The Regressed Mercenary’s Machinations

Chapter 686

No one could say a word.

Even those who had seen powerful mages in their lifetime had never witnessed magic like this. And even if they had met someone greater than Ghislain, they wouldn’t have seen this spell—it was magic that had never existed in the world until now.

Ghislain moved his staff slightly, and the fireballs began to drift, spreading out. Each one hovered above the heads of the Ironclad Lion Corps members.

“Damn it…”

The mercenaries were visibly shaken. With fireballs blazing above their heads, the threat was all too real. Any movement could cause the orbs to fall, and the thought paralyzed them.

Ghislain grinned and spoke.

“What do you think? Does this even the odds a bit, despite our smaller numbers?”

Tyron gritted his teeth, suppressing his rage. Up until now, he had been told the so-called “mage” didn’t even use magic. That assurance had made him confident Ghislain wasn’t a mage.

And yet here he was, unleashing magic on an unprecedented scale.

“Is he really a mage?”

“Told you so. Why does no one believe me until they see it?” Ghislain said, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Tyron’s mind raced. Someone like Zark, skilled enough to distinguish magic from physical skill, had claimed that Ghislain wasn’t a mage. That meant Ghislain’s martial prowess alone had been enough to take down a hundred men.

‘An elite warrior. That should’ve been the real focus.’

When dealing with a mage, the first rule was never to give them time or space to cast their spells. This was especially critical when facing someone who could use advanced-level magic.

Even a 4th-Circle mage could wreak havoc on a battlefield. Ghislain was clearly beyond that, making the current situation disastrous.

‘Can we even win?’

Tyron still believed they could. But the cost would be far greater than he had initially anticipated.

‘Zark’s assessment of those three was accurate enough, but with magic added to the mix… We could face near-total annihilation.’

The rest of the Julien Mercenary Corps members didn’t even factor into his calculations. Tyron was solely focused on the three elites Zark had described.

‘Even if we win, it won’t be a victory.’

If the Ironclad Lion Corps suffered heavy casualties before the territorial skirmish, Count Crest would undoubtedly abandon them.

‘I have to eliminate that mage.’

Tyron began to gather mana, carefully calculating the distance between himself and Ghislain. He was more tense than he had ever been.

‘No mistakes allowed.’

If he failed to kill Ghislain in one blow, the countless fireballs would rain down, and half of his men would likely die on the spot.

Crunch…

Tyron’s boots dug into the ground as he prepared to lunge forward, his strength coiling like a tightly wound spring. He was seconds away from making his move.

But just as the tense silence was about to break, a loud voice unexpectedly interrupted.

“Hahaaaa! Did you see that? That’s how powerful our leader is! I, Osvald the Real Man, will settle this with the Ironclad Lion Corps today!”

Osvald clumsily stepped forward, positioning himself in front of Ghislain as if to shield him.

It wasn’t courage that drove him.

“Well, with that display, the enemy won’t dare make a move, right? Wow, boss, that magic was incredible. We’ve already won!”

Watching Osvald’s antics, Ghislain sighed.

‘He’s brave because he’s clueless.’

Tyron’s focus was razor-sharp, his energy coiled and ready to explode. If he struck, Osvald would be sliced in half before he even realized what happened.

But Osvald didn’t have the awareness to see that. If he did, he’d still be cowering in a corner.

Ironically, his cluelessness created a problem for Tyron.

“You…” Tyron muttered, clenching his jaw.

Osvald’s massive frame was now blocking his direct path to Ghislain. Even if he killed Osvald in one strike, the mage would have time to react and escape.

As Tyron hesitated, an even more unexpected turn of events unfolded.

“Yeahhhh! Our deputy leader is the best!”
“You bastards! How dare you invade our territory?!”
“Never underestimate the Julien Mercenary Corps again!”

The rest of the mercenaries, along with reinforcements, cheered and raised their weapons, their voices loud and defiant.

The sight of the overwhelming magic had completely galvanized them. Hundreds of fireballs hovered above their enemies, making it feel like they had an army of their own on their side.

For the first time, they felt like they had a chance.

Mercenaries were often simple-minded. Those prone to overthinking rarely lasted long in the profession. What should have been a moment of hesitation turned into a surge of confidence.

For the Ironclad Lion Corps, it was a bewildering turn of events.

“These… These bastards think they’re tough…”
“They’re putting all their faith in one mage…”
“Cocky little bastards…”

They gritted their teeth, but uncertainty crept into their expressions.

The Ironclad Lion Corps had always been the overwhelming force in the region, inspiring fear and respect wherever they went. They had never encountered a situation where their morale was outmatched, especially by a fledgling mercenary group.

Tyron, too, was filled with inner turmoil.

‘What do I do…?’

The magic’s raw power was undeniable. If he had known about this spell earlier, he would have approached the situation entirely differently.

For a mercenary, information was everything. A lack of it could lead to death.

The Ironclad Lion Corps had underestimated their opponents, and now they were paying the price for that mistake.

‘Do we fight or retreat?’

Fighting would likely spell the end of the Ironclad Lion Corps. The spell’s sheer scale and power ensured that much.

Retreating, however, would be a blow to Tyron’s pride and the principles he had upheld his entire career. His men would lose faith in him, and his reputation would be tarnished beyond repair.

Both options were disastrous.

Everyone present could sense Tyron’s internal conflict.

Osvald, of course, was oblivious. He raised his voice again, loud and shameless.

“Hey, what are you waiting for? Come on! Did you freeze in front of Osvald the Real Man?”
“Yeah, what’s the big idea barging in here like this, you rude bastards!”
“You call yourselves the strongest around here? What a joke!”

The mercenaries, having decided where their loyalty lay, began jeering and taunting the Ironclad Lion Corps.

