Chapter 298

“Goddamn bastard, now I’m finally able to move again.”

Rem cursed at someone who wasn’t even there and stood up.

His ribs were still a mess and his ankle was unstable, but—

‘I’m going to kill you no matter what.’

This condition was good enough. It wasn’t like he was going to wrestle him face to face.

More than anything, if he delayed further, that bastard might either die to someone else or kill someone else first.

He didn’t care if the alley cat, the lazy one, the giant, or the beastkin died—but not the Captain.

‘It’d be a waste if he died now.’

A lunatic who dreams of knighthood dying here would be a shame.

There’s fun in watching him rage and struggle. Still is. He’s even curious if that guy will really become a knight.

‘Well, he’s not one to die that easily anyway.’

But the opponent was a bad match. A terrible matchup.

If they fought now, the odds of dying were high. The odds of losing too. That’s why Rem had to be the one to handle it.

Besides, the Madman of Immortality—who refused to age—would surely be wary of him.

‘No way he’ll rampage freely after letting me get away.’

That lingering unease would stop him. If an opening appears, he’d be finished.

Rem looked around.

Thankfully, a good tree caught his eye.

He stripped its bark, rubbed it between both hands, twisted it into strands, and wove them into long cords.

He repeated the process.

When hungry, he caught snakes or badgers. Once, he was lucky enough to run into a bear that hadn’t gone into hibernation yet.

Ferocious to others, but to Rem—

“A special meal.”

It was just good meat and sturdy leather.

Whish—he tossed his only remaining axe into the air, caught it, then hurled it forward.

The axe flew through the air and split the bear’s skull in half.

The bear staggered, then collapsed with a loud thud.

The ground trembled. The thing was almost the size of Audin.

He wanted to skin it and wear the hide, but he didn’t have the strength or time for that. His ribs still ached—this wasn’t the time to waste energy on labor.

So he tore out the bear’s gallbladder while it was still warm, drank its blood, grilled the meat, and ate.

The stench was strong, but what could he do.

He cut some of the hide into squares, layered them two or three times, and poked holes at the corners.

The axe he’d made by cutting down the Centaur leader’s barbed spear came in handy for that.

He left the pointed spearhead on the axehead for its weight and utility.

He used it to pierce the leather and threaded it with the bark cords he made.

He adjusted the ends to a length about as wide as his outstretched arms.

He spun it in the air a few times.

Not bad.

He carried the venom he’d collected from snakes in a makeshift pouch.

He also gathered stones of similar size.

He used bear hide and snake skin to make a shoulder bag that slung diagonally across his body.

‘This is labor. Real labor.’

It’d been a while since he’d sweat this much from work.

Even in winter, sweat dripped from his brow. That’s when he finally sought out a stream.

He hated the cold, but if he didn’t clean himself, he’d get sick. Hygiene was essential.

He built a fire and took a deep breath.

“Hoo, let’s go.”

It was the kind of thing that required resolve. Dipping his toes in the freezing water sent a jolt through his whole body.

‘Fuck, you bastard.’

The more he endured, the more his hatred swelled. He thought of the bastard who drove him this far. That Madman of Immortality.

‘I’ll kill you. Beat you to death like a dog.’

The cold water only deepened his grudge.

He gritted his teeth as he washed, crushed herbs like silkgrass onto his body, then warmed up by the fire.

Chatter-chatter.

His jaw trembled, his teeth clattered.

Even with his unnatural strength, Rem couldn’t resist the cold.

‘Should’ve accepted the rites…’

Moments like this made him regret it.

The cold was unbearable. If he had continued the shaman’s path, this wouldn’t be happening.

Too late now.

He clung to a heat stone as his body dried. Once he wrapped himself in heat-retaining hide again, he finally felt alive.

‘Oh yeah, I’m definitely killing you.’

The grudge was intact—no, it had grown deeper.

Once all his preparations were complete, Rem headed for the main camp.

He wasn’t Ragna. Retracing his steps was nothing. Tracking trails was his specialty.

Eventually, the sounds of battle echoed in the distance.

He judged the distance, scanned the situation, and exited the forest with quick steps toward the battlefield.

The place was swarming with beasts. Red-eyed wolves stared at him.

A few growled and pounced, trying to stir fear.

Their mix of primal ferocity and demonic energy radiated malice with every inch of their being.

Any ordinary person—or even a trained soldier—would’ve flinched.

But not Rem.

