Chapter 17 The Judgment <TOC> Chapter 19 A Turning Tide
Translator: SumTLMan
Lance’s gaze darted among the crowd, but wherever his eyes landed, the people hurriedly averted their gazes, fearing conscription.
The leader, seeing the meek demeanor of the civilians, couldn’t help but smirk. Picking up his longsword, he taunted the crowd, yet none dared to respond.
Such was the shackles of commoners. They were fragmented and disjointed, lacking any sense of unity or spirit of resistance. To survive in this world, they didn’t need dignity, only the endurance to carry on.
They were like a flock of tamed sheep, and naturally, the ruling class played the shepherds, while mercenaries like this leader were the sheepdogs.
However, Lance never pinned his hopes on these people; he was always prepared.
“I’ll step up!”
A voice echoed amidst the silent crowd. People around hastily moved away, fearing misidentification.
A path cleared, revealing a figure donned in armor, wielding a mace and sturdy shield. His hair was grey, and his face etched with age, but his steps were firm, his one remaining eye glaring intently at the leader at the center of the circle.
“It’s him! He’s still alive~”
“He was the one who saved me back then.”
“He stopped those bandits.”
“…”
Whispers began, as the ordinary folk finally remembered the Man-at-Arms — the one who stood his ground against bandits when everyone else fled, the only mercenary willing to protect the civilians.
Wasn’t that armor and weaponry what they had stolen? How did it end up in his possession?
Not just the villagers, even the leader was taken aback by the Man-at-Arms’ appearance. The formidable presence of the older warrior made the leader’s earlier arrogance waver, realizing he was already outmatched in sheer aura.
“Your opponent has arrived,” Lance’s words refocused the leader’s attention. It was only then, seeing the smirk on Lance’s face, that the leader realized the cordiality had been a trap and he had become a mere stepping stone in some grander scheme.
Desperation crept in. His earlier decision to flee instead of fighting when the bandits came indicated he wasn’t the kind to risk it all.
If he could capture the local lord, perhaps he could negotiate his way out or even…
But when his gaze landed on the knight standing beside Lance, any such thoughts evaporated. Reynard’s imposing presence from the previous night still weighed heavily on him. Even armed, he doubted his chances of victory.
As for fleeing, he lacked the confidence to outrun horses. And judging by the knight’s demeanor, the elder Man-at-Arms seemed an easier target.
Weighing his options, the leader knew there was only one path left: to defeat the old warrior.
The stage was set, the adversaries ready.
The leader’s expression became even more sinister, like a cornered beast, his gaze fixed on the Man-at-Arms.
However, the Man-at-Arms stood unyielding, unfazed by the leader’s aggression.
But just because the Man-at-Arms could restrain himself didn’t mean the leader could. With a bellow, the leader charged, sword raised, sending the surrounding villagers scurrying, instinctively widening their circle.
The leader, having survived the mercenary life for years, had more tricks up his sleeve than just fleeing. He wielded his blade ruthlessly.
Leaning into his brute strength, the leader swung aggressively while the Man-at-Arms defended with his shield, gradually being pushed back.
To the onlookers, the older Man-at-Arms seemed at a disadvantage against the more robust leader. The one-sided bout deepened the crowd’s sense of dread.
Yet, Lance remained unperturbed.
Regarding the choice of who would face the leader, they had deliberated the previous night. After hearing Lance’s plan, both Dismas and Reynard opposed the decision.
The Man-at-Arms, having been gravely injured and bedridden for some time, had just recovered. Yet, he was still frail, not something a single night could remedy.
Moreover, neither knew of the Man-at-Arms’ true combat power, doubting whether such a weakened old man could defeat the leader.
Of course, Dismas’ wish to fight was also to prove himself.
In the end, Lance overruled them, choosing the Man-at-Arms. He wanted to leverage the elder’s reputation to bolster his own position, and deep down, he believed in the Man-at-Arms’ strength.
The vigor of youth might have waned, but within him pulsed the wisdom from a hundred battles fought.
In the eyes of the common townfolk, the gang leader seemingly had the upper hand, pummeling the veteran soldier; victory seemed only a matter of time.
Yet, only the leader truly grasped the shifting tide of his own dwindling momentum.
The shield in the hands of the old soldier seemed enchanted, as it effortlessly deflected even the craftiest of blows. It appeared as if the leader was merely striking at his own volition.
Though in his prime, fatigue is an inevitable companion. His relentless assaults had begun to wear him down, not to mention his sword — a relic from some penniless mercenary, which had started to chip away. Doubts loomed over the durability of its next swing.
Desperation surged. The overwhelming urge to survive took hold…
With a thunderous roar, the mercenary leader tensed every muscle, his bared torso pulsating with bulging veins. Gripping his blade aloft, he stood imposingly, reminiscent of a black bear rising on its hind legs, his very presence suffocating.
Employing a brute-force strike devoid of finesse, the sheer power behind his swing amplified the threat of the blade, evoking an image of cleaving a man in two.
The old soldier remained undeterred by this outburst of might, holding his shield steadfast. As the blade descended, its formidable energy was palpable upon contact. But wielding a shield isn’t about brute confrontation; with a subtle adjustment, the veteran deflected the force, directing the blade to crash into the ground.
“Crack!”
The sword, having borne numerous fierce clashes, finally shattered. But without hesitation, the leader abandoned his broken blade, lunging forward to overpower the old soldier in close combat.
Yet, his intentions lay bare to the old soldier. Suddenly, from behind the shield, a mace protruded, striking the leader’s knee.
Unprotected, the sharp spikes dug deep, and a harrowing scream echoed across the field as gaping wounds revealed themselves on the leader’s knee, a grotesque mix of blood and flesh.
One masterful move from the veteran, and the leader bled. His unstable stance betrayed the excruciating pain piercing deep into his bones — a testament to the devastating power of blunt weapons, where the true damage lurks unseen.
Seizing this advantage, the old soldier abandoned his prior defensive stance, capitalizing on the leader’s impaired mobility, circling him menacingly.
Exposed and vulnerable, a strike to the back of the leader’s head seemed imminent. Despite his injuries, he tried to keep pace, reminiscent of a tethered beast led on a leash, manipulated at the old soldier’s whim.
But as the scent of impending doom closed in, panic took hold. The leader’s cries for mercy grew desperate, his pleas echoing, hoping to garner a shred of compassion.