"Please confirm the terms of the contract and sign your name here. If you have any questions, feel free to raise them right now..."
Ophelia's words were once again cut short by a burst of rough laughter. The mercenaries waved their weapons, leaning against the tree trunks beside her or standing shoulder to shoulder with their comrades, guffawing loudly.
"Hey there, lady! We ain't no cowards scared of death! Don't treat us like we're newborn babes who need coddling!"
"I wouldn't mind being a babe, though—snuggled up in her arms, hahaha! Bet those curves are soft as silk! Wonder if she's got milk to spare?"
"Hahaha..."
In the face of these vulgar men's teasing, Ophelia merely arched an eyebrow. Her expression remained calm and unflustered, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She cleared her throat softly.
"Then let us move on to the most crucial clause of the contract—the matter of advancing each of you to the intermediate rank."
The raucous laughter died abruptly. The men stared at the young lady before them with glowing eyes, awkward grins spreading across their faces as they exchanged glances, unsure of what to say. A few mercenaries let out nervous chuckles, which quickly faded into silence. Noticing their change in demeanor, Ophelia nodded in satisfaction before turning her gaze back to the contract.
"According to the terms of the agreement, each of you will first undergo an assessment to determine if your physical constitution is suitable for advancement. If you meet the requirements, we will proceed with the next phase of the plan. If your physical condition falls short, you will undergo a thirty-day special training regimen led by Miss Judy. Should any of you still fail to meet the standards after this training, I'm afraid you will not be eligible for the power upgrade."
"Heh heh heh, my lady," a burly mercenary called out, scratching his head. "We don't even know what kind of training this is! What if you're just trying to make things hard for us? Like, say—making us slay a dragon with our bare hands? That'd be a bit much, wouldn't it?"
"I am not privy to the specifics of the training program; my role is merely to convey the information to you all."
Ophelia was not the least bit flustered. Her bright, clear eyes met the gaze of the mercenary who had spoken up, steady and unwavering. If anything, it was the mercenary who grew flustered under her stare, turning away with a crimson flush on his cheeks—which only drew more jeers from his companions. "Hey, look at him! He's blushing! Good grief!"
"Shut it, you damned bastards! I'm still a pure-hearted virgin, y'know!"
"Pure-hearted? Virgin? Didn't see you being so pure when you were groping Misha at the Big Boob Tavern the other night..."
The mercenaries dissolved into chaos once more, but Ophelia remained perfectly composed. In truth, she was no stranger to such scenes. Long before her current station, she had frequented the slums and common districts, where the coarse language of farmers, craftsmen, and vagrants was little different from the banter of these mercenaries. If she could keep her cool in those rough neighborhoods, she certainly would not lose her poise in front of this ragtag bunch.
As Ophelia surveyed the mercenaries, several of the older, seasoned leaders in their ranks were quietly sizing her up as well. They had initially thought that a pampered noble lady like her would never be able to handle being around men like them—that she might even burst into tears and flee at the first sign of their rowdiness. But now, they saw that this beautiful young woman was surprisingly calm and collected, bearing herself with the dignity of true nobility. Most notably of all was that head of violet hair... Could this girl be of royal blood?
The mercenaries' uproar did not last long this time. For one thing, they had quickly realized that this lady was not as easy to bully as they had thought. For another, their captains had subtly signaled for them to quiet down. Mercenaries might disregard the authority of a noble lady, but they would never dare defy the orders of their own leaders. For men who lived and died by the sword, **obedience to orders was paramount**.
"After passing these two assessments, those who are deemed unfit for advancement... will have to forfeit the opportunity. Because if you cannot pass these trials, it means the risk of death during the power upgrade would be far too great. As stipulated in the contract, each mercenary will receive a monthly stipend of ten gold coins during the term of service. Furthermore, while the contract is in effect, all shops within Elysium City will offer you a discount—we can provide preferential rates for the maintenance, repair, and purchase of weapons."
This time, Ophelia's words were met not with ridicule, but with a chorus of sharp intakes of breath from the mercenaries.
"By the Light of the Divine! Ten gold coins a month? Am I dreaming?"
"I've lived half my life and never seen that much money in one go!"
As the mercenaries buzzed with excited whispers, a man clad in iron chainmail stood up, gripping a massive battleaxe in his hand as he fixed a wary gaze on Ophelia.
