Chapter 285: Language of the West
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 285: Language of the West
While Encrid tore through the cultist ranks, Sinar made her move.
Taking only twenty of her swiftest and most agile squad members, she circled the outskirts of the battlefield. Their role was to pick off key targets. Avoiding direct engagement, the group moved like shadows, observing the flow of battle and identifying the enemy's formation.
The keen intuition of an elf who had survived hundreds of battles allowed her to read the rhythm of the fight. Sinar distinguished, separated, and pinpointed the cacophony of sounds reaching her ears.
With a sharp focus, she locked onto her first target.
"Let’s go."
Her handpicked squad followed close behind. They swept around the edge of the battlefield and struck hard from the flank.
"Fuck, these crazy bastards!"
The enemy soldiers retaliated fiercely, but the twenty held their ground. While their combat capabilities were excellent, they were still within ordinary limits—elites, perhaps, but not on the level of the border guards.
But Sinar was different.
While the enemy's attention was fixed on her soldiers, she leaped into the air, stepping onto an enemy soldier's head. She rose as effortlessly as if she were being pulled by invisible strings. It was as if she had wings.
As she used the soldier’s head as a stepping stone, she drove the blade attached to the tip of her boot into his throat.
Thunk!
After puncturing the throat of the man who served as her platform, she drew Naidel.
Clang!
The Leaf Sword revealed itself, its surface reflecting the harsh light. With casual grace, she thrust Naidel downward in a blur of steel.
Clang, thud, thack.
One lucky bastard, whose helmet took the brunt of the blow, stumbled and fell sideways. Another, even luckier as the blade merely glanced off his armor, immediately thrust his short spear upward. The third, cursed by the Goddess of Fortune, had the space between his brows torn open; he collapsed instantly, blood streaming down his face.
All of this happened before the first soldier she had killed even hit the ground.
Sinar drew Naidel back and sliced through the shaft of the incoming short spear. The blade sheared through the wood like paper, leaving the soldier holding nothing but a useless stick. As he desperately raised his shield, Sinar didn't strike it—she stepped on it.
She dashed forward like a sniping arrow.
Stepping on a shield, a head, and then the shoulders of three more men, she landed lightly on the ground. Her target was right before her eyes.
It was the target she had identified by sound: the commander. Specifically, the officer controlling this local unit.
"Block her!"
The commander's cry was hollow. The moment he shouted, Naidel pierced a hole through his throat. It was a strike launched by twisting her waist and snapping her arm from shoulder to fingertips—the Water-skipping Thrust, one of Sinar’s signature techniques.
Officers like these were the reason Viscount Tarnin's forces managed to maintain any semblance of order. Sinar cut down three more such commanders before the day's battle reached its peak.
"That crazy elf bitch!" a higher-ranking commander roared, grinding his teeth as he watched from a distance. He immediately doubled his personal guard.
Simultaneous strikes—this was exactly what Krais had aimed for. One side targeting supplies, the other targeting commanders. He wanted to inflict the maximum possible damage on the enemy forces converging from two directions.
Sinar did her part, sustaining only a few minor scratches.
I wonder if he's doing well.
The thought crossed her mind as she wiped the blood from Naidel. How were Encrid and his squad members faring? Had what started as a joke actually become reality?
To think his face is the first thing that comes to mind the moment the battle ends.
Sinar felt something soften within her, and she smiled. This, too, was a part of life’s pleasures. That man possessed a strange magic. It wasn't a spell or an element, but he had a way of compelling people to watch him, to root for him. Naturally, he stayed on her mind.
"Retreat."
On her way back, under the midday sun beating down on the earth, the elf thought of the human. It wasn't merely romantic attraction; it was closer to anticipation for what a single human could achieve.
How far will you go? the elf asked in her heart. Naturally, there was no answer.
*
Relaxation.
If one is always tense, the body stiffens. A stiff body cannot perform at its best.
"It is the same for muscle growth and stamina. Rest is just as important as mindless training. Only after resting do strength and stamina actually increase."
