The Regression Of A Grand Mercenary - 68 - Independent Boys - Part 2

Fear… courage… anger… joy… none of these emotions mattered to Thill when it came to battle.

The only thing that ever truly mattered in combat was seeing it end—and it had to end with him standing on top. Victory was not about who felt more, but about who acted correctly in the face of danger.

So, when he watched the boys march forward to face the monsters from his list, he did not waste time wondering what emotions stirred inside them. Whether their hearts raced with fear, or their spirits burned with courage, or their blood boiled with anger—it made no difference to him. What mattered was how they would act. Would they step forward with clarity, or let hesitation cloud their blades? Would they contain the chaos of battle, or be swallowed by it?

Emotions are natural. People are meant to feel—fear, joy, even despair. It’s how they live, how they experience the fullness of life. Thill knew this, and he did not despise it. The boys were no different; they were allowed to feel as humans should.

But when life hangs by a thread, when everything you care for is balanced on the edge of a knife… emotions are no ally. They are weights shackling one’s arms and mind, making each decision slower, each strike weaker.

In battle, hesitation is death. Excitement is recklessness. Fear is paralysis. Even courage can blind.

That was why Thill wanted something more from the boys. He wanted them to rise above the storm of their own hearts, to master themselves rather than be mastered. He wanted them to learn that what truly decides a battle is not the rush of emotion but the clarity of action.

If they could conquer themselves—their fear, their thrill, their desperate clinging to survival—then they could conquer the battlefield.

Because humans, for all their strength and will, are flawed by design. And to survive, one must learn to act beyond those flaws.

But in the past few months since his return to his past, these emotions were beginning to climb back…and he could see the flaws of his actions in every battle he faced.

Despite his opinion, he was a hypocrite to his own sense of wisdom.

And the reason for this was because he was able to cling back to the few things he could express his feelings with.

His family.

“Sigh…I hope this all goes well.”

***

The cave’s mouth loomed ahead, damp air seeping out with the stench of filth and rotting meat. The sound of guttural chatter echoed inside — goblins, careless and unaware. Mario crouched low, signaling for the nineteen boys behind him to keep still. His knuckles tightened around the hilt of his sword, sweat rolling down his cheek.

The goblins shuffled out in small groups, green skins glistening in the pale morning light. They carried crude weapons — rusted blades, jagged clubs, and one even had a sharpened bone. They were loud, laughing in their screeching tongue, not realizing they were being hunted.

Mario’s heart pounded like a drum, but he forced it down. His voice, rough and desperate, tore through the still air—

“JUMP THEM!!”

The boys erupted forward like a storm breaking free.

The goblins screeched in surprise, their chatter twisting into shrill panic as the boys slammed into them head-on. Steel clashed against crude iron. The first goblin fell with its chest split open, blood splattering across the rocks. Another was tackled to the ground by two boys, their blades stabbing wildly, again and again, until its writhing stopped.

Mario swung his blade in a wide arc, cleaving through a goblin’s neck — the head spun off into the dirt. He roared to keep his boys moving, kicking another goblin square in the gut before driving his sword into its chest.

The fight devolved into chaos.

One boy screamed as a goblin’s jagged club cracked against his shoulder, but another rammed his spear straight through the creature’s side. A goblin leapt onto a boy’s back, gnashing its teeth into his neck, but Mario surged in, ripping the beast off and crushing its skull into the rock with his gauntleted fist.

“Don’t stop! CUT THEM DOWN!” Mario barked, his voice breaking through the frenzy.

Steel rang. Blood sprayed. Screams of boys and goblins alike filled the clearing. The earth was wet with it, slick beneath their boots. But numbers and fury were on Mario’s side — the goblins, once jeering and cruel, now scattered and clawed desperately to survive.

The clash was chaos. The boys swung wildly, shields clashing against crude blades, the air thick with grunts, shrieks, and the wet crunch of steel meeting flesh. Goblins fell one after another, but they didn’t go down quietly—they clawed, bit, and dragged boys into the dirt, forcing others to pull them free.

Through the madness, a piercing roar cut through the noise. From the mouth of the cave stepped a larger goblin, its gait steadier, its movements sharper. An old scar ran across its left eye, and unlike the others, it carried a real blade—long, curved, and gleaming in the morning light. The boys froze for a moment, unsettled by the sight.

Mario’s eyes locked on it. “That one’s mine!” he barked, pushing forward through the fray.

