Kingdom Bloodline

Chapter 384 The Age of Mercenaries
Thales sat at the bar, staring at the West Wilderness beer in his hand, feeling depressed for a long time.

During this time, Quick Rope, sweating profusely, went in and out of the tavern, searching through ledgers and checking figures, busy with the estate left by Kanze before his death. Meanwhile, Louisa, Dean, McKee, and Dante's greatswords also came to the tavern one by one, going up to the second floor to meet with Seaman and Old Hammer.

"Wyman, are you sure you're okay sitting here?"

Dean squeezed into the noisy pub and looked at Thales, who was sitting sulking to the side, with a puzzled expression before going upstairs.

“Sure,” Thales burped as he pulled his face out of the glass, staring at Tampa on the other side of the bar with a hostile expression, his teeth itching. “I know the tavern owner like the back of my hand.”

“That’s good,” Dean looked at Tampa suspiciously. “Tampa is a fairly reliable mercenary agent. He knows a lot of people. If you’re looking for your way home, maybe…”

Thales nodded stiffly.

Dean shrugged and went upstairs to attend the mercenaries' internal meeting.

Time passed quickly, and soon, night fell at Baki Camp after sunset.

The tavern was bustling with people, clinking glasses and exchanging toasts.

Many people noticed Thales sitting in the corner, but most of them were silenced by Tampa's glares.

The bards, while smiling and singing to attract business, were wary of competition from their peers. Scantily clad girls swayed between the tables, occasionally using their cleavage to entice money. Others, some hiding their faces and others behaving mysteriously, huddled behind the tables, gesticulating wildly and debating in hushed tones, engaging in dirty deals that Thales probably didn't want to know and dared not know.

Thales had seen the Sunset Bar in the underground mall, which was always bustling with people, but everyone knew it was Brotherhood territory, and no matter how chaotic it was, not many people dared to cause trouble there.

My family bar is a completely different story.

When Thales saw the third table of guests fighting over a disputed business deal, smashing the entire table, he finally couldn't help but ask the owner, "Are you just going to stand by and watch?"

"if not?"

Tampa, behind the bar, lazily waved his hand, signaling a waiter to clean up the mess and settle the bill.

“This is Baki Camp, a place rife with interests, calculations, opportunities, and dangers, where law and morality are only occasionally present. It would be strange if people didn’t fight,” Tampa flipped through his ledger, quickly jotting something down. “Don’t worry, the people at Baki Camp are honest and kind—didn’t you see them obediently paying for the tables and chairs they broke?”

The people are simple and honest...

Thales twitched his cheek.

"What if they don't pay up?"

Tampa raised his head, and the scar on his neck twitched.

"No compensation?"

A chilling light emanated from Tampa's eyes.

“As everyone knows, I know a lot of mercenaries and adventurers in the camp, and I often introduce business to them,” the tavern owner said with a polite smile. “Among them are many professional debt collectors, and out of respect for me, they only take a penny of the profits—and also cover the cleanup and burial.”

Thales nodded slightly, looking enlightened: "I see, you really have a lot of talented people here."

To hell with the supposedly simple and honest folk customs.

Contemplating his next move, Thales absentmindedly asked the tavern owner, "So, Cohen deposited money with you? Why?"

"This used to be the custom that at the end of the Bloody Year, soldiers would leave their rewards at home and collect them when they returned—if they were still alive."

Tampa sat comfortably behind the bar, watching the staff bustling around, looking aloof and indifferent: "Later, to motivate the soldiers, Baron Williams promised the dead a sum of money... After the cleanup campaign ended, I retired and took over the habit, hoping to turn it into a business."

"But as things stand..." Tampa sighed helplessly as he looked at Kuaisheng sitting in front of a merchant in the distance, diligently counting his money.

"The 'Purge...' campaign?" Thales pressed. "Was it part of the Desert Wars?"

Tampa gave a soft hum.

"I guess you haven't seen the desert war from ten years ago?"

Thales shrugged: "Obviously."

Tampa nodded, giving him a knowing look: "Then of course you haven't seen the large and small purges that lasted for years afterward."

"How to say?"

Tampa squinted, watching a pair of drinkers in the distance with complete indifference. He seemed used to seeing them go from being all close and like brothers to exchanging insults and punches.

