Chapter Thirty-Three: Investigation and Evidence Collection

The practical mission for the new recruits had come to a successful close, and Vice Principal Luke promptly dispensed the rewards according to the task. However, the mission remained posted on the mercenary board. Clearly, spying on gorilla mating was a long-term assignment, not one that could be concluded in a mere moment.

The entire reward was handed to Kevin and the other new recruits—each received two hundred gold coins, a substantial sum. Yet it was earned at the risk of their lives; every mercenary mission carried considerable danger. At best, one might gain a few more scars or lose a limb; at worst, one could lose their life altogether. After completing a successful job, many mercenaries would rather live off their earnings for half a year.

Adventure, as sung by the bards, always sounded noble, but such nobility belonged solely to the strong. Most people in the world were weak, and Kevin was just one among countless others. Holding those two hundred gold coins, he acknowledged their worth, but recalling the savage battle in the forest, Kevin would still prefer telling bawdy jokes in a tavern for a few copper coins—a much safer living.

Of course, for the son of a city lord or a general, such a reward was mere pocket change. Thus, the significance of this life-and-death struggle meant almost nothing to them. Kevin, upon receiving the money, felt comforted. For them, upon receiving the same, it felt as though they’d become beggars.

Professor Luke had even sent a letter of thanks, detailing the bravery of the recruits and reconstructing the events as they unfolded.

It was clear, though, that the letter was not merely one of gratitude; it also urged both the military and the mercenary alliance to resolve the matter. No matter what, Luke was the vice principal of the Royal Academy, and being attacked—regardless of whether the assailants knew his identity—required a reckoning afterward.

Kevin and his companions had hardly spent a single night in the barracks before being summoned by higher-ranking officers the next morning, who questioned them in detail about the incident. Each was interrogated separately, and no detail was overlooked. Kevin and the others had no objections; since it was an investigation into the culprits, the more detailed their account, the better, and none concealed anything.

Yet Kevin’s testimony raised many suspicions, for he spoke of the black-clad man who delivered the head and explained that this man might be one of his readers. Kevin did not clarify whether the black-clad man was an assassin or anything of the sort, only mentioning that he had once been a bard and that some powerful individuals had been among his readers. This was his explanation for the note that read, “When will your new book come out? I’m waiting for updates.”

But when pressed about who this reader might be, Kevin claimed complete ignorance. Though it could be inferred that the man was likely an assassin, Kevin insisted he did not know. When asked about his previous works, he answered, “Chronicles of Assassins”; but when requested to produce it, Kevin simply shrugged—he did not have it.

Truth be told, at this point the book was only in the assassin’s hands; even the Start Library did not possess a copy.

The investigation lasted until afternoon, after which the group was dismissed to rest. They were all exhausted, but the barracks’ rules forbade sleeping in beds during the day, so they could only lean back in chairs.

It was now the final days of the recruit training period; aside from basic drills, there was no other instruction. Things had finally begun to relax, and everyone cherished the respite, sitting quietly and unmoving. Even Kevin, for once, allowed himself a rare moment of rest.

“Sain,” Kevin spoke, “in a few days, it’ll be the final recruit drill. When do you think we’ll fight each other?”

Sain sat unmoving and silent.

“I think,” Kevin continued on his own, “we should just let it go.”

Sain sighed softly, still saying nothing.

“It’s been three months,” Kevin said. “You know my strength by now. We’ve all come from the battlefield together. If it’s still about me not being a noble—just a commoner among you—I think there’s no need anymore.”

Everyone present turned their gaze to Sain. Sain met Kevin’s eyes. “To be honest, I still don’t like you. But to duel for that reason, I admit, doesn’t mean much anymore. Unfortunately, it’s unavoidable now.”

Kevin stroked his chin. “So you’ve already told your family? Sent a letter recently?”

Sain was silent, seeming to acquiesce.

“Every year, the final recruit drill features bouts between recruits; the victor receives more attention and will find it easier to earn military merit in the future,” Kevin mused aloud. “Looks like you’ve decided to make me your stepping stone.”

“You really do know quite a lot,” Sain replied. “Did you ask around for all that?”

Kevin changed the subject. “Do you have confidence facing me?”

Sain paused, then answered, “Yes.”

“All right, all right,” Start interjected. His wounds hadn’t healed, and his body was still wrapped in bandages. “At least we survived, so let’s be happy. Look at our Marcus—wasn’t he trained so thoroughly he’s stunned? Haha!”

Everyone laughed along. Marcus had left on his own, sending only a parrot to follow, which was clearly dereliction of duty. If nothing had happened, no one would report him, but now the matter had become serious, and he couldn’t escape blame. At that moment, he was standing outside the camp gate, shield in hand, basking in the sun.

Many recruits gathered around, watching, since he was the only officer holding up a shield in that spot.

As evening approached, Kevin and his companions received word that the next day they’d be confronting two mercenary groups. Though the fighters who faced Kevin had been masked, they had engaged closely for some time, and there might be clues in their build or voice. Both mercenary groups were large, three hundred members each; the next day, six hundred would be assembled for Kevin and his companions to identify one by one—an immense undertaking.

The group couldn’t help but discuss the details again, and as they deliberated, various odd ideas emerged, gradually clarifying the thread of events.

The attackers claimed to be avenging their leader, who was killed by the parcel’s recipient. The head did pass through Kevin’s hands, so it was reasonable to suspect him of murder. But their injuries and apparent indifference to their comrades suggested the vengeance motive was weak.

Thus, the reasons for the attack were likely either robbery or inciting discord. Though none of the group carried much money, Vice Principal Luke was highly respected but lacked strength; kidnapping him for ransom would be a way to profit.

