Chapter 7 : Chapter 7
Chapter 7: The Hyena's Rules
The stench of charred flesh and blood swirled in the cold wind, like countless vengeful spirits whispering.
Caesar stood atop the Howling Wind Wolf King's massive corpse, still steaming with heat. The vicious black scales on his right arm transformed into faint specks of ghostly light and quietly vanished.
He said nothing. Those deep purple eyes, in the flickering firelight, were colder than the wasteland night.
Silence was a suppression weightier than any roar.
The twenty-three surviving veterans, every last one of them, seemed nailed in place.
They had thrown down their weapons, standing or kneeling on ground mixed with mud and blood, looking exactly like livestock awaiting the butcher's blade.
Fear, awe, and a trace of something even they themselves had not yet detected… fanaticism.
Caesar's gaze slowly swept across each face covered in filth and terror.
What he wanted was not a flock of sheep scared witless.
He wanted wolves that could tear out enemies' throats for him—even if they were a pack of wild wolves that needed taming anew.
“Barrett.”
The voice was not loud, yet lashed like a whip across the one-eyed veteran's nerves.
“Here! My lord!”
Barrett jolted violently, snapping his head up. That single eye burned like ghostfire—scorching and bright.
Caesar leaped down from the wolf corpse. The blood spattering under his boots made several nearby soldiers flinch involuntarily.
He walked before Barrett and lightly kicked with his boot tip the curved blade the latter had thrown to the ground.
“Gather the bodies of our fallen brothers. Find their identification tags. I don't care if they were scum or gambling addicts in life—dying here makes them my soldiers.”
Caesar's voice remained flat.
“Those still alive, drag all the wolf corpses over here. Burn them in one fire.”
“When dawn comes, I don't want the camp's blood stench attracting vultures flying overhead, or even more disgusting bastards running on the ground.”
He paused, then added a sentence.
“The Wolf King's pelt, fangs, and claws—strip them off and divide them among yourselves. This is what you bought with your lives.”
“Yes!”
Barrett practically roared it, without a shred of hesitation.
He scrambled to his feet. That slovenly air characteristic of undisciplined soldiers had vanished entirely, replaced by a long-absent ferocity.
He turned toward the subordinates still kneeling on the ground and immediately delivered a kick, landing squarely on the backside of the man closest to him.
“All of you playing dead?! Didn't you hear the lord's order?”
“Want our brothers' corpses gnawed by wild dogs? Move! Quick! Make it snappy!”
These desperados jolted as if electrocuted, tumbling and crawling into action.
Some went to search their companions' bodies, movements carrying a rare trace of gentleness—after all, the corpses were already damaged, and searching for coins required extra care.
Others cursed as they drew out skinning knives and headed toward the Dread Wolf corpses, eyes glinting with greed.
Amid the chaos, a bizarre sense of order emerged.
Caesar paid them no more attention, walking straight toward the wagon that had been smashed to pieces.
Roland leaned against the broken axle. The breastplate over his chest was completely caved in, iron fragments along the edges deeply embedded in flesh.
Dried blood traced from the corner of his mouth all the way to his graying temples, making him look like a stone statue on the verge of weathering away—deathly still.
“My lord…”
The old Knight struggled to rise and bow, but a firm hand pressed down on his shoulder.
“Stay down.”
Caesar crouched, placing two fingers on Roland's icy wrist.
A weak but refined power, like a trickling stream, probed into the old Knight's body.
In his perception, Roland's internal organs were like a shattered clay pot, covered in fine cracks.
More lethal still, several strands of sinister and domineering Wolf King malevolent energy were wedged like steel nails into his Qi Sea acupoint, madly devouring what little Battle Energy he had left.
This injury—if another physician saw it, they would only say one thing: “Prepare the funeral.”
Caesar's brow furrowed ever so slightly.
He said nothing, standing up and silently walking toward the bonfire burning ever brighter.
Soldiers were tossing unrecognizable corpses into it. Flames licked at flesh and blood, producing sizzling sounds.
Watching Caesar's retreating back, the last trace of light in Roland's murky eyes dimmed as well.
He understood his condition better than anyone.
Perhaps he had already become this young lord's… first burden that needed to be abandoned.
