Chapter 476: Demanding Half The Stakes

The courtyard was still echoing with disbelief over what had just happened when Damien rolled his shoulders once, letting the last traces of combat loosen from his muscles. He’d won and he needed to keep it that way.

Fenrir padded over, tail flicking with smug satisfaction, while Luton wobbled excitedly on his head as if asking if it could eat the fallen soldiers.

“No,” Damien muttered. “Not this time.”

The slime deflated in disappointment.

Haldric approached with a stunned smile, shaking his head.

“I’ve seen monsters,” he said. “I’ve seen champions. But you—? You’re something else entirely, Damien.”

“Just needed the exercise,” Damien replied casually. It was true. If he really wanted to, he would have dealt with all twelve soldiers easily without breaking a sweat but he’d gone easy on them, trying to find a weakness to their joint fighting style.

However, instead of leaving the courtyard, he turned and began walking toward the side alcove of the training yard—the one area where groups of soldiers had gathered with too much excitement to be innocent.

Haldric blinked.

The commander raised an eyebrow and Seliah who’d been watching him simply gulped.

“Oh no…” she whispered. “I think he knows.”

And indeed, Damien knew.

The loudest group of about thirty soldiers were crowding around two wooden tables covered in parchment sheets, token markers, and hastily scribbled numbers. There were also heaps of silver and gold coins on both tables.

The betting station.

The moment Damien stepped up, the entire group froze. One man even dropped his betting slate. Another tried to hide a pile of coins behind his foot.

Damien stood there silently, hands in pockets, expression unreadable.

The bet master who was an older sergeant with a scar down his cheek cleared his throat nervously.

“…Ah. Damien. Welcome. What can I—”

“You bet on me,” Damien said.

There was a moment of silence which caused a few soldiers gulped. Someone even whispered a prayer. ’I hope it’s not what I think!’

The sergeant tried again. “W-Well, technically, the men placed wagers on whether you would—”

“Lose,” Damien finished for him.

The sergeant coughed and then forced a smile as he nodded. “…a-all part of morale, you understand.”

Damien looked slowly at each face around him. Every soldier stiffened like a rod.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Fenrir stepped beside him, making a low vibration in his throat—not a growl, just a simple reminder that he existed.

“Let me make something clear,” Damien said, voice calm but carrying to every corner of the alcove. “You all placed wagers… on me… without asking me.”

The silence thickened.

“It wasn’t much—!” one soldier squeaked.

“We didn’t think you’d win—!” another blurted without thinking before speaking.

“But then, you went ahead and beat all twelve of them! It was an accident!” someone yelled from the back as if it would save them.

Damien raised a hand.

All speaking stopped instantly.

“You used my life,” he continued, “my name, my skill—and your reward… was going to be distributed to everyone except the one who actually earned it.”

He leaned slightly forward.

“Do you see the problem?”

Every soldier nodded rapidly.

“Good,” Damien said. “Now for the solution.”

He extended his hand.

“I want my cut.”

Every soldier choked.

“C-Cut?”

“A sizeable share,” Damien corrected. “Before any of you get yours. I should be the first to receive a portion of the reward, don’t you think so? A decent portion at that.”

“But—” one soldier began.

Fenrir growled.

The soldier immediately corrected himself, “YES! YES, OF COURSE, SIR DAMIEN!”

The sergeant swallowed hard. “What… what share did you have in mind?”

Damien looked at the betting sheets.

Twelve challengers. Dozens of soldiers betting. Over half of them bet against him. The pot was large.

“Half,” he said.

Half the courtyard fainted.

“HALF?!” someone squeaked.

Damien raised an eyebrow. “Did you want to negotiate?”

They did not.

“No, sir!”

“Half it is!”

“Of course!”

“You deserve all of it, honestly—!”

“We’re honored you even want only half—!!”

None of them dared argue with him. Not after seeing how he dealt with a dozen soldiers and he’d done it without the help of the terrifying wolf beside him.

And since Haldric wasn’t saying a word, it meant that he approved of what was going on too.

The sergeant scrambled like a man who valued his life, gathering the coins, tokens, and titled reward slips into a sack that jingled heavily.

“Here, sir—your share!”

Damien took the sack and tested its weight. Heavy enough. Acceptable.

“I’ll take this,” he said simply. “You can fight over the rest of the share.”

The soldiers nodded so violently their necks audibly popped.

Satisfied, Damien turned and walked away, Fenrir following like a silent shadow, Luton bouncing triumphantly atop his head.

