Ferguson screamed in agony.
The red-hot iron was pressed against his taut skin. Thɪs chapter is updated by Nov3lFɪre.ɴet
A whitish smoke arose from where the iron met the flesh, accompanied by a sizzling sound that made one’s scalp tingle.
The smell of charred meat began to permeate the air.
Doug, standing not far away, couldn’t help but cover his nose.
The jailer, feeling it was enough, grasped the handle and removed the iron.
“Ugh!” Ferguson groaned heavily as the iron separated from his skin. He clenched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, his cheeks puffed up, and large beads of sweat trickled down his face, eventually dripping off his chin onto the floor.
A dark red mark appeared on Ferguson’s muscular arm, surrounded by reddened skin. The mark was composed of two parts: a vivid dragon head pattern on top, and below, the abbreviation of the surname Grayman in Horn Bay language.
Another person in a white coat applied a sticky ointment from a jar onto Ferguson’s arm with a metal spoon.
“Gulp!” Doug, having watched the entire process, swallowed hard, feeling weak. It was his turn next.
As a mercenary in Horn Bay, he had tortured enemies, including using irons, but never imagined it on himself.
The jailer reheated the iron in the fiery furnace and beckoned Doug, “Come on, Doug, you can’t escape this.”
Cursing inwardly, Doug had suggested tattoos as an alternative, but Erwin dismissed it without a second thought.
Doug walked over resignedly, taking out a wooden stick to bite on to withstand the pain, not wanting to scream like Ferguson.
The jailer asked emotionlessly, “Where should I brand?”
Major Erwin had allowed them to choose the branding spot, as long as it was easily visible.
Ferguson chose his arm, easily concealed by clothes but displayed with a sleeve roll.
“I’ll have it on my arm too,” Doug indicated the outside of his upper right arm with his left hand, then bit down on the stick, teeth sinking deep into the wood.
The jailer took the reheated iron from the furnace, glowing like the sun in Doug’s eyes, reminding him of the pain of past burns, causing him to sweat profusely in anticipation.
As the jailer approached Doug’s shoulder with the iron, Doug’s body uncontrollably flinched.
“Ha ha! Coward of the Black Hound Mercenaries.”
Ferguson mocked from the side, taking pleasure in Doug’s misfortune.
Biting down harder, feeling his teeth might fall out, Doug gave the jailer a nod to proceed, then closed his eyes.
The jailer pressed the iron against Doug’s arm, and the familiar sizzling sound and burning smell filled the air once more.
Doug’s eyes widened in an instant, as if they were about to pop out of their sockets, the blood vessels in the whites of his eyes clearly visible.
A few seconds later, as the jailer withdrew the iron, Doug felt as if his skin had adhered to it, mixing a searing pain with a sensation of tearing.
He bent slightly, the wooden stick in his mouth clattering to the ground, saliva and sweat mixing as they fell.
He breathed heavily, as if it eased his pain.
The person in the white coat also applied ointment to him.
“All right, you can go back to your quarters to rest.”
The jailer, heating the iron again in the furnace, nodded towards them, signaling them to leave quickly.
“There are many more waiting!”
Outside the room, a long line extended, composed of members from both the Black Hound and Rhino mercenary groups, all prepared to receive the brand that would grant them a degree of freedom.
All the mercenaries made the same choice as their leaders.
In the lord’s office, Chief of Staff Schroeder handed a thick stack of documents to Paul.
“The mercenaries have been selected, please review them.”
Paul flipped through the documents casually, “So, all the captured mercenaries are to be sent back to Horn Bay?”
Schroeder confirmed, “Yes, Major Erwin tested them. They stood in sunlight for an hour, maintaining formation without rest or fainting. Their physical condition meets the standards, exceeding our expectations. This will significantly shorten their training time, allowing rapid deployment to Horn Bay for combat missions. This is thanks to our reformation camp’s militaristic management and relatively good food.”
“Alright!” Paul nodded. “The more, the better. Follow the original plan: equip them with armor and weapons, and some money, then the rest is up to them.”
“Ah!” He noticed something interesting, “Ferguson? Ha, Ferguson, Fergus, Ferguson, Fergus. Schroeder, do you remember I have a knight named Fergus?”
“I remember.” Schroeder acknowledged. “The pronunciation of this name is quite common, both in Horn Bay and Ordo.”
He steered the conversation back on track, “Lord, I think we should send some of our own people with them. We can’t let these mercenaries act independently; they should follow directives from the Northwest Bay.”
“Oh, of course!” Paul agreed wholeheartedly. “Naturally, I’ve already instructed the Teaching Department to select excellent instructors to accompany them back to Horn Bay. They’ll keep an eye on them, manage them, ensure obedience to orders, and prevent them from committing acts like robbery or insulting women, lest they tarnish our honor.”
“In that case,” Schroeder further suggested, “should we select some officers and military academy students to go as well, to experience real warfare up close, see how armies outside of Alda operate, gather experience and patterns, compile them into documents, enrich our database, and provide valuable material for our army?”
“Ha! I was thinking the same.”
The war in Horn Bay, in both scale and quality, was incomparable to the previous Usurper Wars. It was a valuable observation opportunity, enlightening the Alda army about various aspects of contemporary military.
He ordered, “Schroeder, arrange this as soon as possible.”