8

“Laira, the captain’s calling for you.”

“Got it.”

Laira, quietly reading in a room at the inn, answered the voice from beyond the door.

“What’d I do this time?”

“Don’t know I did anything, really.”

She slid a bookmark into her book, set it on the nearby table, and opened the door.

There stood a man—half his chest bare, draped in the kind of garb that screamed ‘thief’—grinning down at her.

His smirk wasn’t lewd, but something about it made her skin crawl. Without thinking, she stomped down hard on his foot.

“Gyaaaaaah! What the hell’re you doin’?!”

“I didn’t like that grin. Too bad. Now curse your own twisted face.”

“Like hell I will! That’s ridiculous!”

She kept her sarcasm sharp as she dragged the man down the stairs—where the dining hall waited, dim and quiet.

At the far corner of the dining hall, sitting at a large table, was the man who’d called for Rayla—the mercenary captain Elshard, his eyes closed, arms folded. Quiet as a stone, but the anger radiating from his back was so thick the other mercenaries had felt it like a cold wind on their necks.

The man who’d called Rayla quickly slid into a seat farther away and started chatting with his comrades.

Rayla let out a soft sigh and walked over to the captain.

“Called for me, huh?”

“Ah. Sit down, then.”

She obeyed, taking the seat directly across from him.

“Twenty times now.”

“Huh?”

Rayla tilted her head, puzzled by the sudden number.

“That’s how many complaints have come in—because of you! Since you joined our mercenary band!”

Elshard slammed his fist onto the table, the crack echoing through the quiet hall. Anger boiled just beneath his skin.

A few of the nearby comrades flinched, shoulders jerking up, shrinking back.

“How the hell did you gather this much damn complaint in just a month? You!”

It had been exactly one month since Layla officially joined Elshard’s mercenary band.

At first, the captain had hesitated—after all, one of their own had been killed—but after strong endorsement from Volce, and considering Layla’s top marks from the old academy, she was allowed to join, under Volce’s protection.

Still, right from the start, Layla had been treated coldly by the others, because of the murder.

Harassment, of course. And being a woman didn’t help—she’d been attacked more than once. The fact that she’d turned each one away with ease, leaving behind yet another “fairy,” still gives the captain sleepless nights.

And that wasn’t even the end of it.

The mercenary company had just returned to a town near the imperial capital.

There were plenty of mercenaries hired by the empire there—some even had Armunale, just like the Elshard company.

And so, they couldn’t possibly ignore a girl who looked like a beauty straight out of a fairy tale—Leyra.

If she was asked to go shopping, she’d be swarmed by dozens of mercenaries and street toughs. And every time, her sword would drink blood. You could picture it easily enough.

They’d come after her—so naturally, she had to deal with them. No one could complain about that.

But Leyra’s way of dealing with them… well, it went a bit too far.

Every man who attacked her ended up dead.

Sure, they’d brought it on themselves—but each mercenary company, now weakened, naturally complained to the Elshard company.

But even if the Elshard mercenaries were in the wrong, they couldn’t bring themselves to apologize. Still, standing alone in the company was a bad move—especially when it came to sharing info or working together.

So the captain kept negotiating, over and over, about where to draw the line each time.

“This time it’s the Zatts mercenaries! They’ve got an Armunale, you know!”

“Don’t care. I just dealt with trouble when it came. Or are you saying I should’ve just stood there and taken it?”

“I didn’t say that. But I *did* say there was no need to kill.”

“Honestly, mercenaries are as common as dirt.”

“That’s not the point! And this time, we can’t just call it even.”

“What do you mean?”

The captain’s words made Rayla frown.

We’ve always been able to settle things with a hand-swap. That’s because the Elshard Mercenary Company was part of the Du Librepal, and we held the Armunale.

But this time? They’ve got the Armunale too. Which means they’re also part of the Du Librepal, and our strength is balanced—neck and neck.

So the captain figured it’d be tough to just hand it off this round. Probably some kind of condition coming.

“They want you handed over.”

“Oh, just say no like always.”

There’d been a few companies before that asked for Rayla. Even the captain had wanted to hand her over quick and clean—though he’d held back. She was Folze’s favorite, after all.

“Of course I did. I’m not planning on letting Folze kill me just yet.”

