Let’s Go Together

Carlo and the Dragon’s Journey Together

The mercenary corps, once renowned for their unmatched skill, had foolishly gotten entangled in the political games of the high nobility. Now, they were paying the price for accepting that ill-fated commission.

A man with golden hair that gleamed like molten gold stood in the heart of the battlefield, barely staying upright as he leaned against his sword, struggling for breath. His name was infamous across the continent, not only for his brutal, unmatched swordsmanship, but for the sheer force of his presence. From the moment he’d appeared in the continent’s largest swordsmanship tournament, a man with a face so perfect it seemed sculpted by the gods, the official knights had flooded him with duel requests.

But what truly cemented his notorious reputation was when he flat-out rejected the king’s offer and founded his own mercenary corps. A decision so audacious it would be remembered in the annals of history.

From their very first commission to every mission that followed, the man had never once failed.

Until now.

Beyond the ridge, countless figures were approaching.

The mercenaries, who had just barely fended off the enemy’s previous wave, groaned in despair at the sight. Most of the corps already lay lifeless at their feet. The few remaining, including the commander, were hanging on by a thread.

One member, unable to hold out any longer, staggered before finally collapsing. The Dragon tossed aside the sword he’d been using for support and caught the man in his arms. He, too, was wounded from the battle; a steady stream of blood trickled down his jaw. Drops of it splattered onto the dusty ground. Shaking the man gently, he tried to keep him conscious.

“Stay with me…! Are you alright?”

“…Commander, I… I think this is it for me. I’m sorry I couldn’t see it through to the end.”

The man tried to continue but grimaced in agony as the pain overtook him. A strangled groan escaped his lips. Blood was gushing from the mortal wound in his abdomen, soaking the commander’s hand completely.

“…Let’s meet again in our next life.”

After those final words, the man closed his eyes for good, with the Dragon’s face as the last thing he saw. Around them, the corpses of their comrades had already formed small hills. This was the mercenary corps’ end—punishment for accepting a mission far too dangerous. The commander’s hand, which had been cradling the man’s body, slowly slipped away.

The Dragon stared down at the face of his now-deceased lieutenant. He hadn’t deliberately tried to change the outcome of this hopeless situation. After all, this was a game—his game. One bound by rules he had set for himself. That’s what made it entertaining.

And this was how he intended to end it.

One of the surviving mercenaries managed to push himself up with great effort, his body trembling from exhaustion.

“Goddamn it… This is some bullshit. So we’re just supposed to die here, huh?”

He spat out a string of curses in a thick, gruff voice, his eyes squinting toward the horizon, never blinking. His accent was rough—like an old man grumbling at the world.

The Dragon bowed his head slightly and let out a faint chuckle. He would never hear Banya’s ridiculous way of speaking again.

Dududududu—

A tremor ran through the ground. It was the sound of a stampede—countless hooves pounding the earth in unison.

The approaching silhouettes, once distant, were now drawing close to the shattered mercenary corps. At the head of the force, a standard bearer rode swiftly, raising a banner that fluttered high in the air.

Judging by the color of the flag, it was the enemy’s forces.

“Again, AGAIN! Those damn Ementals! What, do those bastards breed among themselves and multiply like roaches or something?”

Pfft. The commander couldn’t hold back his laughter at Banya’s grumbling and burst out laughing. Blood from a wound sustained during the earlier battle was still trailing down the Dragon’s unnervingly handsome face, dripping along his jaw.

“You can still laugh in a situation like this? Shit. Sure, fighting alongside you’s been a hell of a ride, but I never imagined we’d die like dogs out here.”

Banya slumped comfortably to the ground beside the commander. It was going to be a dog’s death—that much was clear now. Even the wounded who had miraculously survived the prolonged combat finally lost all will to resist the approaching army and sank to the ground, defeated.

“So what the hell is it, anyway? What’s in that cave we’re guarding that’s worth all this bloodshed? Is this how all the big shots on the continent operate?”

Banya gave the commander a slight nudge with his elbow as he asked. His arm was trembling. He was pretending to be calm, but the fear of death was creeping in. The commander didn’t point out the tremor. Instead, the Dragon let out a hearty chuckle and responded.