“Get lost.”

Rem unleashed his presence. It wasn’t exactly like a Junior Knight’s, but it bore similar weight.

He asserted himself through sheer aura.

A few beasts faltered but didn’t flee.

As he walked, Rem minimized his movements and swung his axe.

Vertical. Horizontal. Diagonal.

Three short swings cut down four beasts. Not three—four.

Two heads had lined up during the second horizontal strike.

After dispatching a few beasts, he spotted his target.

The bastard floating throwing spears in mid-air.

Rem had already figured out that trick.

The spears were connected to threads infused with tension. Something like descending weapons—those weren’t common in the West. He didn’t recognize it at first.

But now that he had, he understood the guy’s personality and fighting style too.

There’s always a reason behind someone’s confidence.

That weapon was both his specialty and his weakness—or so Rem judged.

‘So all you learned on the continent was how to grab?’

The nearly invisible threads made it look like the spears floated.

“Hey!”

Rem called out.

The guy running forward turned his head.

The half-turned head’s eyes widened.

‘This bastard—ran like hell when I chased him, and now he’s walking up to me?’

That’s what his expression said.

“You’re dead.”

Rem declared. The Madman of Immortality gave him a half-old, half-young ridiculous smile.

He had been rushing to save the Wolf Bishop, who looked like he was about to die.

A few cultists near him rushed at Rem.

“Unbeliever!”

“For the Lord!”

Rem’s axe moved again. Two quick swings—two heads flew through the air.

The Madman watched Rem’s movements closely.

No way all his wounds were healed.

Did he sharpen that axe? It’s dangerously sharp.

The Madman halted, still wearing that absurd smile.

Then he turned away.

The Wolf Bishop’s best trait was his tenacity. He wouldn’t die easily.

While the Bishop bought time, he would deal with Rem first. He couldn’t fight with his back open.

Some cultists hesitated.

They realized they couldn’t handle this opponent.

Rem checked his ribs and ankle.

He stomped his toe, rotated it.

Not bad.

“So, you came to die.”

The Madman said.

“Yeah, I came to kill you.”

Rem wasn’t about to lose in words.

—

The Madman floated a spear into the air.

From the side, it looked like magic itself.

Shamanism—called Western magic—required this level to be recognized as a true successor.

Of course—

“Hey, that’s not even a proper descending weapon, is it?”

When you know the trick, it doesn’t look so amazing.

“Lunatic.”

The Madman—Rem’s senior from the West—denied it and hurled a spear.

Even if it’s invisible, if you know the principle, tracking it isn’t hard. Not for Rem.

An unseen thread propelled the spear. It was likely attached to his arm or fingers.

Clang!

Rem deflected it with his axe. His side throbbed.

He crouched like he’d charge, and the Madman pulled out a second spear.

And didn’t stop.

The spears multiplied. From two to three. From three to four.

He released all the spears from his back.

Pretty clever. Sneaky bastard.

Rem added the new pain in his side to the pile of grudges.

That pain? Also his fault.

“Die, half-wit.”

Four spears, the strength of a bear’s arm, the legs of a panther.

Just because he didn’t receive the rites didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize it.

Signs of spirit embodiment. A technique merging shamanism with weapon skills.

“You little shit, hiding back there throwing crap.”

Rem spat both insult and backhanded praise at the technique. The Madman sneered.

Half-wit bastard had no combat sense. Dumb as hell.

Had the West’s warriors fallen so low?

Maybe. He’d killed too many of the good ones before leaving.

And they’d spilled too much blood among themselves.

Regardless—

‘If you wanted to win, you should’ve closed in.’

That’s what he thought.

He’d prepared for this.

Rem had failed to block two spears in their previous fight.

At this range—fifteen paces—his spears could fully demonstrate their power.

The Madman had never lost a fight like this.

Rem slowly shifted his feet. The Madman watched.

A little farther and it’d be even better.

His thread-linked spears reached over twenty paces.

‘Not a descending weapon?’

Idiot. Through experience and training, his spears were sharper than any sacred relic.

The Madman was confident of victory.

His four spears responded to the threads on his fingers.

Twing twing—two hovered to his left and right, the other two flanking his arms.

The spears moved forward and back, seemingly twitching with bloodlust.

‘A half-wit with no magic dares charge me?’

The Madman had spent his life seeking immortality.

He was over a hundred years old.

He had gained much along the way.

Even his beloved weapon came from ancient shamanic rites.

