Chapitre 22: Littering in the Desert
With a bit of mana directed to my eyes, I can easily see the horde growing ever closer.
At least a hundred Bokoblins and some tall figures, which I assume to be Moblins, are rushing at the caravan.
The mercenaries are organizing a messy defense, with archers on the tops of cartridges and melee fighters in a sloppy line. It's clear that they don't have much hope for getting out of this battle alive.
"Stay here," I tell Beetle, tossing him my old handheld crossbow.
Warm adrenaline rushes washes over my body, and my lips quirk upward in anticipation of a good fight.
I unclasp my cloak, revealing the meter-long expanse of black hair that I tie into a ponytail with a bit of string.
To be discreet, I think I'll stick to physical attacks in this fight, unless I encounter a very powerful enemy. It is annoying that I don't have Samatha right now.
I join the line of melee fighters, and soon, the horde is upon us.
The Trongler flies through the air, creating a whistling sound, and eviscerates five red bokoblins in our enemy's front line. The mercenaries look at me with a bit of awe, and their spirits are raised a bit.
Another wave of red bokoblins crashes upon our defense, and I pick out a blue variant wielding a spear as my opponent.
We stand at about the same height and size each other up before the blue bokoblin dashes at me, striking forward with his spear.
I sidestep the blow, and duck under the monster's guard, landing a vicious uppercut with the sharp fingertips of my gauntlet. The bokoblin is heavily wounded after taking this hit, but I've underestimated its pain tolerance, which allows the monster to use its trump card.
The blue monster whips out a fire fruit from a ragged pouch on its belt and slams it into my midsection.
While I'm frantically running water mana throughout my body, it slams the butt of its spear into me, sending me flying.
When I crash into the ground, an angry cry escapes my mouth, "THAT FUCKING HURT, YOU DISABLED SMURF."
With an annoyed huff, I take the mana-intensive action of locking the bokoblin in place using stasis before firing twelve rounds into its head. I really gotta stop treating monsters like human opponents. They are so much more vicious and aren't afraid to hurt themselves.
A blue bokoblin would have absolutely bodied me if it caught up to me in the desert three years ago. Now, I think I could easily take on quite a few of them.
The battle rages on around me, but the mercenaries are slowly being overrun. They are completely disorganized, and the armored mercenary leader that took my sword is nowhere to be found.
I let out a high-pitched whistle that lets Floofy know he can join the fray, but should stay out of sight. Soon, laser beams are erupting from the darkness, obliterating enemy ranks.
Floofy will be able to hold them off; now I can find out where that mercenary bastard that took Samantha has gone.
After a bit of investigation, I notice that the lead cartridge in the caravan has left. I remember a wealthy family being in there, so it would make sense if they and the mercenary would leader flee, leaving the rest of us to die.
I follow the tracks in the sand, channeling mana into my legs to run even faster; the tracks in the sand are being blown away by the desert wind.
After five minutes of running, I spot the carriage, moving at a high speed with a team of sand seals. I run up alongside the carriage and jam the Throngler into one of its wheels, disabling the vehicle.
The sandseals slow to a halt, and out of the door comes the mercenary leader, with MY SWORD in his hand.
"Step away from the Viscount's carriage immediately, or I'll be forced to execute you," he says, spittle flying out of his mouth.
"That's my sword."
The mercenary leader is further incited, "What the fuck are you talking about? Get out of here."
A man yells from inside the carriage, "Just kill the peasant and fix the wheel or your paycheck will be halved."
The mercenary leader mutters under his breath, "fucking nobles," before turning to me.
"Thanks for the sword, bud," he says, stepping forward with a horizontal slash. He intends to end my life with one strike.
The mercenary leader is a bit strong, far more powerful than a normal human, but compared to Uncle Rhoam, he is moving in slow motion.
I simply speed-blitz him, grabbing the blade with my gauntleted hand, then I channel a bit of electricity into the saber, which travels down the black lynel horn and into the mercenary's body.
He convulses three times before falling to the ground, paralyzed.
This guy just left hundreds of people to die, and he would've just now killed me. It would be completely fair for me to end his life. But I'm not ready to take that step yet. I've killed in my previous life, and it's, like, not a vibe.
Deciding on a good punishment, I chop off the paralyzed man's hands and cauterize the stumps with some fire mana. It will be very hard for the mercenary to make a living now, and he definitely won't steal any more swords.
This punishment seems fitting: the viscount inside of the carriage is partially to blame for them abandoning the rest of the caravan.
A good bonk on the head knocks the mercenary out, and I proceed to the interior of the carriage.
When I step inside, the viscount's harsh voice rings out once again, "Took you long enough. Let's get moving before the horde kills those cockroaches and comes for us."
There are beautifully carved inlays on the walls of the carriage and a small driver's box up front where the reigns to a team of four sandseals are hitched.
The vehicle is two-storied. On the first floor is a hallway that I walk down, with a small bathroom off to the side connecting to the living room, and I assume bedrooms are on the top floor.
I enter the living room, which is where I heard the voice come from.
A large Hylian man surrounded by three women is sitting on a plush couch; he is focused on a large plate of food in front of him and the cigar in his mouth.
He looks up, about to yell at who he thought was the mercenary leader before seeing me. "Who are you," he stutters out.
Drawing my sword, I saunter over to the viscount and tell the suspiciously young-looking women to go upstairs.
"You have committed many crimes, viscount," I say, completely bullshiting.
The viscount's face turns white, his double chin wobbling, "H-how did you find out? Please, I'll pay any amount to keep myself alive!"
My bullshit is super effective!
"Well, we can start with everything you have," I say, drawing a line of blood in the viscount's fatty cheek with Samantha.
A greasy smile returns to the viscount's face, "Of course, good sir, but you must swear not to kill me!"
"I swear."
The viscount wobbles over to the wall of the carriage and pulls back a hidden panel. He then inserts a key around his neck into a lock, a hands me a bag full of silver, orange, and purple rupees.
"I've held up my end of the deal; now you hold up yours," he says.
I take the bag, weighing it in my hand.
"Of course, I won't kill you, but the desert will," with that, I drag the wailing nobleman out the door and throw him into the desert.
As the viscount slams on the door to the carriage, I comfort the girls upstairs and begin maneuvering sandseals back to the caravan.
L’AVIS DES CRÉATEURS 
Mctoasty_Jr
Mctoasty_Jr GIMME SPERM OR POWER STONES
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone