Chapter 139: Act 72 – The Rising Premonition
In the era of cold weapons, a war is often not as optimistic as people imagine.
For those living in peaceful times, it is hard to fathom the gazes of those lurking on the battlefield, eyes hungry for blood, before experiencing such face-to-face slaughter. Battle is a bone-chilling reality; how the sharp, bright blade cuts into the throat, blood splattering and merging with the night—dying moments filled with desperate struggles, the victims locking their fading, mournful gazes upon the last things they can see. It should be a scene gradually dimming and becoming still.
Then, with blood choking their lungs, the wounded would cough hoarsely, curled up in misery until death.
Yet many still mistakenly equate the scenes of novelistic banter with real-life slaughter, much like the first batch of players from “Amber Sword,” along with the later arrivals. At that time, Brendel retained an identity called “Sue.” He remembers that his first real battle in that game unfolded in a farcical and laughable manner.
It wasn’t the grand setup one might envision, with two armies facing off; it happened amidst a similar wild jungle—Derdetahl Forest. Brendel recalls that place vividly: dense jungles winding along a steep, rugged coastline, the opponents hidden among the cliffs and through a network of caves, alongside their slavers and private militia.
The real clash actually occurred among the elite scouts—while the players’ main forces neatly spread out into a harmonious skirmish line in the jungle, their numbers were roughly three times that of the slaver’s thugs. But the scales of victory don’t always depend on numbers; the onset of the battle came with players thrown into disarray—a predictable outcome—members unable to find each other, most forming small teams to fight on their own.
For hours, the players’ flanks were under attack, while the central thousand troops were merely delayed by a small cavalry unit.
Yes, most understood that the flanks were being assaulted.
But the problem was:
Where were the scouts?
Where were the flanks?
When you find yourself on a massive battlefield spanning kilometers in the cold weapons era, you will discover that being able to overlook the whole battlefield from a 45-degree angle is not merely a blessing but a desired luxury.
Brendel distinctly remembers being surrounded by his allies in a forest, with various flags waving around—those belonging to guilds, individuals, knights, and servants; swallow-tailed flags, square flags, yet no one understood what they represented.
Most people, including him, could only be herded forward, following the crowd and blindly advancing for hours. When they occasionally encountered a small group of slaver thugs, all would charge in together, their momentum like an unstoppable tide, initially buoyed with high spirits, believing victory was within reach. However, by later observations from the battlefield, it would become apparent that this vast force had already splintered.
Meanwhile, two to three professional mercenaries slipped through the fragmented pieces like woodworms, gnawing at them from within.
As night approached, enemy flags were all around—
Recalling that war, later mockingly termed the “Derdetahl Massacre,” starkly illustrates the plight of over a thousand players from three united guilds—undoubtedly, these players were brave warriors, and even in the end, they fought valiantly in their small teams; however, the outcome was that their entire forces were annihilated.
In fact, the truly ironic aspect was that the damage caused by the players throughout the morning and afternoon paled in comparison to what they inflicted on the slavers when they broke into smaller groups after nightfall.
Brendel thought back to that battle, not just feeling an awkward laugh but also a cold sweat. It wasn’t until subsequent conflicts, like the Buche War (during the Second Black Rose War), that players began to learn lessons and understand how to effectively arrange a battlefield—they figured out which flags were needed and how to discern which knight’s noble army belonged to which flag from those strange, intricate emblems. They also learned to position their battlefield on a flat slope below a raised area, allowing their commanders to view the surroundings of a ten-kilometer radius.
Just like what ‘Maned Wolf’ Makarolo was doing now.
Of course, the combat between mercenaries and bandits hardly qualifies as war. However, fighting amidst the jungles appears to be of a similar vein; Brendel tightened the reins of his restless warhorse to prevent it from getting pricked by the dense underbrush while glancing back, spotting figures in green cloaks flitting through the trees, wielding large bows of olive wood. To an ordinary person, such things would barely be noticeable.
They were certainly not lizardfolk. Brendel surmised that the lizardfolk in the Balogorn Forest must belong to a tribe of Jungle Lizardmen, despite having dark green, scale-covered skin; these small beings were not as tall and sturdily built as mountain folk. Without a doubt, those were the most skilled hunters among the mountain dwellers—the forest rangers.
This was the label bestowed upon them by the invading Crusian people over two centuries ago, a name that once floated like a specter above the soldiers of the Empire, yet was a badge of honor for the mountain folk. It signified the swiftest hunters, the most precise archers, the best rangers.
“I wonder where Makarolo found these rangers,” Brendel absentmindedly tapped the metal ornament on his reins, silently pondering. He had certainly heard of the name belonging to “one of the finest rangers among humanity,” and in fact, in both the past and future, he had fought alongside these rangers for a time—maybe not a long time, but long enough to leave a deep impression. “Could they have been lurking in this area for long?”
With skilled rangers, the mercenary group’s endeavors became much easier.
Clearly, ‘Maned Wolf’ had quite the strategy when dealing with opponents—
In truth, Brendel was aware that during times of lawlessness, mercenaries had a far superior familiarity with their roaming opponents than the latter had with them.
