- Idris POV -
-----
1 Year Later
-----
Walking through the city, I paused at a front door. The clash of steel and shouting of men could be heard off to the side. I had arrived at my mercenary company's building. The building was in the upper-middle class region of the city, where wealthier commoners lived, such as tradesmen like blacksmiths and jewelers, as to not sully the Abellon name.
Going through the door to the inside of my new company, the once chattering inside went silent upon realizing who I was. Due to my tendency to go outside only to the library or training grounds, very little was known about me to the public. All they knew was that I was a noble, and I owned the company. Most of them had caught a glimpse of me during their interviews, which were handled by Wilfred.
I ignored their cautious gazes as I observed the building's handiwork. My father gave me quite a large sum of money for the mercenary company. Therefore, I put quite a good chunk of time and money into the presentation of the business-related area of the company. I had not ordered specifics for the construction, so it was nice to finally see it with my own eyes.
'Impressive NPC hub.'
Polished dark brown wood panels covered the lower walls. They were similar to the family estate's, but without the detailed carvings all over. Above it, a sleek and sturdy wine-red plaster kept the room elegant and clean, a subtle nod to the family colors without screaming vanity. The floor was a dark gray polished stone in large, seamless tiles. Almost reminding me of the floor one may find in a bank.
'Easy to clean mud... or blood off later.'
The air smelled of leather oil and parchment, a perfect smell for the type of business they were in. Nice enough to please upper-class customers, but not so nice that it smelled like a flower shop.
Straight ahead, a massive reception counter was crafted in the same dark wood. Two clerks stood frozen, nervousness etched on their faces. The sudden change caused the couple of mercenaries inside to stop talking and look at me with curiosity. Flanking the desk sat two large display racks, holding rows of meticulously maintained examples of gear, made from Abellon steel.
The left wall held two private consultation rooms, with frosted glass windows to allow light and privacy simultaneously. In between the doors was a table, decorated with plants and a keg with freezing condensation around the edge. It was a barrel of water enchanted with a cold spell to keep it refreshing.
'I knew the water fountain was a good idea.'
On the right, the room was dotted with chairs, sofas, and coffee tables for people to wait at. At the very end of the wall, near the reception counter, was a singular heavy, reinforced door. This is where the mercenaries were chatting before I walked in.
Ignoring the frozen vendor NPCs, I strode past the mercenaries towards the door by the counter. The muffled shouts outside grew slightly louder with each step. As my hand closed around the cold iron handle, I swung the door open, unleashing a mayhem of sounds.
Laughter, shouts, the heavy thud of strikes, and the sharp clang of steel rang in my ears. Sunlight flooded my vision before clearing into a view of the training grounds. A large dirt yard, enclosed by high stone walls, the air thick with the stench of sweat and iron, the scent of effort.
Around thirty men were scattered throughout. Pairs sparring, a group playing dice in the corner, with a couple running laps. But the main event was the cluster of nearly half of them in a specific part, surrounding a dirt arena.
'This is basically a guild...'
As I walked towards the arena, the heavy door shut behind me with a thud, cutting through the noise. Instantly, heads turned, dice clattered, and conversations ended mid-sentence. The packed earth felt solid under my boots as I neared the arena.
A path made way for me while I scanned their faces in the sudden stillness. Though they had never met me, Dietrich described who I was and told them I'd be arriving today. All eyes locked onto me with curiosity, skepticism, and mild annoyance. They couldn't be themselves around nobles, the silence felt heavier than inside.
"Why so quiet now?" I grinned.
I stepped over the wooden arena ring, their gazes following my every move. It was an octagonal dirt arena, flush with the ground, only separated by the logs lying halfway into the dirt.
"You guys are warriors, right?"
I slowly began undoing my shirt. When I reached the center of the arena, I stopped, turning slowly to look them all in the eyes.
"Start acting like it."
A derisive scoff came from inside the ring of men surrounding me. My grin began to split into a smile when I found the source.
"Strength Build?"
