As the old saying goes, **Money makes the world go round**.
Literally speaking, such a saying implies that any being willing to work for gold—no matter how sinister or lowly its origins—must have some genuine capabilities to back it up. Yet as Blake stared at the mercenaries gathered before the castle gates, he failed to see even the faintest resemblance between them and those so-called "spirits who grind mills for money."
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky. On the small square outside Duskhold Castle, over a dozen groups stood scattered about. These were mercenary companies that had answered the recruitment call and journeyed to the Duskwood Forest. Along the Golden Merchant Road, mercenaries were just as common a sight as traders—they roamed the thoroughfares like jackals, sniffing out the scent of war and bloodshed wherever it lingered. They cared not for justice or evil, for virtue or vice; the only measure of their loyalty was the size of the purse offered. They worked for gold, swore unwavering fealty to their employers for the duration of their contracts, and never betrayed their word. Of course, the combat prowess of these companies varied wildly: some specialized in reconnaissance, ambushes, and assassinations—shadowy work far from the front lines—while others excelled in sieges and frontal assaults. Their fees differed just as greatly, and more importantly, they chose their masters entirely of their own free will. There were only two things they craved above all else: gold, and the glory of battle.
This was precisely why they were known as the "Wild Dogs"—they refused to be tamed or enlisted as regular soldiers. They only accepted the terms of hire: sign a contract, fulfill the job, and leave once the term expired. Simple as that.
Blake knew these mercenaries like the back of his hand, which was precisely why he felt a twinge of dissatisfaction as he surveyed this first batch of recruits.
Like their forefathers before them, they wore a hodgepodge of armor and formed ragtag bands—but their numbers were far too small, making them look more like adventuring parties than proper mercenary companies. Unlike adventurers, however, mercenary bands typically maintained a single unit type; except for the largest companies, most consisted of only one kind of soldier. This made their numbers critical. Without numerical superiority, they had to rely on sheer quality—and therein lay the problem. Anyone capable of holding their own against dozens, even hundreds, of foes single-handedly was either a high-ranked swordsman or a knight. With that kind of power, why on earth would they waste their time as mercenaries? Only a fool would do that.
Yet as Blake watched the small clusters of swordsmen, archers, and cavalry before him, he couldn't help but sigh. Among these mercenaries, there were few young, vigorous men in their prime. Judging by their faces, they were either raw recruits fresh out of their apprenticeships or grizzled veterans long past their prime. Blake could have summed them up in four words: **the old, the weak, the sick, and the disabled**. They fit the bill perfectly.
By the Light of the Divine, just look at that ancient archer with the tattered black eye patch! And those young cavalrymen—their horses were so emaciated, they were little more than skin and bones! Blake held zero expectations for the fighting ability of this sorry lot. But at this point, he had no other choice. Large-scale conscription was out of the question; his only option was to sweeten the pot with higher pay to lure more mercenaries to his cause. Unfortunately, it seemed these men were far more interested in the front lines than in this "backwater" forest. Despite the generous sum Blake was offering, they clearly didn't think there would be any real fighting to be had in such a desolate place.
"Judy," Blake said, his voice flat. He nodded his chin toward the mercenaries and gave the order. "Test them."
The red-haired girl bowed crisply, then strode forward a few paces until she stood beside the assembled mercenaries.
"The test begins now!"
Her clear, ringing voice cut through the air—and in an instant, the lazy, slouching mercenaries seemed to transform. They snapped to attention, standing ramrod straight and forming neat ranks. Even the youngest among them, their faces still soft with youth, fixed the red-haired girl with solemn expressions, waiting for her next words. This was a mandatory rite of passage for mercenaries before signing any contract. Only after proving their mettle could the employer rest assured enough to seal the deal—and it also gave the employer a rough gauge of the company's strength. The standards of these tests varied, however, depending entirely on the employer's whims: sometimes strict, sometimes utterly bizarre. Only those who passed were deemed worthy of signing the contract.
Though Blake thought little of their abilities, these men were still seasoned mercenaries, and they knew this pre-contract drill all too well.
"The test is simple," Judy said, her gaze sweeping over the ready mercenaries. She paused for a heartbeat, then continued.
"If any of you can step within half a meter of me, you pass."
Silence fell.