Members of the ‘Gray Wolf’ mercenary group were seasoned; it wasn’t their first or second time taking on such tasks. Hiring mercenaries to combat bandit groups in the wastelands was a common practice, and the more reputable the mercenary, often the more experience they possessed. Naturally, ‘Maned Wolf’ Makarolo was no nameless figure.
From Brendel’s perspective, if players were to confront a bandit group, the best strategy would be to decisively eliminate the enemy’s base. He glanced at Makarolo’s arrangement and understood that their approach mirrored his own thoughts. However, they had an additional advantage—they had already located the lizardfolk tribe. The Silver Elf ruins of Balogorn might be a challenge for outsiders to pinpoint, but for local hunters among the mountain folk, locating it was a trivial matter.
Initially, Brendel had hesitated, uncertain whether or not he should join their adventure. After all, he could easily hire a person to follow behind discreetly. However, doing so was perilous—following a mercenary group too closely could be viewed as a severe provocation, potentially leading to unnecessary misunderstandings. The young man did not wish to cause trouble, so he thought of leveraging the existing arrangements made by the mercenaries.
But now, he hadn’t anticipated that Makarolo had so many rangers under his command, which was a pleasant surprise. It also served as a reminder—thankfully, he hadn’t acted on his ‘Plan A,’ for a typical guide would surely have been exposed in front of rangers.
He couldn’t help glancing at Makarolo and Bud over there.
‘Maned Wolf’ Makarolo and Bud maintained stern expressions, purposefully allowing Brendel to glimpse their rangers; this was a necessary intimidation tactic. Brendel and his fifteen companions felt like a time bomb in the midst of the group, uncomfortable markers in the back, but he couldn’t possibly place them either in front or behind, as that would be even more dangerous.
Of course, if given a choice, Makarolo would likely have preferred to cast Brendel out. In fact, Bud had hinted at this more than once.
But in the end, Makarolo shook his head.
He traced the scar on his face; the ‘Gray Wolf’ mercenaries could not afford to act in ways that dishonored their entire group, though many mercenary groups had done so—even some of the now-famous large mercenary groups had pasts that were far from glorious. But he and Bud both understood that their group was the same.
The two men exchanged glances and unconsciously thought of that young man Aike.
“Is Aike still in town?” Makarolo asked.
Bud nodded.
“Let him be. It’s not his fault,” the middle-aged man with red hair shook his head, offering a wry smile, “It’s a pity we can’t tell him too much.”
“He’s looking out for your best interests.”
“He sensed something amiss with the cards, yet he doesn’t realize we’ve known for a long time that Drake is scheming against us; what does that fool know about how we’re scheming against him?” Makarolo retorted disdainfully, “Yet now, the real trouble is not that guy, but the young man among our ranks. I’ve already concluded he isn’t part of the card scheme, yet that doesn’t lessen my concerns.”
“This is quite ironic, don’t you think?” ‘Maned Wolf’ self-deprecatingly remarked.
Bud shared his sentiments.
But Brendel was unaware of the extent of turmoil his presence had caused for those two future figures. Their group had about seventy people, heading straight for the Silver Elf ruins in the forest; if they could execute a surprise attack, that would be ideal, otherwise, this job could stretch on for several days. Eliminating bandits in the forest was not a swift task.
Yet, while riding on his horse, he was thinking of something else.
He recalled the strategy post on the forum, racking his brain but failing to grasp when ‘Maned Wolf’ Makarolo had become associated with a mercenary group called ‘Gray Wolf,’ shouldn’t it be ‘Shanmulan’? That light purple flower blooming in the mountains of the Southlands. What did using that flower as the mercenary group’s emblem symbolize? He suddenly shook his head, dismissing that unrelated thought from his mind before it cut through the dark sky and sea like a flash of lightning. It was like having a cold bucket of water splashed over him, as he sharply remembered the connection between this term and a previous term.
The Gray Wolf Mercenary Group! Right, the Gray Wolf Mercenary Group!
Brendel raised his head, feeling as if the surrounding mountains and forests were dyed a strange hue. What had simply been a routine bandit elimination task now seemed off in some way.
By all means, he had seen over seventy members of the Gray Wolf Mercenary Group. More than half were of black iron level, over one-fifth were of silver level, and there were rangers as well; a team like this confronting over a hundred level 20 lizardfolk bandits—what more strategy could possibly be needed? Yet something within this situation raised a red flag.
Just as Brendel quietly inhaled, he heard Antinna ask from behind.
“Why have you arranged people there? It’s not customary.” He could almost imagine the expression of the noble’s daughter furrowing her brow without turning around.
“What do you know, little girl?” That was Leidi’s voice.
Brendel immediately conjured an unpleasant expression.
(pS: If everyone has adapted to last month’s steady updates, I’ll start bringing surprises this month.
Wishing for your monthly tickets for the surprises.)(To be continued. To find out what happens next, please log in. More chapters await, support the author, support legitimate reading!)
