These words were spoken quite bluntly—so bluntly that several of the retainers behind Stine subconsciously exchanged glances.
For a mercenary leader to critique the noble army's tactics right in front of a knight, even if her phrasing wasn't outright offensive, her attitude was certainly a bit too candid.
But Stine showed no sign of taking offense. He simply nodded calmly. “I will convey your group's suggestion as well.”
Afterward, he ordered his men to rest in place.
Once the order was passed down, the soldiers sat down in small groups. Some pulled out rations and waterskins from their packs, while others simply lay down on the straw-covered ground to take a quick nap with their eyes closed.
After fighting several tough battles in a row, few had any energy left for conversation.
Roger also found an inconspicuous spot, unclipped his waterskin and ration bag from his waist, and began to gnaw on the hard, dry rye bread, washing it down with mouthfuls of cold water.
Stine and Artley were still sitting by the campfire, talking. The firelight cast flickering shadows across their faces, and judging by their lip movements, they seemed to be discussing their next coordination plan.
Roger watched them for a few moments before withdrawing his gaze. He swallowed his food, took another gulp of water, and then leaned against the cave wall, closing his eyes to circulate Croft's Meditation Method.
“Roger,” a familiar voice called out from beside him.
Roger opened his eyes to find Irene sitting next to him, though he hadn't noticed when she had arrived. He didn't respond immediately, waiting for her to state her purpose.
During his days of traveling with Irene, Roger had more or less figured out her habits. Every time she approached him of her own accord, it was always with a question she had already turned over in her mind multiple times.
In a voice only the two of them could hear, Irene spoke.
“I feel like things are getting more and more off. Those goblins are growing stronger. According to what that mercenary deputy leader said, the level of coordination those goblins are showing is already enough to crush this noble army.”
Roger recalled the various behaviors of those goblins and nodded.
“Indeed. Moreover, the number of goblins awakening extraordinary power is on the rise. At this rate, the Count probably won't have the strength to handle this in a while.”
In his memory, works where goblins displayed this level of capability were either dark fantasy in style or had themes entirely unsuitable for minors...
Whichever it was, it was certainly not good news for those caught in the middle of it.
For him, however, this was a mixed blessing.
The increase in extraordinary goblins meant that every battle would become more difficult, and the risk of being surrounded and killed was also rising.
But on the flip side, these elite units yielded several times more points than ordinary grunts. This was what one might call high risk, high reward.
Of course, Roger was well aware that he could afford to think this way only because of his identity as a transmigrator and the safety net provided by his system. If he couldn't win, he could swap skills, equipment, or tactics. Even if he was down to his last breath, he could still pull himself back with Heal.
But for the natives without any cheats, especially those at the bottom, this was undoubtedly pure tragedy.
The evolution of the goblins was not some high-risk, high-reward challenge to them; it simply meant that the soldiers' death toll would keep climbing, villages would be slaughtered, and their homes would be reduced to ashes.
Since he possessed advantages that others did not, there was no need to judge or mock them by his own standards.
Irene continued, “If the situation deteriorates to an unsalvageable point, I might terminate my employment.”
Roger remained silent, merely nodding.
Mercenaries, after all, were not knights. Their loyalty to their employers was measured entirely by gold and various other complex factors. Fleeing when things looked grim was completely normal.
In Roger's view, there was nothing to criticize about Irene's choice. As long as she didn't backstab her employer or run off with the money in the dead of night, she was already showing plenty of professional integrity.
And although they had fought several battles together, their relationship was not yet close enough to form a lifelong mercenary partnership.
The relationship between mercenaries was maintained by mutual interest and shifted with the tides of the situation. In essence, it was not much different from the relationship between a mercenary and an employer.
Therefore, he simply respected Irene's intentions.
Irene looked into Roger's eyes and continued:
“I suggest you also run as soon as you see things going south. There's no need to throw your life away. Even if you know quite a few skills, your mana is ultimately limited. Once your mana is depleted, you'll just be a target with a few more tricks than an ordinary archer.”
“Thanks for the warning. I'll run too if things get too risky.” Roger's response was noncommittal, and he didn't give a definitive answer. After all, the current development of events was still within an acceptable range.
Unless those cultists suddenly popped up to announce the end of the world, he had no intention of making any clear promises while everything remained so uncertain.
Irene looked at him, her lips parting slightly as if she had more to say, but in the end, she held back. She maintained the same attitude toward everyone: offer advice, and then respect their judgment, whether that judgment aligned with her expectations or not.
She stood up and walked off in another direction.
Roger let her go, closing his eyes to resume his meditation.
Even in his meditative state, his consciousness did not entirely sever its connection with the outside world.
By the campfire, the conversation between Stine and Artley continued, as they had clearly not yet reached an agreement on the specifics of their coordination plan.
A bit further away, Steinbeck was making adjustments on a map with a charcoal pencil. He was surrounded by several of the Golden Falcon Group's scouts. Occasionally, someone would point at the map, and the others would lean in to look, whispering a few words of feedback.
Irene sat alone in a corner, wiping down her sword.
Roger pulled his attention back inward, taking stock of his points while recovering his mana, reviewing his recent battles.
Then, he opened the system mall and purchased a skill:
【Name: Weakness Detection
Description: Channel Life Energy to sharpen vision and perception, revealing the weaknesses of enemies.
Identified weaknesses are displayed in the user's vision as red glowing dots. Attacks hitting these weaknesses deal bonus damage scaled with the user's Life Energy level.
Consumes a small amount of Life Energy per second while active. Can be deactivated at any time.
Max Level: Lv5
Requirements: Life Energy Lv2
Cost: 1,000 Points】
This skill reminded Roger of a certain sword-wielding character from a MOBA game back on Earth, though he had never quite figured out how to play that character even up until his transmigration.
“Points -1,000, remaining balance 3,150.”
With this skill, he would be able to find the weaknesses of elite units much faster on the battlefield, rather than relying on trial-and-error shots to figure out where he could inflict effective damage.
After exchanging for the skill, Roger focused on circulating his meditation method to recover his mana.
Inside this cavern illuminated by torches and campfires, the soldiers of the Raymond family and the mercenaries of the Golden Falcon Group rested and recovered.
The crackling of the campfire, the hushed murmurs of conversation, and the scraping of whetstones against steel blended together, creating a background hum within the cave.
In his meditation, Roger felt his mana slowly rising back up within him as his consciousness gradually drifted into peaceful tranquility.
Rate on N.U.
