OBS Chapter 660 Recruitment
Chapter 660 Recruitment
Inside the tent, Guts and Jedo were facing each other, bending over and supporting a heavy wooden box together.
The wooden crate was slowly moved by the two of them. Just as it was about to reach the tent entrance, the crate suddenly wobbled slightly.
Immediately afterwards, a series of fine, rapid rustling sounds came from the gaps at the back of the wooden box. The sounds were dense and chaotic, as if something was moving rapidly inside.
Before the two could react, several gray-black rats suddenly broke through the burlap covering and sprang out from the gaps.
They were agile, their limbs moving rapidly as they ran wildly along the camp ground, crashing into piles of debris along the way with soft thuds.
In a flash, the rats rushed to the tent entrance, squeezed through the gap in the curtain, and disappeared into the light outside.
Outside the tent, Casca was walking by when she suddenly caught sight of several dark figures darting out of the tent.
Years of battlefield experience left her with no hesitation. Her body instantly went into a state of alert, her right hand quickly gripped the hilt of her sword, and with a flick of her wrist, the sword was drawn from its sheath with a "whoosh." She twisted her waist slightly, and her arm swung out in a clean and crisp arc, the blade precisely slashing at the dark figure at the front.
The dark figure fell to the ground with a thud, twitched twice on the ground, and then remained completely still.
Casca remained in a sword-wielding stance, her sharp gaze fixed on the object on the ground. When she could see its appearance clearly, her tense shoulders relaxed slightly.
It was just an ordinary rat, but now it had been cleaved in two by the sword, and dark red bloodstains slowly spread along the ground.
She sheathed her sword, quickly wiped the blood off the blade with her clothes, and returned the sword to its sheath.
At this moment, Guts and Jedo had already carried the wooden box out of the tent. The two of them let go at the same time, and the wooden box fell heavily to the ground with a dull thud.
Gus straightened up, raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and his gaze inadvertently swept over Casca's feet. When he saw the dead rat, a look of surprise appeared on his face.
"Why are there so many rats now?"
"Let's have some snacks instead."
Jiedu responded:
"Places with many rats usually suffer from plagues. It seems we need to organize mercenaries to exterminate the rats."
Casca turned to look at the two men who were straightening their clothes, her tone calm and expressionless, her gaze lingering briefly on them:
"What are you doing?"
Guts pointed to the wooden crate beside him. The linen covering the crate had slipped off during the earlier handling, revealing the rusty edge of the armor inside.
“Griffith is recruiting for his mercenary group, so he told us to bring out all the armor and weapons we had captured.”
Jiedu nodded and reached out to pat the dust off the surface of the wooden crate:
“These things are just taking up space inside, so it’s good to take them out, count and organize them so they can be used as soon as the new members arrive.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the gaps in the wooden crate, his tone tinged with helplessness.
"I never expected there to be so many rats inside. It seems I need to check things carefully before moving things in the future."
Meanwhile, in the town center near the camp, a number of mercenaries had already gathered in an open space.
Griffith stood at the front of the crowd, his posture upright, with the members of the Band of the Hawk behind him. They all had solemn expressions, stood in neat posture, and exuded a sharp aura of someone who had been through many battles.
The mercenaries surrounding him were mostly burly men, but their gazes toward Griffith were filled with disdain and scrutiny. Their whispers rose and fell like a flock of noisy crows.
Griffiths was still young and his figure appeared somewhat thin among the group of burly mercenaries, which made many people think that he was "easy to bully".
The murmurs spread through the crowd, not loud but clear enough to reach Griffith's ears.
"Which nobleman's young master is this?"
"Looking at her delicate skin, she probably hasn't been on the battlefield much, has she?"
"Following him, you might lose your life any day now, so what's the point of talking about commission?"
"I think it's just for show; he probably can't even hold a sword properly."
Griffiths' expression remained unchanged; he simply swept his gaze calmly over everyone present.
After the murmurs subsided slightly, he spoke, his voice not loud, but with a peculiar penetrating power that clearly reached everyone's ears:
"If you're not satisfied, you can challenge me to a one-on-one duel."
These words instantly silenced the crowd. The mercenaries exchanged bewildered glances, seemingly surprised that this seemingly frail young man would be so direct. Their contempt deepened, as if they were looking at an ignorant fool.
Griffiths continued, his tone steady:
“I can give him three moves. If anyone beats me…”
As he spoke, he took a heavy money bag from his waist. With a loosening of the bag, a crisp "whoosh" sound rang out, and glittering gold coins poured out, landing in his outstretched palm.
Sunlight shone on the gold coins, reflecting a dazzling light that attracted the attention of the surrounding mercenaries.
"He who beats me gets all the gold coins."
The allure of gold coins is far more powerful than any words.
The crowd instantly stirred, and a moment later, an exceptionally burly mercenary pushed his way out of the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and thick-backed, with muscles on his arms as solid as iron. A hideous scar ran from his forehead to his jaw, and his eyes were fierce, exuding a brute force.
