Mercenary System: I can increase innate potential !-Chapter 68: Rumors

As the day wore on, news of the recent battlefields had begun to circulate, and chatter was lively.

In a weaving mill, two women were chatting by a window as they worked.

"Did you hear what happened in Plouta?" one of them exclaimed excitedly.

"How did Maxime and his mercenaries win that battle? Everyone said that the enemies in black were too numerous and above all too strong!"

"That’s what I’m wondering too!" replied the other with emotion.

"Even with the help of Baron Irut’s soldiers and a few apprentice knights, it doesn’t seem plausible. I hear the losses were not inconsiderable, but they still managed to repel them!"

In a tavern in the center of town, a group of peasants were drinking together.

"What happened in Enor makes me shudder," said one of them, his voice trembling.

"Baron Irut’s soldiers and apprentices fought valiantly, but in the end they were all but annihilated. Most of the houses went up in smoke..."

"Yes, it’s a good thing the men dressed in black weren’t cruel and bloody to ordinary people, the vast majority of Henor’s villagers weren’t hurt." interjected a second with relief.

"But what about Plouta?" interrupted another.

"How did the mercenaries manage to inflict such a crushing defeat on these opponents? Rumors even have it that one of their patrols was ambushed but still managed to hold off their opponents until reinforcements arrived!"

"We’re talking about at least a dozen apprentice knights!

"I think that if mercenaries from nowhere managed to hold off their opponents, it means that either there were only a few weak apprentice knights on the other side, or it was deliberate on the part of the opponents..."

In a leather shop, a merchant and his apprentice were exchanging ideas.

"You know, I doubt that victory in Plouta, it seems suspicious to me," murmured the merchant, pretending to fold a piece of leather.

"After all, how could a newly created mercenary group, and especially with such a young leader, be so strong?"

"Perhaps he received reinforcements?" suggested the apprentice, eyebrows furrowed.

"But even that can’t explain how they managed to win."

"It’s not as if Baron Irut could send more soldiers by surprise to Plouta..."

"Or else..." the merchant tilted his head back, looking thoughtful.

"He’s made a pact with wizards..." he finished very seriously.

"HAHAHA"

"Sorcerers he said!" The apprentice began to laugh until he bent double.

"Don’t laugh like that, I’m sure they exist!" asserted the merchant with certainty and confidence.

"Stop it! Rumors have been circulating for hundreds of years, but no one has ever seen the slightest trace of witchcraft!"

On the way, a group of soldiers returning from a patrol were chatting amongst themselves.

"You’re not going to tell me you believe all that noise about Plouta?" scoffed one of them, crossing his arms.

"Mercenaries can be cunning, but they’re not invincible. It’s either an incredible stroke of luck, or something more... dark."

"What’s certain is that these men in black are not a threat to be taken lightly." retorted another, nervously.

"If Maxime was able to fend them off, he must have had an ace up his sleeve."

"What kind of trump card can repel so many apprentice knights? I wish I had that kind of trump card too!" exclaimed the first soldier, continuing to mock.

In one room of a house, a group of elderly people were chatting over their home-made beer.

"In the meantime, you have to admit that Maxime did a good job," said an old man, his voice hoarse.

"Mercenaries are often seen as cannon fodder, but amazingly here, they’ve managed to protect the village of Plouta from attack by a powerful army."

"But at what cost?" questioned an elderly woman, her gaze worried.

"Many soldiers have fallen, and Baron Irut could be in danger. If there are further attacks, we could all be in danger."

"Baron Irut is a knight himself and even has 2 knights under his command. Before Hypocamp falls, we’ll all have time to die naturally."

"That’s right, you worry a bit too much old skin haha."

"What do you mean old skin? Have you looked at yourself, you hick?"

"This old man is still young in the head, so I may be poor but I’m immortal!"

Discussions in Hypocamp reflected the prevailing confusion and anxiety.

Although the victory at Plouta was celebrated, it was overshadowed by doubts and suspicions.

Everyone was wondering about the future, about the dangers ahead, trying to understand how the unexpected could have happened on these battlefields.

...

In a clearing bathed in subdued sunlight, unaware that he had become the target of mockery, suspicion and above all entertainment in Hypocamp, a young man stood alone, sword in hand, in the middle of a circle of towering trees.

His blond hair reflected the golden rays that pierced through the foliage, and his blue eyes, piercing as the summer sky, were focused on an invisible point in front of him.

At first glance, he appeared thin, but beneath this appearance lay a raw, controlled strength, ready to burst forth at any moment.

The young man inhaled deeply, feeling the fresh, humid forest air invade his lungs.

He gripped the hilt of his sword with firm determination, the muscles of his arms and shoulders tensing slightly beneath his linen shirt.

The leaves rustled faintly around him, but he paid them no heed.

His concentration was absolute.

With a swift, precise movement, he sent a horizontal thrust into the air, cutting through the void with impressive speed.

The sword whistled, as if cleaving not the wind, but an invisible enemy.

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Her gestures were fluid, almost graceful, but exuded a savage power, like a predator concealing its true strength until the last moment.

**Clang!

He took a step forward and struck again, this time with a diagonal thrust.

Every movement seemed calculated, controlled, but the moment the sword left his hand, explosive violence burst forth.

His slender yet lithe body twisted with feline precision, each rotation using the full force of his muscles like a taut spring.

He executed a series of feints and estocs with such speed that if ordinary spectators were standing here, they would see only a blurred silhouette.

Drops of sweat beaded on his forehead, but that didn’t slow him down.

He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on every sensation: the weight of the sword, the momentum of his arms, the imagined resistance of his enemy.

It was like a dance, wild and rhythmic, where each blow represented a battle against his own body, against his own limits.

Suddenly, he pivoted on himself, throwing all his weight into a circular blow that, had it struck a real target, would have cut clean through armor and bone.

Breathing rapidly, he froze for a moment, his feet firmly planted on the hard ground of the clearing, watching the movement of the leaves in the wind, as if trying to capture their subtle dance, the better to integrate it into his own.

His breathing gradually calmed.

The silence of the forest stretched around him, almost oppressive, disturbed only by the gentle creaking of branches and the breath of the wind.

He planted his sword in the ground, taking a moment to contemplate the clearing around him.

The trees, mute spectators of his training, seemed to have been there for centuries, immutable and powerful.

Maxime returned his hand to the sword’s hilt and pulled it from the ground in one swift movement.

The muscles of his arm, thin but hard as wood, tensed one last time as he executed one last stroke.

This one, slower than the previous ones, marked the end of his session.

Out of breath but satisfied, he ran the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had begun to bead on his temples.

A smile appeared on his lips. He knew he was still young, still inexperienced, but with every stroke of his sword, he felt this explosive power boiling up inside him, this strength he was constantly discovering and mastering, a little more every day.

The young man sat up, his heart still racing, when suddenly an unexpected sound shattered the calm of the clearing: applause.

Slow at first, then more regular.

He turned his head curiously and saw a figure standing out from the shadows of the trees, striding forward, boots treading the fallen leaves.