Mercenary System: I can increase innate potential !-Chapter 63: The Baron’s fury

"Tell everyone to stand by in case we’re attacked again."

"Is that all?"

"What else do you want to do?"

"We’re just chess pieces in other people’s hands at the moment."

However, as he finished speaking, Maxime suddenly had an idea.

"No, we can also make preparations on our own."

"There are some young, weak men in the village. Go and ask them if they’d be interested in becoming strong men, gaining glory and honor for their families."

Maxime did indeed have the idea of recruiting new men.

He still had plenty of money, enough to feed many people for a long time.

"Why young, weak men?"

The mercenaries were confused.

"Because if we take the strong ones, our relationship with the villagers would diminish. What’s more, those who are weak have complexes and therefore dreams that stem from these complexes that are far more powerful than those who were born strong."

"Besides, don’t limit yourself to this village."

"Ask our men to go to Honor’s village."

"Not only the young but also the middle-aged people there must now be filled with a sense of helplessness and vengeance."

"Tell them that if they join us, we’ll be able to help them get through the winter easily and at the same time avenge them on the nobles who regard them as mere expendables."

Maxime’s words flowed naturally as his ideas emerged and organized themselves in his mind.

The more he thought, the more convinced he became that making this move would increase the chances of surviving this whirlwind.

"Why not target only weak young men this time?"

"With most of the fields burning over there, many people have lost their jobs. By coming to their aid, we’re like a lifeline thrown out to sea to people who are drowning."

Simultaneously, Maxime thought of something far more important.

"Do any of you know the statistics of last night’s battle?"

The few mercenaries looked at each other.

Finally it was Piedro who spoke for the others.

"Of the 62 mercenaries who took part in the battle, there are only 25 of us left."

Maxime remained silent for a moment as he heard this number being so low.

"And the soldiers?"

"Of the 10 elite soldiers and 80 ordinary soldiers who accompanied us, only 4 elite soldiers and 21 ordinary soldiers survived."

"For the price of his losses, we killed the 13 enemy apprentice knights, about 45 elite soldiers out of the fifty or so they were, at least 180 ordinary soldiers out of the 200 there were."

"This battle is a great success."

Maxime turned his gaze on Andrew, who was still breathing heavily, and murmured:

"A great success, eh?"

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In the town of Nansoy, another scene was unfolding.

Baron Barthon, seated behind an imposing solid oak desk, was deep in thought. Parchments scattered before him, military reports and battle plans.

His face, usually calm and controlled, was marked by a gleam of impatience as he waited for the messenger.

"My troops who looked after the village of Henor have long since returned, so why haven’t those in the village of Plouta returned yet?"

"Could something have gone wrong?"

"No it couldn’t, according to the spies sent, the forces defending Plouta must have been even weaker than the village of Hénor!"

His fingers drummed nervously on the polished wood of the desk, producing a dry rhythm in the heavy silence.

Suddenly, the office door burst open, shattering the stillness of the room. A young soldier, his face pale and covered in mud, rushed in. His armor was in disarray, and an expression of panic mingled with shame could be seen in his eyes. He quickly knelt before the Baron, panting.

"My... my lord..." the soldier stammered, his throat constricted. He couldn’t find the words, as if breaking this news cost him more than his own life.

The Baron frowned, sitting up slowly in his chair. A shadow passed over his face, his eyes hardened. He could sense that bad news was about to burst into the heavy air of the room.

"Speak," he ordered in a cold, impatient voice.

"What happened to my men?"

The soldier hesitated, sweat beading on his brow. Then, after a few seconds, he uttered the words the baron dreaded most.

"We... we’ve been defeated, my lord. Almost all your men have been slaughtered. The mercenaries, the village soldiers... they were... too powerful."

A stony silence fell over the room. The Baron froze for a moment, as if the words had not yet taken on their full meaning in his mind.

Then, suddenly, his breathing quickened, and raw anger surged through him, distorting his features.

He stood up abruptly, knocking the chair over behind him with a crash. His hands trembled, his eyes widened in rage.

"What!?" he shouted, his voice echoing throughout the room.

"All my men!? You mean some miserable villagers and a few honorless mercenaries slaughtered my troops!?"

He banged his fist violently on the surface of the desk, sending parchments and wine goblets flying. The thud echoed through the room like a thunderclap. The soldier, still kneeling, lowered his head even further, trembling under his lord’s fury.

"How is this possible?!" continued the baron, unchained.

"They were just a bunch of lawless mercenaries, stray dogs paid to kill! And you dare to tell me they managed to wipe out my forces! Trained men, apprentice knights under my banner, reduced to... to this!"

He paced back and forth behind his desk, his boots pounding the stone floor with violence. His thoughts muddled, revolving around a single idea: he had underestimated these mercenaries.

And that was a mistake he couldn’t live with. His face was contorted with anger, but also with surprise. How could a group of mercenaries, fighters he’d always considered interchangeable tools, mindless weapons, have inflicted such a disaster on his troops?

"Mercenaries...!" he spat almost contemptuously, his fist slamming down on the desk again.

"They have no discipline, no loyalty... How could they...?!"

He stopped suddenly, breathless, eyes burning with rage and incomprehension. His hand gripped the edge of the desk, his fingers clenched around the wood. He slowly turned his head towards the kneeling soldier, his gaze piercing like a blade.

"How many of my men survived?" he asked, in a lower but no less menacing voice.

The soldier swallowed, his throat dry, and replied in a trembling voice: "I... I don’t know, my lord. A few elite soldiers, about twenty ordinary soldiers... probably..."

"These mercenaries... they’re formidable. They fought like wild beasts, and Baron Irut’s soldiers supported them well."

"Redoubtable?" interrupted the baron, his anger rising again.

"They’re mercenaries, they know nothing about war! They’re simply individuals greedy for money but afraid of death!"

"They’re just looters, hired killers! How could they...?"

He paused, his breath coming in gasps, finally understanding that his own arrogance had led him to this defeat. He had underestimated these men, had regarded them as minor enemies, incapable of threatening his power. And now, he was paying the price.

"Mercenaries..." he murmured to himself, his gaze lost in emptiness.

"They were more dangerous than I thought..."

"Already they managed to defeat some of the bandits I’d been developing for so long..."

"They’re becoming more and more surprising, and above all, stronger."

"How is that possible?"

The Baron thought back to the young man with blond hair and blue eyes, who looked so gentle and harmless.

He turned to the soldier, his face dark, his gaze icy.

"Go away, now. Leave me alone."

The soldier hurried out of the room, head down, disappearing through the door with relief. The Baron, now alone, stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched, trembling with rage.

Thoughts swirled in his mind. This was not just a defeat, it was a humiliation.

Slowly, he moved to the window, looking out where his men would never return.

His face flushed with fury, he vowed never again to underestimate these mercenaries. This village, these men who had resisted him, would pay.

He would find a way to break them, to erase them.

But to do that, he first had to understand how they had managed to defeat him. And there was only one certainty lingering in his mind: these mercenaries were a force he could no longer ignore.