A man, no... a mountain, stood in the front of the crowd. Easily six-and-a-half feet tall[1], with arms thicker than logs, he looked like one of those strongmen on TV.
Covered in scars all over, he was more like a bear than a man.
With quick, efficient movements, I finished stripping off my tailored shirt. I had forgone my noble demeanor roleplay, pure excitement as a gamer seeing a chance to play rushed over me.
"I like it!"
My skin shining in the sun, muscle fibers evident, I tossed my shirt. Apart from the constant physical exercise and combat sparring, constant use of physical enhancements had clearly affected my body in a positive way.
At 16 years old, I now stood at around six foot, gazing down on most men in this medieval world. Some warriors and wizards, who tend to have lifestyles allowing for better growth, could reach this height, though.
My hair was flowing down my back in waving patterns like a river of blood. I had not cut my hair since coming to this world. In my past life, I had a similar habit of not cutting my hair, usually due to me not going outside or preferring to spend that money on games and food.
"Come! Let's bond like real men!"
I beckoned him to the open space, slowly raising my arms outward like engaging in a hug. My smile widened as I bared my teeth, and with a fire in my eyes, it bordered on malicious. But to these veteran mercenaries, it was something different.
An invitation to talk, not with words but with our hearts. They say in conflict, the soul speaks, my smile was not a mock, but a call. A warrior's call.
The mountain's answering grin was a predator's flash of teeth. Every time he stepped forward, the packed earth shifted visibly under his massive boots. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the mercenaries, any hostility had vanished.
"Hakon."
He entered the ring, voice rumbling like distant thunder. With deliberate, slow steps, circling slightly, our eyes locked in a stare, assessing each other. The crowd pressed closer, forming a tight, living wall around the octagon. Breaths held, dice lay forgotten.
"Idris." I brought my arms back into stance to wrestle: knees bent, center low, hands open and ready.
Hakon moved first. With surprising speed for his size, he lunged, but not for a grab. A tree-trunk-sized right arm came flying at me, the air whooshing in a scream around his open palm. It was a move meant to stagger my balance, aimed right at my left shoulder.
Pivoting on my leading foot, I let the force of his slap carry past my shoulder, my own left hand snapping out in an arc, a strong counter behind his right shoulder to knock him forward.
*THWACK!*
With his foot planted, it felt like hitting solid oak. Hakon grunted in surprise, his balance only shifting minutely, weathering the first blow before quickly resetting his stance. The crowd ran amok with hushed whispers.
This time, Hakon charged, abandoning subtlety. Not a lunge, but a full-on rush, aiming to drive me straight through the log boundary.
*SMACK*
I met him head-on, our chests colliding, the sound silencing the yard. My boots dug into the dirt as his immense weight drove into me. Muscles, honed by years of brutal training and constant enhancement since childhood, screamed.
I held my ground.
For a terrifying, exhilarating second, the giant man was stopped dead in his tracks by me. Gasps ripped through the crowd like a wave before erupting into shouts.
"HAAAAA!"
Hakon bellowed, a sound of pure, furious effort. He planted his feet, driving down and forward with every ounce of his titanic strength, leaving craters where he stood. I roared back, my voice raw, filled with the heat of battle, a gamer lost in the ultimate fight, the thrill he had searched all his life for.
Our hands locked on each other's shoulders, foreheads nearly touching, spittle flying as we roared. The world narrowed to the trembling muscle in Hakon's neck, the fire in his eyes, the burning in my legs, and the strain on my back.
"Urgh!"
My feet began to slide. Inch by agonizing inch, Hakon's raw mass and power ground me back through the dirt. Trenches deepened behind my boots.
The roar of the crowd faded to a distant buzz under our growls. Sweat poured, stinging my eyes. I was being overpowered. Pure, terrifying strength was winning.
"HAAA!"