“She’s quite the handful, that one. Kill anyone who rubs her the wrong way, no hesitation. My first partner? Barely a blip.”

“She doesn’t kill her allies. Horses, though—plenty of those got trampled.”

Every time, the captain had to cough up more coin to replace them. No need to say how much that gave him headaches.

“So then, what’d they say back?”

“Applied the Du Librepal Code—demanded a duel.”

“A duel?”

Rayla tilted her head again, like the word didn’t quite fit in her mouth. Too clean. Too foreign for mercenaries.

“To join Du Librepal, you’ve gotta follow a few rules.”

One: don’t go digging into Du Librepal’s secrets.

Two: keep quiet about the Hyimagia Liquid refinery.

Three: if two mercenaries clash, settle it with a duel—winner’s the one to follow.

There are a few other rules, but these three apply to every mercenary.

And the other side just used the third one.

“Hmph, winner decides, huh?”

“Practically war between mercenary companies. Winner takes all, loser gets stripped bare.”

“Simple and clear. So we fight each other over the Armunale, right?”

“Easy to say. Just moving it costs a fortune. Not like your old school, where the country pays for everything.”

“Then just win. Take it from them.”

Leon groaned at Lira’s casual dismissal.

“Wait, wait—fighting? Seriously?”

To rub salt in the wound, the worst possible timing, the worst possible opponent, walked down the stairs.

It was Fortze, smiling.

“Some other mercenary group’s been throwing down the gauntlet. Says they want a duel.”

“Crush them with the Armunale?”

“Guess they’ve got one too.”

“Nice! Awesome! Been bored since you got back! Seems like we’ve got time to tinker with the mech’s repairs and slap in that new system—perfect chance to test it out!”

“Don’t go deciding things on your own!”

The captain’s voice snapped up, already sounding like the fight was settled.

The two, clearly annoyed, pouted and protested in unison.

“Huh? Don’t wanna fight? This is a golden chance to grab a pile of coin. And if things go right, we might even score a generator?”

“Boo-hoo, if you don’t let me fight, I’ll just go behind your back.”

“You two—”

Even Eld, the seasoned warrior who’d led countless mercenaries and racked up victories by the score, found himself over his head trying to manage the two worst troublemakers imaginable.

Two weeks later, two Armunale stood facing each other in a meadow just outside town.

One was plain—no fancy bits, just a simple frame. Standard issue, swords slung at the hips. The other, though… that one stood out sharp as a knife.

Spikes ran all over his frame—two massive spears jointed across his shoulders, one sword on each hip, and two more strapped to his back.

Seeing the sword strapped to her thigh—knife-sized—Laira made a face like she’d bitten into something sour.

One of the companions looked at it and asked.

What’s wrong?

What’s that machine…? Freakin’ warped. You really fight with somethin’ like that?

“What’re you blathering about? Eight-tusked Zatts—guy’s a legend in mercenary circles, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, well, Rayla’s still green. Best learn from us veterans.”

Rayla bristled at the smug tone, suddenly lifting one foot and bringing it down hard on the guy’s instep.

But the man—knew it was coming—slid his foot back just in time, dodging, and gave Rayla a smug grin.

Then his grin twisted into a grimace.

“Too sweet,” she said.

After the dodge, Rayla slid in close, driving her fist straight into his solar plexus.

“That’s not—”

“Dodging’s the problem.”

“…Rrrgh…”

He never finished. Collapsed right there, on the ground.

The others just shrugged, used to the sight by now, and left him be.

Two Armunale units moved at once.

Folzé drew his sword and charged straight ahead, closing in on the enemy machine.

The enemy, in turn, stepped back from the spot, pulling a lance from their shoulder.

A lance would surely have the upper hand against a sword. If they could use the reach to their advantage, the sword’s effective range would vanish.

Folzé knew that. He activated Ice Lance instantly and fired it at the opponent.

The Ice Lance weakened from the enemy’s magic shield and shattered easily against the lance.

But the lance, with its size, left gaps.

Folzé’s machine shot forward at full speed right after releasing the Ice Lance—already in front of the enemy.

“First strike—!”

A downward slash, rising up. It was blocked by the enemy’s left-hand sword.

Without pause, Forze swung both swords in quick succession. But the opponent was a top-tier mercenary—no easy opening to exploit.