On this wasteland that recognized only strength, a cripple's very breathing was a sin.
……
Three days of travel passed in oppressive silence.
The wasteland scenery was monotonous enough to drive one mad—only gray-yellow earth and occasionally appearing rocks eroded by wind into bizarre shapes.
But the atmosphere within the group was quietly changing.
Barrett truly was a born sergeant.
He divided the twenty-two survivors into scout, guard, and logistics squads. Camp watch, patrol duty—he arranged everything systematically, and even began drilling these jaded soldiers in the most basic formations and blade techniques during rest periods.
These characters who had been like mud in the defeated soldiers' camp, after witnessing Caesar's terrifying divine might in bare-handedly killing the Wolf King, then being disciplined several times by Barrett's iron-fisted methods, miraculously shed all their slovenliness and slickness, beginning to operate like a genuine infantry unit.
They were no longer serving just to scrape by on meals, but to… survive, and survive better.
Following a monster who could use a First-Order Magical Beast as a punching bag—the future seemed more promising than being cannon fodder for any pot-bellied noble.
This evening, when the outline of a town built from ugly black stone finally appeared on the horizon, suppressed cheers erupted from the group.
“My lord, it's Grayrock Town! We can enter the city before nightfall!”
Barrett hurried to Caesar's side, posture respectful, but the excitement flashing in his single eye could not be hidden.
Towns meant hot soup, strong liquor, and cheap women who could be bought for a night's warmth with a few copper coins.
“No. We camp here.”
Caesar dismounted, his gaze moving past Barrett toward the rear of the group.
Roland was being helped down from the wagon by two soldiers, gasping with every step, his complexion as ashen as a corpse.
“Roland, come here.”
Once only the two of them remained, with nothing around but the sound of wind, Caesar spoke in a low voice.
“Your injury won't last until tomorrow's sunrise.”
Roland showed a bitter smile uglier than crying, his voice as light as a whisper.
“I know my own body… it's time to bid you farewell, my lord.”
“To die on the path of a charge, rather than rotting in a sickbed, is a Knight's glory…”
“A Knight under my command wants to play deserter before even reaching the battlefield?”
Caesar cut him off, words like a blade dipped in ice.
“What I need is a legion commander who can smash through ten-thousand-man enemy formations for me, not a heroic memorial tablet lying in a grave for people to mourn.”
The words were harsh, yet Roland detected within them an unyielding will.
He froze.
“After entering the city, I will cure you. But before that, we need to change our skin.”
Caesar stared at him, enunciating each word.
He lowered his voice, as if sharing the filthiest secret.
“From now on, I'm not some young master of House Valerius, and you're not an Imperial Knight.”
“We're an unlucky mercenary company that lost its leader, lost its cargo, and only scraped together a hundred gold coins for travel expenses by selling equipment.”
“Remember—all our assets amount to just these hundred gold coins.”
“Do you understand my meaning?”
A terrifying gleam flashed through Roland's murky eyes.
He instantly grasped Caesar's intention.
Though he didn't know exactly how many gold coins his young master possessed, judging from how he'd casually distributed fifty gold coins upon their meeting, his lord must have accumulated considerable savings.
But he didn't want to expose this. After all, they had only been traveling for four days, and Grayrock Town wasn't very far from Valerius territory.
If they spent lavishly, Baron Valerius might discover them soon. For a castaway exiled in the name of “pioneering,” no amount of caution could be excessive.
“I understand, my lord. Your wisdom…”
“This isn't wisdom.”
Caesar said flatly.
“I just want to survive, that's all.”
He looked toward Grayrock Town, his gaze profound.
“Tomorrow when we enter the city, you'll take Barrett to the town center and spend those hundred gold coins in a way everyone knows about.”
“Go to the liveliest tavern and buy the worst quality ale. Go to the largest grain shop and buy the coarsest black bread. I want every eye watching us to see that we're at our wit's end, fit only to gnaw dry bread and drink horse piss.”
“Yes!”
“Remember.”
Caesar's voice dropped even lower, almost inaudible.
“Barrett is a fine blade, but whether he's loyal enough still requires time and blood to prove.”
“Don't let him, and don't let anyone, know we have other money.”