“…Not even gonna bother with manners now that it’s over, huh?”

He’d foreseen this scene the moment he accepted the commission.

Having lived a long life, the Dragon had quickly pieced together that the request was tied to an act of treason against a kingdom. The suspicious origin of the request, the strange details, and the surrounding circumstances—everything pointed toward it.

Still, he had calmly written a simple letter of acceptance.

In the commander’s office of the mercenary corps, he had already accepted his fate.

The game ended here.

“That cave we’ve been guarding—it’s a dungeon. Apparently, there’s a treasure inside. A treasure said to have the power to change the fate of the continent.”

Banya’s eyes widened in shock. He hadn’t expected the commander to actually answer him. No matter how many times they’d asked before, the man had never given a single word about the truth behind the request.

“What? A treasure?”

All this… over some damned treasure? Banya and the surrounding mercenaries reacted just as any commoners would—with raw disbelief.

“So that’s why the Duke of Emental, the Count, and even the goddamn royal family are losing their minds over this?”

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

Banya looked over at the commander’s side profile, even in the face of impending death at the hands of the knights. He’d always thought the man was disturbingly good-looking, but now there was something different about him.

Even in this situation, his face remained unreadable—so emotionless it was terrifying.

“…Commander.”

At Banya’s call, the commander slowly met his gaze.

“I’ve asked you so many times before… Why tell me now?”

Banya’s suspicion was valid. After years of mercenary life, his instincts were sharp.

The Dragon had gone to great lengths to keep his true identity hidden from Banya all this time.

“Banya… and everyone.”

At last, the Dragon addressed the humans he had spent years fighting alongside.

“You’ve all done well.”

His eyes sparkled as he smiled brightly. The sound of pounding hooves and knights shouting commands echoed—now dangerously close. One of the Emental knights, galloping toward the spot where the mercenary corps had collapsed, lunged his sword straight at the commander.

“Commander!!!”

Banya shouted with every ounce of strength left in him, desperately trying to warn him—but the commander, worn down by relentless battle, couldn’t evade the knight’s blade. The sword of the Emental knight pierced straight through the Dragon’s chest, stabbing deep and emerging out the other side. A spray of crimson blood erupted from the man’s mouth.

And then, the remaining mercenaries were met with the same merciless steel—no hesitation, no mercy.

“Ghhk!! Aagh!”

“Uwaaah!!”

So ended the once-notorious mercenary corps.

The knights didn’t leave until every last mercenary still standing—barely clinging to life—had collapsed atop the piles of corpses already blanketing the hill. The slaughter didn’t take long to finish.

And when the final groans and ragged breaths of the dying had faded from the hilltop, silence fell.

The Emental knights, having utterly annihilated the mercenaries, even took the time for clean-up—delivering final blows to confirm the kills before they left. All that remained where the mercenaries had made their stand was a grotesque landscape of twisted, bloodied bodies.

Some time passed.

Then, amidst that hellish ruin—something moved.

It was a hand. The Gold Dragon’s hand.

He stretched it out slightly, flexing his fingers like someone testing a limb after long disuse. Then, with a sudden motion, he sprang upright. Rising from the blood-soaked earth, he rotated his arm clockwise, casually checking whether his joints were still intact.

Blood was still gushing from the gaping wound in the center of his chest. The Dragon closed his eyes for a brief moment—then slowly opened them again.

His irises, the color of molten gold, gleamed.

He calmly reached toward the deep wound across his chest.

“Recovery.”

The single word slipped from his beautiful lips.

In that instant, dark waves of mana shimmered through the air, rippling with his golden gaze. For a human, it would have been a fatal blow—instant death.

Moments later, the Gold Dragon lifted his hand from the wound.

Not a single trace of injury remained on his chest, as though he had never been harmed at all. Only the bloodstains and the large, torn hole in his clothing served as any evidence of the strike.

Having completed his recovery, the Dragon turned around.

Behind him lay the cave the mercenaries had died protecting.

And beyond that—the direction the Emental knights had taken.