Chapter 297

“I don’t know you, but you know what?”

“Beg forgiveness from the One God, you bitch.”

The Wolf Bishop spoke.

At his gesture, the beast horde stirred.

Flanked by two massive wolves, a dozen wolf beasts raised their heads.

Their yellow eyes gleamed as drool dripped from their jaws. The exposed fangs looked capable of ripping through giant flesh with ease.

Teresa didn’t budge.

She held her shield in her left hand, her right dangling loosely.

“This world has many amusing things.”

Teresa said what she wanted to say.

“Heretic, let’s see how pretty your innards are.”

He, too, said only what he wished.

The Wolf Bishop snorted.

He would tear that heretic apart on the spot.

He would sever her limbs and pull out her organs one by one to show her.

He knew it was possible. He knew the sword called Teresa. He was the one who utilized and wielded her skill.

“I like fighting.”

Fighting like mad.

Behind her mask, her lips curled. A smile—not one for show, but an expression that came naturally.

The Wolf Bishop wasn’t listening to the heretic’s words.

Still, Teresa spoke.

“Have you ever seen a giant fight with joy?”

He had not.

The color in the bishop’s eyes began to turn yellow.

“Rotten bitch.”

He remembered the expressionless Teresa looking up at him from beneath his stomach.

“Don’t expect a painless death.”

“I’ll show you.”

That short sentence shone with resolve.

When did it start—after her hair was cut by Encrid’s sword? Or maybe even before that?

Teresa no longer softened her tone.

But was the man before her someone worthy of respect? Ah, if bastards like him didn’t exist, maybe leaving the cult would’ve been harder.

He made her question life itself.

Had she only met proper people, perhaps she would’ve found faith instead of doubt.

Or maybe she should call him a benefactor?

And if he were a benefactor, then returning the favor with sword and shield seemed fitting.

A blessing, Audin-style.

Brrrrrr.

Beside the Wolf Bishop’s yellow eyes, hair began to sprout from his pores.

The hair was so coarse, even the sound of it piercing through skin came out rough.

“Grrrrgh.”

The bishop groaned. Transformation came with pain. A werewolf with retained intelligence—that was the bishop’s true form.

Coarse fur spread across his body, and his fingernails grew long.

Eight dagger-like claws, four on each hand.

Sharp and hard enough to slice through most forged swords.

Awooooo!

The transformed bishop raised his neck and howled.

The howl of a transformed lycanthrope shook the intestines. It disturbed the heart. It instilled fear.

Teresa was unfazed then, and remained unfazed now.

Even when the bishop undressed or had once tried to strip her, she showed no expression.

She bore no grudge. Not even when he had shown her twisted lust. That was just life back then.

So now?

“This is gonna be fun.”

A rough and hoarse, but pleasant-sounding voice rang out.

She liked fighting Encrid. Even wielding her sword under his command was enjoyable.

Her blood boiled. The giant’s blood surged fiercely through her veins.

‘Ah.’

Some people live for power, money, success, or love.

Teresa had found her reason to live.

That was why she left the cult.

“I was born to fight.”

Even before she finished speaking, two wolf beasts lunged at her simultaneously.

Teresa swung her shield to the left and used her sword pommel in her right like a club, striking to the right.

Smack!

“Hm?”

The bishop noticed something different about Teresa’s movements.

She was faster. Cleaner.

Her forte had always been endurance—fighting with a shield and innate physical toughness.

But now it was different. She had become a new kind of half-giant.

Of course—who had she been with all this time?

“I’ve never fought at full strength before, Bishop.”

Said Teresa, killing the two wolves.

“What the hell are you talking about, you heretic bitch?”

The bishop, even in his werewolf form, spoke clearly.

He charged alongside his wolf beasts.

Teresa grinned and swung her sword.

Fwoooosh!

A gust blew back the charging beast. The pressure came from the broad face of her sword.

In that gap, Teresa raised her shield horizontally and moved. She slammed the ground.

Boom!

The earth cracked. The falling sleet swirled and followed her movement.

As she charged, she angled her shield and swung.

Crack!

The shield edge struck a beast’s skull.

The shattered head slammed into her thigh and fell to the side.

No shock. Her body was practically a weapon.

“Where do you think you’re—!”

In the gap where her shield swung, the bishop stabbed his claws from behind.

The sharp intrusion jolted her spine.

His claws dug into her back. Teresa grounded her foot and twisted her body to swing her sword horizontally.

Fwoosh!

The bishop halted his strike and retreated.

Even in retreat and advance, he showed incredible movement.

But Dunbakel moved with more dynamism. Compared to her, beastkin lacked impact.

His claws lacked the ferocity of Rem’s axe.

His wolves lacked the brutality of Audin’s fists.

“Hahahaha!”

Teresa laughed mid-battle and slammed her sword vertically.

Boom!

Her strike hit the ground, hurling up mud and sleet.

The mixture surged like a wave.

Momentarily blinded, the beasts lost sight of her.

Thud!

Vanished Teresa kicked a beast’s head.

Its head exploded, black blood and brain matter scattering.

“Let’s keep going!”

She broke through and cut down anything in her way—because that was fun.

And fighting for Encrid made it even better.

Teresa followed her instincts.

The bishop realized something was wrong.

He hurriedly called the Dire Wolf, but that one had its own hands full.

“What is this bitch?”

Teresa’s strength wasn’t what he had remembered.

She, too, realized her power had grown.

Most importantly, she felt free.

Fight. Battle.

Devote everything to it.

Because it was pure joy.

Several exchanges passed. The beast numbers fell.

Squish!

The werewolf bishop hurled three beasts and pierced Teresa’s side.