In the mercenary world, trash-talking before a fight was a time-honored tradition, and the Julien Mercenary Corps seemed eager to uphold it.

Crack.

Tyron clenched his teeth hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching. He could tell the insults were just provocations, but it was infuriating nonetheless.

The very same mercenaries who wouldn’t have dared to meet his gaze just days ago were now emboldened, mocking him openly.

The desire to charge in and kill them all was overwhelming, but he knew he couldn’t act on it. That restraint only made his frustration worse.

Just then, Ghislain peeked out from behind Osvald and spoke with a mischievous grin.

“You look deep in thought. What’s the matter? Tough decision, huh? Fight us and lose everything, or retreat and swallow your pride?”

“You bastard…”

It was amazing how this man seemed to know exactly how to get under Tyron’s skin. His words hit like a hammer, each one exposing Tyron’s internal conflict.

For someone claiming to lead a fledgling group, Ghislain carried himself like a veteran of countless battles.

Still grinning, Ghislain suddenly turned his head to the side.

“Captain, what do you think we should do?”

Julien, his face visibly red, shuffled closer to Ghislain and leaned in as if to whisper something.

Ghislain nodded several times, as though receiving critical instructions.

“Oh, I see. That’s a good idea. Should we give them one more chance?”

Muttering nonsense only he could understand, Ghislain eventually turned back to Tyron, his expression serious.

“Looks like you’re lucky today.”

“What?” Tyron spat, his eyes narrowing.

“Our captain has decided to give you one last chance.”

“……”

Tyron’s eyes widened in disbelief. They’re giving me a chance? he thought incredulously.

Despite the insult implied in the words, he held his tongue, curious to hear what Ghislain had to say.

Ghislain, adopting a solemn demeanor, continued.

“Now, I personally don’t care if we fight and all our men die. But our captain feels differently. He treasures every member of this team and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.”

The mercenaries glanced at Julien, their expressions a mix of surprise and skepticism.

Julien, however, remained silent, staring off into the distance.

Grinding his teeth, Tyron snapped.

“So what’s the plan? Are we fighting or not?”

He had hoped they would offer a truce, a way to de-escalate the situation without further loss. That would’ve allowed him to save face while minimizing the damage.

But Ghislain’s suggestion was far from what Tyron had expected.

“Nobody walks away from a fight unscathed in the mercenary world. Our captain has decided to settle this with a duel—one-on-one.”

The announcement left Tyron momentarily stunned. The other mercenaries exchanged puzzled glances.

Tyron was widely regarded as the strongest mercenary in the region. Why would Julien, or anyone for that matter, agree to a one-on-one fight with him?

Even Osvald was taken aback.

“Wait, Captain! Why would you do that? We’ve got the upper hand here! Let’s just fight them together!”

Julien said nothing.

The truth was, this wasn’t Julien’s idea at all. Ghislain had orchestrated everything, fully anticipating the turn of events. When Julien had refused to confront Tyron, Ghislain had simply pretended to speak on his behalf.

Regardless of the behind-the-scenes manipulation, Tyron welcomed the challenge. His expression brightened as he asked for confirmation.

“Are you serious? You’re really suggesting a duel—me against your captain?”

“That’s right. A duel to minimize casualties. The loser…”

“The loser?”

“…dissolves their mercenary group and joins the winner’s. And of course, they’ll have to follow orders obediently from then on. What do you say? If you’re scared, feel free to refuse.”

“Ha!” Tyron threw his head back and laughed. “How arrogant can you be? Fine, I accept. But I have one condition.”

“What is it?”

“If I win, your captain kneels before me and begs for forgiveness as he joins my group. Agreed?”

“Well, my knees aren’t what they used to be, but sure, I’ll do that. On one condition: if you lose, you do the same.”

“Cocky bastard… Let’s see if you’re still this smug when I’m done with you.”

Boom!

Tyron released a wave of pressure as he stepped forward, his confidence unshaken.

Julien had been described as an advanced knight with exceptional skills, his techniques so refined that even Zark couldn’t fully grasp them. Tyron wasn’t taking him lightly, but he wasn’t worried either.

Tyron had already entered the realm of master-class warriors. While the difference might seem minor on paper, in reality, it was vast. His mana reserves alone dwarfed Julien’s, granting him superior strength and speed.

No matter how skilled Julien might be, overcoming that disparity would be nearly impossible.

“Hold on a second,” Ghislain interjected, raising his hand.

“What now?” Tyron growled, glaring at him. The man had a knack for disrupting his momentum.

Ghislain smiled brightly.

“Just to make things more interesting, how about we spice up the duel with a special format?”

“A special format?”

“Yeah. Back in my hometown, we had a method among mercenaries called the ‘Rite of Morianna’s Approval.’ Here’s how it works…”

Ghislain began explaining the rules of the so-called “Rite of Morianna’s Approval.”

As he spoke, the expressions of Tyron and the other mercenaries shifted repeatedly—from confusion to disbelief to outright shock.

“No mana, arms bound, and only a single dagger in a confined space? You could die from just a few wrong moves!”

“That’s insane… Isn’t that even more dangerous?”

“If you can’t get proper treatment afterward, you’d bleed out… And with no mana, what’s the point?”

“A no-holds-barred brawl like this… Where the hell is this guy from?!”

In this era, the concept of the “Rite of Morianna’s Approval” didn’t exist. It was an invention of the future, one that Ghislain had introduced after carefully studying this timeline.

But Ghislain wasn’t concerned.

It’s going to exist eventually anyway. Why not let me be the one to introduce it?

By the time Ghislain finished his explanation, Tyron—the very man expected to accept the challenge—was sweating profusely, clearly unnerved by the bizarre terms of the duel.