Inscribing spells into the threads was grueling, but—

Look.

It became a weapon no less deadly than any sacred heirloom.

Rem quietly observed.

‘He thinks he’s won.’

He was confident. He believed this distance was his own domain.

“You dumb fuck.”

Rem said, and pulled out a weapon he’d prepared.

No shamanism. No invisible threads. But if raw strength could launch a projectile ten times faster than a thrown spear—this was his range now.

What he pulled out was made of bear hide and bark—called a sling.

Rem pulled a stone from his leather bag, placed it in the sling, and started to spin.

Shoulders, arms, and hands moved in sync. The leather spun above his head.

Whiiiiiirrrrrrr!

The sound tore the air.

Rem had been playing with slings since childhood.

It was a familiar weapon.

He wouldn’t miss.

He aimed, extended his arm. The stone, charged with centrifugal force, shot forth.

Even Rem couldn’t see it clearly.

No one here could.

“Ah!”

The Madman panicked, raised all four spears vertically like a wall.

A moment of sharp instinct.

And he got lucky.

Boom!

The stone smashed into the spears and shattered into dozens of pieces.

Fragments rained down on the thick leather armor.

“You fucking maniac!”

The Madman frantically moved his fingers.

The impact pushed back his spear wall.

A mere rock had displayed power greater than his shamanism.

Was this possible?

No amount of skill or power should make a rock this terrifying.

Unless the user wielded the sling like an extension of their body.

Whiiiiiirrrrrrr!

A second disc whirled above Rem’s head.

“Enjoying the show?”

He said, and the second stone flew.

The Madman ducked. His spears split and hovered low.

Even if you could aim, hitting a crouching target was harder.

He also threw two spearheads in return.

They skimmed the ground—a spear-throwing technique called “Dragonfly Wings.”

Two remained with him for defense.

He valued his life more than anything.

Rem deflected the incoming spears.

This time was different.

With minimal movement, he parried and redirected.

It was close to [Formed Sword Technique].

Still, flowing technique didn’t suit Rem.

“Where’d you learn that cheap trick?”

The Madman muttered.

“There’s someone who keeps deflecting my axe like that.”

Rem was a genius. A technique he’d seen dozens of times—used on him, no less—wasn’t hard to replicate.

He never showed it before because it wasn’t necessary.

This time, it was just for minimal defense.

Four spears would be different, but two? He’d already blocked them once.

They weren’t a threat.

Whiiiiiirrrrrrr!

The third disc spun.

The Madman’s face paled.

No matter how strong the bear, or how fast the panther—nothing was faster or stronger than that stone.

Rem judged the fight from the start.

No point in engaging up close with broken ribs and a twisted ankle.

And his opponent was an idiot.

‘Fucking moron.’

If he’d charged in and risked it all, the outcome might’ve been different.

The bear arms and panther legs of his spirit embodiment were made for that.

But instead, he clung to his life, focused only on defense.

He fought like a shy child.

Hell, even kids back West wouldn’t fight like this.

The Madman, who had lived too long and gained too much, could no longer give anything up.

Victory was decided by mindset.

‘Moron.’

If it were Encrid, he would’ve charged in without hesitation.

But his opponent was a half-wit—a man who forgot how to truly fight.

“A half-wit who doesn’t even know shamanism!”

The Madman roared, but it was fake. It wasn’t anger—it was fear.

Encrid never showed fear. No matter the situation.

He was a pilgrim who walked forward, a wanderer who never stopped, a lunatic searching for a signpost.

“You’re hopeless.”

Rem said. The difference was just too big.

The third stone smashed into the spears again.

The impact sent shards and sleet into the air, forming a strange gray vortex before vanishing.

Whiiiiiirrrrrrr!

A fourth disc spun—but it broke mid-spin.

Rem’s weapon couldn’t withstand his power plus centrifugal force.

It was normal.

The snapped string hung loose, and the Madman’s eyes filled with joy instead of fear.

“Fool! Even a weapon is part of your strength! And you fight with that pathetic toy! Hahaha!”

What?

Rem, unfazed, pulled out a second sling from his coat.

Did he really think Rem hadn’t prepared for that?

His cross-body sling bag was full of rocks.

He had five identical slings tucked away.

‘Still got three left.’

He thought the first would break after two throws.

“Oh? Oh? There’s more?”

The Madman’s eyes shook.

“Idiot.”

Rem sneered at him.