"The great victory in the desert war was always exaggerated: the ravaged Star Kingdom rallied its remaining strength and bravery, and boldly marched into the desert to face the Bone Tribe and the Orcish Horde, who were migrating eastward in a bloody year..."

He snorted coldly:

"But you know, for us, the hardest thing is not how to defeat the hybrids and barbarians—you can defeat them once, and you can defeat them countless times—but how to protect your spoils after defeating them, how to carry the banners and boasts they left behind after the glorious main force returns home to hug their babies; how to clear away those enemies hidden deep in the dunes and caves bit by bit, and wipe out those remnants who remain to wait for an opportunity; how to hold the passage with a small force, grit your teeth and fight back against the hybrids' repeated comebacks, and make the desert races, especially those stubborn beastmen, get used to your presence and respect your power, just as the rogue hyenas get used to the lion king's new territory."

“This will take time,” Tampa said, his gaze drifting slowly into the distance. “In this process, there will be no battles to be recorded in history, no decisive battles fought with the spirit of dying for one’s life, no earth-shattering bloody battles… but its ferocity and sacrifices will not be any less significant.”

"Victory is forged in blood," he said calmly. "To consolidate victory, you must shed even more blood."

"This is the campaign to eliminate the enemy."

Tampa pointed to the wall behind the bar: there hung an old, still sharp axe.

"You're involved too?" the prince asked solemnly, "Whether it's a desert war or a campaign of annihilation?"

Tampa nodded.

"Back then, the Baki camp was nothing like what you see now: the wounds of the Bloody Year had not yet healed, the main force of the Desert War had been withdrawn, we did not have conscripts who came from all over the country as if they were free, we did not have wealthy noble private armies with glittering gold and silver, we did not have logistics and provisions supported by merchants accompanying the army and the royal family, we did not have a cavalry group of earth-shattering size, and we did not have the confidence and courage to charge into the desert with a single order."

"We only have ourselves, the Star People of the Western Wilderness: legions made up of farmers, assault teams cobbled together by mercenaries, suicide squads composed of scum... Even the main force of the Duke of the Western Wilderness, the Skull Guard from the Desolate Ruins, is dirt poor. Our Raven Guard has more saddles than people who can ride horses. Only the first rank of the Black Lion Infantry Battalion consists of fully trained battlefield veterans. The Baron's Stardust Guard even has to recruit men from the criminals of the Bone Prison—many nobles were exiled for their crimes after the Bloody Years, and a considerable number of them came from families with considerable backgrounds and were trained."

"But we had no choice but to grit our teeth and press on, relying on scarce medicine and limited supplies to penetrate the barren lands, exhausting the sand dunes, searching every corner from the Blade Fang camp to the depths of the desert, fighting to the death with those small groups of bastards and barbarians who were trying to infiltrate back, until they felt the pain, understood the price of returning to their homeland, admitted defeat, and dared not send anyone to their deaths again, let alone launch a full-scale attack."

Thales stared blankly at the axe on the wall.

It's hard to imagine that along his journey, that windswept wasteland was once the most devastating battlefield.

“Among them, the big oaf Cohen is an outlier,” Tampa chuckled, “a nobleman so stupid that you can’t bring yourself to do it.”

“Cohen?” Thales was slightly surprised. “He fought in the desert? The mopping-up operation?”

"Have you fought?"

Tampa snorted, seemingly finding it quite amusing.

"He is an iron-willed fighter."

Nostalgia welled up in Tampa's eyes.

"A tough guy born for the battlefield, he spent three years making hordes of orcs run wild, dying and coming back to life."

"Why?" Thales asked in surprise.
“Cohen’s identity… he is the heir to the noble Kalabyan family, with an entire Vora territory waiting to be inherited, isn’t he?”

“How would I know, those nobles who come and go,” Tampa laughed, “how would I know what got into him that made him abandon his good life to suffer here.”

The image of that big, dumb guy popped into Thales' mind, and he fell into deep thought.

"You know, once we were ambushed."

Tampa seemed quite emotional: "That gray bastard from the Dead Iron tribe wielded his chain mace like a storm, leaving only mangled limbs and pieces of flesh in his wake. When he led his hordes down across the mountains and fields..."

Thales thought of the orc Kandar and the almost irresistible night raids, and a chill ran down his spine.

"We were scattered and lost contact with the light cavalry. We panicked and fled for our lives," Tampa sighed. "The big guy and the others were forced into the inner desert by them and disappeared without a trace for half a month."

