Chapter 292

Chapter 292
## Chapter 292

Same Time, Different Place (3)

A border territory where the Azerion Empire in the central Ion Continent, the Zepia Republic in the eastern lands, and the arid southern wastes intersect.

Despite featuring a desolate landscape utterly unfit for agriculture, an expansive and flourishing metropolis thrived in this precise location.

The Free City of Dracal.

An independent city-state free from the rule of any kingdom, Dracal functioned as both a neutral buffer and a central marketplace between the two mighty superpowers.

Most significantly, it served as the main seat of authority for the Mercenary Guild, an organization boasting outposts spanning the entire continent.

Securing a foothold within these walls required the explicit sanction of the Guild. For all intents and purposes, it was a domain ruled entirely by soldiers of fortune.

Within this unique realm, Patrick, serving as the reigning Secretary General, wielded influence comparable to a prime minister… or rather, that had been his reality until very recently.

‘This is a massive problem.’

Patrick, a gentleman approaching his late thirties with impeccably styled brown hair and dressed in refined, formal clothes, fought hard to mask his inner panic.

Presenting the demeanor of a high-ranking bureaucrat rather than a rugged sellsword, his mouth twitched anxiously while he pressed his fingers against his lips.

‘I endured so much suffering to climb to this position… I refuse to surrender it now.’

He was an outworlder, hailing originally from Ireland on Earth.

He had been pulled into this reality during his late thirties, right in the middle of a frantic and highly lucrative professional life.

Surviving after materializing in this alien environment had been an uphill battle.

The data he had painstakingly collected prior to his relocation proved entirely useless in this foreign realm, and his natural talents leaned heavily toward utility, rendering him poorly suited for direct warfare.

‘Even if I managed to find a path back to Earth today, reclaiming my past existence is impossible. I must seize every bit of power and wealth available here before departing.’

More than a decade had slipped away since he first enlisted in the Mercenary Guild, gradually clawing his path upward from the absolute lowest ranks.

And now, was he truly on the verge of stripped of everything he built?

‘Absolutely not. I will never permit that to occur.’

Gritting his teeth tightly, he took comfort in his newly secured safety net.

Having severed ties with the previous Mercenary King, Kanble, he had ultimately managed to secure a fresh, powerful patron.

Harley, the companion of the legendary champion and a highly celebrated figure of the grand crusade.

Leveraging that specific alliance, he had successfully held onto his title as Secretary General…

“Are you paying attention to us, Secretary General?”

…Yet it appeared his political opponents had run out of patience.

“Naturally, Sir Clayven.”

Patrick offered a courteous answer to the mature gentleman standing across from him, his eyes scanning the assembly that had unceremoniously forced their way into his private quarters.

‘They orchestrated this ambush meticulously. Do they intend to settle this matter before leaving this room?’

High-ranking Guild administrators, commanders of massive sellsword syndicates…

Among the dozen or so individuals crammed into the space, four emanated remarkably dense vibrations of power.

‘Four individuals at the master tier… This is absolute madness. How did they manage to unite so many?’

The collective pressure radiating from them made it difficult to draw breath.

A common civilian would have lost consciousness instantly, but he too was an empowered entity, fully capable of utilizing Karma points alongside his distinct personal attribute.

Forcing down a heavy sigh, he put on a welcoming expression.

“However, as I previously explained, Harley is currently occupied with the grand crusade, traveling alongside the Saint. We cannot simply disregard his status and push forward with…”

Despite occupying the role of Secretary General, his actual leverage was severely constrained without the backing of a dominant Mercenary King.

The mercenary kings represented the raw enforcement and public identity of the Guild. He had to tread incredibly lightly to avoid causing offense.

“Do you honestly take us for simpletons?”

“…I beg your pardon?”

His diplomatic stalling tactic was instantly shattered.

While he wavered, a mature woman, the Archmage acting on behalf of the spellcasting coalition, spoke with complete nonchalance.

“A considerable amount of time has passed since he departed from the northern territories. There are reports circulating about… him assuming the title of Fighting King of Calcos?”

“…But that is merely a nominal distinction granted by the Tribal Federation…”

Patrick interjected in a hurried manner.

It was entirely irrational for the Mercenary Guild, an institution bound by a code of absolute non-alignment, to pledge allegiance to a monarch of an outside realm, particularly one who did not even hold the rank of mercenary king.

The moment an individual assumed the throne of an independent nation, they ceased to operate as a simple sellsword, thereby automatically forfeiting their claims to be a mercenary king… Such was the doctrine they put forward.

“Stop dragging this out and let us finish what we came for. My patience is wearing thin. Let me just sever his head from his shoulders…”

“Taroom.”

“…Tsk, fine. Have it your way.”

A colossal combatant sporting a dense beard and thick, rippling musculature, who had been uttering violent intimidations, clicked his tongue aggressively when the mature gentleman signaled him to halt.

He likewise ranked as a master-tier warrior, yet he chose to defer to the other man’s leadership, folding his massive arms and taking a step backward.

