Chapter Twenty-Six: A New Mission

Judging from the handwriting on the reply, it resembled the letter sent to the Fatty, as well as one of the letters sent to Kevin. It was likely written by Linda—the female assassin who had tried to kill Kevin. Of course, “Linda” might well be an alias; Kevin had no way of knowing her true name.

The letter provided detailed answers to numerous technical questions, though some clearly reflected the perspective of an assassin. For example, the techniques to mask one’s aura: there were many methods, but the simplest was to wear loose, thick clothing. When unleashing aura, there was no need to release it throughout the entire body; instead, keep the energy just at the skin, not penetrating the clothing, and thus it would be concealed.

The glow of battle aura was nothing more than a side effect; the true essence was a sort of current or energy field that enveloped the body. The light itself was not what mattered. A stronger glow didn’t mean higher combat power. The Royal Academy had once conducted experiments proving that shining different colored lights could alter the visual effect of aura. For instance, if someone unleashed a red aura and blue light was cast upon them, it could appear as “purple” aura to a certain extent. This trick was often used in theatrical performances: two novice warrior actors would be illuminated, transforming them into “sword saints” for a duel, while the background would be enhanced with magical explosions and sound effects, making for a truly spectacular fight.

Assassins, however, saw aura quite differently from the majority of people on the continent. Most considered it dazzling, awe-inspiring, and fearsome. To assassins, it was a meaningless special effect, of no use in real combat. The letter noted that the Assassin’s Guild had long been dedicated to perfecting techniques for fully concealing aura, reportedly achieving significant results.

Another hallmark of assassins was frugality. Ordinary warriors, in battle, would ignite their entire bodies with aura, exuding a brash, aggressive energy. To assassins, this was foolish. An assassin, when punching, would only channel aura into the fist; when defending, only into the part of the body that required it. True masters, when slashing with a blade, would infuse energy into just the edge—not the entirety—of the weapon.

Of course, assassins adopted these tactics because they suited their craft. Soldiers in military camps used different methods because battlefield conditions demanded it. Igniting one’s whole body with aura might be wasteful, but it meant that every part was at its peak, ready for unpredictable, chaotic group combat. When swords and arrows came from all directions, full-body aura was the safest, most logical choice. Moreover, a wave of crimson energy could shatter enemy morale before the fight even began.

In essence, assassins typically operated alone or in small teams, while soldiers fought in large formations, emphasizing discipline, cooperation, and collective momentum. The professions differed, as did the training. A commander might know what was needed for a duel, but wouldn’t bother teaching it, since it wasn’t required for the examinations.

In the middle of the night, Kevin finally climbed out of bed, dressed neatly, sword in his left hand, staff in his right, and quietly made his way to the training grounds.

“Halt! Password!” barked the sentry on duty.

“009, return code,” Kevin replied calmly.

“666.” The sentry answered, but looked at Kevin with surprise as he approached. “You’re a new recruit—how do you know the password?”

“Oh, I asked ahead of time,” Kevin replied with a nervous chuckle. Every night, sentries guarded the camp; if they saw anyone approaching, they demanded the password. The password changed nightly. Strictly speaking, when Marcus had taken Kevin and Stutt out late at night for a chat, they would have answered with the code if challenged. But on that occasion, many new recruits, unable to sleep, roamed outside at night. If asked for the password, they wouldn’t know it, so the sentries simply shooed them back to their bunks. If Marcus hadn’t been with them, Kevin and Stutt would have been chased off as well.

“What are you doing up so late?” the sentry asked.

“I’m studying new techniques,” Kevin answered honestly, “There isn’t enough time during the day.” He had already mastered the theory and was used to the daytime regimen; nighttime was the only period for rigorous practice.

“The training grounds are closed,” the sentry replied, equally candid. “I can’t let you in.”

“Then I’ll just practice here,” Kevin replied, and began moving through various stances, turning left and right, rolling on the spot. The sentry watched, unimpressed.

“Hey, sentry! Would you like to spar with me?” Kevin suggested. “I’ve learned some rather rare sword techniques.”

“What’s the point?” the sentry scoffed.

“You’re bored standing guard anyway. Come on, give it a try. I’m not that good yet, I need a partner.” Kevin picked up two wooden sticks. “Let’s both use sticks.”

