Building An Empire Starting From The Labor Camp In Exile-Chapter 252: Warlord

But of course, not all of their forces entered at once. Atrox forbade it. No way would he allow an unknown force to enter his territory like that. That’s just asking to be stabbed in the back.

Instead, Atrox commanded Pomora’s force from the borderland to swing around to the side of the city where temporary buildings had been erected for the meeting.

There was a reason for Atrox doing that. The knights of the borderland had some kind of aura about them that most people didn’t notice unless they got close.

It was the bloodlust of those who had fought in battles. Fighting monsters, watching your back from monsters, and just trying to survive a ruin had created something in them that no ordinary soldiers had.

And they were never easily intimidated.

That was the reason why Atrox had them as the part of his army that would be available during the time. Eamon hadn’t thought much of it, but Atrox thought differently.

Some might call it a face-slapping contest or dick measuring, but when a man enters the room, he immediately wants to know who the biggest and the roughest is. Not only because they want to measure strength, but because the law of the world demands it. Everyone must know their place. Only then would things run smoothly.

If Atrox was to be the commander, then he should be the commander—no one else.

And that was one of the reasons why Atrox cut off some of Eamon’s power. It was subtle, but it was there. The most important part was that he directly put his army under him and did not change his leading main lieutenant, Patel, to anyone else.

To prove this, he had given orders directly to her only and made the combined forces move on his whims.

The buildings were smaller tents, but the one that housed Atrox was constructed like a great hall with its tent without walls. A throne seat was in the middle, and it was there that Atrox sat. Behind him, on his two sides, stood Tiber and Slya.

In front of him were different chairs. Pomora sat in one, and Eamon sat in another. They were the only two important people in attendance.

Even the borderland army was in their tents—Atrox made it so. It’s not like he was there to blatantly show them off like cuffed monsters.

"Do they know where they are to come to, Chief Eamon?" Atrox asked. He was sitting on his chair with his right hand supporting his chin and his eyes half-closed. He was dressed casually, wearing his fire-resistant black cloth.

"Yes, my lord. There is a guide among them from me that will lead them here."

Atrox nodded and waited. The Black Sun Company had been called immediately after he was done with Eamon, and it had taken them a few days to reach the place.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long before the mercenaries arrived. They didn’t come in their full force, which was expected, but then, Atrox didn’t expect them to come with five flying ships either.

Unlike their own smooth and sleek one that hovered above them, the mercenaries’ ships were bulky and looked old with brown hardened wood. The words of power etched into the body looked as if they might fall off in a storm.

But Atrox watched their approach with narrowed eyes. Those ships might be old, but they were strong and durable, and the company must have hundreds of them to be able to cross the chasms. The only thing that made him less tense was that the ships were made for flying—not fighting.

The five ships stopped some distance away and then slowly began to descend before they touched the ground. Atrox was surprised—this was the first time he had seen a flying ship go down like that.

Isn’t their advantage all about staying above?

Then the five ships opened. The front end of the hull yawned open, and from within, warriors poured out. And they were warriors. For instance, they were naturally far bigger in height and size than the average people Atrox was used to—even their women.

They didn’t wear complete armor. They simply wore what they could put their hands on, but they were neat and organized with it, their hands never far from their weapons.

If Atrox had been hoping for intimidation, then his own fell flat against the Black Sun Company. All of the warriors that came out of the ships—about three dozen—were Errant Knights.

And they dragged out monsters that they quickly mounted. The monsters had long legs with slick short fur and short necks, but their bodies seemed to be hiding a great bulk of fat that was easy to sit on.

...I’m sure there are more in there... and that their leader can’t be the only Master Knight... that’s just what they let people know...

Different speculations ran through his head as Atrox watched them. He easily picked out Vorath. He wasn’t the tallest or the biggest, but he was like a viper among a bed of roses.

The man was covered in a yellow-furred monster’s skin, and his riding monster was the biggest. He didn’t carry any weapons that Atrox could see, but then, he didn’t need to—he was a Master Knight.

His black eyes were ringed with yellow like a hawk, and his black hair had been cut short. He did carry a weapon—a short sword hung by his side.

"Looks like mild trouble. The intentional one," Pomora commented.

Atrox agreed with her. They’d seen the glint of intelligence in the man’s eyes.

Their riding monsters crossed the distance swiftly, and before they knew it, they were close, and Eamon stood up to greet his visitors.

...I should have asked him how they kept up communication and all... how many times have they met in person...

Eamon spread his hands. "Vorath! Welcome to the Hinterlands! Welcome to the Soryu Clan! Welcome to Rikon!"

Their party stopped, and Vorath and some warriors climbed down to walk toward Eamon. Their steps were swift and measured. Vorath’s eyes scanned his surroundings. His gaze reached the hall, and he froze when he saw the throne chair and the man sitting on it.

Only an instant of freezing—but Atrox caught it.

...Just... what is that...?