"We all thought they wouldn't come back."

"The team even collected their belongings. According to Frank, the Baron even had a headache about how to write an obituary for Cohen's noble father: 'Sorry, your son died without a complete body.'"

The tavern remained noisy, but Thales listened intently to Tampa's story.

The boss let out a long sigh of relief.

"Then one day... a dozing sentry outside the camp suddenly noticed something in the distance, on the horizon between the setting sun and the desert..."

A figure appeared.

Thales's eyes narrowed.

"I came alone, walked alone, teetering on the brink of collapse, covered in wounds."

Thales took a slight breath: "Cohen?"

Tampa nodded slowly.

"The entire Baki camp, including Baron Williams' guards, stood there dumbfounded, watching the young nobleman walk in a daze, limping along, clutching the ugly head of that damned grey bastard, the infamous killer—'Meat Grinder' Shesa Dead Iron."

"He walked into the camp in that state, dazed, covered in blood, and trembling, and didn't even recognize the most beautiful woman, Felicia, standing right in front of him."

"He just kept moving forward, his steps never stopping, his expression confused, muttering to himself, until he collapsed from exhaustion."

"The Baron took the ugly head of Shesa Dead Iron from Cohen's hands and tied it to the flagpole."

Time seemed to stand still at that moment, and both Thales and Tampa fell silent.

Until the boss grabbed a bottle of wine and took a big gulp.

“From that day on, no one in the camp called him ‘Young Master’ anymore, and no one secretly spat into his water bottle,” Tampa put down his bottle, took a deep breath, and sighed, “From that day on, he became ‘Big Dumb Guy’.”

"A good soldier of the Baki camp, a real man, 'Big Dumb' Cohen."

Thales remained silent for a long time.

Unexpectedly, that big guy who always seemed carefree and a bit dim-witted had such a thrilling and passionate past.

“It’s a good story,” the prince nodded. “It’s worthy of being sung by bards.”

Tampa gave a soft snort, and whether he was in a good mood or had lost his mind, he actually took the initiative to bring out a plate of food, placed it between himself and Thales, and began to eat: "How is he now?"

Now?

What floated into Thales's mind was Cohen, who had sworn to support him in his return to Valhalla six years ago in the Temple of the Moon.

"As far as I know, he didn't go home and is still working as a guard in the capital, but I haven't seen him for a long time."

“The capital…” Tampa murmured.

“I know he’s an aristocrat, and aristocrats are complicated, with a lot of messy things going on.”

He shook his head.

"I guess that big oaf also has his own responsibilities and troubles."

Thales did not speak.

The boss finally sighed slightly: "I hope he's still that real man, as foolish as ever."

Thales nodded and finished the slightly bitter beer in his glass.

“He will be,” the prince said, flashing a powerful smile.

"And they'll be stupid for the rest of their lives."

Tampa stared at him for a long time, and finally burst out laughing.

"Yes, I hope so."

“So,” Thales coughed, “after the war, Cohen went to the capital, and you came and opened this tavern?”

“No, I just took over… See the sign at the door? 'My House' has been around for two or three hundred years,” Tampa waved his hand.
“When you get tired of the fighting and bloodshed… you know, the ordinary days are more appealing,” Thales scoffed sarcastically.

"Ordinary little days?"

“Believe me, based on my experience and the people I know,” the prince said irritably, “the guys who can run a tavern in a place like this don’t lead ‘ordinary little lives.’”

"Come on, it's just your 'first lesson,' don't hold a grudge," Tampa glanced at him dismissively. "Like a sissy—are you sure you're not Quick Rope's girlfriend?"

"I just don't like it when people scheme against me..."

"Ha, just by looking at your face, I can tell you must have been scammed a lot since you were a child."

Thales gave him a polite but insincere smile and looked down at his food.

"So, you're just planning to stay here and not leave?"

Tampa frowned. "You know you have to pay for this food, right?"

“I’m waiting for Dean and the others…wait, pay?” Thales choked on his words: “But you’re the one who brought this up!”

"That's why I need you to pay me—why would I charge you if you brought it yourself?"

Thales stared at his boss in disbelief.

"One Mindis silver coin, thank you for your patronage." Tampa said with a smile, "I'm giving you a discount because of the big oaf."

After reluctantly handing over a few Solonian silver coins, Thales, thinking "might as well eat it while it's free," took a big bite of food. Looking at the tavern that was gradually quieting down, he frowned and asked, "Is it just my imagination, or are there really fewer and fewer customers?"

