I Became the Black Knight

Coincidentally, the departure date for the request was the very next day.

Dale bought a suitable longsword from a blacksmith affiliated with the guild. Then, before the sun had even risen, he headed to the guild office at dawn.

The other participants in the request had already gathered, and one of the mercenaries was currently arguing with Garand.

"Come on, Mr. Garand! This isn't right! You suddenly add another member at the last minute—a Black Knight, no less! How is this acceptable?"

Garand raised both hands with an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. But I was concerned. You know how busy things have been lately. If more valuable mercenaries were to die while dealing with that mutant owlbear, it could cripple the guild's operations."

"Still, this is too much..."

"Don't worry so much. If anything goes wrong, I'll take full responsibility."

"It's not about the money!"

As the argument grew more heated, the sound of Dale's approaching footsteps drew everyone's attention.

Garand greeted him warmly.

"Welcome, Sir Dale. Good morning."

Dale simply nodded in response.

The mercenary who had been arguing scanned Dale up and down, then made a displeased face.

Now that Dale was standing right in front of him, the pressure he exuded was no joke.

Garand asked in a subtle tone,

"Well? Doesn't he seem reliable?"

"Who said he lacked strength... Sheesh."

The mercenary hesitated for a while, clearly reluctant to take Dale along no matter what.

At that, Garand's expression hardened slightly.

"Hey, Miles. You already failed this request once—why are you being so picky? Or is there some specific reason you shouldn't bring Sir Dale along?"

At Garand's words, the mercenary—apparently named Miles—flinched.

He wasn't in a position to raise his voice to Garand right now.

Just as Garand had said, Miles had been part of the previous owlbear subjugation party and was the only one who returned alive.

Failing a request wasn't unusual.

A failure might tarnish one's record, but it wasn't fatal. After all, the average success rate for mercenaries barely exceeded 60%.

But the fact that he returned alone after losing all his comrades—that was critical.

Who could say for sure that Miles didn't betray his companions and flee on his own?

If such suspicion hardened into belief, no mercenary would ever want to work with Miles again.

He had to redeem himself this time. With a sour expression, Miles spoke,

"Fine. But—I'm the leader of the subjugation party. You'll follow my orders."

"Sir Dale has already agreed to that," Garand replied.

"In that case…"

Though clearly displeased, Miles reluctantly accepted.

He approached Dale and held out his hand for a handshake.

"I'm Miles, son of Aman. Rank 3 Warrior with a Copper Badge. We won't be working together for long, but I look forward to it."

"Dale. Rank 2 Black Knight."

Miles, large and rat-faced, subtly applied pressure to Dale's hand as they shook.

As a Rank 3 Warrior, he prided himself on his strength above all else.

It was a childish tactic, perhaps, but establishing hierarchy among mercenaries was a crucial ritual.

"?"

Awkward at first, Dale didn't quite understand what Miles was trying to do—but soon enough, he realized the intent behind the handshake.

So Dale tightened his grip as well.

Miles's face gradually turned red as he strained, drawing on every ounce of strength he had.

But before long, an involuntary groan of pain escaped his lips.

"Augh—!"

"Oh, sorry. I must've gripped too hard."

Dale responded innocently as he finally let go of Miles's hand.

Miles's palm was flushed red, blood having rushed to the surface. His face was equally crimson, but from shame. Trying to recover his dignity, Miles muttered nonchalantly,

"Hmm. Quite the grip. I suppose you'll make a decent teammate after all."

As if he'd been the one testing Dale.

But everyone watching saw right through him—and quietly scoffed.

The scene had made him look pitiful.

Having lost face, Miles cursed under his breath.

"Damn it."

Miles quickly changed the subject.

"Sir Dale, please wait here a moment. I forgot something and need to go prepare."

"Alright."

Once Miles had hurried off somewhere, Dale approached Garand.

Garand gave a wry smile and said,

"He may not look it, but his skills aren't bad. His only real problem is his obsession with women."

"What about the other members?"

"They're over there. With you, that makes seven in total."

Two Bronze Badges, two Iron Badges, one Priestess, a Wooden Badge, and Dale himself.

With an archer, a shield-bearer, and a priest, the composition of the party was quite stable.

If they made the proper preparations to face a mutated Owlbear, there was almost no chance of failure.

'I might not even need to lift a finger.'

Dale thought about going over to introduce himself to the other mercenaries, but it was clear they had no interest in talking to him.

So he stayed quietly in place, waiting.

Eventually, Miles returned, carrying a large backpack in his hands.

He looked around, then suddenly kicked a small-framed mercenary without warning.

"Argh!"

"You little shit! If you see me, you should be running over to carry the baggage! What the hell are you spacing out for? You want me to knock some sense into you?!"

"I-I'm sorry!"

The small-framed mercenary hurriedly picked up the luggage.

He was a wooden-badge mercenary — the one assigned to carry supplies.

It was sudden and violent, but no one paid it much attention.

Violence was commonplace in the mercenary world.

And wooden-badge mercenaries were considered closer to errand boys than fellow comrades.

They were more like servants than teammates.

The subjugation party members all handed over their bags to the porter.

Only two people didn't.

The priestess and Dale.

"Sir Knight, allow me to carry your luggage."

"It's fine. I'll carry it myself."

"Y—Yes, sir."

The porter bowed deeply and stepped back.

Despite carrying a load larger than his own body, he didn't seem the least bit strained.

'Stronger than I expected. Maybe he's not human.'

He wasn't wearing any armor, just a grimy helmet that partially covered his face, making it difficult to tell what race he was.