The scarred goblin snarled and charged. Its blade came down with shocking speed, and Mario barely managed to block with his sword, the impact rattling his arms to the bone. The goblin pressed forward, each strike faster, heavier, more precise than the others had shown. This wasn’t some mindless beast—it fought with intent.

Steel rang against steel, sparks flying as they traded blows. Mario gritted his teeth, his muscles screaming with the effort. For every swing he made, the goblin matched it, twisting, deflecting, and countering with surprising skill. Their blades locked, faces only inches apart, and Mario saw it in the goblin’s eye—it wasn’t afraid of him.

“Come on then!” Mario roared, shoving back with raw strength.

The goblin snarled, slashing across Mario’s chest—his armor caught most of it, but the force knocked him to a knee. The boys nearby cried out, but Mario shot them a glare. “Stay back! He’s mine!”

The fight went on, brutal and fast. Mario ducked under a swing and lunged, his blade grazing the goblin’s side. The creature hissed and retaliated with a downward strike so fierce Mario had to roll aside, dirt flying as the sword bit deep into the ground.

Mario’s breathing grew heavy, his arms trembling. For a moment, it seemed as though they were equals—man and monster locked in deadly rhythm, neither giving ground.

But the goblin pressed harder, faster, sensing Mario’s falter. Its blade slipped past his guard, cutting across his forearm, and Mario staggered back, teeth clenched in pain.

Then—

“Mario!!”

Several boys surged forward, ignoring his command. Shields and swords battered into the goblin’s side, hacking and stabbing in desperation. The leader goblin screeched, lashing out wildly, but numbers began to overwhelm its precision. Mario, regaining his footing, lunged one last time, driving his blade straight into the creature’s chest.

The goblin froze, eyes wide, before collapsing with a guttural growl. Silence swept over the battlefield for a heartbeat as the boys stared at the fallen leader.

Mario stood over it, panting, his sword still dripping green blood. His glare swept the boys who had interfered—but instead of scolding, he only smirked. “…Good job, boys. That’s how you finish a fight.”

And with that, the goblins broke. Those that remained were cut down as the boys surged with renewed ferocity, victory already burning in their hearts.

The cave was a mess of blood, dust, and the stench of iron. The boys stood in heavy breaths, their shoulders rising and falling as silence finally claimed the cave. The last goblin screech had died moments ago, its body slumped against the cold stone.

Mario wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, his chest pounding from his duel with the scar-faced leader. Though he stood victorious, the sting of the goblin’s blade on his arm reminded him of just how close the fight had been.

Around him, nineteen boys staggered about, tending to wounds, retrieving weapons, or leaning heavily on their comrades for support. The roll call was grim but merciful—no one had died. Still, the fight had carved its price:

Five boys were badly wounded, bearing deep cuts that would scar if they healed.

Eight carried lighter wounds—gashes, bruises, and battered joints from the relentless melee.

The rest were shaken but mostly unhurt, their armor bearing more damage than their bodies.

The fight with the goblin leader had nearly broken Mario’s resolve. The scarred creature’s blade work was unnervingly precise, its footwork sharper than the others. For a moment, it had felt like battling another human soldier. But when his comrades crashed in, blades and spears raining down, the tide turned. Together, they cut the leader down, hacking away until its shrill scream echoed no more.

Silence fell again, heavier than before. None of the boys spoke until Mario finally broke it. His voice was rough, but steady:

“Gather the wounded. Strip the cave clean of any valuable resources. At this rate, maybe we can hope to find maybe a useful poison or coin at least.”

The boys obeyed, limping and dragging their gear as they piled everything into the center of the cavern. Broken goblin weapons, crude tools, scraps of cloth, and the foul bedding the creatures used. The air grew even fouler as they prepared for the final step.

At Mario’s signal, they lit torches and set the pile ablaze. Flames roared inside the cave, licking up the walls, black smoke curling toward the ceiling. The fire consumed everything—the bodies, the stench, the remnants of the goblin tribe.

When it was done, only embers and ash remained. They couldn’t find anything useful…except for a satchel that carried the journal of a boy who was one of the victims of these goblins. Mario thought of bringing this back to the village and having it sent to whoever had a connection to the journal. It was possible that he could bring peace to the parents who lost their child to the goblins.

In the end, The boys stood outside the cave’s mouth, watching the smoke billow into the gray morning sky. Their expressions were hard, exhausted, but also relieved. They had not only survived—they had erased the goblins’ existence from this place once again.

