Chapter 177
“How did that guy usually act?”
When trying to figure someone out, it’s best to ask around in different places. Krys did exactly that.
He started with Deutsch Pullman.
“He was polite. Always acted like the tongue in your mouth, smooth and careful. He never started anything unless he was absolutely sure of it.”
A wasted talent. Before he became a Cultist, people thought highly of him. He had good relationships with everyone, never made enemies, and his greatest strength was his meticulous nature.
“He was devious. Both in his actions and his methods.”
That was Ruagarne’s opinion.
‘Cunning, and never acted without certainty.’
He was the type who never gambled recklessly, never placed a bet without an advantage. He was meticulous, prepared, and careful to a fault.
“He was good at whatever he did, but he took a long time preparing. The boss seemed to like that about him.”
“And in battle formations? He was always in the back? Ah, yeah. Always in the back.”
“Now that you mention it, that’s right.”
After gathering more opinions from the Militia, Krys assembled a mental image.
In his mind, the guy resembled a petty goat.
And now, he had a solid grasp of his habits.
‘Personality-wise, he’s a Sachsen type.’
Sachsen was meticulous and always overprepared, though when he finally decided to act, he did so with conviction.
They were similar in that regard.
Except this Cultist was even dumber—much dumber.
Krys crafted a script.
A script to lure out a cowardly and cunning man.
To be precise, it was a scenario designed to make him lower his guard.
“How about spitting some blood? You can use this.”
He held up a small pouch made from a pig’s bladder. Inside was goat’s blood, pungent and foul-smelling. But it wasn’t for drinking—just for spitting out convincingly.
“Some actual injuries would help too. But you’re a Frok, so a little wound is fine, right?”
“No problem.”
Ruagarne was bold.
She had already lost an arm, after all.
“This would make it more effective. But are you really okay with missing an arm?”
“I’m right-handed.”
…Was that even an answer?
Maybe it was.
Either way, seeing her severed arm would make the Cultist believe in his victory.
Yet despite these injuries, their morale never wavered.
Because of Encrid.
What he had done amidst the horde of monsters had left a mark.
Even Krys had shouted during the fight.
The strategy was built around all of that.
‘This should do it.’
By steering the Cultist’s thoughts in one direction, they could lead him exactly where they wanted.
It was a matter of teaching him a pattern—conditioning him.
‘He doesn’t seem all that smart anyway.’
People have habits.
Hiding at the back was his habit.
Could he abandon that in a crisis?
‘Not a chance.’
For Krys, pinpointing the enemy’s location was the easiest thing in the world.
Then, to further cement the Cultist’s assumptions, he placed Esther next to Encrid, reinforcing the idea that where the panther was, Encrid would be.
Before dawn, they moved Encrid and Ruagarne out—
All before the enemy even noticed.
“Finn, put this on.”
He had Finn dress up, then positioned him on the battlements—a vantage point where enemies would be watching.
Esther was placed beside him.
So when the monsters and Cultists charged in, sensing victory, Krys could already see where the Cultist was hiding.
Tucked away in a perfect vantage point, covered in monster hides or whatever disguise he had prepared.
Reading the enemy’s thoughts and using them to set traps—
It was simple.
At least for Krys, it was. (T/N: Damn. Aside from Enki, Krys is the best supporting character in this arc.)
—
“That big-eyed bastard, he’s quite something. He’s not just a pretty face.”
Ruagarne muttered.
Encrid’s jaw moved slightly in acknowledgment.
Krys had called it perfectly.
When they ambushed the area he had predicted, they found a Cultist draped in hyena skin.
Encrid wiped away the charcoal paint he had mixed with water for disguise.
He also brushed off the fine gray stone dust from his skin.
The dust had been annoyingly dry and irritating the whole time.
“You bastards tricked me!”
Ah.
Such a textbook reaction.
Moments like this always made Encrid want to say something.
His lips itched to deliver the line.
“The idiot is the one who gets fooled.”
The world had become so ruthless and cunning that it was rare to meet someone so predictable anymore.
It was almost refreshing.
“You damned—!”
The Cultist snarled, his eyes turning red with rage.
Several Gnolls near him reacted immediately to his fury—
Turning around and charging at Encrid and Ruagarne.
Gurrkk!
The Cultist’s magic shook their minds.
The Gnolls felt no fear.
They should have fled after witnessing so many of their kind fall to Encrid’s blade.
But instead, they rushed in without hesitation.
Not that Encrid needed to move.
WHIP!
CRACK!
CRASH!
Ruagarne’s whip lashed out.
The metal tip crushed a Gnoll’s skull.
One managed to block with a wooden shield—
A mutated Gnoll.
The whip strike shattered part of the shield, but it still held.
Beyond the shield, a beast with bared fangs glared at them.
