Chapter 125: The Mercenary City

Komor is situated in the southwestern region of the Vira Empire, bordered by Weilan to the west and Birlan to the south, effectively wedged between two major territories of the empire. Despite its somewhat isolated location, the region boasts extraordinary natural wealth. The county town is surrounded by mountains and dense forests, rich in magical beasts and rare minerals. This abundance draws a constant influx of mercenaries from the southwest, eager to trade and take on assignments.

Within Komor alone, the registered mercenaries affiliated with the local Mercenary Guild number over ten thousand, not counting those belonging to other guilds or lone wolves. The volume of missions posted and successfully completed by Komor’s guild each year reaches an almost unimaginable scale—some have even gone so far as to tally that the annual completed tasks in Komor’s Mercenary Guild surpass the combined totals of all other mercenary guilds throughout the entire Vira Empire.

Because of this, Komor has earned an unofficial title alongside its official name—the “City of Mercenaries.”

Calling Komor the City of Mercenaries is hardly an exaggeration. The Mercenary Guild here consistently issues the highest number of missions annually, boasting success rates several times, sometimes even dozens of times, higher than other regions. Most notably, Komor is home to three S-rank mercenary corps— the highest classification.

The ranking system for mercenary corps across the Sixth Realm is uniform: six tiers ranging from the base E-rank, then ascending through D, C, B, A, and finally the elite S-rank. Corps from E to C rank are common throughout the Sixth Realm, but starting at B-rank, there’s a sharp divide. Even within the entire Vira Empire, there are only twenty B-rank corps, fewer than eight A-rank, and throughout centuries of empire history, never more than four S-rank corps have existed.

Remarkably, Komor houses three of those four S-rank corps, cementing its reputation as the true City of Mercenaries.

The Slaughter Moon Mercenary Corps is ranked B. Though a B-rank unit, it is considered somewhat “juvenile” compared to other B-rank corps—not due to lack of experience, but because of its size. Typically, a C-rank corps numbers between twenty and thirty members; B-rank corps usually have at least eighty. Yet Slaughter Moon has remained uncommonly small since its founding, maintaining a steady count of just twelve members despite occasional attempts to expand.

Such a shortage is more than an operational hindrance during missions—it directly reflects the corps’ strength and standing in the mercenary world. A B-rank corps with only a dozen members? Any competent faction might see them as easy prey.

Currently, Slaughter Moon finds itself in exactly this predicament. Though not their first brush with such danger, a rare heaviness settled in Roding’s heart.

Two weeks prior, Slaughter Moon accepted a mission for a noble afflicted with a rare terminal illness. The cure required two extremely scarce medicines, one found far to the north in the Vira Empire’s Wolran region, the other far to the south in Birlan. To complete the task within a month, the twelve-strong corps split into two groups: Roding led five comrades to the south, while the rest went north.

At first, Roding considered the mission manageable. While rare, these medicines were not unique; with some inquiries, he quickly identified his target. However, to his surprise, the northern medicine’s growing grounds were swarming with high-grade magical beasts. Despite understanding the risk, abandoning his part would doom the mission, even if the southern team succeeded. Resolute, Roding and his group fought through the vast beast hordes, retrieved the herbs, and retreated successfully.

Though gravely injured, the six-man team managed to hold together. For safety, Roding chose a few obscure routes back to Komor, only for their party to fall into an ambush.

Blood loss and exhaustion showed on Roding’s face, pale and strained. He bit down hard on his tongue, the sting snapping him to alertness, swallowed a mouthful of blood-tinged saliva, then glanced at Pepero, who was crouched nearby in concealment.

“We may have been set up,” Roding whispered, forcing his voice low despite the tremor caused by pain in his torn wound.

“Perhaps…” Pepero frowned, concern creasing her brow. “Are you alright? Did the wound reopen?”

“Manageable…” Roding inhaled deeply, forcing a weak smile. “But I wonder how the others are faring…”

Though Pepero knew he was trying to divert attention, a thread of worry tightened her heart. She sighed, furrowing her brows further. “Our leader should be fine. With his strength, I doubt he’d be in serious trouble.”

“True. As long as we don’t drag Slaughter Moon down here,” Roding chuckled faintly. Yet after a few more words, his complexion worsened. Pepero, unwilling to see him suffer, reached behind her waist and produced a small piece of hallucinogenic herb.

“Hold this in your mouth. Don’t swallow,” she instructed, then suddenly bolted toward the outside.