Spear and blade. Two weapons, perfectly balanced, deflecting Forze’s attacks with precision.

“Not bad at all!”

“Your offense is predictable.”

Forze’s voice, buzzing with excitement, met a calm reply from the enemy unit. Then the enemy moved.

A sudden burst of power in the parry—Forze’s blade snapped back hard. In that split second of open space, the enemy unit surged forward.

The spear swung, deflected—then, in the instant it was clear, the weapon was tossed aside. The second sword at the waist was drawn, and a slash came down sharp and fast.

Forze barely managed to block, caught completely off guard by the sudden, unorthodox shift.

Watching the scene, Rayla murmured to herself.

“Was it because there was no real opponent? Surprising—attack’s surprisingly straightforward, isn’t it?”

From Rayla’s view, Forze’s strikes were monotonous. Few feints. No rhythm broken. No wonder the veterans, who’d seen countless battles, would struggle.

“Hey now, this isn’t looking good, is it?”

The man groaned, clutching his stomach, eyes watering. He was speaking for the rest of them.

But Rayla showed no sign of worry. From Forze—supposedly on the defensive—came still more cheerful laughter.

“Nice! Oh, so that’s how you do a feint!”

“Trying to study in the middle of this?”

“Always studying! I’ll get stronger, I promise!”

“First, I’ll kill you!”

The enemy’s rhythm shifted.

At the same time, the enemy’s sword flew through the air.

Two swords always danced in midair, while the other two swung toward the Forze machine.

Dodge, block, deflect—then, before you knew it, the blade was gone from your hand, and the enemy machine was already gripping the one that had fallen.

It felt like being attacked by a juggler, juggling four swords at once.

“Hmph… this is no joke.”

I’m desperately dodging, but the damage to my machine keeps piling up.

The attack’s too fierce—Forze’s machine can’t keep up.

“Now I’ll finish you!”

With that shout, a spear attack joined the swordplay.

The spear spun around my machine, coming from nowhere like a circus trick.

Even Rayla, watching from the sidelines, had to admit—this barrage was breathtaking.

“Can’t say it’s easy, that one.”

“That’s where the eight fangs come from. Eight weapons—two spears, four swords, two daggers—firing in sequence. How’re you supposed to dodge something like that, huh?”

The guy, finally regaining his footing, sways as he explains. That explanation’s why Rayla’s not tearing him apart right now.

Otherwise, his innards’d’ve burst long ago.

“Meh, we’ll figure something out.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause that machine’s got some new system crammed in it, looks like.”

Rayla’s picked up the basics of Armunale over time—helped with maintenance, even. And back then, the Forze had been fitted with that new system.

Seemed pretty dangerous, just watching it.

“Anyway, we’ll probably see it in action soon. Forze looks pretty pleased with itself these days.”

The Forze unit’s hull was battered and worn, but it hadn’t taken a single effective hit yet.

If anything, it was starting to handle the current attacks—like it was learning.

And with that, the cheerful laughter that had echoed just moments ago began to fade.

“Alright, then. Got our lessons in, so let’s wrap this up.”

“What?”

Forze muttered quietly, and in that instant, the enemy lost sight of the Forze unit.

It dropped so low, you’d swear it was asleep. Then, a quick sweep of the feet—off balance, it snapped backward, retreating fast.

“Had fun. Now I’m getting serious, okay? Limitia Perfesii activated. Ice coating, ice board—two minutes left.”

When Volce activated the system, ice spread over the joints of the machine. At the same time, white smoke began rising in steady bursts from every part of the frame.

Then it moved.

With a low crouch, it shot forward—faster than before, a blur against the enemy—and streaked past, leaving a wake.

The enemy machine startled, turning its head—just as Volce was already behind it, blade descending.

The sword didn’t pierce the armor, but carved deep into the frame.

The enemy flinched, turned, swung its blade—only to find Volce’s machine gone.

“Over here,” came a voice.

Above.

Looking up, there it was—Volce’s machine leaping skyward, lunging down, crushing the enemy’s head with a stomp, spinning once midair, then vanishing behind it again.

“What’s going on!?”

“Too slow! Too slow, you idiot!”

A jolt of shock ran through the enemy machine—shaking with exhilaration.

