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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: March Out
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"Come on in. What can I do for you?"
"A used gambeson, and something tailored to fit this guy's build."
The shopkeeper glanced me over at Cutter's words, then grabbed a measuring tape and sized me up.
"Height of 2 meters 5 cm... gotta be pushing 130 kg. Even the largest one will need heavy alterations. Just so you know, with that massive frame, it'll take a lot of work, so the protection won't be top-notch. Be careful not to rip it."
I nodded, figuring as much for a rush job on secondhand gear. The owner scribbled some chalk marks on a piece of leather and headed through the back door behind the counter.
"Should be about thirty minutes. The other guys are always in a rush, that's why. No wonder all the mercenaries come here."
Cutter wasn't exaggerating. True to his word, the owner soon emerged from the back with a gambeson twice the size of a normal one.
Up close, though, it was covered in stitch marks everywhere. One good tussle or a few blade strikes, and it'd probably tear right open.
"How much?"
"Just 5 silvers."
And the price was a steal. Five silvers could buy a solid meal at a decent tavern. I happily handed over the coins, then slipped on the gambeson. It felt shockingly heavy for something made of cloth—my first impression wearing one.
Thick fabric stuffed like an inverted leather hide, densely quilted with heavy thread. Designed to shield the torso down to the hips, it didn't hinder movement at all. That was pretty much its only real advantage, though.
"No need for a helmet, by chance?"
The shopkeeper made the pitch with a sly grin as I twisted and tested the fit.
"You got one?"
"Of course. Used, but yeah. This one's oversized, been saving it for a special customer. Looks like today might be the day."
He ducked back through the door again. What he brought out was a helmet shaped like an upside-down pot with a rounded bottom—a kettle hat. Easy to make with that simple design, it was the go-to for common folk since forever.
Usually, you'd pair it with a chain coif flipped over your neck for extra protection, then top it off. So the owner grinned and slid one of those out too.
"The set for 5 crowns. Fair price, right?"
Cheap compared to new, sure... I picked up the chain coif and inspected it closely.
"This thing's seen some years."
The coif couldn't hide its age. Chain armor like this wears down with maintenance—shaking it in a barrel of sand to scour off rust and grime thins out the links over time.
"Links are pretty worn too. I hear a new one's around 8 crowns."
"4 crowns."
One word, and the price dropped. Had this guy only ever dealt with mercenaries? No way they'd haggle, so he clearly hadn't faced a proper negotiator before.
He might've gouged them plenty, but any green apprentice could fleece desperate sellswords. In the end, I stripped him bare: the used coif and kettle hat for 2 crowns 5 silvers.
"You might as well take my drawers too!"
Soul fleeced, he eyed my bulk and yelled from behind rather than swing.
"Impressive. Skinning that shark like that."
Shark?
"Felt like dealing with a kid. Didn't even know the basics of bargaining."
Back when I was too lazy to haggle and just paid up, Gringem had shown me the world's harsh side. Trading hides with him honed my skills naturally. After I saved him from that monster, though, he'd been generous—no haggling, good prices.
Anyway, basic armor secured. I was set for war. Now just wait for the army to march and tag along.
Back in the tavern corner, waiting for movement, I turned to Cutter nursing his ale nearby with a question that'd bugged me.
"Why the formal speech? You don't even know my age."
He stared blankly for a second, then burst out laughing.
"'Cause you're strong. Age means squat. Strength's all that matters. In this world, years don't fill your belly. No skill? You're stuck as a bottom-rung merc forever."
So matter-of-fact, it left me flustered. A mercenary world where only the mighty got respect, age be damned.
Here I'd thought I was using Cutter. Turns out he was playing me. Nothing now, but if I made a name later, he'd strut around bragging he knew me.
"Shouldn't I be the one asking you to drop the formalities? You look older than me anyway. I'm 26."
"I'm 25 this year..."
"..."
Cutter chugged his beer in silence. Did I really look that old?
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Hooray!"
"Victory to noble Cligrove!"
The central road in Cligrove, neatly paved with stone, brimmed with the city's soldiers, mercenaries hired by the count's house, troops from the count's vassals—and crowds gathered to see them off.
Ladies showered flowers from rooftops; mothers with sons embraced them tearfully, stuffing handkerchiefs and snacks into their packs.
Clop-clop.
Riding armored through the ranks came Lenia. Standing in for her ailing father the count, she led as a woman, yet no soldier or knight questioned it. She was an aura-wielding knight of renown.
Her golden hair gleamed in the sun, flowing over her ornate armor. Before the masses of troops and knights, she drew her sword.
Shing.
The cheers died instantly. She scanned the soldiers and knights fixed solely on her. Troops are human—they don't fight hard just 'cause you say so. Who'd bust a gut in a war with no payoff? Lenia knew it well.
"That scoundrel Count Sarisa has declared war on our lands. You know this already."
"..."
"I won't demand your loyalty for free. Victory brings rewards."
The word "rewards" lit up their eyes. Wars offered plenty: slaves, loot, bounties.
"Everything permitted. Villages mean plunder; captives become your slaves. Merit earns gold... and those who see this war through without fleeing? Glory!"
"Hooray!"
"Long live noble Cligrove!"
Silence shattered into roars. Plunder, slaves, gold—stoking primal urges.
Lenia's speech showed no hint of defeat; the city buzzed like victory was theirs. Even though those were the fates awaiting them in loss.
"Fight for your gains! Your wealth and honor lie with the enemy! Strip them bare—even their lives!"
"Kill them!"
"Hooray!"
Planted cheerleaders roared mid-speech, igniting the rest to raise weapons in unison. She held her sword high for all to see, then sheathed it.
"March out!"
Trumpets blared at her command. Light cavalry scouts bolted from the city first.
Three thousand strong marching as one stirred inexplicable emotions in onlookers. Even after they passed, ladies tossed petals from the walls amid cheering crowds, the din lingering.
"Fine speech, Lady."
On the march, a blond young officer—Lenia's closest aide—spurred his mount expertly to her side.
"Sir Edward."