Those were Audin's words.
Encrid chewed on those words. Through the heat of battle, he had grasped another small clue and reflected on it.
Tension and relaxation.
What if one found moments to loosen the body even in the midst of combat? He had noticed this when watching Ragna, and when watching Sachsen. Sachsen seemed to put absolutely no strength into his body except at the exact moment he swung his sword. Ragna, despite swinging his blade without rest, never seemed to tense up.
Audin was the same. Dunchabel and Teresa had similar habits. It was the elasticity generated by controlling tension and relaxation—the shifts in rhythm.
Strength and stamina are forged in rest. Could swordsmanship not be the same?
"Resting is important."
Even though Audin had said it countless times, it had never fully resonated until now. Only now did that small phrase seep into Encrid's skin and settle deep within his gut. Because he could put it into practice the moment he thought of it, he did so. This battle was his classroom.
What if I deepen this relaxation?
Contemplating and accurately understanding oneself was crucial, and for Encrid, it was as natural as breathing. Through that contemplation, he realized the beginning of relaxation.
It was thanks to the first ability he had acquired through his repetitions.
Beast's Heart.
Boldness allowed him to properly rest his muscles and breath, even when blades clashed and quarrels targeted his head. It was also the key to fighting for long durations. To face many with few, one had to budget their stamina.
Of course, Encrid's stamina was monstrous. Compared to ordinary soldiers, his endurance was on an entirely different level. But that didn't mean he never grew tired.
In that regard...
Rem is fine.
It was a natural train of thought. Who was the one who had taught him the Beast's Heart? And who was the one most prone to spouting nonsense in the middle of battle? Rem could well be called a master of relaxation.
"That's not being a master of relaxation. He's just brainless," Sachsen replied from beside him, as if reading Encrid's thoughts.
"He's just stupid," Ragna chimed in.
"When he was hitting me, his muscles seemed plenty tense," Dunchabel added with a hint of lingering resentment.
Teresa said nothing.
Then Audin spoke up. "Are you worried about our barbarian brother?"
Worried? About Rem? That grey-haired monster? The man who would slice a demon to pieces with his axe and walk away whistling?
"Me?" Encrid asked back seriously. He was genuinely wondering if he looked like the type to worry about someone like Rem.
Audin offered a gentle smile. "If there is resentment in your heart, your eyes will grow dim; if there is worry in your heart, your thoughts will drift in that direction. Therefore, think only of the Lord and erase your resentment, praise and honor only the Lord, and thus find peace in your heart."
Audin recited scripture. Beside him, Teresa murmured the final words, "find peace." Though her face was hidden behind her mask, she seemed lost in thought. Perhaps she felt awkward facing the cultists again. After all, she had been born and raised among them. Her mind could easily be in turmoil.
Encrid glanced at Teresa and reflected on whether he was truly worried.
Not a chance.
Why would he worry about that crazy Rem? Yet, something was bothering him—a subtle, unpleasant feeling.
Why?
They were currently pulling back to the rear. There was no sign of anyone tailing them. No squad members had been hit by stray arrows, and no one was injured. Everything had happened in an instant: ambush, raid, arson, retreat. They had moved in broad daylight under the blazing sun, finishing before news of the enemy scouts' deaths could even spread.
So why was this sense of unease creeping in?
Because he was accustomed to self-contemplation, retracing his steps and analyzing the situation was second nature.
They were too weak.
Normally, dozens of wolf demonic beasts would be threatening enough, but...
Did the cultists really come here without knowing our strength?
That was highly unlikely. Then why did they seem so vulnerable? Encrid recalled when Marcus had hidden him and his company so well.
Making yourself look weak means you have something hidden.
The cultists' forces weren't limited to just this. Which meant...
The Black Sword also has something hidden.
After mulling over the details, it was the only natural conclusion. Did Krais not know this?
No, he knows.