‘Clayven… ’

Patrick turned his focus back toward the seasoned warrior standing directly in front of him.

A master-tier knight, who had once lived as a masterless wanderer before embedding himself within the sellsword underworld over two decades ago. He was now actively campaigning to claim the title of Mercenary King, having successfully aligned multiple faction leaders behind his cause.

He had previously suffered defeat at the hands of Kanble, the former Mercenary King, who possessed a far more legitimate claim as a lifelong mercenary…

‘The situation is incredibly grim.’

He had successfully navigated parallel displays of hostility in the past.

During those instances, he had consistently deflected their maneuvers by employing Harley’s formidable reputation as a protective barrier. Now that his detractors possessed a legitimate justification to oust him, maintaining his position was proving nearly impossible.

Even Clayven appeared to be honoring formal protocol solely out of deference to Harley’s grand stature… but there was a strict expiration date on how long he could survive on a mere name.

“You do not truly intend to surrender the keys of Dracal to those primitive tribes from the south, do you?”

“…In no way is that the case.”

“Hmph, then do you honestly place your faith in this so-called Fighting King?”

Sensing Patrick’s hesitation, Clayven pressed forward aggressively, his tone dripping with malice.

Ranking among the absolute elite within the organization, he possessed total faith in his personal prowess. While he avoided stating it out loud, his demeanor was laced with supreme arrogance.

Naturally, accounts concerning Harley, the celebrated grand brawler, had reached his ears, and the tales surrounding him were… unsettling.

‘What? The mythical Dragonborn? A titan measuring greater than ten meters in height?… Ha! Complete idiocy.’

Tales of heroism were invariably bloated by exaggeration, leading him to dismiss the accounts as cheap fiction.

The details were so preposterous that he found himself mentally sneering at the thought.

Patrick had undoubtedly manufactured those grand fabrications to utilize Harley as a human shield.

‘I ought to have taken part in the grand crusade myself. Had I gone, I would not be forced to waste my time with these trivial matters.’

He had previously harbored anxieties about being dragged forward to take the place of Kanble following his demise, but now, witnessing the immense triumphs of the crusade, a fresh wave of self-assurance washed over him.

He could have easily replicated those identical feats, provided he had been present.

It was precisely this mindset that fueled his aggressive efforts to expand his network of loyalists throughout the Guild.

He refused to let the title of Mercenary King slip through his fingers a second time.

Consequently, a direct collision with Patrick, Harley’s primary representative, was completely unavoidable.

“…Secretary General, there is… an urgent matter I must report…”

Yet, as destiny would dictate,

Events refused to unfold according to Clayven’s careful designs.

“There is… a visitor waiting on the ground floor…”

His personal assistant stepped into the office, her words faltering slightly as she struggled to breathe beneath the suffocating aura projected by the assembled leaders.

“…Harley has arrived.”

—

‘Let us evaluate this individual with our own eyes.’

Clayven, the ambitious candidate for the throne of the Mercenary King, marched with total self-assurance toward the ground floor reception area.

He walked side-by-side with Patrick, flanked by the senior administrators of the Guild.

They were moving to confront Harley, the figure whose identity had become the focal point of every rumor across the lands.

‘Even granting that the stories are blown out of proportion, he remains an adversary to be reckoned with.’

It was entirely possible that the man eclipsed Clayven when comparing sheer destructive potential.

Harley’s status as a core participant in the hero’s crusade could not have been built entirely on falsehoods.

‘Nevertheless, claiming the title of Mercenary King demands far more than raw physical power.’

In contrast to Harley, who was a relative newcomer to their ranks, he had operated as a sellsword for greater than twenty years, occupying a seat among the governing elite of the Guild for over a decade.

The intangible political weight he wielded was something that could not be easily brushed aside.

Furthermore, he did not stand alone.

‘I care little for the political concessions I granted to the alternative factions. The moment the title of Mercenary King is securely mine… ’

Bolstered by unwavering confidence in his individual strength and the backing of the formidable figures he had united, he advanced directly into the reception hall—.

…And the very moment he crossed the threshold, his brow furrowed deeply, detecting an incredibly abnormal pressure weighing heavily upon the vast chamber.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The grand entrance hall of the Mercenary Guild’s central fortress—the true seat of power governing Dracal—was staggeringly immense.

It featured countless service desks, administrative stations, and diverse functional areas.

Under normal circumstances, it was a chaotic hive of constant noise and movement…

“………”

“…Ahem.”

…Yet in this instant, an unsettling, absolute quietude gripped the entire space.

This held true despite the physical presence of a massive crowd of people.

And the group that had just arrived from the upper offices could immediately pinpoint the source of the anomaly.

‘So that is the man… ’

A single individual was casually reclining upon a couch situated adjacent to a massive pillar, his lower limbs extended forward in a loose sprawl while his arms rested comfortably along the top of the cushions.

Then, his eyes drifted over to fixate upon their approaching group—.

‘Ah.’

…And without a single word spoken, the proud, arrogant assembly that had just confidently entered the hall locked up perfectly in place, frozen like solid stone.

