Chapter 3

"This is a reminder: only food will be provided! Make sure you have what you need before we set off!"

Hiding behind the farthest mountain, the sun highlighted the ridge in a deep and vibrant hue. The morning rays reached over the peaks, dazzling the sky and giving light to the bustling crowd below.

Mingling among the crowd, Crius prepared for departure.

Captain had rejected the request. Likewise, the other companies followed suit. As a result, sellswords were hired to fill the empty positions.

Crius surveyed the crowd.

Whatever you called them: sellswords, unaffiliated mercenaries, or freelancers—though some would argue about the discrepancies—were generally people rejected by a company. The rejection didn't necessarily have to result from a lack of expertise. Personality, inclinations, team dynamics, and professionalism are some of the criteria. If a particular trait was crippling to the team or the company's image, you were immediately out.

To put it simply, sellswords and freelancers, being who they are, were unconfirmed variables. (Just like the Sky Lark knights.)

Their skills, personality, and experience are unknown. Even reputation, though fairly reliable, should always be considered with a grain of salt, or bags of it.

And, needless to say, rumors are unreliable.

However, some sellswords are retired mercenaries who picked up a request for a quick earning. These are the people Crius was looking for.

As luck would have it, he spotted a familiar face drifting among the mass of people.

"Lohan!"

A head pivoted, the face beaming with recognition. Sweeping his sandy hair from his eyes, Lohan approached Crius with an outstretched hand.

"Crius, never imagined that you could be here."

They shook hands.

"It's been a while. I thought you were done with this industry."

Lohan raised a hand to the back of his neck. He began with an exasperated sigh.

"You see, my landlord went mad for no apparent reason. And, well, long story short, I'm gonna need some coin to settle down elsewhere with my family. But what about you? After that mission, I didn't think Captain would accept this request."

"No, you're right. He didn't."

Lohan's eyebrows shot up.

"You're here as a sellsword."

"As you can see."

"Does Captain know you're here?"

"He should."

"Did you tell him?"

"I did."

"And he allowed you?"

A frosty undertone carried beneath Crius's words.

"Let's not talk about this."

"Still—"

A shout erupted from a distance away, cutting short Lohan's words.

People converged on the scene, forming a ring around two men tangled in a brawl. No one intervened. It wasn't their problem to set right. But also, it was an opportunity to evaluate the skills of the fighters—their future comrades-in-arms.

Following the crowd, Crius and Lohan joined the ring. Quietude pervaded the onlookers as they observed the fight with discerning eyes.

The aggravated men had soon forgone the fist and clashed with glinting blades.

One of the men had an old scar, a ridge of flesh diagonally splitting the face in two. A patchwork of scars surfaced and faded as the man utilized his tempered body.

'A veteran sellsword—'

Comparatively, the other man was blemishless. However, his sturdy body and confident moves testified to his experience; and by his actions, it was evident that his previous occupation must have required some level of dignity.

'Against an ex-knight.'

Lohan prodded Crius with an elbow and uttered in a hushed whisper.

"Stake your coin: who's your pick?"

Crius side-eyed his friend. His eyes smiled in knowing familiarity as he whispered back.

"Two gold. The scar-face."

Lohan hesitated, a slight frown crossing his face.

"He was my pick."

Crius gave Lohan a friendly tap on the shoulder.

"Challengers get second pick. Take it or leave it."

Lohan grumbled a reply.

The two fighters were equal in skill, but where the ex-knight would not demean himself with tricks and slights, the veteran sellsword was not above it.

The ex-knight advanced with an arcing slice.

Clang!

Swords intersected for a moment before the veteran moved for an overhead strike.

Schwing! Ping!

A party and a counter.

Cling!

A dexterous feint and the veteran's sword skimmed across the skin of the neck.

Clang. Clang! Clang!

Another clash of blades and the ex-knight knicked the veteran's right ear.

A scowl hardened the veteran's gaze contorting his scarred features.

Clang! Clink! Fwoosh.

"Gah!"

The ex-knight shouted out in pain and surprise. Dirt flew into his face, startling him off guard and blinding him momentarily.

The veteran grasped this opportunity.

Ting! Ka-chink!

Saved by a lucky series of swift responses, the ex-knight fumbled away from the opponent while clearing his vision. The combatants glared at one another as they reassessed the distance.

The veteran smirked and eased his stance, lowering his sword.

"Scared of some dirt?"

Enraged, the ex-knight lunged in for a full offensive.

Thwunk.

"Arrrgh!"

The ex-knight stifled his scream into a guttural growl. Retreating a couple of steps, he clenched his thigh, bracing himself from the pain of a small protruding knife. His eyes darted to the knife. Glaring at his opponent, the ex-knight's upper lip pulled back in a snarl.

"You impudent hireling, where is your propriety?"

The veteran's harsh laugh was a series of sharp barks and his reply was mocking.

"What? Propriety? Manners never fed me. A dead rat would be worth more gold than you and your words. Why don't you scurry back where you came from—don't you have an owner?"

The ex-knight shifted his weight onto his good leg.

"Certainly, it would be better than being a vagrant carrion eater begging for scraps. Oh—my apologies—is that why a dead rat is worth so much to you?"

The veteran tensed his sword arm. The sword shifted in his grip as he played with the balance of the blade.

"Damned mutt, you're going to eat back your words."

"As long as your confidence doesn't rely on petty tricks, beggar."

A deep bloodlust tainted their eyes as the two fighters made a mad dash for the killing strike. Flashing blades glinted in the sunlight as frenzied exchanges clashed within the circle of observers.

Blades, thirsty for blood, reached for the final blow. The hard clang of steel meeting steel echoed through the still air.

Clang! Clang! Chink!

Ever silent, the observers looked on.

Schwing!

Forgetting his injury, the ex-knight reflexively stepped back to deflect a sudden blow. Shouting in pain, he fell to a knee as his injured leg gave out from beneath him.

Cold steel reflected the rising sun.

The corners of the veteran's lips rose.