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“Y-you bast… no, you, ehem,” the middle-aged man was forcibly suppressing his anger, which Urich found very funny and made him slap his knee.
“Let’s just forget about what happened earlier. It was a personal thing, right? Anyway, what happened to your little master? He didn’t come with you?”
“Sigh, and I was happy that I finally got to meet a mercenary squad,” the man looked up at the ceiling with a face full of concern. He let out a deep sigh and looked at Urich and the mercenaries.
“How about you introduce yourself first? If you don’t like me, you can leave, but it looks like you’re the desperate one here,” Urich said as he crossed his arms. His attitude made the middle-aged man twitch his lips in frustration.
“My name is Kuba Phillion—it’s Sir Phillion to you. ‘Sir,’” he emphasized his title as Sir.
“Pfft, Sir? You wish, Uncle Phillion,” Urich’s mockery erupted a laughter from the mercenaries in the room. Phillion, who had enough of the humiliation, desperately wanted to storm out of the room.
‘No, I mustn’t. I have to endure any kind of insult for his sake.’
Phillion suppressed his frustration and glared his eyes.
“I want you to escort my master to the capital of Hamel.”
The mercenaries murmured.
“We don’t have any horses so we travel everywhere by foot. And walking to the capital of Hamel is going to take us three months....
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