Three or four of these mutant Gnolls had closed in around the Cultist, forming a protective line.
Ruagarne puffed out her cheeks in frustration.
“Did you think I’d let you get away twice?”
“You reckless frog! You think I wasn’t prepared this time?!”
The Cultist’s tongue was sharp.
But Encrid’s hand moved faster.
Fwoosh.
A streak of light flew through the air.
Not a Whistle Dagger—so it was slower.
But powered by the Heart of Monstrous Strength, the throwing knife was still fast enough.
It flew straight for the Cultist’s forehead.
And just before it landed—
THUNK!
A mutant Gnoll threw out its left arm, blocking the attack.
The thick hide stopped the blade from piercing through completely.
Without so much as a flinch, the Gnoll pulled the knife from its arm and casually tossed it aside.
Black blood oozed down its fur.
It barely even winced.
Instead, it simply furrowed its brow and locked eyes with Encrid.
‘That reaction speed…’
It wasn’t bad.
No—
It was impressive.
The Gnoll’s yellow eyes stared at Encrid.
And Encrid stared right back.
The Cultist was cowardly, but he wasn’t a fool.
He knew that continuing to control the monsters directly was a waste of effort.
Why waste his own magic?
There was a simpler way.
He would appoint a new leader for the colony.
The previous leader had been a dual-dagger-wielding berserker, but this time, he chose the largest mutated Gnoll among them.
With a dark incantation, the transformation began.
A black haze flickered over the Gnoll’s shoulders.
“The workings of the Cult,” Ruagarne muttered.
She didn’t need to say more. It was a warning to be careful.
Encrid drew his sword.
This time, one sword instead of two.
He gripped it with both hands, holding it upright as he faced his enemy.
The black haze and the Cultist standing behind it came into view.
‘How strong is it?’
At some point, Encrid’s standard for strength had become Rem.
‘Is it like fighting Rem?’
Or—
‘Is this harder than fighting Rem?’
Or perhaps—
‘Would I rather fight Rem than deal with this?’
The conclusion?
‘Not even close.’
Comparing this to Rem felt like an insult to that muscle-brained barbarian.
So—
“Cover me.”
And with that, he charged forward.
The Cultist was confident.
He believed in his summoning magic.
Even as the Gnoll leader charged forward, he had faith.
No matter how strong the enemy was, he had prepared contingencies.
This new leader was one of them.
A wild card, an unexpected asset.
A variable meeting another variable.
And in that moment—
A Frok lunged at him.
The Cultist wanted absolute victory.
He judged that the Frok with one arm was less of a threat than the swordsman now drawing his blade.
‘Sacrifice the flesh—’
To break the bone.
The Cultist acted immediately.
From the tips of his right fingers, a black mass dripped down.
Darker than shadows, denser than tar.
Even just looking at it felt ominous.
“The Warrior’s Arm.”
As he whispered, the mass began to take shape.
A bizarre figure emerged—
Its legs were thin, its arms uneven.
It had no head.
But its right arm was enormous, holding a blunt, jagged blade.
At that moment—
Ruagarne stepped forward and lashed her whip.
SWISH—
The whip sliced through the air, aimed directly at the Cultist’s skull.
“Block it!”
The Cultist roared, eyes bloodshot.
THUNK!
A mutant Gnoll threw itself into the attack, taking the hit.
Ruagarne flicked her wrist.
Her whip coiled and twisted, slithering like a living serpent.
It curved past the dead Gnoll, once again aiming for the Cultist’s head.
The Cultist barely twisted away—but not fast enough.
The whip coiled around his left arm.
CRACK!
The bone shattered.
“Damn frog!”
The Cultist bit his tongue instead of screaming.
A thick stream of blood spilled from his lips.
He used it as payment.
As he chanted, his trapped arm melted into a black liquid.
It dropped to the ground, reshaping itself into a monstrous, four-legged beast.
It was larger than a wolf, its body pulsing with dark energy.
Summoning multiple creatures had taken a toll.
His organs twisted in pain, his stomach churned, and his vision blurred.
Losing his left arm made him bleed profusely.
‘Shit.’
At this rate, he might actually die.
He swallowed his own blood, forcing himself to focus.
Then—he saw it.
And he laughed.
The Frok was busy fighting his hound.
And that strange swordsman, who used odd techniques, was within reach of the Warrior’s Arm.
‘I’ve won.’
The Cultist was certain.
—
Ruagarne wrapped her whip around her wrist, tightening it.
The shorter the whip, the stronger the impact.
Her enemy had been hiding his strength.
His summons were trickier than expected.
They were fast, with razor-sharp fangs.
They had no eyes, yet they dodged effortlessly.
This wasn’t an enemy that could be finished in one strike.
And the Cultist was controlling two creatures at once.
That meant he was above the average Cult Priest in skill.
