Chapter 317

               

While Encrid was roasting in pain and repeating yet another day, Dunbakel and Sinar moved swiftly, clashing violently with the pursuing enemy cavalry.
Ragna, thrilled after discovering a breakthrough, was shouting about brown excrement, and Jaxson was busy as well.

‘Hmm.’

It had been a long time since he’d sensed the familiar scent of his profession.
Not that there was an actual smell—Jaxson’s sharp senses overlapped, stimulating his [Sixth Sense], so the scent came as a ‘feeling’, not reality.
Silent footsteps. A blade drawing near.
What he felt through intuition became visible in his mind.

Jaxson slipped out from between the soldiers.
The opposing group recognized him instantly.
They were members of the assassin clan—founders and true masters of the Azpen guild known as [Monteir’s Swamp].
Unlike the figurehead guildmaster, these three were the real thing, assassins confident in their own prowess.

The moment they identified Jaxson, they moved.
‘There’s one clumsy fool there. Let’s kill him and go.’
A mere glance was enough for the three to share their will.

Jaxson deliberately leaked his presence, deliberately made noise, deliberately lured them in.
Yes, this was bait.
He was urging them to kill him.
It was the lure of a fighter who seemed skilled but weaker than they were—a trap wrapped in vulnerability.

‘Three.’

From the faint killing intent chasing him, Jaxson gauged their number.
He moved like a dancer in a seductive tango, slipping out of friendly lines.
The three assassins chasing his trail began their hunt.

Among the soldiers, an old soldier broke formation.
He wore his helmet awkwardly and clutched his spear to his chest before collapsing.
Strangely eye-catching.
He fell noisily—thud, knees first, then “Oof!” escaped his mouth.
Both friend and foe turned their eyes toward him.

Somehow, he was wearing a Border Guard uniform.
Without even looking, Jaxson knew the old soldier had struck the ground with his gloved hand instead of falling naturally.
At the same time, he sensed a blade flying at his back.
A needle-like sword.

Jaxson copied the old soldier’s act, falling forward as if startled.

“Hey!”

He stumbled, tumbling just like a clueless recruit.

“You idiot!”

The friendly commander shouted.
To him, it looked like Jaxson had broken formation and narrowly dodged an enemy ambush.
Naturally, he scolded the soldier who’d strayed.

Jaxson didn’t bother dragging the fight out.
He’d done this kind of battle more times than he could count.

Even as he fell, his silent throwing dagger—a [Whistle Dagger]—was already in flight.

Thuck.

The old soldier raised his hand to his chest.
The dagger had embedded there like a flower pinned to a shirt.

“Blocked it.”

Jaxson muttered casually, half-bent.

The old soldier raised his chin just enough to meet Jaxson’s gaze.
His eyes, indifferent and cold, were surrounded by red with deep maroon pupils at the center.
Just seeing them made the assassin’s skin crawl.

The one whose hand had been pierced gave a signal with his fingers.

[Kill him.]

A command in sign language—an instinctive reaction to the dread crawling down his spine.

The other two moved.
They threw poison-tipped daggers and burst toxic smoke at Jaxson’s feet.

The friendly commander, who had been ready to intervene, froze.
That wasn’t a clumsy recruit—that was Jaxson.
He realized Jaxson had shown his face on purpose, to warn him not to interfere.

Even so, if the man still advanced and died, it would be his own fault.
Jaxson had kept just enough distance to prevent that.

He could have used his allies as shields, but he didn’t.
Even if Encrid, his captain, saw it, he wouldn’t be displeased.
The captain didn’t like those who used comrades as meat shields.

‘You worry about the strangest things.’

Jaxson felt as if the blade in his heart had dulled.
Of course, his technique remained razor-sharp.

Swish! Swish!

The air split as daggers flew and steel wires snapped tight, aiming for his ankles.
Jaxson saw through them all and evaded.

Monstrous reflexes.
Naturally so—he had created both the [Perception of Evasion] and the [Gate of the Sixth Sense].
In terms of pure sensory ability, he was a genius who had surpassed elves through effort alone.

The rest went as expected.
The assassins resisted and tried to flee.
Jaxson chased them down, giving each a second mouth in the throat or planting daggers in their hearts.

Before long, they were far from the battlefield.
No one—enemy or ally—had properly witnessed their duel.
Even if someone had been close, all they’d have seen were flashes slicing the air.

“Damn it… are you a Dagger of Gaor?”

The last enemy, still disguised as an old soldier, gasped as he died.
He looked resentful.