“Oh! It has been quite a while, Patrick! How has life been treating you? Hahaha!”

Yet the figure resting on the couch, entirely oblivious to the paralyzing effect he had triggered, identified Patrick among the newcomers and let out a booming, boisterous laugh while shifting himself to an upright posture.

Creak—

The furniture, already bowing severely beneath his massive frame, emitted a sharp groan of structural failure.

He had intentionally channeled his Ki to reduce his physical weight to a minimum, but even with that supernatural intervention, his mass proved far too extreme for a piece of furniture crafted for standard human beings.

“Ah! My mistake! It appears I have demolished the seating.”

“…Think nothing of it, it must have simply been a substandard piece of craftsmanship. Do not let it bother you, Harley. We had already arranged to install new furniture in this section very soon regardless.”

“Tsk tsk, this is the main headquarters of the entire Guild, can you truly not procure any high-quality furniture?”

“Hahaha, please accept my humblest apologies. I shall ensure we exercise greater care regarding these matters moving forward.”

The heavily muscled titan closed the distance between them with relaxed steps, and Patrick, breaking away from the group to greet him, bowed low with a fawning demeanor, doing everything in his power to keep the man in good spirits.

Meanwhile, Clayven and his associates stood entirely mute, their physical forms completely rigid.

‘He is… monstrously colossal.’

That single realization dominated their consciousness before all else.

Even the most physically imposing member of their faction, the heavily bearded combatant, stood well over two meters in height… yet he appeared utterly minuscule next to the giant looming over them.

…And the pressure extended far beyond mere physical dimensions.

His sheer existence, the invisible force field of his aura, the staggering mass of his spiritual essence…

It created a physical sensation as if the literal dimensions of the room were warping and buckling under the sheer intensity of his gravity.

‘What… What kind of entity am I looking at?!’

Clayven swallowed hard, his throat tightening as his respiratory system struggled to function.

The titan had not even assumed a hostile stance or initiated an attack, yet Clayven was already experiencing a distinct lack of oxygen.

As the giant stepped closer, Clayven’s knees began to vibrate with an irrepressible tremor.

‘It cannot be… ’

He had never encountered a sensation of this nature throughout his entire existence, even after successfully ascending to the master tier, causing it to take several agonizing moments to comprehend what his body was experiencing.

‘…His power… is truly at that level?’

It was a fundamental, primeval defense mechanism—an evolutionary alarm blaring within his biological makeup.

His continued survival was hanging by a thread.

Yet, despite this terrifying reality, the titan was merely indulging in lighthearted banter with Patrick, completely unconcerned with or unbothered by the figures surrounding them.

“Oh! Who might these individuals be? They possess rather respectable energy signatures.”

In that moment, the titan’s focus finally shifted to encompass the rest of the gathering.

Clayven locked eyes with that gaze, and absolute clarity washed over him.

‘…I am going to be slaughtered.’

The concept of engaging him in physical combat was an absolute delusion.

Inflated fabrications? A political deception engineered by Patrick? Claims that he lacked the proper credentials to serve as the Mercenary King?

Every bit of it was entirely irrelevant.

None of those concepts held a shred of meaning when standing before this primordial force of nature.

His intricately structured political alliances, the various factions he had spent months consolidating, the elite master-level duelists he had brought under his banner…

What earthly benefit could any of those assets provide against a singular entity capable of physically dismantling them all without breaking a sweat?

“Ah, allow me to introduce a few of our Guild’s senior administrators. We were in the midst of analyzing the strategic path forward for our organization.”

“Oh! Is that so! For what reason do they all appear so profoundly paralyzed? Unwind a bit, I harbor no intentions of consuming you as a meal! Hahaha!”

Harley let out another booming laugh, and Clayven, finally forcing his nervous system back under a modicum of voluntary control, observed that he was far from the only one who had suffered an internal collapse.

It was no longer a mystery why the grand hall had fallen into absolute desolation.

Every single individual who had marched down by his side, irrespective of their personal cultivation or tier of strength, was currently drenched in cold sweat, their complexions completely drained of color and their features tight with terror.

He arrived at an instantaneous, definitive conclusion.

“…Please forgive our initial lack of manners. Your grand reputation precedes you, esteemed Harley-nim. It is a profound privilege to stand in your presence. My name is Clayven, and I command the Golden Crow Mercenary Group.”

He executed a profound, sweeping bow, his speech dripping with absolute deference—a definitive, unmistakable gesture of total capitulation.

“Oh! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well!”

Harley, who had crossed the intervening distance with such supernatural velocity that he seemed to simply manifest right beside him, delivered a heavy slap to his shoulder blade accompanied by a boisterous roar of laughter.

The action was intended as a display of camaraderie… yet Clayven reeled backward, his balance faltering as his body rocked from the impact, forcing a strained expression onto his face.

A completely compliant, desperate grin, engineered solely by his absolute desire to remain alive.

“It appears we are going to get along splendidly! Hahaha!”

“Ha… Haha… That is truly wonderful to hear…”

And it stood as the wisest alternative he could have possibly chosen under the circumstances.