The mercenaries stared at each other in bewilderment, their eyes wide with confusion. They exchanged glances, utterly clueless as to what kind of test this was supposed to be.
A test of speed? But the young red-haired woman was clad head to toe in armor—hardly the attire of someone who relied on swiftness. Besides, what use was speed in actual warfare? Was it a race to see who could run away the fastest? That didn't make sense either. Step within half a meter of her? The requirement sounded absurdly vague, not to mention pointless. While the condition itself was simple enough to understand, its purpose was a complete mystery.
Regardless, the employer had set the terms—and as mercenaries, their job was to fulfill them. After a few moments of silent deliberation, several small teams began to creep forward cautiously, weapons in hand, their bodies tensed for anything as they advanced on Judy. The red-haired girl watched them approach, her expression never wavering. A cool mountain breeze stirred her scarlet hair, making it dance like a flickering flame. She rested a hand on the hilt of the longsword at her waist, but made no move to draw it.
Slowly but surely, the mercenaries' pace began to slacken.
When they were still ten meters away, sweat was already streaming down their faces. Their complexions flushed bright red, and they gritted their teeth as if struggling against some invisible force—but at least they could still move forward. Once they crossed the five-meter mark, however, their movements slowed to a crawl. They could barely lift their feet, and their hands—once firmly gripping their weapons—drooped limply at their sides. Their eyes blazed with exertion, and they gasped for air like fish stranded on the shore. Some threw in the towel and retreated immediately, while others gritted their teeth and pressed on, their bodies trembling with the effort, but it was clear they had nothing left to give.
What in the world was happening?
Their bizarre reactions piqued the curiosity of the others. They exchanged glances, then followed suit, joining the fray.
But it wasn't long before they encountered the exact same predicament. Not a single one of them could get within three meters of Judy. The strongest among them—a cavalryman—had managed to close to four meters by relying on the full charge of his horse, but beyond that, his mount refused to take another step, rearing up in terror. The poor rider clutched his throat, gasping for breath, and rolled off his horse, scrambling backward as fast as he could.
The sensation plaguing the mercenaries was simple: **unbearable heat**.
At first, they paid it no mind—many didn't even notice anything amiss. They just kept moving forward, determined to reach the half-meter mark as Judy had instructed. But it didn't take long for them to realize that this was far from the easy task they'd expected. The closer they drew to the red-haired girl, the more intense the heat became, until the scorching air left them dizzy and disoriented. The chainmail on some of them grew so hot it was agony to wear. Those who prided themselves on their brute strength pushed onward, only to find that even the air itself seemed to ignite around them. With every breath they took, it felt as if they were swallowing a blazing fireball, making even the simple act of breathing a struggle.
Every mercenary on the square had taken the test, yet not a single one had managed to step within half a meter of Judy. They were forced to stand their ground four or five meters away, gritting their teeth and enduring the searing heat, desperate to uphold the mercenaries' creed of never backing down without a fight. After all, for men like them, pride was just as important as gold. To be forced to retreat by a mere girl without even exchanging a single blow? It was a humiliation they could never swallow.
"I apologize, my lord," Judy said, casting a glance at the struggling mercenaries before turning to Blake with a helpless expression. "It seems none of them have passed."
"Judy, I must remind you once again," Blake replied, his tone equally helpless. "The foes they will face are not the Holy Order of the Divine Knights. There is no need for such a rigorous test."
The technique Judy had used was the standard recruitment criterion from the Age of Chaos. In a world dominated by knights, the ability to resist the pressure of their soul aura was a matter of life and death. Knights possessed powerful souls and unshakable faith, their battle auras unlike anything else in the realm. Once they unleashed their fighting spirit, ordinary men would crumple under the pressure, their will to fight shattered in an instant. To wage war against such foes, soldiers needed the strength to withstand that aura.
Of course, this was a skill easily acquired by anyone who had reached the intermediate rank or higher—those who had awakened their soul attribute or elemental powers could manifest a protective barrier to shield themselves from the oppressive force of a knight's aura. But it was painfully clear that these poor mercenaries had no such power.
It was like giving a calculus exam to a bunch of kindergarten children.