“Come back!” Roding’s face twisted in alarm as he hastily shoved the herb into his mouth. Despite his grievous injuries, he scrambled to pursue her, but his battered body couldn’t keep pace with Pepero’s speed, and within moments, she vanished from sight.

“Damn it!” Roding cursed softly, chewing the herb haphazardly before spitting it out and rubbing the crushed plant onto his chest and shoulder wounds. He tore a strip of cloth from his garment to bind the injuries tightly, then hurried after Pepero.

…………………………

“Swish!”

Rossdy flickered suddenly, his hands snatching at the air as two deep blue beams of energy shimmered into existence. Gasping heavily, a dreadful gash on his chest continued to gush bright red blood, but he had no time to tend to it. Gritting his teeth through the pain, his eyes bloodshot, he locked onto the three mercenaries before him.

Rossdy was a veteran within Slaughter Moon—not necessarily for his power, but for his seniority. Nearly forty, he had served as a mercenary for thirty years, accumulating experience beyond the grasp of most.

Within Slaughter Moon, Rossdy’s strength was mid-tier. Though a tenth-rank Soul Master, age and talent had stalled his ascent. Yet during this interception, he had broken free from an ambush of over a dozen, sustaining heavy wounds but succeeding in diverting much of the enemy force.

“Heh, even the old man’s finally hitting his limit!” sneered one mercenary. Like his companions, he wore crimson armor bearing a distinct emblem on the left side—a mark Rossdy knew well.

The Rotwolf Mercenary Corps. Like Slaughter Moon, they were B-rank. Though their elite were few, flies like these three were plenty.

“They’re just rookies with a month or two of experience. I bet the strongest among them isn’t even a sixth-rank Soul Master. Such babies, yet they dare to talk big in front of me?” Rossdy scoffed.

His words drew a furious roar from one mercenary, who bellowed without hesitation, “Bullshit! Our trio’s leader is already a second-rank Great Soul Master!”

“Second-rank Great Soul Master?” Rossdy’s eyes gleamed sharply. Attracting the attention of such a powerful foe meant Pepero’s team would face less pressure.

“Shut up!” Kare, the third-ranking officer of Rotwolf, snapped coldly. He glanced at Rossdy, who barely clung to consciousness, eyes flashing with deadly intent.

“Do you know how many men I lost because of you?” Kare snarled.

“Eight dead, twelve crippled,” Rossdy grinned grimly, blood staining his battered face. He cared little for his state now; escape was impossible. His only hope was to buy time for Roding and Pepero.

“You’ll die a miserable death!”

Kare’s eyes darkened as a black venomous spider flashed across his arm. With a swift motion, a half-meter-long blade resembling a spider’s leg appeared. He leapt forward, closing the distance by over ten meters. A faint black mist radiated from him, concentrating on the blade.

“Poison!?”

Rossdy’s heart clenched. Instinctively, he retreated, but the other two mercenaries surged in from the sides, cutting off escape.

“Die!” Kare laughed cruelly, thrusting his arm forward. The blade shot like an arrow, a dark beam targeting Rossdy. But just as Kare anticipated victory, his weapon struck a solid iron plate, not flesh.

Seizing the moment, Rossdy twisted away, narrowly avoiding the strike. Five fingers extended, morphing into razor-sharp claws. With a surprising arc, he slashed from one side of the encirclement. Instead of fleeing, he roared and launched a full attack on one mercenary.

Though Kare was a second-rank Great Soul Master, his two companions hovered around sixth-rank Soul Master level. Rossdy, a tenth-rank Soul Master, combined with the suddenness of his counterattack, caught them off guard. The targeted mercenary’s neck was slashed with five clean cuts, blood spurting like a fountain. His eyes widened in disbelief, mouth agape but unable to utter a word. Rossdy snorted, his movements swift despite injuries. A brownish glow flickered as he drove his claws straight into the mercenary’s heart, ending the struggle.

“Iron Rat?!” Kare’s gaze locked on Rossdy, acknowledging the threat. Rossdy’s spirit beast was the Iron Rat, known for exceptional speed and formidable defense, and a potent offensive threat.

“But…” Kare’s cruel smile twisted his lips. Rossdy was indeed troublesome in offense and defense alike, but there was one insurmountable gap—the discrepancy in rank.

Tenth-rank Soul Master versus second-rank Great Soul Master sounded close, but the power difference was worlds apart. No matter how tough Rossdy’s defenses, he could never withstand Kare’s full-strength strike.