NEC Chapter 22: The Mountain Vine Squad  

Kicking up clouds of dust along the dry road came four men on two horses.  Four burly fellows crammed onto two mounts didn’t exactly scream

Kicking up clouds of dust along the dry road came four men on two horses. 

Four burly fellows crammed onto two mounts didn’t exactly scream elite. They looked like a classic ragtag crew. 

By the original plot’s design, anyone hunting Chen Mo should have been at least a second-tier mercenary guild. 

After all, this was a bounty from the Zircon family of the Greenspine Kingdom. 

When word reached them via Black Crow Castle’s swift owls that a direct heir was likely killed by an apprentice, with the suspect possibly fleeing to the southern continent, the Zircon patriarch displayed textbook “noble fury”: polite, restrained, with just the right touch of theatrical distress.

With so many heirs, he couldn’t even recall what the one sent to Black Crow Castle looked like. Emotional attachment? Nonexistent. 

But the Zircon family’s honor could not be tarnished. 

Sending family warriors to the southern continent wasn’t practical. A noble’s status carried weight at home, but abroad, it might only earn a better seat at a banquet, nothing more. 

Every noble house boasted ancient lineage, especially these sword-wielding nobles, descendants of those forged in the Hundred Years’ War. Trace their bloodlines, and they were likely all tangled together. 

For such a tricky matter, the Zircon family had a solution: issue a bounty. 

Through official mercenary guild channels? Too slow! Cross-border assassination tasks faced maddening scrutiny. The paperwork was a nightmare, taking months at best, years at worst, especially if someone dragged their feet. 

Take the case of a renegade knight from the Mistmoon Divine Court, now living freely in the Sky Empire. The Sky Empire’s guild kept demanding evidence, dragging the review process for forty-seven years, turning an assassination task into an obituary notice. 

After weighing options, the Zircons opted for underground channels to deal with this “unknown apprentice” swiftly and efficiently. 

Old Luke had shared countless tales of the continent’s quirks and kingdoms with Chen Mo, but he missed one crucial detail: beyond official mercenary guilds, every region had a black market for mercenaries. 

Guild tasks had to comply with local laws, but what about those that didn’t? 

Where there’s demand, there’s a market. What can’t thrive in sunlight festers in shadow. 

Dark desires— theft, robbery, assassination, slaughter—flowed like an underground river, birthing the mercenary black market. 

While Chen Mo gazed at the sea of clouds from the airship, the Zircons’ magical message had already reached Whitestone City. By the time his feet touched southern soil, a team was ready at the outpost, itching to act. 

The Zircons’ plan was near flawless, but the world loves its ironic twists. 

The patriarch had approved a forty-gold-coin bounty, a sum hefty enough to tempt mid-sized guilds, fitting the “posthumous honor” of Little Blondie, the unfortunate nineteenth heir. 

But the task passed through the eldest Zircon son, the future patriarch, who harbored no fondness for any “brother” lower in line. He skimmed thirty coins off the top. “Black Crow said he’s just a pre-apprentice summoning skeleton spearmen. Ten gold’s enough to kill him a hundred times. Why waste more?” 

The head steward relayed to the external affairs manager: “Three gold coins, as decided. Move fast, don’t let the kid slip away.” 

The external affairs manager told the agent: “Sixty silver coins, plenty for a Zircon job. Surely some smart mercenaries will step up.” 

By the time the task hit Whitestone’s underground black market, it was down to twenty silver coins, plus a vague “friendship of the Zircon family.” 

The financial lure was gone, leaving only the Zircons’ noble name. 

Then, curious guilds learned the target—a young necromancer with a skeleton—arrived on an airship chartered by a Cloudmist Domain noble. 

The “Zircon family’s friendship” risked earning the “Emerald Duchy’s displeasure.” Forget it, let someone else chase the pittance. 

In the end, the task fell to the Mountain Vine Squad, a broke, poorly connected adventurer team. 

Their captain was a veteran Copper Crest Swordsman, joined by a newly minted Copper Crest

Scout and two unranked lackeys. They’d set up an ambush on a ridge outside the wasteland, watching as the driver obediently steered the carriage into their planned “slaughter yard.” Spurring their scrawny horses, they charged with menacing bravado. 

At least, that’s how they saw it. 

Rushing into the wilds and spotting the lone carriage, the Mountain Vine captain’s confidence soared. He bellowed, “Little Black Crow brat! Get out here for your granddaddy to see…” His words were cut short as a dark, round object spun through the air, hurtling straight at them. 

A defensive grenade greeted them. 

Don’t be fooled by the terms “offensive” and “defensive.” In combat, defensive grenades are far deadlier. 

Offensive ones, designed for mobility, are thrown while charging, with three hundred fragments and a kill radius of three to four meters. 

Defensive grenades, meant for bunkers or fortifications, are for holding ground. Chen Mo’s was an enhanced version, packed with over sixteen hundred steel balls, with a kill radius double that of an offensive one. Anything within twenty-five meters risked injury. 

Using the carriage for cover, Chen Mo lobbed the 82-2 and ducked behind the vehicle. 

Boom! 

A muffled explosion rocked the wasteland. 

The Mountain Vine Squad had some instincts. As Chen Mo threw the unknown object, the lead rider yanked the reins to veer away. Too late! 

A storm of steel balls erupted in a radial spray, screeching through the air. 

The Copper Crest Swordsman, in front, bore the brunt. He raised a hand to block, but it was futile. The steel balls tore through his thin leather armor, making sickening pfft-pfft sounds. 

His shocked expression barely formed before the blast wave hurled him off his horse like a tattered sack. 

The man behind him got lucky—his captain’s body absorbed most of the blast. Still, several steel balls drilled into his thigh and side. Worse, one pierced his throat, twisting his piercing scream into a brief, eerie “hngh…” before silence. 

The horses took the worst of it. Their pained whinnies drowned in the explosion, both collapsing, their heavy bodies tumbling six or seven meters under momentum. Their bellies and necks were riddled with bleeding holes, hot blood gushing like streams, soaking the dry ground. 

Steel balls, shockwaves, flames, and the crushing fall of the horses—one grenade cleanly felled all four mercenaries. 

Only the Copper Crest Scout reacted swiftly, executing a deft stirrup-hiding maneuver as the grenade flew, narrowly dodging most of the lethal barrage. 

But fate wasn’t kind. The falling horse pinned him down, trapping him. 

The unranked lackey behind, with no Copper Crest to shield him, took a direct hit to the gut. As he was flung, his intestines spilled out, mixed with blood. 

He tried to clutch the wound, but his arms wouldn’t move. His blood-misted eyes brimmed with disbelief. 

Wasn’t this supposed to be a pre-apprentice with no rank? 

Zircon liars! 

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