Judy's cheeks flushed slightly as she finally realized her mistake, and she immediately retracted her aura. At once, the mercenaries stumbled backward, scrambling to put distance between themselves and the red-haired girl, gasping greedily for the cool, fresh mountain air to soothe their scorched lungs. They might not have fully understood the extent of Judy's power, but they had all sensed one thing loud and clear: this red-haired girl was not someone to be trifled with.
Once the mercenaries had regained their composure, Blake stepped forward. He fixed his gaze on the men before him, fell silent for a moment, then spoke.
"I am disappointed, gentlemen."
Silence greeted his words.
"Frankly, your skills are far too weak to meet my standards. I do not believe you stand the slightest chance of victory on my battlefield."
Blake's words were sharp and unforgiving, but not a single mercenary could find a single word to refute him. The truth was plain for all to see: they hadn't even been able to get close to a young girl, let alone engage her in combat. Their ability to fight had been stripped away before the first blow was even struck. Her aura alone had exceeded their wildest imaginations. They had arrived here brimming with hope and excitement, but now, nothing but dejection painted their faces.
"However," Blake continued, pausing for effect—just as the mercenaries' hearts sank to the depths of despair—"I am in dire need of manpower at this moment."
At his words, their eyes lit up once more, like embers catching fire.
"I will give you all a chance. You may stay, and I will hire you to fight for me—but I have conditions."
Blake fell silent again, his eyes sweeping over the mercenaries. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly as his gaze landed on the largest group standing farthest away.
They were the biggest contingent here—fifty men strong, all of them warriors. What had caught Blake's attention, however, was the armor they wore. Mercenaries, though they fought in groups, had no tradition of standardized equipment. When it came to armor, most wore whatever they could get their hands on; they only used emblems, patterns, or banners to identify their company. But these men were different. They wore identical suits of armor, carried identical standard-issue weapons—even their gear was exactly the same: two longswords hanging at their waists, and a metal longbow slung over their backs. This was highly unusual for mercenaries. After all, every man had his own strengths and weaknesses; a weapon that suited one man perfectly might be nothing but useless junk to another. What was more, every single one of these swordsmen wielded dual blades—a clear sign that this was their specialty.
A handful of dual-blade swordsmen was understandable, but fifty? That could only be the result of rigorous, unified training—and that was not something any ordinary mercenary company would bother with. Mercenaries trained alone or in small groups; even the largest companies only drilled basic tactics together, never dictating what weapons each man should use.
So who exactly were these men? Where had they come from?
Blake's gaze lingered on them for a moment before moving on. He steadied his resolve and continued.
"My condition is this: you must obey my every command and train according to my methods. Within one month, I will forge you into warriors of intermediate rank! Not only that, I will pay you handsomely, and even supply you with weapons! But there is one more condition: you must sign a three-year contract of hire. For those three years, you will fight *only* for me. You are not permitted to leave my service, nor to desert. If you do… I cannot guarantee that your heads will remain attached to your shoulders."
If the mercenaries had been surprised by his earlier words, Blake's declaration now sent a tidal wave of shock rippling through their ranks! Every man who heard him was left with only one thought echoing in his mind.
**Intermediate rank!!**
Reaching the intermediate rank was not impossible, but it was far from easy. Many had tried and failed; many more lacked the talent to even attempt it. Though these mercenaries had plenty of combat experience, none of them had managed to awaken their soul power. This was not a game—you couldn't just "level up" by grinding experience points. Most of these men had long since given up on ever reaching the intermediate rank, and those who had come to Blake's domain were no exception.
After all, in the mercenaries' eyes, the Duskwood Forest was a peaceful backwater with no wars to be fought. Even with the recruitment call, they didn't expect any real action—just easy money for a quiet life of drinking and carousing. Many of them had abandoned their dreams long ago, resigned to their fate as low-ranked fighters. But now, Blake's words had reignited the dying embers of hope in their hearts!
**Intermediate rank! Intermediate rank! To become intermediate swordsmen in just one month!**
It was an offer no swordsman could refuse!!
"Honored Lord!" a voice shouted from the chaotic crowd. "I have a question!"
"Speak your mind," Blake replied.
"Can you guarantee that we will *definitely* become intermediate swordsmen? And… is this training dangerous?"