But compared to their first attack against a larger goblin camp, this was a little sloppy…Mario took note of this and promised himself to do better.

Mario tightened the bandage around his arm and looked back one last time before ordering the march back to camp to rest.

Meanwhile, on Astin’s end, his group had just reached the edge of the wolves’ territory.

Unlike Mario, who only had to deal with fifteen goblins in a tight cave, Astin’s challenge was far more dangerous. His task was to handle fifteen wolves—and, if fate was cruel, up to five Mother Wolves.

The wolves alone were already a threat, but the Mother Wolves were in a league of their own. Their packs followed them not out of fear but out of pride, the same way Colossus had once led the Maulers. The difference in size alone told the story: a simple wolf was dangerous enough with its speed and fangs, but a Mother Wolf was twice that size, large enough to be mistaken for a beast meant to be ridden into war. A grown man could straddle one as though it were a horse.

That fact alone made the mission close to suicide. A single Mother Wolf could tear through inexperienced hunters, and with her pack at her side, even a full squad could easily be overwhelmed.

But there was one weakness the boys could cling to. Mother Wolves did not tolerate each other. Their instincts demanded dominance. When two encountered one another, it rarely ended in anything short of death. Hierarchy ruled their kind, and the strongest Mother Wolf would always rise while the weaker perished. It was rare—almost unheard of—to find two sharing the same hunting grounds.

This meant that Astin and his boys didn’t have to worry about fighting more than one Mother Wolf at a time. But the relief was short-lived, because the real problem lay in the task itself.

Thill’s list demanded more than just one kill. They had to hunt five separate packs. Five Mothers. Five hunts.

The math was merciless. If they remained together as one large group, they would waste too much time tracking each pack one after another. Time wasn’t a luxury they could afford.

So they faced an impossible decision: split into three smaller groups, each one forced to fight a Mother Wolf and her pack with no more than ten men at most.

Astin knew it was reckless, but there was no other choice. The wolves wouldn’t wait for them. The hunt had to begin.

So to really make sure their chances of survival was high, they had to change their approach in how to attack the wolf packs.

***

Out in the middle of the white, endless field, a few wolves prowled across the snow. From afar, Astin led his group forward — no ambush, no element of surprise, just a slow, deliberate march.

The endless white field stretched around them, the bitter cold biting at their exposed skin. The wolves’ low growls carried across the frozen winds, their eyes glowing faintly like embers in the snow. Astin marched steadily at the front, his shield raised, his breath steaming with every step. Behind him, the boys moved as one, shields up, like a wall of iron trudging slowly forward, just like the phalanx form from the goblin camp raid.

Yet unlike the Phalanx form, no spear tips were pointed outward. The wolves stared, puzzled, tails flicking warily as they paced back and forth. The mother wolf at the center stood tall, her scarred snout twitching as she tested the air. Her golden eyes narrowed. Something was wrong…yet the sight of ten boys before looked ever so delectable in her eyes.

This past winter has been tough for her and her pack, so seeing the boys made it look like a miracle to their eyes. A free meal was in front of them.

But all of a sudden…

“AAAAHHHH!”

Astin’s throat burned as he bellowed. His warrior-like roar thundered across the field, challenging the beasts head-on.

The mother wolf’s ears snapped back. She bared her fangs, growling, showing her domination towards the boys…but no fear was detected in their slow march forward.

So, to fully lead her pack, she howled.

*AWWWOOOOOOOHHH!!!*

The other wolves instantly echoed her cry, a chorus of fury that vibrated through the boys’ chests. Then, without hesitation, she charged.

Snow scattered beneath her powerful strides, and as the distance closed, she launched herself into the air—her massive frame arcing like a shadow against the pale sky. Thinking that she could crush their puny defenses, she felt confident in feeding her pack.

The boys braced. Their shields trembled under the anticipation.

Then—

SHHNK! SHHNK! SHHNK!

Spears shot outward through the narrow gaps in the wall of shields, timed to perfection. The sound of tearing flesh cracked through the air. The mother wolf’s body jolted mid-leap, impaled by steel from all directions. Her blood sprayed, hot and heavy, raining down across the shields below in a crimson drizzle that steamed against the frozen iron.