She took the blow cleanly and punched the bishop’s head.

Crack!

He tucked his chin to reduce the impact.

“Fuck.”

Even so, part of his skull collapsed inward.

One eye burst.

Blood flowed freely from Teresa’s side—red human blood.

From the bishop’s head and nose flowed dark, nearly black blood.

The blood of one who had taken in a lycanthrope’s power and become a demon.

“Fine, let’s die together.”

The bishop said.

But deep inside, he clung to hope.

That spellcasting mercenary was approaching from the rear.

He saw something strange. Maybe it was because he lost an eye.

Someone stood behind that man—someone who couldn’t possibly be an ally.

—

‘Man, it’s been a while.’

It had been a long time since Rem had taken a hit like this.

Not even when he killed that noble brat and got chased had he rolled around this much.

Was it because he was with Encrid? Or just that the situation had gone to shit?

‘I just wanted to live quietly.’

Rem truly believed that.

Though no one else did.

For someone hiding to live quietly, he was too loud, too violent, too reckless.

Everyone knew—Encrid and the rest of the platoon—that if Rem didn’t like someone, he’d swing first and ask questions never.

Rem denied it.

Anyway, he slipped into the forest to hide.

He stepped lightly on thick branches, moving with the wind at his back to cover his tracks.

‘Feels like someone’s on my tail.’

He didn’t need to check—he could feel it. His back tingled.

‘Persistent bastard.’

Should he turn around and go all in?

He wanted to.

But what then? This was enemy territory. Could he make it back alive without prep?

Could he win easily? What if he got hurt worse?

Ah, maybe he should just take the hit.

No, he couldn’t. Why let them have the satisfaction?

If he died, that sly alley cat would grin from ear to ear.

The bear would eagerly offer funeral prayers.

The lazy one would probably just sleep it off.

Although lately, that guy wasn’t sleeping—just swinging his sword like a lunatic. Freak.

Before he knew it, Rem had reached deep into the woods.

If he really wanted to escape, he knew no one would catch him.

Not once in his life had he ever been caught—not in deserts, forests, or swamps.

His tribe in the west had a chasing game. One side chased, the other fled.

Rem was never caught.

Even when he grew up and went real hunting, it was the same.

Once, during a tribal war, he had to hide for two weeks straight.

He survived eating grubs, chewing bark.

He ambushed and killed one by one.

They called him “Death’s Shaman.”

Some shaman. He hadn’t even completed his rites properly.

His memories stirred.

The ones he played with.

The ones who followed him around.

The ones who thought they were better.

The one who stabbed him in the back.

The traitor. The fool.

Everything fell apart so fast. He had to let it go.

‘Bastards.’

He remembered the ones who ran from him—and the ones he beat senseless.

Still, his body moved automatically.

He climbed a tall tree, plucked and crushed some leaves, and smeared the greenish sap on himself.

A scent-masking trick.

‘If they’re tracking by magic—’

He couldn’t just run blindly. They wouldn’t be tracking his footprints, but his spirit.

‘Then I just need to run far enough.’

Magical eyes couldn’t see everything. Distance was the answer.

With preparations complete, Rem ran.

Once the distance widened, he dropped to the ground and sprinted.

The forest was familiar.

Once the chase was shaken, the tingling on his neck faded.

If they came again, he’d just run again.

Now that he had some breathing room, he sat by a large tree.

His body was a wreck.

‘Ribs are bruised.’

He didn’t need to touch it—he could feel it.

His ankle was swollen. Not broken, but he wouldn’t be doing anything intense soon.

Still, overexerting a bit was nothing new.

Rem revised his battle plan based on his injuries.

Say what you will—Rem was a genius.

He planned to start his next encounter by throwing a rock at that bastard’s smug face.

‘Haven’t been called a half-wit in a while.’

It wasn’t wrong, but it sure wasn’t pleasant.

He’d never lost even with half a head.

This time was dangerous, though.

Rem scanned his surroundings and moved again.

He walked slowly, carefully, so his body wouldn’t give out.

Time to patch himself up.

While walking, he scraped bark and gathered leaves.

“This fucking hurts.”

He muttered and smeared the crushed leaves onto his wounds.

Mixing silkgrass with citrus-scented herbs stung like hell but helped broken bones.

To cope with the pain, he muttered—

“Boss, how should I handle that guy?”

Encrid replied:
‘Why ask me?’
‘Why not? Why so grumpy? You’re only grumpy to me, huh?’
‘Crazy bastard. Just do your usual.’
‘Then I’ll do just that.’

He’d laugh. And that bastard Encrid would probably smirk back.

Strange guy.

Fun to watch.

If the Madman of Fire came for Encrid, then Rem would help handle it.

Even if some western tribe once put a bounty on him.

Didn’t matter now.

‘The ones who need to die, will die.’

Rem tended to his wounds and built a temporary camp.

He caught a few hibernating snakes, made a fire—snap.

A few flicks of flint, a few puffs, and the flames grew.

He was used to this.

He skinned the snakes, jabbed at the venom sacs with his hatchet, and cut off the heads.

He drank the blood, split the bodies, and roasted them.

“Goddamn cold.”

He hated the cold. His heat-retaining coat was ripped, and cold leaked in.

No matter how much he wrapped himself, he froze. He fucking hated the cold.

Grease dripped from the roasted meat.

He scarfed it down, and using stones, caught a few birds overnight.

He plucked their feathers. Washing them would’ve helped, but he was too lazy to go to the stream, so he tolerated the stink and ate.

Stuffed full, he slept like a rock.

Rem rested for two full days like that—eating well, sleeping in shifts to tend the fire, and letting his body recover.