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The mercenaries had set up their camp in the mountains after walking for half a day.
“We are the Urich’s Brotherhood, and Urich is our youngest!” One of the mercenaries belted out and the others chuckled.
“Urich, don’t you think your face is way too aged? How is a face like that only… hah! You’re driving me crazy,” One of the mercenaries said as he spat out the water he was drinking.
“Shut up, assholes.”
Urich laid down a wolf pelt on the ground and sat on it. He took out one of his axes and stuck it into the dirt.
“You want me to call you Sirs? Older brothers? Then fight me for it.”
No one dared to go up against Urich. They were only joking around.
Crackle, pop.
The mercenaries gathered some firewood and started a campfire. The warmth soon spread around the camp.
“Ugh,” Pahell groaned as he took his shoes off to reveal his blister-covered feet.
“Power through it, Master.”
Phillion took out an ointment and slathered it on the bottom of Pahell’s feet.
“Ugh.” Pahell flinched at the stinging pain. Urich laughed at what he was seeing.
“You sound like you’re being stabbed with a sword. Quit whining.”
Pahell glared at Urich for his comment.
“You! You think I’m a peasant like you lot? I am of noble birth; I shouldn’t be walking on my feet on this rugged ground like you!” Pahell cried out as his anger was building up.
‘Why must I go through...
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