"Lady, if you don't mind me asking—what exactly is our mission? Don't get me wrong, we're grateful that your lord is willing to help us advance in rank, pay us such a generous salary, and offer us all these perks. But I highly doubt he's hiring us just to play glorified gardeners and forest rangers, is he? Would you be so kind as to enlighten us?"
"Certainly."
Ophelia nodded slightly, then closed the contract in her hand.
"First and foremost, I assume you are all aware that by signing this contract, you will be bound to fight for Lord Blake for the next three years."
"We're well aware of that."
The mercenaries nodded in unison. The young lord had already made that clear to them earlier. While a three-year commitment was a bit long for mercenaries, it was by no means unacceptable—not with such a handsome reward on the table. Even spending three years cooped up here would be well worth it.
"For these three years, you will fight under Lord Blake's banner. Which means..."
Ophelia paused, biting her lower lip, looking somewhat hesitant. To be honest, she did not approve of Blake's decision. But right now, she was merely his adjutant—her duty was to relay his orders. So after a moment's hesitation, she pressed on.
"...that you may be disbanded and reassigned to new teams."
Ophelia's words sent shockwaves through the crowd.
"Hey now, lady! That's not how things work! Why the hell should we be split up? We've fought side by side till this day! We ain't got no intention of joining some new team!"
"Yeah! What's that lord thinking?"
"In future battles, Lord Blake will lead you personally, and he will need to adjust your deployments to optimize combat efficiency."
In the face of the mercenaries' angry protests, Ophelia replied calmly and unhurriedly.
"If you wish to sign the contract, this clause is non-negotiable. Lord Blake will do his utmost to keep your original units intact as much as possible, and once the contract expires, you will be free to return to your old teams. But for now, to prepare for future battles, we must make the most optimal choices and arrangements."
"..."
The mercenaries fell silent. Frankly speaking, Blake's condition had pushed them right up to the edge of what they were willing to accept. But so what? Compared to the dream of advancing to the intermediate rank, a temporary reassignment seemed like a small price to pay... Or was it?
Each mercenary had his own thoughts on the matter, but for now, none of them had any further arguments to make.
"Additionally, once you sign the contract, you must reside within Elysium City. You are not permitted to leave the forest except on official missions—and if you absolutely must go out, you must submit an application and obtain approval first. Anyone who leaves without permission, or attempts to desert... will not be given a second chance, as Lord Blake has already stated."
With that, Ophelia let out a long sigh, then held up the contract in her hand.
"Now, gentlemen, you may peruse the detailed terms carefully. If you confirm that everything is in order, you may sign the contract."
"I have one more question."
Just then, another voice rang out—a young half-elf, dressed in the garb of a ranger, standing with his companions in the shadow of a nearby tree, regarding Ophelia with a look of mild confusion.
"Beautiful lady, we are merely woodsmen. We have little interest in advancing to the intermediate rank. So would it be possible to sign a separate contract with us? We do not desire this power upgrade, and in exchange, we hope to be granted greater freedom."
While awakening one's soul power was a momentous event for most warriors, it was not the be-all and end-all for everyone—least of all for rangers like these. Their greatest strengths lay in tracking, trap-setting, wilderness survival, and archery. Direct frontal combat was something they actively avoided. As such, these half-elves had no particular desire to awaken their soul power. What was more, their elven blood had already blessed them with unique innate talents—they had no need for any additional power.
"Certainly. I will report your request to Lord Blake."
Upon hearing the half-elf's words, Ophelia nodded slightly, acknowledging his request.
After the meeting concluded, Ophelia stepped outside, standing on the soft lawn as she rubbed her temples, leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree. The mercenaries had no intention of living within Elysium City; despite Ophelia's attempts to "tempt" them with the offer, they had firmly declined, choosing instead to set up camp in a clearing outside the city walls. This was partly out of habit—and partly a deliberate statement, a reminder that they were, first and foremost, outsiders.
As Ophelia watched them, she reached down to her waist and unclipped a small water flask. She was still wearing her practical scholar's robes—ever since those two sisters had forced her to wear a maid's uniform during training, Ophelia had resolved to stick to her traveling scholar attire at all other times, seemingly determined to keep this up for the foreseeable future.
Just as the cool spring water chased away her fatigue, a familiar voice sounded beside her.
"It seems everything went smoothly?"
Blake stood a short distance away, smiling as he looked at the young lady before him. In truth, he had watched Ophelia's entire performance, and he had to admit—the former princess had impressed him. Calm, composed, and articulate, she would have made an excellent military commander in another life. But...
