Chapter 285

While Encrid was tearing into the Cult’s forces, Sinar also made her move.

She took twenty of her quickest, most agile subordinates and circled around the battlefield’s outskirts.

Their role was assassination.

The twenty did not engage in the main clash, instead watching the flow and reading the enemy’s structure.

With the keen instincts of an Elf seasoned by hundreds of battles, Sinar listened and sifted through sounds to find her targets.

Thus the first objective was chosen.

“Go.”

The handpicked soldiers followed her.

Sinar’s unit swept around the flank and struck.

“Damn, crazy bastards!”

The enemy responded fiercely, but the twenty held them.

Their combat ability was outstanding, though not beyond the level of frontier garrisons.

But Sinar was different.

As the enemy’s focus was drawn to her soldiers, she leapt, stepping on a soldier’s head.

She soared as if pulled upward, light as if she had wings.

She landed her boot squarely, the blade attached beneath piercing his throat.

Thunk!

As her stepping stone collapsed, she drew her twin leaf-blades.

Ching! The swords gleamed, reflecting light. She stabbed down indiscriminately.

Clang, thud, crack.

One man, lucky enough to have his helmet take the strike, staggered sideways.

Another, luckier still, had the blade glance and immediately thrust his spear upward.

A third, unlucky, had his forehead split open, blood streaming as he toppled.

All in the moment before the first soldier she’d stepped on even hit the ground.

Sinar’s blades slashed across the incoming spear’s shaft, cutting the weapon in half. It became nothing but a stick.

The soldier raised his shield.

Rather than strike it, Sinar stepped onto it and leapt.

She was an arrow loosed for assassination.

Shield, head, shoulder—she hopped across three men and landed before her true target.

The sound she had picked out: a commander. The officer of a sub-unit, the head controlling that line.

“Stop her!”

But his cry was wasted. A blade already punctured his throat.

She twisted her waist, launching a thrust that flicked like a skipping stone—one of her specialties.

The Tarnin viscount’s army held together only because of such commanders scattered throughout.

That day, Sinar cut down three of them.

“Crazy Elf bitch!”

A higher commander watching ground his teeth, though he had already doubled his guard.

A dual strike—this was Krys’ design.

One wing struck supplies, the other commanders.

To inflict the greatest harm on both fronts at once.

Sinar did her part, taking only a few scratches.

‘How is Encrid doing?’

She wiped blood from her blades, thoughts drifting.

A joke had become reality.

‘To think of his face right after battle ends.’

She felt something dull inside her stir, but she smiled.

This too was life, and a form of joy.

That man had a strange charm. Not magic that cast spells, but something that made others watch, support, think of him.

“Withdraw.”

With her task complete, as the noon sun lit the ground, the Elf thought of the human.

It wasn’t mere sentiment between man and woman. It was closer to expectation of what a person might achieve.

‘How far will he go?’

She asked inwardly, knowing there was no answer.

—

‘Relaxation.’

A body always tense becomes stiff, unable to display full skill.

“Muscle growth and stamina are the same. Training alone isn’t enough. Rest is what lets them grow. Only after rest does strength rise.”

That was Audin’s lesson.

Encrid turned it over in his mind, drawing another small insight from battle.

Tension and relaxation.

What if he could ease himself even mid-combat?

He had noticed it in Ragna, in Jaxson.

Jaxson seemed never to use strength outside his swings. Ragna swung tirelessly yet with little strain.

Audin was the same.

Dunbakel and Teresa also bore that habit.

From balancing tension and release came resilience, rhythm.

Rest restored stamina. Rest built strength.

Why not swordsmanship too?

“Rest matters.”

Audin had repeated it often, but now it sank in. A simple phrase, now lodged deep.

He thought, and could immediately act. This battle was a study.

‘What if I go deeper into relaxation?’

Self-observation was second nature to Encrid.

Through it, he recognized—this was the beginning of relaxation.

A gift from the first ability he had gained through repetition.

‘Heart of the Beast.’

That boldness allowed him to ease his breath and muscles even with blades flashing and quarrels aimed at his head.

It was how to endure long fights. To face many with few, one must manage stamina.

Not that Encrid’s stamina wasn’t monstrous already.

Compared to common soldiers, his endurance was beyond words.

But he wasn’t tireless.

In that sense—

‘Rem is fine.’

The thought came naturally.

Who had taught him the Heart of the Beast?

Who spouted nonsense mid-battle best?

That one could be called master of relaxation.

“That’s not mastery of relaxation. He just doesn’t think.”

Encrid spoke, Jaxson replied.

“He’s an idiot.”

Ragna agreed.

“When he hits me, his muscles are full of tension.”

Dunbakel complained. Teresa stayed silent.

Then Audin said:

“Are you worried for our barbarian brother?”

Worried? For Rem? For the gray-haired monster who’d hack apart demons with his axes?

“Me?”

Encrid paused, then asked solemnly—did he really seem worried?

Audin smiled gently.

“When your heart bears sediment, your eyes grow clouded. When worry fills you, your thoughts drift that way. Clear it by fixing wholly on the Lord, praising and glorifying, that you may find peace.”

He quoted scripture. Teresa, beside him, whispered the last words, “Find peace.”

