Worner was suddenly reminded of some rumors he had heard—supposedly, on the day Young Master Laval collided with them, he had just come out of the Inquisition.
As an Imperial, he understood the terror of the Inquisition even more than the people of the Lorraine Kingdom.
The Empire’s chaotic situation led to weak grassroots governance, making cult activities particularly rampant.
The Empire’s Inquisition was highly independent, wielding enormous power, and even possessing its own direct military monastic order (Knight Order).
After verification by the Church, an Inquisitor had the authority to issue an “Extinction Order” against severely corrupted areas, carrying out indiscriminate purges.
Those who entered the Inquisition and could come out alive were almost considered to be favored by the gods.
A bold, almost blasphemous guess flashed through Worner’s mind: This Young Master Laval… is he really still human?
Could he be… possessed and reborn by the legendary “God’s Messenger”?!
As Worner’s mind surged with wild thoughts, Allen took notice of him.
“Hey! Our guest has arrived!” Allen greeted warmly, his manner so natural it was as if Worner were an old friend from years past.
Only Worner himself knew that last time, he had nearly been crippled by Allen’s ruthless low kick.
Such a vicious move—just who taught Young Master Laval that?
He also caught a glimpse of the black-haired maid Marianne, renowned for her “Bloodhawk” skills.
Noticing his glance, Marianne returned a charming yet dangerously alluring smile, instantly enlarging Worner’s psychological shadow.
“Young Master Laval,” Worner steadied himself and spoke respectfully, “I’ve come as agreed to discuss the Blood Pact with you.”
“Don’t rush.” Allen casually tossed Worner a training wooden sword.
“Men, you know, don’t really get to know each other until they’ve fought. Last time I ambushed you; it wasn’t a fair win. Today, let’s have a proper duel and show these brothers what it means to be a real man—a real warrior.”
Worner accepted the wooden sword with a ready smile. As an Imperial—a born warrior—he never shied away from any kind of contest.
“However, I’m not used to this kind of sword. Do you have a heavy two-handed sword here?” Worner asked.
He was far more skilled with weapons requiring great strength.
“Oh?” Allen’s eyes lit up. “You’re an Imperial Greatswordsman?”
Worner nodded, a hint of pride appearing on his face. “Before I founded the mercenary band, I truly was a Greatswordsman.”
“No wonder you became Grandmaster of Swords!” Allen exclaimed in admiration. “Imperial Greatswordsmen are the cream of the crop—only the bravest, most experienced veterans can claim that title!”
The Lorraine Kingdom was famed for its heavy cavalry, while the Empire was renowned for its powerful infantry.
The Imperial Greatswordsmen were their signature troops.
These elite veterans wore full plate armor and wielded massive two-handed swords that could split both horse and rider with ease, making them nightmares on the battlefield.
Because they received double pay, they were also known as “Double-Pay Mercenaries.”
Of course, their flashy “slashed uniforms” had also earned them the nickname “Imperial Flower.”
To spar with such an opponent, Allen was just as excited.
“As luck would have it, I ordered an extra training heavy two-handed sword! Men just love these big, long fellows!” Allen had someone fetch the weapon.
The moment Worner gripped the weapon he was most familiar with, his entire presence changed, as if he’d returned to a battlefield bristling with steel and blood.
Having lost so badly last time to a sneak attack and suspected Engraved Mark power, this time he was determined to redeem himself.
“Begin!” Marianne, acting as referee, announced.
Worner let out a low growl, muscles bulging in his arms as the seemingly weighty wooden greatsword felt light as a feather in his hands.
He suddenly lunged forward, the giant blade stirring a stormy gust, sweeping toward Allen like a tempest!
His onslaught was fierce and relentless, every strike brimming with the lethal intent honed through countless battles.
Yet Allen danced like a willow leaf in a raging wind, always dodging the deadly blows by a hair’s breadth or deflecting them with skillful parries.
He even managed to explain to the observing “Dawn’s Children” while blocking and dodging:
“Look! Watch his opening stance! He leans forward—he’s about to deliver a heavy chop!”
“Don’t block heavy strikes head-on—guide his strength aside at an angle!”
“Counterattack fast! Go in when his old force is spent and new force isn’t generated yet!”
“Watch his eyes and shoulders! Predict his next move!”
Even though Worner was giving it his all, Allen seemed not only at ease but also able to give a lecture at the same time, as if he hadn’t even used his full strength.
