Chapter 278: Ambushed on the Street

Although this place has plenty of mercenary groups, very few dare to attack Henwell and his group.

The large mercenary groups understand the risks and steer clear of such trouble.

Mid-sized groups are officially registered; lacking the strength, they won’t recklessly challenge a noble-led team.

Small mercenary bands? They’re nothing to worry about, just a few kittens coming to their doom.

But that doesn’t mean Henwell and his group can relax.

What matters most to mercenaries?

Reputation.

In the shadowy underworld, the bounty on Henwell’s team has grown to an astonishing level.

For mercenaries, a big name opens doors—whether it’s getting contracts, joining renowned groups, or even founding their own guilds.

Mercenaries deal in blood and steel. Especially, lone “wolves” or hotheaded rookies dream of making a name for themselves and striking it rich overnight.

They might never claim the bounty on Henwell or Orak’s heads, but every member of the westbound group has a bounty.

Each knight carries a reward exceeding ten thousand gold coins.

Killing any one of them guarantees a lifetime of food and drink.

Killing Henwell himself is unlikely, but taking down a single knight—though still difficult—is at least possible.

As Henwell and his group approach Tusayat’s outskirts, they receive a “welcome” from local mercenaries.

While passing through a residential area outside the city, several steel long arrows suddenly fly toward Henwell at the front of the formation.

Facing the incoming arrows, Henwell catches them in his hand and throws them back.

The arrow pierces the wooden roof above and pins the archer to the rooftop.

Then, dozens of people who are with mercenary attires, leap down from rooftops on both sides.

What does “mercenary attire” mean?

Their armor isn’t uniform but customized with adaptive modifications, some wear a mix of leather and metal plates.

Their weapons are a hodgepodge, with various favored trinkets hanging from their gear.

This equipment isn’t terrible but has limitations.

It suits solo or small-scale skirmishes.

Since their weapons aren’t standardized, a careless move in battle could endanger nearby allies.

In the right place, at the right moment, these mercenaries could hold their own against knights for a while.

But this clearly isn’t that moment.

This group is better equipped, and after more than two months of training together, the knights have developed seamless coordination in battle.

The instant the ambush begins, every knight reacts instantly.

Even before entering this deadly zone, Henwell has already put his knights on high alert.

Take the scene that follows, for example.

The mercenaries who leap down holding large nets aren’t foolish.

In a street environment like this, dropping a dozen or so big nets would definitely cause serious trouble for mounted knights.

They expect the knights to draw their longswords and fight up close.

But the knights in the westbound group seem different from others.

They simply raise their arms and aim at the mercenaries wielding the nets.

Crossbows mounted on their arms fire sharply.

The bolts pierce through the mercenaries’ armor with brutal force, sinking deep into their bodies.

The force is so strong that the mercenaries’ bodies still in midair slam into the walls of nearby buildings.

After this volley, the knights reload their arm-mounted crossbows.

The rest of the knights raise heavy military crossbows hanging from their saddles.

From both sides of the street, dozens of mercenaries rush out, carrying tall rectangular shields topped with spikes.

They prepare to form a shield wall, blocking the front and rear of the group.

But they’re too slow. Or maybe they never expected the net tactic to fail.

Before they can form the shield wall, the net bearers are already shot down midair.

Other knights raise their pre-loaded heavy crossbows and unleash a precise volley aimed at the shield wall’s front and rear.

Any part of the body exposed outside those shield protections becomes a target.

The penetrating power of the arrows easily pierces exposed thighs, arms, even shoulders.

After this volley, many shield bearers in front and back fall.

The knights don’t give them a chance to regroup.

Those who just finished firing their arm crossbows switch to heavy crossbows, picking off all mercenaries fully exposed behind the shields.

Now exposed behind the shield wall are mercenaries rushing in from front and rear, ready to throw all kinds of dangerous projectiles.

The mercenaries stare in stunned disbelief at the scene unfolding before them. So much has happened in just over ten seconds that their minds can’t keep up.

This isn’t at all what they expected.

Henwell whistles sharply, signaling his dozen or so knights to leap from their mounts onto a nearby wagon.

Grouped in threes, these knights pull out their greatbows and start picking off the mercenaries behind them.

Henwell himself leads a charge with more than ten knights.

Since the narrow streets make long weapons unwieldy, they all draw their cavalry sabers.

These sabers were borrowed from the Lord Iron Guards and distributed to Orak’s knights by Henwell.

With dual sabers raised, the knights sweep forward like eagles diving on prey.

Covering just a few dozen meters, their expert horsemanship and powerful mounts let them charge at impressive speed.

What follows is a scene no onlooker will ever forget.

Over a hundred heads fly through the air in seconds—an utterly shocking sight.

More than a hundred headless bodies spurt blood fountains over a meter high, chilling everyone who watches.

With that, Henwell and his twenty knights leave behind a crimson spray along the street.

After the charge, Henwell leads the group to turn around.

On the way back, Henwell dismounts first.

Wielding his twin sabers, he finishes off any mercenary lucky enough to have survived without losing their head.

Out of over a hundred mercenaries, only one remains unscathed.

He stands dumbfounded, clutching a heavy broadsword.

His mind is a blank.

He doesn’t understand what just happened.

He remembers being tripped up moments ago.

And yet, when he got back up, all his comrades lay around him as headless corpses.

Just when he thinks it must be a nightmare, a commanding figure steps before him, blocking out the sunlight.

Henwell tilts his head, studying the young man’s dazed face, then lightly taps his cheek with the back of his saber.

“Hey! Wake up! What’s your name? Which mercenary corps are you from?”

“Great Wolf! I’m from the Frenzied Wolf Mercenary Corps!”

Henwell smiles at the young man’s instinctive reply.

“Congratulations! From now on, you’re the leader of the Frenzied Wolf Mercenary Corps.”

Great Wolf stares blankly at Henwell’s blood-drenched cloak as he steps away, his broadsword slipping from his hand onto the ground...