Her eyes widened in shock, her howl choking into a gurgle as her body crashed lifelessly against the shields, then slumped into the snow with a heavy thud.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The world was quiet—until the other wolves saw their alpha fall.

A frenzy erupted. The pack shrieked with rage, their eyes burning red with grief. In a wild rush, they stormed forward, faster and more reckless than before. Their claws tore up snow and ice as they lunged, aiming for the boys’ throats.

Yet Astin expected that this would happen. He then called for his next order.

“BREAK!” Astin roared.

The formation shattered in perfect sync. The phalanx split apart, shields swinging outward like doors breaking free. The boys surged forward, no longer a wall but a tide of steel and flesh.

Swords gleamed under the pale sun. Shields bashed into snapping jaws, sending wolves reeling. The air filled with the clash of metal, the crunch of bones, and the snarling cries of beasts in rage.

One wolf leapt for a boy’s neck, only to be met with a shield slammed upward into its jaw—CRACK!—before the boy’s sword drove straight into its chest. Another wolf pounced, dragging a boy down, but his comrade crashed into it from the side, jamming his blade deep into its ribs.

The snow turned red. The boys fought with clenched jaws, eyes wide with fire, fear, and fury. Each swing of their blades was desperate yet relentless, cutting down the beasts that had dared to challenge them.

It didn’t take long. Outnumbered, leaderless, and blinded by rage, the wolves fell one by one until the white field was littered with their motionless forms. Steam rose from their fresh corpses, mixing with the breath of the exhausted boys.

Finally, silence reclaimed the field. The last wolf twitched once, then stilled.

Astin lowered his shield, chest heaving as if every breath scraped his lungs raw. His arm dripped with wolf blood, sticky and dark, and his face was ghostly pale—but in his eyes burned a grim satisfaction, the fire of someone who had stared death in the face and not faltered.

Around him, the boys slowly raised their heads. Some trembled with wide, hollow stares. Others wore crooked, disbelieving grins, their teeth red with blood where they had bitten their lips in the frenzy of survival. All of them were stained—their clothes, their skin, their weapons—painted in the aftermath of a battle none had thought themselves capable of.

They had stood.

They had endured.

And they had won.

Ten boys had faced the pack. Ten boys had slain seven wolves. And one mother wolf—towering, relentless, a beast born to kill—was speared through in the madness of the struggle.

Word spread quickly, carried in shaky voices and staggering steps: the two other groups had also returned victorious. But not unscathed. Some had been dragged back half-conscious, others with wounds so deep the healers cursed under their breath as they worked. Still, their grim tally was undeniable—by midday, Astin held the final list.

More than thirty wolves had been cut down. Five mother wolves, the core of the pack, were no more.

It was enough to call it an accomplishment. Enough to give them pride. And yet, as Astin looked over the boys—pale faces, bloody hands, the quiet ache that clung to their movements—he only felt the weight pressing heavier on his shoulders.

He ordered the group back to the cave to rest.

But the paper in his hand still reminded him of the trials to come: five harpies, shrieking killers of the skies. Two hulking two-headed ogres. Five thornhide maulers, armored in scales tougher than steel. And looming above them all—the frostbound colossus, a mountain of living ice and death.

Astin’s throat tightened as he whispered to himself, “…At this rate, maybe…maybe we really do have a chance to deal with them all.”

On the trail back, dust rising under weary boots, they crossed paths with Mario and fourteen other boys trailing behind him.

Mario slowed, his expression tired but firm. “So—you’re planning to take on the harpies next?”

Astin halted, his group falling silent behind him. His shield arm trembled from exhaustion. “I am. But…” he glanced back at his numbers—barely fifteen of them, some limping, others with bandages still fresh. “The rest stayed behind to heal. You should do the same. From the looks of it, your hunt didn’t go as well as I hoped.”

Mario’s gaze lingered on Astin’s pale face, the way his shoulders sagged with unseen weight. He nodded. “…Right. Then heal. I’ll take mine to the harpies.”

The words exchanged were few, but heavy. Leaders of boys forced into the role of men. They passed each other in silence, their groups brushing shoulders as they split down different paths.

Both carried the same unspoken thought:

If Captain were here… things would have felt easier.

The burden would have been lighter. The choices less cruel.

Yet, as they looked upon the faces of the boys who still breathed, who still stood, they felt something stir. Perhaps survival itself was proof enough that they still had a chance.

At the same moment, both let out the same weary breath.

“…Sigh.”

And they pressed on.