Haldric waited a few meters away, arms crossed, lips twitching in amusement.

“You didn’t have to terrify them that much,” he said.

“They terrified themselves,” Damien answered. “I simply gave them a choice.”

Haldric chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Fair enough. Come. You’ve earned a drink. Maybe ten.”

“Beer?”

“Beer.”

They walked off together toward the mess hall.

Behind them, the soldiers released a collective breath of relief so loud it echoed across the courtyard.

The rest of the courtyard recovered. Some recovered slowly, others not at all. Eight unconscious soldiers were carried to the infirmary. The remaining four staggered after them.

But two of them, Tarl and Mivo, refused to accept defeat.

“Did you see how much Damien just got paid?” Tarl whispered, looking around conspiratorially.

“A fortune,” Mivo muttered. “Half the entire wager… gone in an instant.”

“That’s why I was thinking,” Tarl said, rubbing his hands together, “we should get our share. After all, we fought too.”

Mivo nodded. “We nearly touched him.”

“We earned something.”

“Damn right.”

Fueled by greed and terrible decision-making, they limped toward the same betting alcove Damien had just left.

The bet master and his assistants had just finished recalculating the remaining pot when the two soldiers slammed their hands onto the table.

“We demand our cut,” Tarl declared loudly.

“Our compensation,” Mivo added with a puffed chest.

The sergeant blinked slowly.

“…Excuse me?”

Tarl nodded aggressively. “We fought him. We should get a share.”

“Yeah,” Mivo added. “Same amount he got.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

The sergeant exhaled slowly. “…Boys. Are you aware where you are?”

“A barracks,” Tarl said proudly.

“A place of honor and fairness,” Mivo added.

The sergeant cracked his knuckles.

“No,” he said. “A place where idiots like you get corrected.”

Tarl and Mivo blinked.

Then, two fists.

Bang! Bang!

Two screams.

Two bodies flying across the space.

The sergeant dusted off his hands as both soldiers landed unconscious on the ground.

“Drag them to the others,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” his assistants said.

“And the next time someone compares themselves to Damien…”

He stepped on Tarl’s arm—lightly, but enough to make a point.

“…remind them the difference between talent and suicide.”

The assistants nodded vigorously.

Meanwhile, Damien and Haldric sat at a round wooden table in the mess hall. Fenrir curled up beside Damien’s chair, tail flicking. Luton sat on the table, bubbling at the mug of beer as if contemplating drinking it.

“Don’t,” Damien warned the slime.

Luton drooped.

Haldric took a deep gulp from his tankard and exhaled loudly.

“I can’t remember the last time someone made our barracks this lively.”

“I didn’t intend to,” Damien said.

“That’s the best part,” Haldric laughed. “You weren’t even trying.”

Damien took a calm sip. He didn’t often drink, but the cold, slightly bitter taste of the beer was refreshing after the intense fight.

“You fight differently from any mercenary I’ve ever seen,” Haldric said. “And I’ve met too many.”

“I adapt,” Damien replied simply.

“That’s an understatement.”

Haldric leaned closer. “They’ll talk about this for weeks, you know.”

Damien shrugged. “I won’t be here long.”

“Still…” Haldric raised his mug. “To your brief stay. And to the fact you didn’t kill any of them.”

“Wasn’t necessary.”

“To that restraint, I say—cheers.”

Damien clinked mugs with him lightly.

They drank.

Hours later, as evening settled over the barracks, several of the unconscious soldiers woke up in the infirmary.

“What… happened?” one groaned.

“You challenged Damien,” the healer said dryly.

“And…?”

“He accepted,” the healer continued. “Then politely erased your memory of the next twenty minutes.”

The soldier winced.

“And Tarl? Mivo?”

The healer sighed.

“They demanded money from the bet master.”

The soldier’s eyes widened with horror.

“So they’re dead?”

“No,” the healer said. “Just in the corner over there.”

Tarl and Mivo lay side by side, unconscious again, bruised from the sergeant’s ’gentle correction.’

The soldier groaned.

“Idiots…”

Damien finished his last mug of beer, wiped his mouth, stood, and stretched.

“Done already?” Haldric asked.

“I need to rest one more night,” Damien said. “Tomorrow… I leave.”

Haldric nodded solemnly. “We’ll see you off.”

Damien left the mess hall, Fenrir and Luton behind him.

The barracks was quiet now.

Tomorrow, he would be gone.

And none of them—soldiers, generals, or commanders—would ever forget the man who fought twelve soldiers, stole half a betting pot, and walked away without a scratch.

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