Blake shrugged, pushing the thought aside, then sauntered over to stand beside Ophelia. The young lady looked truly exhausted; unlike usual, she did not turn to face him immediately, but continued sipping her water slowly. It was no wonder—ever since Blake had returned, he had only been responsible for setting the general direction and formulating plans, leaving all the tedious details to his subordinates. Charlotte and Judy were each specialists in their own fields, so their tasks were straightforward enough. But Ophelia had far more on her plate than either of them. She was in charge of drafting plans, managing finances, organizing intelligence...
Well, eighty percent of these tasks had been Blake's impulsive ideas, so he had to take at least half the blame for her exhaustion.
"How did things go with those mages? I trust you didn't send them to some place from which there is no return?"
"Of course not."
Hearing Ophelia's slightly sarcastic question, Blake chuckled and shook his head.
"I've already escorted them safely out of the Duskwood Forest. And... I must admit, the Mage Guild is a surprisingly amicable and reasonable organization to deal with. I suspect they will take the initiative to pay us another visit before long."
"Take the initiative to visit?"
Ophelia frowned. Her intuition told her that this young lord was far from ordinary—every word he spoke often carried a meaning entirely different from what it seemed on the surface.
"Will it be a friendly visit?"
"Certainly, my dear adjutant. I do wish you would have a little more faith in your lord."
Sensing Ophelia's skepticism, Blake laughed lightly. In truth, his meeting with the mages from the Guild had gone far more smoothly than he had anticipated. The other side had no desire to antagonize him, and that old mage had clearly taken a great interest in his territory. Blake knew exactly why—the Holy Church and the Mage Guild were both after the Source. But at least the Guild acted with a modicum of reason, unlike the Church, which had come charging in like a pack of dogs catching a whiff of meat.
But to Blake's surprise, Ophelia did not respond immediately. Instead, her expression turned serious. The young lady clipped her water flask back onto her waist, fell silent for a moment, then lifted her head to look at Blake with a solemn gaze.
"Lord Blake, I think it is high time you hosted a banquet."
"Here?"
Upon hearing Ophelia's suggestion, Blake looked somewhat dismissive. As a knight, he had attended countless banquets in his time—but he had never hosted one himself. There was a simple reason for that: Blake detested overly noisy gatherings. When attending someone else's banquet, he was merely a guest—free to leave whenever he pleased. But if he were the host, he would be trapped there all night, with no chance of slipping away early.
"Yes. Here."
"And what would be the reason for this banquet?"
Blake stared at the young lady before him. He knew Ophelia would never make such a suggestion without good cause. The former princess was no more fond of social gatherings than he was—she preferred quiet over chaos, just like him. So for her to suddenly propose this, something must have happened. Sure enough, as Blake had suspected, Ophelia reached into her bosom and pulled out an ornately sealed letter.
"This is the reason."
"This is..."
Blake took the letter from Ophelia's hand, broke the seal, and scanned its contents. A cold, sardonic smile tugged at his lips.
"The royal family is finally starting to feel restless, I see."
"That is only because you have been far too ostentatious, Lord Blake."
Ophelia sighed helplessly, pressing a hand to her forehead.
"Three high-ranked swordsmen—such a concentration of power is unheard of in the Kingdom of Wester. In times of impending war, those in power naturally hope to win over strong warriors to their side, rather than allowing such a destabilizing force to take root within their realm... So in a way, you have brought this upon yourself. I had originally intended to tell you about this once these current troubles had subsided, but it seems we may have been presented with a perfect opportunity."
"The Mage Guild."
Blake crumpled the letter in his hand without a second thought, the crisp white paper tearing into shreds that vanished into thin air with a flick of his wrist.
"Perhaps this *is* a golden opportunity. But I have no intention of letting the royal family rest easy. I trust you have not forgotten that there is still a certain princess residing in our castle, have you?"
"...I take it you have already made your preparations, have you not?"
"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have not."
Blake did not give a direct answer, instead offering a cryptic smile.
"I'd like to see what the king dares to do to me."
"Lord Blake."
Watching the expression on Blake's face, Ophelia's own turned somber.
"After all... he is the king of this realm. I know you hold no love for him, but... at the very least, for appearances' sake..."
"I understand your concerns, Lady Ophelia."
Blake bowed slightly, cutting off Ophelia's hesitant words of caution.
"Rest assured—I will come up with a plan that satisfies everyone."