Sam was familiar with the distinct mixture of metal, oil and rust.
Three strong smells that accompanied his life in the Old world, and the one before it—from the rusty metals he used to study in damp darkness of blackouts in his impoverished situation, but lived a barely well-off life; In the New world— warriors drenching their plated armor in oils and to their blades to avoid having to covering their weapons in blood.
Sam performed similar duties as well, covering the sword and dagger collection he laid upon a spare war table with oil as the glistening steel captivates him further. Distracting him a bit, recalling tiny little Trivia about Empire Steel.
"Attention!" An angry Sergeant of a standing army approaches him as soldiers stand to attention, leaving the Blond haired, blue eyed novice to be unaware of the sergeant's drill. Distracted by the glistening glimmer of the steel before him, The Sergeant yells.
"Merc scum, stand to attention! or will a pay dock straighten you out?!"
Sam, wearing a yellow cloak and just breastplate with gauntlets stands to attention, panic stricken across his face with bullets of sweat trickling down as he salutes in silence.
'Phew, that was close...' He mentally prepared for the pay dock. After all, money wasn't his goal to begin with joining the Schwartz war campaign against the efforts of the Ursus Empire.
"Very good! A pay dock to you for your absence of mind!" The Sergeant belts out, and a soft smirk soon follows his face as the Sergeant turns away from Sam—Sergeant's overcoat slapping into his view.
He puffed cheeks and almost stuck a tongue out before sighing to regain proper composure, that level of disrespect nobody here can question, but to get what he wants, proper etiquette was first and foremost.
"Formation!" as the Sergeant commands the tent full of soldiers, as Sam then runs past them. The Sergeant of the army simply irked his face, but in that moment a rain of arrows descended upon their hidden war camp—They were compromised but Sam knew it was coming, there is a distinct feeling he was reborn with, the magical ability to control and feel magnetic fields.
From the distance the arrows were fired there were no sensations of boots, so this means the archers engaging them are in a safe position to relentlessly pepper their numbers... What wasn't accounted for was his active role, in which the arrows catch themselves in the air, as though they were needles pricking into a very huge pillow.
If he weren't here, this hidden army would've been dead.
In haste, he shifts the directions of the arrows before the archers could reload in 10 seconds, and then as quickly as they launched for his company and the Schwartz army, a Return to Sender as the volley of arrows launched at a high speed back to their archers.
Sam sweats from head to toe, out of breath and body nearly tired already as the despite the existing of Mana as a well of magic for this power, this immense feat of Return to Sender a rain of arrows nearly gives him shadows beneath his eyes, mouth drier than the very hot earth he stood upon, and making him instinctively reach for his metal flask—Uncapping it with his magnetic magic, a sly convenience, the cold burst of relief surging for about a second or two through both the gauntlets and throughout his mouth.
He lifts himself up, carefully, the magical draw pushing him back into a tent with his mind already staring straight into unused buckets, shields, and spare and worn plate mail—visualizing a huge umbrella to hide underneath from another hail of arrows.
Before that hail of arrows could intercept them again, The Sergeant belts order after order—The soldiers of the Schwartz army gather themselves upon their horses to form a small cavalry. A standing army of 30 soldiers, armed with bow and blade, were enough to handle a whole backwater city's rebellious peasants and what little knights stationed there.
They charge for the open village, no real defenses outside of towers as the army circles around the perimeter, firing volley after volley of flaming arrows to torch them out. Peasants and soldiers from the village escaping were run down by horses and stabbed into the ground by knights with lances.
This was a real war, and one he was so used to just to live.
'What would... Mom and Dad think, me... trampling down on others to get what I want...'
Hands clasped down, body in that distinct warm and empty fatigue, from a lengthy day of constant work. That was the price in Mana to be paid to avoid becoming a victim of several arrows, another Mercenary approaches Sam and then asks.
"Are—are the arrows over?" Ginger hair, nothing but a collared shirt, ragged pants and combat boots provided by the army. He was stationed here as a chef, and over his head was a Wok. Sam chuckles, knowing that that would've worked... but then he eyes the Wok as he feels the soft sensations of the trembling hands makes him notice... that the cooking pan isn't made of either Imperial-standard Steel or Cold Pig Iron.
"Yeah, it's over... by the way may I look at your cooking pan?"
"What? Why—why would, in a time like this?!" as the other Merc points a hand over to the carnage, what looks to be the concentration of archers now pouring in from the forest around them. Trying to shoot at the soldiers, but the arrows find no mark as they simply graze and bounce off of the Imperial-standard Steel Plate Armor.
"F-fine suit yourself, I'm going to take cover in a barrel!" The other mercenary tosses to Sam the pan, and he lovingly caresses the bottom of the cooking pan. A strange smile creeps as he realizes what it's made out of… Adamantium.
'Vinland Adamantium no way!' Giggling excitedly, a resounding flick of a finger strikes the pan, the magnetic magic allowing him to hear a unique ringing sensation—the melody was exquisite, like an orchestra that is conducted by someone random and yet, a perfect symmetry and synergy erupts forth, one could describe this metal as indestructible, and yet it's wasted being made into tools.
Several archers shoot arrows into his direction, only catching the brief glimpse of metal flashing across his eyes before grinding it to a halt. The archers reached for crossbows on their hips to try and bombard him, but it was useless. They realize too late who they faced, not the Schwartz Cavalry's backline but the renown mercenary.
The Steel Sovereign.