"I give you my word," Blake answered, his voice ringing with absolute confidence. This was no empty boast. During the Age of Chaos, there had been countless potions and elixirs designed to boost one's strength, and among his maids were some of the finest alchemists and combat masters in the land. If these men still couldn't reach the intermediate rank after training under their guidance *and* taking those potions… then they truly deserved to bang their heads against a wall and die.
"And I can tell you plainly: the training will be extremely dangerous. Failure could very well cost you your life."
Upon hearing this, Ophelia's brows furrowed. She hurried forward, tugging at Blake's sleeve anxiously. After all, they were in desperate need of manpower right now. In Ophelia's mind, the sensible thing to do was to reel these men in first with sweet words and empty promises, then break the bad news to them once they were already trapped in the contract. But here was their lord, laying out the risks—*and the possibility of death*—right from the start! It was practically an invitation for them to run away. Who in their right mind would willingly risk their lives like this?
Yet what happened next completely defied Ophelia's expectations. The moment Blake finished speaking, the mercenaries erupted into a frenzy of excitement!
"I'll do it, my lord!"
"Me too! Give us your orders—we'll follow you to the ends of the earth!"
"I volunteer as well! My lord, if you truly make me an intermediate swordsman, I'll fight for you *for free*!"
Ophelia stared at them in stunned silence, her eyes wide with disbelief. She couldn't comprehend why these men were so eager to join, knowing full well the danger they would face.
"You don't understand them, Lady Ophelia," Judy said softly, having noticed her confusion.
"To these mercenaries, this is the greatest opportunity of their lives."
"The greatest opportunity?" Ophelia echoed, bewildered.
"Indeed," Judy replied, nodding slightly.
"I think you've forgotten, my lady—mercenaries are born to sell their lives for gold. They have always risked death for a few measly coins. For men like them, the threat of death is nothing more than an everyday occurrence. What you see as a high-risk gamble is, to them, a once-in-a-lifetime chance. You are not a warrior, so you cannot fathom how important awakening one's soul power is to men like these. It is the lifelong pursuit of every warrior—they would give up everything they have for it. Death is a price they are more than willing to pay. If they had never met his lordship, they would have gone to their graves never knowing the power of their own souls. But now? Now they have a chance. And all they have to risk is something they were already prepared to lose in their endless quest for strength."
Judy turned to Ophelia, her eyes calm and steady.
"So to them, his lordship's conditions are not conditions at all. If they fail, they lose nothing but a life that was already worth little in the grand scheme of things. But if they succeed? The rewards will far outweigh any risk they take."
Ophelia fell silent, gazing at the mercenaries before her. Finally, she shook her head helplessly.
"I still don't understand."
"You don't have to," Blake said, shrugging his shoulders. He had clearly overheard their conversation, and he could guess Ophelia's thoughts well enough. After all, the former princess had never been a warrior; she could never understand what advancing in rank truly meant to a fighter. To her, life was the most precious thing in the world—nothing could compare to it. But it was clear that not everyone shared her perspective.
"Now, you may go and have these mercenaries sign the contracts," Blake instructed Ophelia. "Remember our earlier agreement—use the strictest terms we have."
"As you command, my lord."
With that, Blake turned to leave, already turning his mind to the problem of that eccentric princess. But just as he was about to walk away, he noticed the largest group of mercenaries marching toward him in perfect formation. A moment later, their leader—a warrior clad in a black iron helmet—stepped out of the ranks and approached him, his eyes fixed firmly on Blake's face.
"Greetings, honored Lord," the man said, bowing deeply in the warrior's salute before speaking in a low, gravelly voice. "I apologize for my presumption, but I have a question to ask of you."
"What is it?" Blake replied, equally curious about this unusual mercenary captain.
"You said that you can raise our strength to the intermediate rank in one month."
"I did," Blake nodded. "And I also made it clear that the risk is very high."
The warrior met his gaze unflinchingly. "Then I must ask you this, my lord… do you have the power to raise us to the **high rank**?"
Blake's eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you implying?"
"If you can forge us into high-ranked warriors, my lord," the man said, his voice ringing with unshakable conviction, "we will swear eternal fealty to you as your vassals! And I swear to you on my honor—you will gain a power beyond your wildest imagination, a force unlike any you have ever commanded!"
With that, the warrior reached up and removed his helmet, revealing his face to the world.
When Ophelia saw it, she let out a soft gasp of shock.
It was the face of an **Orc**.