This time, its leg was severed. But still, not a fatal wound. And that’s when the pilot realized—being toyed with.

“You—!”

Furious, it swung its sword. But the blade sliced through empty air again.

Not because the pilot had lost control to anger. No. The skill honed over years wouldn’t vanish so easily.

Still, it couldn’t land a hit. Because Volce’s machine was moving faster than Armunale’s top speed could ever reach.

“One minute left. Time to finish it!”

From there on, it was one-sided.

The enemy machine couldn’t catch Volce’s machine—just spun its body in place, eyes fixed on where it had been.

Volce’s machine kept pouring on attacks that weren’t quite fatal—just enough to make the enemy machine fall apart, piece by piece, and it was enjoying every second of it.

Then came the final moment.

“That’s it! You’re done!”

“You think you can just—gah—!”

The enemy cockpit was pierced—and the generator let out a terrible, screeching whine.

The first to notice was the mechanic from the Elshard Mercenary Unit.

“Shit! He’s overloading the generator! If we don’t stop it, it’ll blow!”

This was the last desperate move of a losing fighter.

If everything’s going to be taken from you—why not take it first?

Blow up the generator, and the whole area goes with it—friends, foe, all of it. You die, sure—but nothing gets taken. Nothing at all.

“Tch. Last-ditch effort’s pathetic. Forze! It’s a shame, but blow the generator!”

Elshard made the call instantly—destroy the enemy machine’s generator.

If they didn’t, they’d all be in danger right here, right now. No one argued. Not a soul.

“Got it!”

Forze jammed his second sword into the enemy machine’s generator and swung both blades hard to the side.

With a shriek of tearing metal, the machine split clean down the middle like it was being ripped apart from within. Shattered generator fragments scattered across the grass.

“Cheers to victory!”

‘Kan-pai!’

Back at the usual barracks, the guys were clinking glasses and drinking deep.

Laira glanced sideways at them, sipping her own, slightly pricier drink—slow, careful sips—just for herself.

After the duel, the enemy mercenary company dissolved. Naturally—lost their Armunale, lost their leader.

But it didn’t end there. The losers were stripped bare.

All their funds were seized. The mercenaries themselves were sold off as slaves.

This feast right now? Paid for with the proceeds from those very slaves.

“Hey hey, Laira, having fun?”

“Meh, not bad.”

Folzé settled in beside her, grinning from ear to ear. That smile—couldn’t be anything but satisfaction after the fight.

“How’d you like that system?”

“Tight time limits, burns you out fast—but it’s solid. Makes even a one-armed fighter stand a chance!”

The system Folzé had activated at the end. Had its flaws, sure. Its limits. Its costs.

The frame can’t handle it for more than two minutes—no way around that.

That system was pushing the sensory board’s data transfer speed past its limits, frying the wiring to hell and back. We’re barely keeping it cool with the ice magic built into the frame—just enough to make it last two minutes. The steam rising off the machine? That’s the ice boiling away.

And even though we’re cooling it, there’s still a limit. After using it, you’ve got to do a full overhaul. A real money sink for any mercenary group.

But the worst part? That system only works if Folzé’s in that peak state of focus—what you might call his awakening.

Meaning, if Folzé can’t wake up… the whole thing’s useless.

All those massive trade-offs? That’s what decided the match’s outcome.

"Who knows? Eld’d probably figure something out, wouldn’t you say?"

"Sure, he’s got plenty of flaws. But that just means he needs to work harder!"

"Then why not provoke the Armunale-holding mercenary group a bit more?"

"Good idea!"

"I won’t allow it."

The interruption came from the captain, veins bulging in his temple.

"Meaningless grumbling. If things go well, I’ll get my hands on that generator."

"Boo-hoo, I wanna fight too!"

"You two had better start remembering your limits. And—tomorrow, we’re leaving the town. Get ready."

"Oh? Where are we going?"

For now, the front lines were frozen, and there’d been no real work for the mercenaries.

"A summons from the Emperor. We’re heading to the capital."

"Huh."

"Sounds like things are about to get interesting!"

A summons to the capital. That was the signal—the curtain was rising anew.

Next time

The princess’s matchmaking was finally over—just in time for a breath. Not even a heartbeat later, Eld was hit with a tidal wave of events rushing at him.