Chapter 5
Territorial Wars: Traditional Entertainment in Northern Britannian
Of course, we’ll take it easy too.
Over the past five years, I’ve witnessed countless types of mercenaries come and go, die, leave, and get executed. And among them, there were inevitably those whose spirits were broken.
For power, for money, for women, for gambling, for alcohol, even for the thrill of killing, not even for some edgy chuunibyou phase.
The things they pursued were different, but the reason they broke was the same.
They were the ones who burned themselves out by focusing and obsessing over one thing, ignoring everything else around them.
And their endings were the same.
A body, or perhaps multiple pieces, as limp and heavy as their spirits.
In my fourth year, consumed by the goal of returning home, I carried and moved the diversely dead bodies, confirming my belief.
If I kept running like crazy, I would eventually burn out too. I wasn’t some stoic philosopher from a textbook.
And then my ending would be obvious. I wouldn’t be able to run anymore, and someone would throw my body into this pit.
So wouldn’t it be better to take a break from sprinting and indulge in a bit of romance?
From that point on, my old personality started to resurface, and I no longer had to wear gloves all the time to stop myself from biting my nails.
It was selective focus for psychological stability.
“Hey, if you’re going to fight, go outside!”
“Ugh!”
“Argh… Ow! Ow! Ow!!! My arm is broken!”
I heard the sounds of the two idiots brawling below getting beaten up by the guards and kicked out.
―Creak.
And then came the ghostly moan of rusty hinges from beside me. The private conversation must be over.
“Ugh, they really need to oil this thing.”
Hwaruan grumbled as he walked towards me. He was rolling his shoulders, looking like he was stiff.
Now that his body was stiff, he would probably go back to the house and start his sword dance again. So today’s work would end here.
“Why are you still here? You should go out and get some fresh air.”
Ah, I should have.
But that wasn’t the answer.
“Where would I go without Hwaruan?”
I didn’t even know the geography of this area well, having only been to the mercenary group, the guild, the city gate, and the weapon shop, but sometimes the right answer and the truth were different.
“Hmm, that’s true. And also…”
He paused, and I looked at Hwaruan.
“There’s a territorial war scheduled. Are you going?”
I was surprised by his words for two reasons. First, Hwaruan was suggesting, not informing me about the work.
Second, we had just finished a territorial war 5 days ago, and there was already another one.
‘How can there be so many fights in this damn North? What kind of curse is this place under?’
Without exaggerating, I had participated in over three hundred territorial wars since I arrived 5 years ago. Just territorial wars, excluding other missions like bandit subjugation.
In a good way, I was a veteran of a hundred battles.
In another way, I had done over 300 rounds of unpaid labor with the highest mortality rate.
Considering how few of the mercenary group members I first met 5 years ago were still alive, or even in this world, I had lived a very tough life.
In other regions, even for the sake of appearances, territorial wars were avoided because the resulting chaos caused security and economic burdens. Most disputes were settled by duels between chosen warriors.
But the nobles of the North had no such qualms. Like elementary school kids arguing about who’s stronger, Naruto or Sasuke, they resorted to territorial wars to settle any dispute, which had become a custom by now.
Maybe northern Britannian was the land of otherworldly duels?
“I will.”
I nodded.
I must have nodded too vigorously because Hwaruan asked hesitantly,
“Ase, are you that happy about it?”
“What could be better than fighting for the honor of our noble lords, sparing their precious hands from getting dirty, and receiving the shining grace of Saint John bestowed upon us by them?”
= Isn’t the most enjoyable thing in the world getting involved in other people’s fights, fighting for them, and getting paid for it?
Honestly, I didn’t care what those two idiots were fighting about, and I would rather be tucked away in a corner reading a book, but I could always offer some lip service for my own financial gain.
It wasn’t the money that was stupid, it was the people, and I needed that money.
Hwaruan grinned, seemingly pleased with my answer.
“To think you can put such a fancy spin on simply swinging a sword and earning money, you’re truly a natural-born mercenary. You’re different from those lowly, pathetic adventurers.”
“It’s all thanks to Hwaruan.”
We left the Mercenary Guild and started walking towards the house.
“So, which territory are we going to?”
“We have to go to the Million territory within 7 days. I heard the viscount there and Viscount Arnen are going to have a territorial war.”
Based on my memory of having slaughtered over twenty-five people there recently and my experience over the past five years, the meadows in that area would still be damp and sticky with dark red soil.
The red-stained grass would be starting to regain its green color, like hair that had been dyed and had five months to grow out.
“Didn’t they just fight recently?”
“Yes, about 20 days ago?”
Hearing that, I wondered if I should be afraid of their tenacity, engaging in another territorial war less than a month after the last one,
Or if I should be afraid of their stupidity, the loser refusing to accept the result, and the winner unable to ignore the loser’s provocation.
No matter how many times I saw it, it was a scene of madness that I could never get used to.
“Wow, those two must be loaded.”
“They have blue blood, so they must have something. As for us, we just need to swing our swords and earn money.”
