At noon in Cassol—

"Top-grade armor! Finely crafted!"

"Ladies here are prettier than the last! Thirty silver coins for a fresh one!"

"Bro, want some powder? Cheapest and purest in the whole North!"

"Old-school pawnshop! We buy anything! Weapons, armor, magic tools, banned potions, slaves—you name it!"

...

...

"Haven’t been here in a while. Cassol’s still this lively, huh?"

"When isn’t it?"

Near the edge of Cassol, a fully armed mercenary band flowed into the city with the crowd. This large group was a temporary alliance of three smaller bands and lone wolves—too weak alone, so they relied on numbers.

Leading them was a youth under thirty. His shortened mage robe hung with vials and flasks. A pin on his chest marked his rank among mages: Archmage.

Archmage wasn’t a formal tier—it was an honorary title for senior High Magicians who’d amassed vast knowledge and power, clearly surpassing ordinary High Magicians but falling short of Sorcerer status. In a way, it was a slight. Yet the youth didn’t seem to care. Reaching Archmage before thirty proved he was a prodigy.

Beside him walked a bearded dwarf carrying an axe. As one of the most integrated non-human races, dwarves often lived among humans. No one batted an eye.

"How long are you two gonna chit-chat? Stay sharp!"

Behind them, a burly, twitchy woman scanned the surroundings. She carried both a short staff and a massive blade—a rare magic-warrior hybrid.

"Ah... huh? Can’t you relax for once?"

"Our target’s the Great Secret Treasure! Everyone else is the enemy!"

"We’re just here for luck... If we snag the Treasure, great. If not, whatever." The young Archmage rubbed his temples wearily.

"Oh right, our trio’s main goal is—"

"Shh! Keep it down!"

The youth—Osam—waved his staff. A simple soundproof barrier enveloped them, muffling the street noise.

(Keep it low... Being hired by Heavenward Tower to mess with the Pantheon and Knighthood? That’d be disastrous if it got out.)

(So what? Heavenward Tower hires mercenaries to trip up those two factions—they do the same! And we’re not the only ones. Everyone knows the game!)

(Still, gotta save face for the employer... or those idiot adventurers will yap again...)

(Let ’em yap. I’ll cut down every one who tries.)

The feud between adventurers and mercenaries ran deep.

Mercenaries took paid jobs—anything from national wars to picking herbs in the woods.

Adventurers started as thrill-seekers chasing treasure, knowledge, or excitement. To fund their travels, they’d "casually" take quests.

Nowadays, the lines blurred. Clients posted jobs via guilds; mercenaries and adventurers took them, collecting pay through the guilds. The only difference? Mercenary Guild jobs were dirtier—they’d fight human conflicts without flinching. Adventurer Guilds avoided such tasks, sticking to resource gathering and monster hunts.

So they despised each other. Adventurers called mercenaries sellouts. Mercenaries called adventurers pretentious pansies. Clashes were constant.

(Just don’t get dragged into trouble here—)

As Osam silently prayed—

"Huh?! What’d you just say?!"

BOOM!!!!

A furious shout erupted behind him, followed by a small explosion. Osam turned just as—

WHOOSH!!!!

A heavy body flew past, deflected by his auto-triggered magic shield. It crashed into a nearby smithy! Wails and curses spilled out—the thrown dwarf had landed on a scorching anvil... Three seconds of silence for him.

Before Osam could speak, the enraged dwarf leader, Lijin, roared: "What in blazes are you—Gah!!!!"

A gleaming axe whizzed past his cheek. Only his thick Mystic Armor—marking him as a High Mystic Warrior—saved his ear.

At the rear, a woman and a dwarf mercenary were locked in combat.

"Ugh, I hate dwarves. A tiny runt like you asking to bed me? Proportionally, does your thing even hit ten centimeters hard?"

"You bitch—Ghk!"

"What’d I say? I said you dwarves are all soft, short, and tiny. Get it? Huh? Don’t believe me? Drop your pants and show me! Hahahaha!"

"You... grr... mmmph..."

The bearded dwarf, hoisted by his collar, choked on muffled curses. The woman laughed, lifting him higher. Towering over the dwarf—where 1.4 meters counted as tall—she easily dwarfed him.

"Stop it, Miss Sedrion! Don’t start trouble—"

"Huh? Me? Starting trouble?"

Sedrion’s crimson eyes locked onto Osam. Defiance and challenge blazed in them—no respect for his rank as leader.

"You bitch! Touch my brother!"

Lijin lunged, faster than his stocky frame suggested. But Sedrion was quicker. She hurled the dwarf—weighing as much as a human—like a sack! He wailed, half his beard ripped out, agony twisting his face.

"You—!"

"Know your place! These two idiots asked if I’d join a threesome. Would you tolerate two female goblins propositioning you?"

Sedrion planted her hands on her hips, deliberately looming over Lijin—who stood under 1.3 meters. Utter contempt filled her gaze, dismissing the High Mystic Warrior dwarf. Lijin’s pure-dwarf band was famous; his natural strength and combat sense matched Osam’s power. Yet this woman? Reckless beyond reason?

Dwarves glared. Other mercenaries backed off, smirking—especially the female fighters under the twitchy woman, Berisha, who pointed and giggled.

"Enough! I don’t want trouble today, but... Berisha! Control your people!" Lijin bellowed. Berisha blinked, puzzled.

"Mistaken? She’s not mine. Yours?"

"I—!"

"Ah! Apologies, both! She joined us temporarily! We recruited allies en route to the meetup."

"So... a stray?"

Berisha frowned, suspicious eyes on Osam. He just shrugged.

Mercenaries on Barbra rarely had clean pasts. Background checks were useless—and these three leaders had dark histories too.

Tension snapped taut.

"Hey, Osam," Lijin’s hand gripped his battle-axe, face contorted. "She’s unaffiliated in this alliance, right?"

"More or less."

"Since she’s not yours, I’ll teach her a lesson. Or kick her out—avoid future messes!"

"But your men started it... though Miss Sedrion overdid it... Let’s just drop it, okay?"

Osam forced a conciliatory smile. They ignored him.

"Think I want your trash? I only teamed up to pass checkpoints. You think I enjoy this? Don’t joke!"

"Trash? Say that again—"

Lijin froze.

The crowd fell silent.

Osam frowned. Berisha gripped her staff and sword.

A chilling danger seeped through the air. Most in this large mercenary band were Intermediate Magicians or Mystic Warriors—cannon fodder at best. Osam, the Archmage, was their strongest. Yet even he felt his heart race.

(A Sorcerer? Or a Battle Spirit?)

In minor nations of the Central Continent, Sorcerers and Battle Spirits were peak power. On Barbra, reaching that tier meant commanding elite mercenary legions—big players anywhere.

And now—

"Heh, heh, heh... Oh? Leaving Sako to wander was wise. More troublemakers. Far livelier than the Lord’s Mansion!"

A group rounded the corner, advancing in perfect unison. Matching armor. High-grade magic weapons. Swordsmen, archers—all drilled to precision.

At their head stood a hulking man over two meters tall. Thin leather armor barely covered his corded muscles. Every movement radiated raw power; his mana felt refined, nothing like ordinary Mystic Warriors.

All eyes fixed on his chest.

There, embedded, was a badge: three crossed swords, silver-white.

"A Battle Spirit... from the Knighthood..."

The onlookers gasped.

Everyone knew the Three Titans had poured strength into Cassol. But a mere patrol team in the city streets? Housing a Battle Spirit? Unthinkable.