‘Just hold out.’
That was enough.
Frok drew a prepared weapon.
For a lone traveler, the hardest enemies to fight were spiritual beings.
Ghosts. Phantoms.
The Cultist’s summons were similar.
They weren’t fully material, but rather manifestations of magic.
There were many ways to deal with them.
But Frok preferred a simple approach.
For example—
“Burn.”
She activated a magic tool.
FWOOOSH!
A blue flame engulfed her whip.
A spell meant specifically to burn summoned creatures.
She did not know—
That the Cultist was burning his own lifespan to fuel these summons.
She only assumed he had sent a distraction for Encrid and a difficult enemy for her.
—
Meanwhile—
The Warrior’s Arm rushed toward Encrid.
It was right in front of him.
At that moment—
Encrid moved.
A Gnoll’s club came down toward his head.
He deflected it with his sword, sliding it past.
He slashed forward—
SLASH!
The Gnoll’s abdomen split open.
Its guts spilled out, but the creature ignored the pain.
It swung again.
Encrid dodged.
He bent his knees, his torso tilting forward—
The club barely missed.
With fluid movements—
He sliced behind its knee, cutting the tendons.
Then—
He crossed his left and right foot, stepping behind it—
And cut twice into its calves.
SLAASH! SLAASH!
That was enough.
The Gnoll collapsed onto its knees.
Encrid turned—
And with a rotating slash, he beheaded it.
THUNK!
Its skull flew through the air.
GUH—
It couldn’t even scream before dying.
His movements weren’t completely seamless.
Every action was made in the moment, adjusting to the situation.
Still—
He had used Rem as his reference.
Fighting one-on-one like this was easier than fighting hordes.
The gap in skill was obvious.
And just as he cut through the Gnoll’s leg—
The Cultist’s black construct and its blade were already within reach.
As Encrid severed the Gnoll’s neck, the summoned construct swung its black, featureless blade.
This was the Cultist’s final desperate move—a fatal, last-ditch attack.
The Warrior’s Arm was a one-strike summon.
An invocation meant to kill someone, no matter what.
The moment Encrid spotted the thin-legged creature charging at him, he raised his sword.
The black blade descended, accelerating suddenly.
It was too fast to dodge.
But Encrid had already planned for this.
He had accounted for killing the Gnoll and blocking the attack afterward.
He raised his sword.
Exactly as the Cultist had hoped.
The Warrior’s Arm ignored physical defenses, slashing directly at the essence of its target.
It was a curse meant to deal irreversible damage.
Even as blood leaked from his mouth and arm, the Cultist’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.
‘Die.’
The two swords met.
—
Hmph.
From atop the fortress wall, Esther watched Encrid’s battle.
The Cultist’s spell was clumsy.
But that kind of amateur sorcery could be deadly against someone unprepared.
She couldn’t just let him die knowing that.
She tore a strip of worn leather from her armor, infusing it with her own mana.
A simple substitute.
‘A gift for you, human.’
She embedded a sliver of her mana into his sword, setting up a trigger.
If the enemy used any magic-based tricks, it would respond accordingly.
—
As Encrid swung his sword, he noticed a faint blue glow radiating from it.
Time seemed to slow for a moment.
The glowing blue blade clashed with the black sword, instantly shattering it.
The Warrior’s Arm was cleaved in two, its body splitting apart.
If it had been a human, the cut would have sliced it clean from the chest down.
Encrid felt the sensation of cutting through something solid.
Did that thing actually have flesh?
The sliced construct oozed black smoke, its body writhing briefly before dissipating into nothing.
And when the Cultist saw it, his eyes widened to the brink of tearing apart.
“…What the hell is that?!”
Encrid was honest.
He was just as confused.
Not exactly deep in thought, but for once, he actually paused for a few seconds before speaking.
“I don’t really know.”
At that response, the Cultist’s mind snapped.
He had expected some grand revelation—some hidden power—and all he got was that?!
The sheer mental shock made his vision spin.
His breath caught in his throat.
He had already overexerted himself, and with the sudden stress and panic, his heart seized.
“Ghhk.”
Sometimes, death was just that anticlimactic.
Clutching his chest, he gasped desperately, wheezing as he collapsed forward.
THUD.
His head hit the ground with an ugly sound.
A humiliating death.
And the moment he fell—
The monsters and beasts that had been rampaging suddenly froze.
Their minds cleared, as if a fog had lifted.
And in that instant—
They recognized the man who had been slaughtering them.
With no more mind control, their survival instincts kicked in.
They ran.
In all directions.
The colony was destroyed.
—
Meanwhile, Encrid was still examining his sword.
‘Was this a magic sword all along?’
That would mean the Border Guard’s blacksmith was a magician.
…That didn’t seem likely.
The combination just didn’t fit.