"Normally, the later it gets, the more people there are in the tavern."

“But things are different now. The composition of Baki Camp is complex, and there is a curfew every night,” Tampa yawned. “If you go out during curfew and get caught by those patrolling soldiers… you know, many of the temporary conscripts are here for the first time at Baki Camp, temporarily in charge of defense when the Royal Guard is not around. They don’t know what ‘turning a blind eye’ means—either you pay to avoid trouble or you obediently go to jail.”

“Just last month,” Tampa shook his head, “that famous hundred-man mercenary group, ‘Blood Siren,’ had a lot of people arrested—no matter what I said to them, it was no use; those new troops didn’t show any mercy.”

Thales frowned: "So you're quite influential, able to speak up for people who're in jail?"

"For years, 'my family' has been supplying the Prison of Bones, so of course we have our own connections," Tampa snorted condescendingly. "Who do you think got that glib-tongued quick-rope out of prison?"

"And then you introduced Quickrope to Dean and got him into 'Dant's Greatsword'?"

“You know, they weren’t originally planning to take in that kid with the strong Commass accent,” the tavern owner chuckled, “but it seems Quick Rope has a friend who knows the old Dent family…”

"So, whether it's Quick Rope or Kanze..." Thales asked, seemingly casually, "Dean was also someone you introduced?"

Tampa shook his head.

"Dean was rescued by old Dante in the desert—many people in their group came in the same way, which is why Dante's greatsword has remained intact for so many years, even after old Dante passed away."

Thales seemed to be deep in thought.

“He seems very intelligent, I mean Dean.”

Tampa wholeheartedly agreed.

"To be honest, it's a waste of his talent to be a mercenary. With his abilities and knowledge, he would be no less capable than those pot-bellied noble commanders in the army—he has earned Dant's greatsword a good reputation in just a few years."

Thales' heart skipped a beat.

"You seem to know a lot about these mercenaries?"

“After all, this is ‘my home’,” Tampa said with a touch of pride. “Mercenaries come here looking for business, or business comes here looking for mercenaries.”

Thales looked around at the fierce-looking guests, lost in thought.

Just then, several armored figures walked into the noisy tavern.

Tampa raised his eyebrows.

"Dear Ricky!"

The owner happily extended his hand to the approaching customer: "How long has it been since you last came?"

“It’s only been a few months,” the mercenary named Ricky said casually, extending his hand to shake Tampa’s.

Tampa smiled at Ricky, then at a middle-aged man with a sword on his back beside him: "A new face?"

“This is Clay, from the north, a master swordsman—not just any swordsman,” Ricky pointed casually. The middle-aged man nodded slightly to Tampa in a friendly manner. “Don’t worry, he’s one of our men now, he doesn’t take on side jobs.”

“What a pity,” Tampa shrugged regretfully. “You know, there are a few businesses that are in dire need of skilled swordsmen.”

Thales withdrew his gaze from the middle-aged man, and his heightened Hellish Senses, enhanced since the battle in the Wasteland, gave him some rare information: a strange and restless power was surging within the middle-aged man's body.

Looking at these new mercenaries, Thales's brow suddenly twitched.

To Ricky's left, a masked man was coldly watching the prince, his brow furrowed with deep wrinkles, looking quite old.

His gaze swept over the Time Crossbow beside Thales, and he narrowed his eyes slightly.

Thales was startled.

“As for this one, it’s better if you don’t know him. He just arrived at the camp, but he has a criminal record and isn’t clean,” Ricky sighed, shaking his shoulder at the masked man on his left. “It’s inconvenient for him to show his face.”

Finally, the masked man slowly withdrew his gaze, and Thales felt a chill run down his spine.

these people……

very dangerous.

Thales suppressed his inner unease.

"Of course, I only care about my business," Tampa said nonchalantly, raising an eyebrow. "How many tables do you need? To talk business or find some girls?"

Ricky shook his head.

“In fact, several tables aren’t enough,” Ricky pulled a money pouch from his belt, first instructing the others to take tables, leaving only the middle-aged man and the masked man behind him: “We’re having the whole place tonight, Tampa. You have two hours to clear this place out—including your men. Leave nothing but alcohol and food.”

Tampa frowned.

"But there are still three hours until curfew."