The sentry looked around, and, finding guard duty tedious, agreed. They sparred with sticks as swords, neither unleashing their aura, just testing each other’s skills. Within two moves, the sentry felt uncomfortable—his wrist was struck. Had it been a real sword, his hand would be useless, ending the fight before it began.

Now the sentry grew serious. In the military, sentries were usually assigned to the less experienced; seasoned veterans rarely stood watch. The assassin’s letter had even outlined how to sneak past sentries, noting that sentries were almost never strong, as the truly skilled wouldn’t be assigned to the post.

Kevin, for his part, was fully committed—why else would he get up in the middle of the night? The sentry, at first lazy, became serious after being hit several times. Soon, they paused to discuss and analyze each move. The sentry wasn’t as skilled as the officers, but his combat experience surpassed Kevin’s.

Thus, they sparred and talked through the night, and Kevin returned to bed content. The next day, the sentry received a reprimand for inattentiveness while on duty.

Kevin, however, was unscathed, as no one knew his unit or his name. The sentry was discovered because, apart from fixed posts, there were also patrols at night. From afar, a patrol saw two figures dueling and took note; the next day, the report specified the time and which sentry was negligent. As for who Kevin was, the patrol didn’t care.

So Kevin continued his nocturnal excursions. This time, he decided to try sentries at other posts. In such a large camp, each post was under a different unit’s jurisdiction, with little coordination between them. Perhaps each unit’s fighting style might differ.

Kevin made his way to the knights’ camp. After a brief conversation with the sentry, they happily exchanged spear techniques.

The next day, the knight camp’s sentry also received a warning.

That night, Kevin went to the archers’ camp, where he sparred in unarmed combat with the sentry. The archer sentry, too, was reprimanded.

Before long, a rumor spread throughout the camp: the patrols, unable to catch anyone, were sending a new recruit to cozy up to sentries, just so they could meet their quota of reprimands. The patrols were cursed roundly in secret, but no one seemed to care about the identity of this mysterious recruit.

However, the officers could not overlook the matter. One evening, Marcus gathered everyone together. “I’ve heard a new recruit has been disturbing sentries at night. Was it any of you?”

Everyone looked blank; Kevin feigned confusion, though he was inwardly nervous.

The officer scanned their faces, lingering on Kevin. “Whoever it was, I won’t pursue it now. Just don’t do it again. Because of you, three sentries were disciplined—they’ll miss out on commendations for the whole year and have to complete many tasks to make up for it.”

“Yes, sir!” everyone replied instinctively.

“Kevin, come here.” Marcus called him aside into a grove.

It had been a while since Kevin had been in trouble; he was nervous, instinctively bracing to cover his head. Living together, it was impossible to conceal everything; someone waking at night might notice he wasn’t in bed.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Marcus asked directly.

Kevin hesitated, then nodded.

“In the future, don’t go out so much. A few sentries have recognized you—watch out they don’t beat you up.” Unexpectedly, Marcus had no intention of punishing him. “You’ve caused three people to be reprimanded. What are you going to do about it?”

Kevin hung his head, knowing any answer would earn him a beating. Marcus scolded him at length, but the outcome surprised Kevin.

“If you like sneaking out at night, take Gray with you,” Marcus ordered. “He’s the weakest of the lot; you’ll help him train.”

“Yes, sir!” Kevin could hardly conceal his delight.

That night, Kevin dragged Gray out as well. He didn’t waste words. “The officer ordered extra training for you at night.”

Gray protested, “How long do I have to do this? I’m so tired.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not your officer. Just stand there,” Kevin commanded. “I want to try a few new moves.”

Gray: “…”

For the next three weeks, nearly every night, the two trained together. For Kevin, even a practice dummy was helpful—let alone a moving one. For Gray, the benefit was minimal; he didn’t even understand what he was supposed to be learning. Most of the time, he just got beaten up.

Kevin felt a bit guilty, wanting to teach him a few moves, but Gray only complained, “I’m so tired—can I go to sleep?”

Kevin wasn’t his father; if Gray didn’t want to learn, Kevin wouldn’t force him. So he used him as a living dummy for three weeks, gradually mastering a variety of practical techniques—many peculiar to assassins.

Three weeks passed, and the last week of recruit training arrived—the time for field exercises.