But then, everyone was masked; the professor seemed indistinguishable from those around him. How did the attackers recognize him? They had witnessed the gorilla poaching firsthand and used smuggled dwarven weapons.

If it wasn’t for robbery, it had to be a plot to implicate the Dreaming Mercenary Group. Yet, sacrificing two members and continuing to fight—even when the gorillas hurled rocks and more were killed—seemed excessive for mere scapegoating.

Perhaps these people habitually framed others: always carrying another mercenary group’s insignia, continuing their mission if they survived, and if killed, conveniently blaming others?

After much discussion, there was no clear answer, so each went to rest.

The next day, the barracks’ gates opened wide, and the two mercenary groups were ushered directly onto the drill grounds. The entire army was on alert; all veterans had been notified the day before to polish their weapons and stand ready. Around the drill grounds, elite units lined up in grand formations. The six hundred mercenaries in the center seemed disorganized, as if herded together like ordinary townsfolk.

Upon entering, the mercenaries were required to surrender their weapons; even their leaders were unarmed. The leaders tried to reassure their members, insisting it was normal procedure and nothing to worry about.

Kevin and his companions had been summoned early by Colonel Orson and now stood beside him. It was their first time so near a colonel, and all the recruits were tense, standing ramrod straight, afraid to move—a reflex born from three months of training.

“Kevin, Start, Oka, Sain, Gray, Marin,” Orson called each name.

“Present!” they answered loudly.

“They’ll come in one by one. Watch closely. You may touch them or ask them to pose however you wish!” Colonel Orson granted full authority.

“Yes, sir!” they replied, just as clearly.

“Colonel,” an adjutant spoke up, “there are plenty of female mercenaries in these groups; they can be excluded from the inspection.”

“No hurry,” Orson replied. “Who knows if they’re truly women or just disguised? Bring in female soldiers for verification!”

“Yes, sir!” The adjutant obeyed, soon returning with two female mages. They saluted crisply: “Colonel!”

Kevin and the others watched, feeling the search was far more thorough than mere poaching or smuggling warranted.

Moments later, a mage entered, his badge identifying him as Qianjue, leader of the Purple Gold Mercenary Group. His pale blue robe was elegant and noble, making him look less a battle-worn mercenary and more a member of the aristocracy.

“Ahem,” Qianjue cleared his throat. “Why all the ceremony this time?”

“Leader Qianjue, I hope you’ll cooperate,” Colonel Orson replied coolly, turning to Kevin and the others. “Well?”

“His build is somewhat similar, but I can’t be sure,” Kevin answered.

“Go examine him closely!” Orson ordered.

The six recruits approached, circling him and scrutinizing every detail. Qianjue’s face darkened. “Colonel, I am a leader after all—couldn’t you give me some dignity?”

“We’ve given you dignity by allowing inspection inside the tent; there are no outsiders here,” Orson replied. “You’ve fought him, so you should have had contact. You may try physical contact.”

Kevin recalled attacking the poacher’s groin with a magic missile, which missed and struck the hip bone instead. The injury might have left a bruise, unless holy water had been used for healing. If the investigation was as thorough as it seemed, the priests would be monitoring holy water usage as well.

Kevin hesitated to act, so he reported to Colonel Orson.

Orson did not hesitate: “Leader, please remove your trousers!”

“You…” Qianjue’s face flushed, remaining motionless.

“Leader, please cooperate with the investigation!” the adjutant urged.

Qianjue still stood firm.

“Kevin, go and remove his trousers!” Orson ordered immediately.

Kevin obeyed, cautiously reaching for the waistband. Qianjue clenched his fists, wind magic gathered swiftly, his face red with rage. “Colonel, this is somewhat humiliating, isn’t it?”

Seeing that Qianjue made no move, Kevin carefully unfastened his belt.

Wham! Unable to endure any longer, Qianjue unleashed a whirlwind, blowing Kevin aside. Kevin rolled and barely regained his footing. Fortunately, Qianjue did not harm him, only pushed him away; otherwise, Kevin would have been in real danger.

Shing! Shing! Shing! The soldiers in the tent drew their swords in unison, orange battle energy flaring—signifying they were all elite warriors. Some even radiated yellow energy, reaching the sixth rank of fighters. Tension filled the air, and the situation was on a knife’s edge.

“Kevin,” Orson remained seated, unfazed. “Go and pull down his trousers.”

Kevin took a deep breath and approached again, feeling the oppressive surge of magic, but steeled himself. He gripped the trousers and pulled them down, closely observing the hair on Qianjue’s legs.

Qianjue trembled with fury, magical energy swirling wildly, but he dared not unleash it. The two female mage soldiers watched, faces awkward, eyes fixed, unable to look away—there was no time for embarrassment with battle so close.

In the tense atmosphere, Kevin carefully examined, tapped the hip bone, pinched the buttocks, then stood up. “Sir, it’s not him.”

“Good,” Orson nodded, “help him with his trousers.”

“Hmph! No need.” Qianjue flicked his finger, wind magic gathered, and his trousers lifted and fastened themselves. He stormed away in indignation.

Kevin now fully realized that even the largest mercenary groups were utterly powerless before the kingdom’s regular army.

That day, among the two mercenary groups, there were three hundred and twenty-three medium-built men; the women were examined separately by female mages, needing only gender confirmation. Men who were too tall, short, or fat were exempt from stripping. The leader of Dreaming was female and escaped the ordeal of removing trousers. Locklock, being a dwarf, was obviously excluded.

That day, Kevin pinched three hundred and twenty-three buttocks, and from then on he developed the good habit of washing his hands before meals.

But despite the exhaustive investigation, they still failed to find the poachers who had attacked them.