Behind her mask, her expression was hidden, but her eyes suggested thought.

Perhaps facing the Cult again unsettled her.

After all, she was once from there, born and raised.

Her heart might be restless.

Encrid glanced at her, asking himself—was he truly worried?

‘Nonsense.’

Why worry about that madman Rem?

But something nagged him. A faint unease.

‘Why?’

They were already withdrawing. No pursuit. No stray arrows. No casualties.

It had all been swift—raid, strike, burn, retreat.

They hadn’t needed to wait for night; it was done in broad daylight. Fast enough that scouts’ deaths couldn’t even be reported.

So why this unease?

Encrid, used to self-reflection, traced the cause.

‘Too weak.’

The wolf-beasts had been threatening, but—

‘Could the Cult really know nothing of us?’

Impossible.

So why so feeble?

Encrid recalled when Markus had hidden him and his unit.

‘If it looks weak, it means something’s hidden.’

The Cult wasn’t showing all their strength.

Which also meant—

‘The Black Blade Bandits must have something hidden too.’

The conclusion followed naturally. Would Krys not know?

‘No. He knows.’

That was why the plan was as it was.

Bleed the enemy, force them to show their hidden cards, then strike.

That was the essence of this supply-burning strategy.

“Even if you wish him dead, he’ll come back.”

At the word ‘worry,’ Jaxson added. His eyes were detached.

Encrid looked into those red eyes and nodded.

“I know.”

Worry wasn’t needed. Who was there to worry about? The one left behind was Rem the mad barbarian.

—

Rem admitted it—he was excited.

Everything began with awareness.

Admit it, perceive it, and only then could change come.

If one was prone to excitement, one had to know it, to find calm.

“Not all beasts are the same. But those who survive, they all share one trait.”

That was what he had heard when first learning to hunt.

Longer fangs didn’t mean survival.

Sharper claws didn’t either.

Lion of the plains, tiger of the mountains—

What made them endure was knowledge.

And knowing began with oneself.

The length of your claws, the strength of your legs, your stamina.

That was the start.

‘In that sense, the captain is unique.’

He knew himself, knew his limits—but his body hadn’t kept up.

But now it had. His strength had risen to threatening levels.

Watching that growth felt, at times, like luck.

Awareness, change, blood boiling after days of stillness—all mingled.

Rem’s exhilaration rose, and he accepted it openly.

“Stupid mutts.”

The three wolves that came at him were different.

Faster, stronger, sharper.

Not all beasts were equal—some were exceptional.

These three were.

Insanely fast. Insanely cunning.

Rem let one claw graze his side, cutting deep enough to draw blood, just to close the gap.

Then his axe split a skull in half.

Blood and brains sprayed, but he didn’t blink, following through with his other axe to finish the neck.

He flicked the half-shattered head aside, sending it flying.

Another wolf dodged the grisly projectile—but Rem had foreseen that, hurling his axe.

Whirr—thunk!

Spinning like a disc, the axe buried itself deep in the dodger’s skull.

The throw and the wolf’s lunge met as one.

He had anticipated the dodge.

One remained.

Rem grinned wide.

“Monster!”

“Monster bastard!”

“Curse of the Demon Realm upon you! The Master of Beasts shall devour you!”

Cultists nearby shouted frantically.

“What the hell are you saying, you lunatic zealots? Come at me!”

Rem grumbled, shifting his axe to his dominant hand.

“Hey, mutt, aren’t you coming?”

The last wolf crouched low, eyes burning. A cultist hurled a dagger.

Rem tilted his head casually, never taking his eyes off the beast.

The wolf leapt.

No sound of paws on earth. The wind hit his nose first.

It lunged, massive frame swift and fierce, snout aimed at his chest.

Rem swung faster than before, an axe stroke twice as quick.

Whoosh.

Few saw it clearly. His arm and axe blurred from high right to low left.

Until now, he’d swung easy, letting them adjust. But this blow was true.

The wolf couldn’t react. Its neck half-severed, blood gushed.

But its momentum carried it into him.

Rem shoved it aside mid-swing, dodging as its corpse crashed down.

The body blocked the cultists.

Rem, still smiling, addressed them.

“See you again.”

A simple farewell, but to them it was terrifying.

See that monster again?

Rem withdrew, retrieving his axe as he ran.

‘Let’s see…’

A cut on his side, maybe a cracked rib.

He calmly checked himself. No serious wounds. For slaying three beasts that anywhere else would be feared as demons, it was a fair trade.

Some cultists gave chase, half-hearted.

“Want another axe in your face?”

He growled over his shoulder. The words were deadly enough.

Soon he would find Encrid and brag about how he cut down three demonlike beasts.

‘Will he be so shocked he begs another lesson?’

Such idle thoughts crossed his mind—when suddenly his body shifted.

He stopped short, pivoting sideways. His monstrous legs and balance let him pull it off.

A spear slammed into the ground where he’d been.

Thunk!

It buried halfway down, quivering.

He recognized its shape. Familiar—no longer to him, but once.

A javelin favored by the western tribes.

“So, I find my kin here?”

Then a voice followed.

Not in Imperial tongue, but in the language of the West.