Ricky smiled slightly: "Then let's drink until dawn and not go out. We'll leave the next day when the curfew is lifted."

Tampa squinted at him.

“Impossible,” the boss shook his head decisively. “You know I still have business to do; I have to deliver supplies to the White Bones tomorrow morning…”

Ricky placed the money bag on the bar, his smile unchanged.

"Twenty silver coins for one night. You know, we have dozens of people."

Tampa paused, his expression faltering.

“This is ‘my home’,” he looked up, his expression turning serious. “We have principles…”

“So we’re giving you two hours,” Ricky said, still trying to sound easygoing, but he wasn’t backing down.
"Thirty silver coins—we need you to come and talk business."

Tampa glanced at the money bag and shrugged: "We also need to close for a break; we can't stay open this late for you..."

The middle-aged man behind Ricky laughed.

"But your sign says 'Never close.'"

Tampa looked at him.

"You know, throughout history, if the words written on slogans are true..."

The tavern owner held up a finger: "Then it won't have a sign written on it."

The middle-aged man raised his eyebrows: "That makes sense."

Seemingly unable to bear their dawdling any longer, the masked man took a clean and decisive step forward, pulled out another money bag, and slammed it onto the bar.

"Fifty silver coins, no more than that."

Snapped!
Tampa snapped his fingers hard.

"Deal!" He quickly pocketed the money bag.

Thales sighed and rolled his eyes.

I knew it.

Ricky shook his head and reluctantly led his companion toward one of the wooden tables.

"What, did you get a big deal?"

Tampa, who had just negotiated a great price for the entire venue, watched Ricky's retreating figure with a broad smile: "Want to party all night?"

"Quite the opposite," Ricky said without turning his head, "After tonight, we'll leave the Blade Fang camp—you've seen it yourself, the Star People's army is being sent into the desert like it's free, there's no business left here."

Tampa retreated behind the bar, shaking his head regretfully: "Really? That's bad news, for both of us."

Thales watched their retreating figures and asked in confusion, "Who are they...?"

“It’s the ‘Blood Horn’,” Tampa said leisurely before he could finish his question:
"Like Dante's Greatsword, they are also mercenaries, but you'd better not mess with them—it's a hundred-man squad, with two or three hundred people from top to bottom. There are over a hundred fully armed warriors on the battlefield. They're not peasant soldiers; each one of them is a professional killer, just like Dante's Greatsword."

"They only take on jobs related to war or royal merchants on special contracts, and even barons look up to them."

"Blood-stained horns, a hundred-man squad?"

Thales was startled. Looking at the group of people with blood on their hands and sirens, he began to understand where that astonishing killing intent and sense of threat came from.

"From Dante's greatsword to the Blood Whistle, the reason they all gather here..." Thales pondered, "So, the area around the desert is indeed a mercenary's paradise?"

"Heaven?"

Tampa paused slightly.

"It used to be."

"About twenty or thirty years ago, when I was a young fool and hadn't been shot in the knee," the boss sighed, "that was the golden age of mercenaries—the Star Army was law-abiding, the Desert Tribes had their own principles, merchants came and went, adventurers searched for treasure, shrewd bounty hunters, and priests who painstakingly preached. Everyone was here looking for opportunities."

"And now?"

Tampa shook his head: "Even a shrewd swordsman like Dante suffered heavy losses, and a powerful swordsman like Blood Whisper has to find another way out."

“Times are changing,” Thales said quietly. “The world is changing too.”

“Yes, twenty or thirty years ago, the Star Army couldn’t venture deep into the desert,” Tampa’s eyes revealed longing and nostalgia. “That was the privilege of adventurers and mercenaries. They set off with great enthusiasm, returned alive to tell their legends, or waited for bards to compose poems that would be sung far and wide.”

“I remember that back then, there was a very powerful mercenary group around the desert. From the Blade Fang Camp to the Three Kingdoms of the Misty Sea, from Levor to Steel City, from Dragon's Kiss Land to Thorn Land, whether it was desert or forest, inland lake or great river, their footprints were all over these mercenary paradises. I once thought about joining them.”

"Is it."

Thales was distracted: he saw Dante's greatswords coming down from upstairs.

"What's that mercenary's name?"

Tampa, lost in his own world, sighed, "Speaking of names, well, they originally only had nine people, so they gave the team a really silly and stupid name..."

“They’re called the ‘Nine Giants’.”

(End of this chapter)