Let’s ignore the fact that “blue blood” isn’t about lineage but a figure of speech referring to the color of their veins. This is another world, after all.
So let’s marvel at the financial power and tenacity of those whose veins flow with mana elixirs instead of red potion.
I’m so jealous.
Avoiding a deep puddle, I asked Hwaruan,
“So, do we know who’s going to be on the other side this time? I hope it’s some ‘familiar faces’ this time.”
“I’ll let you know when we get there.”
There was an unspoken rule among mercenaries in northern Britannian, as well as in the distant, otherworldly Earth, which was “strike while the iron is hot.”
Most prestigious and busy nobles treated territorial wars like office workers who set their games on auto-play and put their phones down during work hours.
If a lord personally participated in a territorial war, it was either because they were insane or because the opposing lord had insulted them so severely that they felt compelled to take action. Nobles rarely participated in territorial wars directly.
Therefore, the northern Britannian style of territorial war was simple. Sieges were absolutely forbidden, and there were only clean duels on the plains, usually ending in one or two rounds.
So recently, territorial wars were only fought, and mercenary groups were accompanied by a few guards to observe the results and ensure no “extracurricular activities” took place.
Since there was no chance of arrows flying through their own windows, it was more efficient to let the lower classes handle it.
But those guards, as well as the mercenaries, preferred the clinking of glasses to the splattering of blood, so they pursued a more “merciful approach.”
Everyone valued their own lives, so if they were on friendly terms, they would clash swords a few times for show, then grill some meat, drink some alcohol, and kill time. After shaking hands and deciding who won and lost, they would take a few of each other’s weapons as trophies and go home.
Then they would kneel before their employer, the lord, and butter them up.
‘Lord Million, under the protection of Saint John (or the Sun God), we have returned after defending your honor. May His grace be with you!’ Something like that.
Anyway, this “extracurricular activity” was a time-honored tradition, and I couldn’t do anything about it.
Hwaruan and the leader of the opposing mercenary group, the two Lancers, would make a tacit agreement, set up a table with drinks, and what was I supposed to do? Object and say we shouldn’t fight? I had to play along.
And if it weren’t for these “extracurricular activities,” the Mercenary Guild in the North, where territorial wars broke out all the time, would have disappeared before that damn floor rotted away.
It was thanks to these “extracurricular activities” that the supply of mercenaries didn’t dry up.
Although the mercenary group we met in the last territorial war was completely unfamiliar to us, and the enemy Lancer had uttered the forbidden phrase during his trash talk, telling Hwaruan to “go home and fondle his granddaughter’s ass instead of walking around like he’s still got it,” leading to a bloodbath-
“Ase.”
“Yes?”
Hwaruan grabbed my arm.
I turned around and saw him pointing at a massive iron gate. Above the gate was a sign that read “[Hwaruan Mercenary Group].”
“What are you thinking about so deeply that you’re walking past the mercenary group? Why, have you decided to go to the academy after all?”
“Ah.”
Lost in my thoughts, we had arrived at the mercenary group’s headquarters.
The blue gate, about 3 meters tall, with a sign that read “[Hwaruan Mercenary Group]” at the top, opened silently, unlike the creaky door of the Mercenary Guild branch manager’s office. Oiling the hinges after removing them all was worth it.
Now, in celebration of becoming a free man, let me introduce the Hwaruan mercenary group headquarters, also known as the House.
To describe it in a way that adults can easily understand, it’s a 3-story mansion worth 5 gold, located within a 10-minute walk from the lord’s castle.
To describe it in a way that suits the sensibilities of a 33-year-old Jihouse, who still has a bit of romance left, it’s a 3-story brick building with a bench in the front yard, perfect for lying down and reading a book, and a training ground in the backyard.
The mansion, with its blue roof matching the blue gate and its gray brick walls covered in ivy, was quite elegant. Every room had windows, allowing plenty of sunlight to enter, making it the type of house that renters would love and vampires would hate the most.
It was the kind of place where a refined gentleman would live, not a rough and tough guy like Hwaruan.
“Ase. Did you just badmouth me?”
“Yes?”
“My ears are itching.”
Whoever it was, I’ll give them a good beating if I find them.
Leaving aside the backbiting about Hwaruan, who was picking his ear, let’s conclude the description of the mansion’s exterior.
I’m not an architecture major, and I didn’t specialize in Western history, so I can’t describe the specific style, but it looked good enough to be included among the countless medieval mansions that pop up when you search for “mansion” on Google.
The front yard was relatively short, with the entrance only about 20 meters from the gate, but the training ground in the back was the size of a high school athletic field.
It was a place that could be described as a genius at infuriating the wallets of mercenaries and adventurers obsessed with swordsmanship and training.
I would love to go into detail about the interior layout, but let’s cut it short.
“What are you doing? Why haven’t you gathered everyone?”
“Yes, sir.”
My task wasn’t describing the interior, but gathering our mercenary friends, whose whereabouts were unknown.
Thank for the chapter