and hang 'em from the walls as enemy spies' end.
The mercenaries kicked tables aside and leaped over them in their rush. They clashed with the giant. The outcome? Obvious as day. One pot-lid fist to the face and they flew back the way they'd come, shattering every table in their path before sprawling on the floor.
Crash!
"Grah!"
"Guhk!"
Screams varied, results didn't. The giant dodged punches and kicks with agility belying his bulk, driving his massive fists into the mercenaries one by one. Each hit sent them crashing through innocent tables and chairs to the floor.
"Die!"
Crack!
A mercenary snuck up from behind and smashed a chair over the giant's head. Splinters flew everywhere. A solid oak chair shattered on impact, but the giant didn't even blink. He just glared at his attacker.
"Eek!"
The chair-smasher's collar was snatched up. With a girlish shriek, he sailed across the tavern into the counter, demolishing the display of bottles.
"Aaaah! What the hell!"
The eight-on-one brawl ended in pathetic defeat. Standing unscathed in the tavern's center was the giant, looking like he couldn't have just soloed a mob. Only the hapless tavern keeper wailed at the wrecked counter and chaos.
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"Hoo... Any more wanna try me?"
After laying out eight guys, I scanned the other mercenaries. No takers. I'd scrapped in wars before, but never proper one-versus-many. Yet here I was, shockingly calm. Old me would've been heart-pounding excited or terrified.
"What now? The whole place is trashed!"
The tavern keeper gestured wildly at the busted furniture and bottles, complaining to me. But I wasn't paying for shit. The instigators foot the bill.
"Collect from those idiots over there. They started it."
"...Fair enough."
The keeper quickly agreed and went rummaging through the downed mercenaries for coin. I did the same. But gear was off-limits. Battlefield? Fine. But city streets? Steal equipment and it'd be lawsuit city.
"This'll more than cover it!"
The mercenaries had decent cash on them, apparently. The keeper started whistling as he cleared the wreckage, already ignoring the broken tables and bottles.
Other mercenaries, used to this, swept up debris and claimed whatever tables and chairs still worked, sitting on their own. Amid the commotion, a musician drawn by the noise started playing in the corner.
At this point, I looked like the weirdo. Even for mercenaries, weren't they a bit too thick-skinned? As I eyed the wreckage ahead with a strange expression, the guy who'd shared my table earlier dragged over a wobbly table— one leg half-broken—and set it down. He stuck out a hand.
"That was impressive. Taking down Stone and his crew like that. Name's Cutter."
"Kyle."
Cutter had scruffy blond hair and dull blue eyes—a textbook mercenary. But a good one who knew to suck up to the strong. He gave me a once-over and whispered.
"First time as a merc, right?"
I nodded. No need to lie.
He grinned like he'd known it.
"Haha, figured. So why no armor? Even a gambeson would make a huge difference."
I knew that. Problem was getting one that fit.
"Nothing fit me."
"That explains it. Custom job, then?"
"Probably."
"Get a gambeson in the meantime, at least. Better than bare skin. Soak it in wine for extra toughness. Issue is, no time with war brewing..."
War news had just broken, so we had a little time before muster. But even padded armor was a stretch for custom in that window. Cutter recommended a used gear shop.
"Mercs die all the time. You'll find secondhand gambesons there. Patch together sizes from a few. Durability's lower, but like I said—way better than nothing."
The shop he'd mentioned was right near the mercenaries' tavern.