He walked to the open ground, gripped the broadsword on his back with both hands, and suddenly drew it out. The blade scraped against the scabbard, making a piercing sound, clearly showing his extreme confidence in his strength.
"I come!"
He spoke in a deep, booming voice, which exploded in the air like thunder, making people's eardrums vibrate and the ground beneath their feet seem to tremble slightly.
The surrounding mercenaries immediately and spontaneously stepped back, clearing a spacious area. They all craned their necks, staring intently at the two men in the center of the arena, their faces full of anticipation and excitement. Discussions arose again, mostly speculating about the outcome of the duel. Many had already begun placing bets, betting that the burly mercenary would win.
The burly mercenary took the offensive stance first, his legs shoulder-width apart, his center of gravity lowered, his hands gripping his broadsword tightly, the blade resting on his shoulder, staring intently at Griffith like a beast poised to pounce.
His breathing was heavy, his chest heaved violently, and his nostrils flared, clearly indicating that he was ready for a full-scale attack, exuding a fierce aura.
Griffith stood still, his posture upright, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, his expression calm and unwavering, as if his opponent was nothing more than air, and the surrounding commotion had nothing to do with him.
"I'll give you two moves."
He spoke again, his tone still calm and without any provocation, yet it inexplicably annoyed the burly mercenary, as if he had punched a piece of cotton.
The burly mercenary snorted coldly, clearly feeling slighted, and the ferocity in his eyes intensified.
Without further hesitation, he roared and charged at Griffith, his broadsword whistling as it slashed down fiercely towards Griffith's head.
This sword strike was powerful and heavy; if it hit, the victim would likely be decapitated on the spot. The surrounding mercenaries could even hear the sharp sound of the sword cutting through the air.
Griffith shifted slightly to the side, his movements as light as a swan, easily dodging the sword. The blade grazed his shoulder before crashing heavily to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. He didn't even turn to look at the broadsword embedded in the ground; his gaze remained calmly fixed on the burly mercenary.
The burly mercenary missed his attack, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he drew his broadsword from the ground and swept it horizontally, aiming straight for Griffith's waist.
This sword strike was extremely fast and at a tricky angle, clearly intended to catch Griffith off guard.
Griffith moved lightly, dodging the attack like a ghost, while leaning back slightly to avoid the follow-up vertical slash. His movements were fluid and without the slightest panic.
Two moves had passed, and the burly mercenary hadn't even touched Griffith's clothes. A hint of impatience and frustration appeared on his face. He hadn't expected this seemingly weak young man to be so agile, dodging his attacks perfectly each time. His initial contempt was gradually replaced by unease.
Just then, Griffith moved.
He stopped dodging and suddenly lunged forward, moving so fast that no one could see his movements. His right hand flashed as he gripped the hilt of his sword at his waist, and the sword was drawn from its sheath with a "whoosh".
His movements were swift and precise, without any unnecessary flourishes, the sword pointing directly at the burly mercenary's wrist.
The burly mercenary felt a numbness in his wrist, followed by a sharp pain. The broadsword in his hand fell to the ground with a clatter.
Before he could even react, Griffith's sword was already pressed against his throat. The cold metallic touch sent a shiver through him, and he froze on the spot. The ferocity on his face was replaced by fear, his pupils contracted slightly, and his breathing became cautious.
Griffith tightened his grip slightly, bringing the sword a little closer. The icy touch made the burly mercenary tremble uncontrollably. He asked calmly:
"Are there any questions now?"
The burly mercenary's face turned deathly pale, his legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees with a thud. His body trembled uncontrollably as he spoke haltingly:
"No more, no more."
Griffiths sheathed his sword with clean, swift movements, re-tied the money pouch to his waist, and glanced at the mercenaries watching from the sidelines.
The once noisy crowd fell silent. Everyone was stunned by Griffith's strength. The contempt in their eyes was gone, replaced by awe and fear. Many people subconsciously swallowed and shrank back slightly, afraid of getting into trouble.
"As long as you join the Band of the Hawk."
Griffith's voice rang out again, clearly reaching everyone's ears.
"Then you can receive a salary of five silver coins each month."
As soon as he finished speaking, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Five silver coins were undoubtedly a decent wage for mercenaries who struggled to make ends meet year-round. As long as they didn't go to casinos or brothels, the money was enough for them to live comfortably for a month, and they could even send some money home for living expenses.
Griffiths continued without pausing:
"At the same time, everyone gets a share of the commissions earned."
This statement was like a pebble thrown into a calm lake, instantly creating ripples.
The mercenaries could no longer contain their excitement and surged forward, their faces filled with fervor, shouting excitedly:
"I want to sign up!"
"I want to join the Band of the Hawk too!"
"Count me in! I'm willing to join!"
"Wait for me, I'm coming too!"
The scene instantly descended into chaos. The mercenaries, who had initially hesitated, were now blinded by greed, fearing they might miss this golden opportunity.
Some people even pushed and shoved each other, disregarding order, just to register as quickly as possible. Rough curses and urgent shouts mingled together, but no one cared.