Hakon, sensing victory, roared again and surged for the final, crushing bear hug to lift and slam me. As his arms started to close, I abandoned resistance. I exploded into his charge, ducking low, my right leg lashing out in a desperate, backwards leg sweep aimed at the ankle of his forward-stepping leg.
At the exact same moment, Hakon, realizing his lunge was overcommitted and sensing the sweep coming, abandoned the hug. Thrown off-balance, he instinctively brought his right arm down in a colossal body slap aimed squarely at my left shoulder and collarbone.
My sweeping leg connected perfectly with Hakon's ankle, knocking his forward foot out from under him. His massive body lurched forward.
Hakon's slap landed like a hammer. Because I was committed to the sweep, my left leg was off the ground, my balance already precariously forward. The force of the blow wrenched my upper body sideways and down.
*THUD*
We hit the packed earth simultaneously so heavily it kicked up dust. Hakon, already falling forward from the sweep, crashed down like a felled oak, his side and shoulder hitting hard. I slammed into the dirt sideways beside him, shoulder and hip exploding in pain.
Utter, stunned silence filled the training yard. Thirty mercenaries stared, wide-eyed, at the two figures sprawled in the dust of the octagon.
"Hakon fell?" one of the mercenaries muttered, questioning his own eyes.
Silence.
"I've never seen that man fall since we met on the northern front!" he voiced his disbelief.
All other men stood quietly, processing the absurd scenario. Then, a sound broke the stillness.
A deep, roaring laugh burst from my chest as I rolled onto my back, staring at the blue sky.
"A man?!" I wheezed between laughs.
I sat up, my shoulder throbbed, but the fire of the fight burned bright.
"Hah! He's a damn bear!" I said, grinning wildly at the giant beside me, who was doing the same.
I pointed at Hakon, my voice filled with genuine exhilaration.
"Hakon 'The Bear'! That's your name now!"
Hakon blinked dust from his eyes, looked at me, his chest heaving, then threw his head back and unleashed a bellowing laugh that shook the walls. He reached out a hand the size of a tree trunk.
I grasped his forearm, not his hand, in the warrior's grip. He hauled me upright as effortlessly as lifting a child. The moment my feet touched dirt, he clapped my good shoulder, rattling my teeth.
The yard erupted. Not cheers, but a thunderous, unified roar of approval, boots stomping the earth into dust, voices hoarse with excitement. In the flames of passion, skepticism turned to ash, and respect was forged with sweat. The brotherhood of the mercenaries was baptized in the dirt.
'Quest Complete: Meathead Diplomacy' I joked in my head.
The thunderous approval slowly subsided into a buzz of excited chatter. Dust hung in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat, effort, and newfound respect. I stood beside Hakon, breathing deep, my body still aching.
I raised a hand, the gesture commanded instant silence. I didn't use any spells or illusions, the dirt of the arena still clung to my skin.
"You've seen the heart of this company. I've seen your strength, and you've seen mine. We don't stand on ceremony. We stand on skill, on sweat, on the steel that keeps us breathing! Not some noble's empty title!"
Hakon thumped his chest beside me.
"And now,"
A sharp grin began ripping across my face.
"It's time to put that steel to work. Recently, Dietrich secured our first contract. Security for a spice caravan."
I swept my gaze over the assembled mercenaries. Their faces no longer filled with caution, but eager blades waiting to fight.
"Gear up. Check your weapons, your armor, your kits. Departure is dawn tomorrow. Do the company proud."
A final, unified roar of commitment answered me. Men immediately began moving towards the armory, talking tactics, checking gear.
As I turned to leave the ring, the packed earth cool under my boots, I watched them for a moment. They were sprawling with energy, the silence was gone, replaced with the potent hum of sharpened blades.
A nickname was not only given but made that day. The mercenaries came together to give me a title, influenced by my warrior's spirit and the little speech I gave. It spread like wildfire through every contract they took, and it didn't take long to reach my ears.
My character sheet had updated:
Idris Abellon, 'The Prince of Steel'.
[1] Basically 2 meters (I'm american) If the readers want i can use metric from now on.