“Young Master Laval!” Worner couldn’t help but shout in a low voice, feeling slighted. “Are you going easy on me in battle?!”
Before he finished, Allen’s wooden sword was already poised like a viper, its tip stopping an inch from his throat.
“Going easy?” Allen flashed a devilish, sly grin. “Not at all. See? The moment you got anxious, you revealed a flaw.”
It was only now that Worner realized Allen hadn’t gone easy on him—he had seen through his entire fighting style and even his thoughts.
Through this duel, Allen had given the audience a perfect lesson in real combat.
Worner hadn’t lost to skill or strength, but to the total control Allen had over his mindset and rhythm.
“I… admit defeat, wholeheartedly.” Worner let out a long sigh and set down the greatsword.
The onlookers burst into enthusiastic applause and cheers for this spectacular duel.
Worner felt a bit undeserving of the praise, but Allen proactively reached out to him. “That was a fine fight! No wonder you’re an elite Imperial veteran. Your ‘Swordstorm’ technique and footwork are even more practical than I imagined—I picked up a few new moves myself.”
Worner shook Allen’s hand, managing a wry smile as he asked, “How did you cultivate such combat sense and mental fortitude?”
“Simple,” Allen shrugged, speaking as casually as if discussing the weather. “Just ‘die’ a few hundred times yourself and you’ll get it.”
Worner stared at Allen’s inscrutable face, unable to tell whether he was joking or telling the truth.
“Come on, now let’s officially discuss the Blood Pact.” Allen patted him on the shoulder.
On the way to the main residence, Worner glanced back at the training ground filled with the bright faces of energetic youths.
Perhaps the future truly did belong to these newcomers, so different from the old era.
As for mercenaries like them, fighting just to survive, drifting for so long—it was time to seek a stable place, a “home” worth pledging loyalty to.
At that moment, the War Hound leader felt a thought stirring in his heart—maybe, becoming a “house dog” was the best home for them all.
……
The group arrived at the main dining and reception hall of Laval House.
Along the way, Worner’s trusted men curiously sized up the luxurious decorations of the noble residence, whispering among themselves:
“Wow, this big house must be so comfortable to live in!”
“Yeah, look at those maids, they’re really pretty—way better than those hags at the bar!”
“Tch, that young master must be enjoying a life of luxury every day. So jealous.”
“Guys like us, we’ll never get to live like that in this life!”
“Shut it!” Worner growled in a low voice. “Watch and learn! If you start learning how to deal with nobles now, maybe you’ll get to live better one day!”
Worner kept his guard up, observing everything. As they entered the reception hall, Viscount Bernard de Laval was already seated at the head of the table, waiting.
The viscount’s mood was actually rather complicated.
Not long ago, he’d sworn to ruin himself to post bounties and hang the heads of this band of mercenaries on the city gates.
And now, he had to sit down with these mercenaries to negotiate an employment contract.
He couldn’t help but sigh again: his son truly was God’s Messenger—turning enemies into friends with such ease, never holding a grudge overnight.
“Everyone, please be seated.” Bernard’s voice carried the unique authority of the nobility.
The intricate etiquette of a noble banquet was itself a means to enforce class distinction and create psychological pressure.
As expected, in such a carefully crafted atmosphere, even these hardened bandits felt obviously constrained, with nowhere to unleash their ferocity.
Allen had already discussed matters with his father, leaving the negotiation details to the more experienced Bernard.
Taking the lead, Bernard once more adopted his classic Gendo Ikari pose—fingertips together under his chin, elbows on the table, his glasses reflecting light to obscure his gaze.
The oppressive air created by this pose made the already uneasy mercenaries even more nervous.
“Are any of you literate?” Bernard asked sternly.
Apart from Worner, the mercenaries all shook their heads.
“I don’t know much Lorraine script,” Worner replied, “but I can read Imperial.”
“There are two contracts drafted in Imperial here.” Bernard signaled the butler to place the documents on the table.
“One is written in accordance with your mercenary traditions. The other is a… special contract offered by Laval House. Which one will you choose?”
“What’s the difference?” Worner asked cautiously.
“The difference is far beyond your imagination.” Bernard’s tone remained utterly flat.
Staring at the two contracts, Worner suddenly looked up, his gaze skipping Bernard to land directly on Allen.