At that moment, Miles shouted,

"Alright! It's a two-day journey, so we need to keep moving. I've rented a supply wagon—let's head over!"

Led by Miles, the mercenaries all began moving at once.

***

Miles took on the role of the coachman. Holding the reins, he patted the seat beside him.

"Priestess! Come sit here! Hehe."

"…I'm fine, thank you."

The priestess, her red hair neatly tied back, shook her head.

Miles had already hit on her several times before, and she was clearly wary.

Miles grinned and gestured toward the back.

"You wouldn't want to sit next to that thing, would you?"

By "that thing," he meant Dale.

The priestess frowned.

It was true—Sitting next to a heretic might be worse than enduring Miles's flirting.

Reluctantly, the priestess sat beside Miles.

The rest of the group found their own spots in the wagon.

Dale, aware that the others were uncomfortable around him, quietly polished his newly bought longsword with a cloth, indifferent to it all.

The wagon traveled along the main road.

The journey was smooth.

Not a single monster or wild beast appeared.

In truth, this was to be expected.

The area around Irene was generally well-maintained, and the roads even more so.

Dale being attacked by a One-Eye was the exception, not the rule.

As the peaceful journey continued, the sun eventually set.

The wagon came to a stop at a suitable spot.

Miles kicked at the porter and barked,

"Hey, you! Hurry up and set up camp!"

"Y-Yes, sir!"

The porter scrambled to his feet in a hurry.

But perhaps due to the heavy load he was carrying, he lost his footing and fell to the ground.

One of the bags flew open, spilling its contents everywhere.

"Tch. You've really got a talent for screwing things up."

"I-I'm sorry."

The mercenaries looked on and sneered. Not a single one stepped forward to help.

After all, it wasn't their problem.

Dale approached the porter, who was frantically gathering the spilled contents.

Startled, the porter gasped.

"Hiiik!"

"I'll help."

"Y-You really don't have to!"

The porter was clearly flustered, but Dale paid it no mind. He calmly began picking up the scattered items.

'This is the bag Miles bought this morning.'

As Dale glanced over the contents, a sense of puzzlement crept in.

'Why is there so much holy water and food?'

There are two supplies essential for any expedition. Holy water has a wide range of uses, including healing effects. Food, of course, goes without saying.

But the amount seemed excessive.

'Why is there so much food for a journey that'll only take four days?'

'Is Miles just the overly cautious type?'

It wasn't unheard of. Some people were unusually meticulous—careful to the point of over-preparing.

That much Dale could understand. However—

"Miles. I have a question."

When Dale suddenly spoke up, Miles responded with an irritated look.

"What is it?"

"Why isn't there any black herb for fighting an owlbear? I don't see any hooks or ropes either. And this—isn't this paralysis weed?"

Owlbears go wild at the scent of black herb.

One of the most standard tactics—at least from what Dale knew—was to lure the owlbear with black herb and then restrain its movements with hooks. It was basic monster-hunting strategy.

When Dale questioned him, Miles' expression hardened.

"…You're surprisingly knowledgeable about monsters."

It was genuinely unexpected.

To be that well-versed in monster-handling was something you'd expect from a veteran mercenary with at least ten years of experience.

Clicking his tongue, Miles began to explain.

"We already know exactly where the owlbear's lair is. There's no need to lure it with black herb."

"And the hooks?"

"Owlbear hide sells for a high price. Wouldn't it be a waste to damage such a valuable asset? My plan was to subdue the creature using paralysis weed, then dismantle it cleanly."

Dale mulled over Miles' explanation. It wasn't entirely unreasonable.

'He already failed once. Maybe he's taking more risks this time to make up for it.'

If they managed to secure a clean owlbear hide, it would fetch a hefty sum. And if that happened, the other mercenaries would have no reason to hesitate in following Miles again. After all, mercenaries did the job for money in the end.

Still, Dale couldn't shake the sense that something felt off. A subtle discomfort, hard to put into words.

"But—"

Just as Dale was about to press further, Miles stepped up to him, as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity. His expression openly showed his displeasure.

Pointing a finger in Dale's face, Miles snapped,

"If you keep interfering like this, it's going to be a problem. I'm the leader of this subjugation party. Sir Dale, you're disregarding my authority right now."

Dale looked down at him and replied,

"I merely voiced a concern."

"Concerns should've been raised before the expedition began. What's the point of bringing them up now?"

He wasn't wrong. At this point, what was the use of questioning things? It wasn't like they were going to turn back to the city.

With an openly displeased expression, Miles said,

"I hope there won't be any more incidents like this. Otherwise…"

Get lost.

That was most likely the meaning behind the words Miles had left unsaid.

Dale looked down at him. He hadn't expected Miles to pick a fight this directly.

He turned his head, scanning the reactions around them.

Judging by their expressions, the other mercenaries seemed to share Miles' opinion.

Dale's questions had been reasonable, but regardless, during a mission, the leader's authority was considered absolute.

After a brief pause, Dale gave a nod.

"Understood."

"See that you behave."

Having succeeded in asserting his authority, Miles wore a satisfied expression.

Dale thought to himself:

'What an arrogant bastard.'

His instincts screamed at him—just kill this insufferable man already. But Dale didn't give in. That kind of action didn't align with his beliefs. Besides, he had a strong feeling. That someday, he and Miles would cross blades.

It might not have been a premonition—perhaps it was simply Dale's own desire.

He pulled out a cloth once more and meticulously polished his longsword. Then, he carefully sharpened the blade of his hand axe.

Because to crush the skull of someone he despised, his weapons always had to be in perfect condition.