They were tiny and round, beady like those of a small animal, and they felt almost comically out of place.
Such a man now looked to the sky.
The wind carried the thin clouds at incredible speeds, but even the starry night beyond their gossamer veil could not produce enough starlight to illuminate the land.
The man’s nostrils flared, and he took a deep breath, smelling the breath of night through the early autumn air, which was flavored with a hint of winter chill. The violet night sky was swallowing the faint light of dusk upon the horizon with a speed visible to the naked eye.
The man turned his back to the hills, and looked at the men around him.
They were fierce warriors, who trusted him and who followed him. It was because he was surrounded by such warriors that he permitted himself a moment’s laxity.
After all, the day’s work was done and nobody could dispute that.
“—Oi, has anyone asked the forecaster about tonight’s weather?”
The question was asked in a mighty voice which befitted his powerful body. The soldiers looked at each other, and one of them spoke up on the group’s behalf.
“My deepest apologies! Corporal Camparno sir, it seems none of us have heard the report in question!”
This man — Olrand Camparno — was a fairly low ranked man in the Roble Holy Kingdom’s military hierarchy.
From bottom to top, the Roble Holy Kingdom’s military ranks went from Recruit, Private, Private First Class, Corporal, Sergeant, Platoon Sergeant, and so on. Of course, different ranks existed in different units, and these were simply the ranks for the regular infantry.
Usually speaking, a simple corporal would not need to be addressed as “Sir.”
However, the man calling Olrand “Sir” did not do so to mock him. His respect for him was evident in his attitude and tone. Neither was it just that man; every soldier present, each of whom walked and talked like a skilled veteran of many battles, felt the same way about Olrand.
“Really now?”
Olrand slowly stroked his stubbly face.
“Sir, if time permits, will you allow this one to go and ask immediately?”
“Hm? No, no need for that. Our job is over now. What happens next is the business of the people after us.”
Olrand Camparno.
He was a man of many accomplishments who, through his fighting skill alone, had earned the honor of being named one of the Holy Kingdom’s Nine Colors by the previous Holy King.
The reason why such a man remained at such a lowly post stemmed from two problems which Olrand had.
The first was because he was very free-spirited — he hated taking orders.
The second was because he was obsessed with fighting skills.
When these two points came together, they led to a way of life that said, “If you want to tell me what to do, beat the crap out of me first.” If he met a worthy foe he would say, “You look pretty strong. How about sparring with me?” and then they would fight until one of them passed out.
This personality of his had led to many violent incidents involving nobles and his superiors, so he had been demoted over ten times already.
There was no need for people who could not obey orders in the military and they were universally loathed as well. Under normal circumstances, it would hardly have been strange if he were disciplined or dishonorably discharged. However, he had not met with such a fate, purely due to his strength. In addition, there were those who admired men like him.
The rough sorts who were unhappy about being ordered about by destitute nobles found Olrand’s way of living by the strength of his arm most thrilling
His unit was a squad of delinquents composed of such violent people — no, they were more of a gang.
They were quite numerous, so calling them a company would not have been out of place. In addition, its members may not have been Olrand’s equals, but they were all skilled fighters, which led to him assuming an unofficial post which his superiors could not tolerate, but which they could do nothing about.
Olrand glanced around, and after verifying the identity of the man approaching them, a smile appeared on his face, like that of a carnivore about to pounce its prey.
That man seemed quite slender in comparison to Olrand’s brawny form. However, his was not the scrawniness of a twig. Rather, he had a wiry, steely look about him. If one forged and reforged a man, burning away everything unrelated to his intended function, it would produce a textbook slimness of the kind he embodied.
In addition, his narrow eyes were keen, as though he was about to attack at any moment. Then there were his narrow pupils which did not look like they belonged to anyone engaged in a legitimate enterprise. In polite terms, he was an assassin. In less than polite terms, he was a mass murderer.
“Speak of the devil and here he comes. Fancy meeting you here, Night Shift-san. Nice to see you~”
The other man made no sound as he approached them with silent footsteps. He was dressed very differently from Olrand.
Olrand and the men around him wore suits of heavy leather armor made from the hides of magical beasts called Lanca Cattle. In addition, they carried small round shields and single-edged swords, the standard outfit of the Holy Kingdom’s superior troops. Incidentally, Olrand was the only one who had eight of those swords at his waist.
In contrast to that, the other man wore a suit of enchanted light leather armor. There was an owl crest stitched on his right chest, while the emblem of the Holy Kingdom adorned his left.
“...Olrand. I haven’t received your shift report yet. Also, is that the attitude you ought to be taking with a superior? That’s practically insubordination. How many times do I have to remind you of that?”
“Well, do forgive me, Platoon Sergeant-dono.”
As Olrand saluted him sloppily, the men under him saluted as well. It was a proper salute, the kind which they would never give a nobleman or any mere superior officer. It was a salute which showed genuine respect.
The man sighed with a haaah. It was a sigh made by one who knew that his conduct was unacceptable, but who also knew that lecturing him about it would be pointless.
Sorry, boss. Old habits die hard, as they say.
The reason why Olrand saluted this man, however reluctantly, was because he had defeated Olrand.
I’d like to beat you once before I leave this place. On your terms. Don’t you think, Platoon Sergeant Pavel Baraja?
The man — Pavel Baraja — was nicknamed “The Night Watchman.” Like Olrand, he was one of the Nine Colors. The massive, exquisitely-made bow on his back gleamed with the faint light of magic, and the quiver hanging at his waist glowed in the same way. He was an archer, just as his appearance suggested. He was a superb marksman, with a reputation of perfect accuracy.
“I think this all the time, but working at night sure is hard. The demihumans do just fine in the darkness but it’s hard enough just to find their traces, let alone fight them.”
“That’s why we’re here. The only way to gain magic and talents comparable to demihumans — their vision aside — is through training. And we’ve received that training.”
“Yes, yes. Same goes for that daughter you’re so proud of, right?”
Pavel’s face twitched and Olrand instantly regretted his poor choice of words.
This was a man whose expression remained unchanged even in the midst of a drinking party. The only exception was when the topic of his daughter and wife came up. That was where the problem lay.