It was Monday. All the recruits assembled on the training field, where Colonel Orson gave a rousing speech. The crowd shouted in unison to show their spirit, then they lined up and marched out of camp.

Only now did Kevin learn that the camp was stationed in Mossier City, a border town of the kingdom and a famous mercenary hub. The headquarters of the Mercenary Alliance of the Kingdom of Loubauler was located here. The streets were filled with armed mercenaries, some still stained with blood.

The officers informed them that the final week of training would be held at the Mercenary Alliance—essentially, they had to complete one or more missions within a week. If they chose a more difficult task, one would suffice; if they picked easier ones, they would need to complete several.

Mercenaries were rare in prosperous cities but grew common in less developed areas. The profession was dangerous—a life spent on the edge, living by the sword. Who would abandon a steady job for a chance to risk their lives in the wild with monsters or to escort caravans for months, fighting off bandits? Most became mercenaries out of necessity—poverty, hunger, the lure of a big score. Even if they came back maimed, many considered it worthwhile. Some perished in the forests; others returned, boasting of their prowess and basking in admiration.

Many, not knowing better, idolized these men and joined their ranks. But in truth, successful mercenaries rarely accepted dangerous assignments again—they preferred to brag in safety. Who, after all, would risk their life for no reason once they had money? The profession was about doing a job for pay; once rich, they valued their lives more.

Of course, there were also a few battle maniacs among them—people beyond reason, whose logic defied normal understanding. Kevin had met a few; he could comprehend their actions, but never truly understand them.

The Mercenary Alliance was essentially a vast platform, composed of many large mercenary groups. Anyone with enough money could post a task, provided it met the rules. If someone foolishly posted a bounty on the current king’s life, even at a trillion, the result would be obvious.

As the kingdom grew more prosperous, fewer people needed the work, and the alliance shrank in size. Many commissions piled up, left unfulfilled. The military, lacking battlefield experience, risked declining combat effectiveness. Therefore, the army and alliance had an agreement: soldiers would periodically clear out the backlog as training. All the commission fees would go to the army; the alliance took no cut. But soldiers could only take missions untouched for three months or more—not those already claimed by mercenaries.

There were many alliance branches in the city, and the recruit teams spread out across them. Marcus led six recruits into one branch at random.

Soldiers had to march in formation—that was military discipline. The recruits worried they’d be gawked at like monkeys, but found the locals—civilians and mercenaries alike—were long used to soldiers coming and going. No one cared about their backgrounds.

Each branch was well appointed, with a tavern, equipment sales, and even priests. Mercenaries idled here, drinking and socializing. Kevin himself had once told bawdy jokes in such places to earn a few laughs.

“Hey! The janitors are here!” someone shouted as the soldiers entered, stirring up a commotion. But it was only friendly banter; the soldiers wouldn’t steal their jobs.

Marcus went to the counter and asked, “Give me missions that have been unclaimed for three months but could be finished in a week. For recruit training.”

“Certainly, one moment.” The receptionist was a beautiful woman, who drew many customers. Even Kevin couldn’t help glancing at her; the other recruits were even more obvious, having not seen a woman in nearly three months.

“I recommend this mission,” the receptionist said, producing a logbook with a smile. “‘The Shame of the Dream Reaver Mercenary Group.’ This commission was posted by a professor from the Royal Academy, who wishes to be escorted, along with his students, to the Viperwood Forest for academic research.”

“Oh,” Marcus replied casually, “The Dream Reaver Mercenary Group didn’t complete it?”

“That’s right,” she answered. There was a rule: if a mercenary group failed a commission, the task was henceforth known as ‘the shame of’ that group.

“We’ll take it,” Marcus said without hesitation. Missions left for soldiers after three months were always the toughest and most thankless—no need to be picky.

“Please sign here,” said the receptionist, following procedure.

“What exactly does this mission entail?” Marcus asked.

The receptionist blushed, finding it awkward to answer.

Someone nearby shouted for her, “They want to watch gorillas mate! Hahaha!”

The recruits: “…”

“Hey, the Dream Reaver group is a big one, and they’re capable,” a bard chimed in, eager to educate. “But when they tried to spy on the gorillas, they got too excited and made noise. The gorillas stopped mating, and the mission failed. Hahaha…”

The whole tavern roared with laughter; drinks were spilled everywhere.