“Would knowing make it easier to die?”

“Bastard…”

Blood streamed from his lips.
If he didn’t pull the dagger from his chest, he might live a few seconds longer—but Jaxson had no reason to let him.

He yanked the dagger out and leapt back.
The assassin spat a hidden needle from his mouth—a last, desperate counter.

The needle cut through the air uselessly.

“You son of a…”

How could he not let his guard down, even for a moment?
No matter how the assassin glared or cursed, Jaxson remained calm.

He watched dispassionately as the trembling man died.
Looking down at his own skin, Jaxson saw black bubbles forming.
Poison.
A deadly toxin—but not fatal to him.
He knew this poison well.

By the time he finished checking the wound, the last assassin was dead.
As always, Jaxson searched the corpse.
Needles, poison powder, smoke bombs—typical assassin tools.

Then he saw it—their tattoo.
A black lily.

One of the marks he’d been pursuing.
He hadn’t expected to find it on an Azpen assassin.

Jaxson stared at it for a moment.
He couldn’t just ignore this.
That meant it was time to leave, even if briefly.

‘Briefly?’

The thought of “coming back” made him feel strange.
When was the last time he’d had a home or resting place to return to?
How absurdly luxurious that sounded.

Still, he found himself determined to return.
He wanted to see what Encrid would do next.
That man… there was something about him that made it impossible to look away.

‘I should tell him before I go.’

A short report about taking temporary leave would suffice.

—

Encrid spent his days eating and sleeping.
He knew better than anyone that when injured and in pain, good food and rest were essential.
And whenever he opened his eyes, he was hungry.

His body, built by the [Isolation Technique], demanded recovery.
It was a powerful demand.
And it all boiled down to one thing—hunger.

He was starving.

“Is there any food?”

That was the first thing he said upon waking.

“Yes, sir! Please wait a moment!”

The medic at his bedside, disciplined and tense, bolted away.
When he returned, he brought a bowl of thin porridge.

“I’ll feed you, sir!”

“No need.”

Both arms were wrapped in bandages, but he could still eat.
He snatched the bowl and spoon, finishing it in seconds.

“You shouldn’t eat so fast.”

“I’m fine.”

Even before mastering the [Isolation Technique], digestion had been his specialty.
If you didn’t eat and rest well, you’d die fast as a mercenary.
No skill, no stamina—that was a death sentence.

And now?
Maybe he could digest dirt if he tried.

“Brother, eating and defecating well is the foundation of life.”

The [Isolation Technique] was a body-forging art.
It built not only muscle but internal balance, teaching how to eat and rest properly.

Encrid ate well and closed his eyes.
He planned to rest completely.

Eat, sleep, repeat—that was his routine.

When he next opened his eyes, Jaxson was there.
His hair was caked with dried blood, his expression grim.
The smell of earth and blood lingered around him.

“Captain, I’ll need to be away for a bit.”

Jaxson spoke.

“If I stop you, you won’t go?”

Encrid asked without blinking.
It was pure curiosity—he normally wouldn’t have asked, but he was half-asleep.

Jaxson’s expression didn’t change.
He’d go regardless.

“Come back.”

Encrid respected it.
His subordinates each had things they couldn’t compromise.
He didn’t know what they were, but he understood their weight.

They were soldiers, yes—but also the people who had carried him this far.
Their skills built the foundation for his own progress.

Meeting Jaxson’s eyes, Encrid added quietly,

“Don’t be late.”

“I’m not bad with directions.”

A humorless answer, but a joke nonetheless.
Neither of them smiled, but it served as farewell.

After a few more words, exhaustion hit him like a wave.

“I’m sleeping.”

“Yes, Captain.”

When he opened his eyes again, Jaxson was gone.

It was dawn again, just like before.
This time, Sinar was holding a spoon.

“Ah.”

The beautiful elf, expressionless, gestured for him to open his mouth.
She wanted to feed him.

“Don’t you have better things to do?”

“My fiancé nearly died. This much is expected.”

Elven humor, again.

Encrid blinked, too tired to argue, and opened his mouth.
The elf really did feed him.

“Should I chew it for you?”

“It’s porridge, not bread.”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

“Your society is… indecent.”

“Is that an insult?”

“No, just an observation.”

“I’m the indecent one. And only with you.”

Encrid still wasn’t used to elven jokes.
This was about as much tolerance as he’d gained.

“Should I prepare you an elven meal next time?”

Sinar said it with a straight face.

“What’s in it?”

He remembered Frok eating bugs.

“A green nutrient porridge full of fine fiber.”

“How’s it taste?”

“Divine.”

“I’ll pass.”

He rather liked the porridge he was eating now—ground meat and onions with a touch of spice.
Whoever made it deserved praise.
It was delicious.

Since returning at dusk, he’d mostly slept.
Half the day gone in rest.
Between naps, he’d seen Jaxson off, eaten porridge, watched Ragna sleep, and heard Dunbakel grumble.

“This battle was boring. I could’ve done better.”

Why was she telling ‘him’ that?
Yes, he knew she was strong.
He’d seen her get pummeled by Rem plenty of times.

“I’ll do better next time.”

Why she kept emphasizing that, he couldn’t tell.

Eat, sleep, rest.
His body demanded recovery, and he listened.

“Is this something you do with such diligence?”

A female soldier asked when he briefly awoke.

Encrid blinked twice and remembered her name.

“Helma.”

Beside her was the battalion’s spice master, his head and shoulder wrapped in bandages.
And another awkward face hovered nearby.

“Why did you hide who you were? You surprised us.”

Helma spoke, and the soldier beside her nodded.

“I—I’ve committed a grave sin!”

The third soldier slammed his forehead into the ground, raising a puff of dust.

“What?”

“I spoke out of turn…”

“Ah, forget it. It’s over. You didn’t even know who I was—it was my deception.”

“N-no, sir!”

So it was him—the loudmouth who’d once said he’d charge ahead if they were going to fight.

Encrid brushed it off and glanced at the bowl beside Helma.
The aroma teased his nose again.
He was hungry.

‘Feels like a beggar god moved into my stomach.’

In truth, it was just his regenerating body demanding energy to heal.
He’d practically become a “god of recovery.”

If Audin saw him now, he’d be proud.

– “Brother, they say the ground hardens after the rain. Once you heal, you’ll be stronger. Should I break your leg for you?”

He would’ve joked like that.

The thought almost made Encrid smile.
His subordinates always pretended to be stoic, yet loved joking around with him.
Rem was the worst offender.

He could almost hear him now.
“Hurts, does it? Mind if I poke it?”

Savage idiot.
Rem took the blame without even being here—probably picking his ear somewhere.

Lost in thought, Encrid blinked as Helma lifted the bowl.

“Would you like some?”

He opened his mouth automatically.
Only after the porridge touched his tongue did he realize—he could feed himself.
Sinar had started a bad habit.

Still, it felt awkward to suddenly insist on doing it himself.
He took one, then another spoonful.
Soft beans and savory meat melted together on his tongue.

“Boiled chicken and beans, sir.”

The wounded cook beside her explained shyly.

“It’s good.”

“Thank you.”

He looked embarrassed but pleased.

“I’d like to feed you too!”

The third soldier blurted out.
Was he insane?

“Are you crazy?”

Helma scolded him instantly.

Good. Well done, Helma.

Encrid’s eyelids grew heavy again.
His body still wanted rest.

“It was an honor.”

Helma said softly as he finished eating.
Encrid only nodded.
Sleep tugged at him.

“I’ll apply for transfer. I want to fight by your side.”

The loudmouth added.
He could do as he pleased.

As he drifted off, he faintly heard Ragna’s voice nearby.

“What, she’s not feeding me?”

Helma replied, “Your arms look fine to me.”

Technically, Encrid’s arms were fine too.
In his dream, he swung a sword with his toes because he had no arms.
A ridiculous dream.

And so he continued to eat, sleep, and heal.

By the next afternoon, Krys arrived with news.

“Azpen’s army is retreating.”

“That’s good news.”

“Maybe. Who knows what tricks they’ll pull next.”

Krys’s face was full of suspicion, like a man looking at someone who owed him money.
Did he think they’d been swindled?
Encrid didn’t ask and went back to sleep.

Two more days of rest passed.
He could finally move.

“Incredible.”

Sinar was genuinely astonished, though her face remained calm as ever.
Still, she was surprised.

How could his body recover so quickly?
A normal person would’ve died from half his wounds.
Was the ointment she’d given him really that miraculous?

She’d heard of divine ointments made from holy water, but her elven concoction contained no divinity.

“Did you secretly take something good while I wasn’t looking?”

“What are you talking about?”

Encrid ignored her nonsense and checked his condition.

‘Let’s see.’

If his usual state was a ten, right now he was about a five.
Not perfect, but good enough to move.

And he was itching to move again.