He knew, which was why he had structured the strategy this way—to chip away at what they could and take what they could before the enemy revealed their hidden cards. That was the core of this supply-burning operation.
"He's the kind of guy who would return even if you prayed desperately for him to die," Sachsen added, his red eyes indifferent.
Encrid nodded. "I know."
There was no need to worry. The one left behind was that crazy barbarian, Rem.
*
Rem admitted to himself that he was excited.
Everything begins with awareness. Only by admitting and recognizing can there be change. If one has a hot-tempered personality, they must be aware of it to maintain composure.
"Are all beasts the same? No. But the beasts that survive all share the exact same trait."
Those were words he had heard when he first learned how to hunt. Having longer fangs didn't guarantee survival. Having sharper claws didn't matter either. Whether it was a lion roaming the plains or a tiger ruling the mountains, the reason they survived was because they knew something.
And if one must know, the starting point is oneself—recognizing the length of one's claws, one's leg strength, and one's stamina.
In that sense, the Boss is very unique.
Encrid clearly recognized himself, his level, and what he could do, yet his body hadn't been able to keep up. But not anymore. His skills had improved to a threatening level. Watching that growth was something Rem felt lucky to witness.
Knowledge, change, and the fact that his blood was boiling after staying still for a few days—it was a potent combination. Rem felt a surge of ecstasy. He grasped the situation, recognized his state, and didn't bother to hide it.
"You stupid dog-headed bastards."
The three wolf demonic beasts that lunged at him were different from the ones before. Their speed, strength, and intelligence were on another level. These three were exceptional.
They were fucking fast, and fucking smart.
To slice them down quickly, Rem allowed a claw to gouge a finger-joint-deep wound into his flank. He let the claws graze him. In that split second, his furiously swung axe split the skull of the closest beast in half.
Blood and brain matter splattered, obscuring his vision, but Rem didn't even blink. With his remaining axe, he severed the neck of the split-headed beast. He backhanded the dangling, split skull, sending it flying to the side.
As the skull—now resembling a fully bloomed flower—flew toward it, one of the other beasts dodged. Having anticipated this, Rem immediately threw his axe.
Whoosh, spin!
Spinning so fast it looked like a solid disc, the axe embedded itself deep into the skull of the dodging wolf. It looked as though the axe throw and the beast's dodge had happened at the exact same moment. It was only possible because he had forced the beast to move in that specific direction.
Only one left. Rem curled his lips into a broad grin.
"Monster!"
"You monstrous bastard!"
"Aaaah! Suffer the curse of the Demon Realm! The Master of Demonic Beasts shall personally chew you up and swallow you whole!"
The cultists standing nearby kept shrieking.
"What the hell are you babbling about, you crazy cultist bastards? Just bring it on," Rem grumbled, shifting the axe in his left hand to his right. "Hey, mutt. Aren't you coming?"
The remaining beast lowered its posture, radiating pure murderous intent. Meanwhile, one of the cultists threw a dagger. Without taking his eyes off the wolf, Rem dodged the dagger with a simple tilt of his head.
In that instant, the beast pounced.
There wasn't even the sound of it kicking off the ground. The wind reached his nose first. It flew through the air, incredibly fast and fierce despite its size. Keeping its massive body low, its snout was aimed right at Rem's waist.
Watching the wolf charge, Rem swung his axe twice as fast as he had been swinging it moments ago.
Whoosh.
Few among the onlookers could track the movement. His right arm and axe seemed to vanish, reappearing as they swept from the upper right to the lower left in the blink of an eye. He had purposely swung lazily before to bait them, only to deliver a proper strike now.
The beast couldn't react. Its neck was half-severed mid-charge, spraying a fountain of blood. Its momentum carried it forward, crashing into Rem, but he simply stepped aside and shoved the carcass away.
The heavy thud of the corpse hitting the ground shut the cultists' mouths instantly.
With his smile unchanged, Rem spoke to them. "See you around."
It was a casual greeting, but to the cultists, it sounded chilling. They had to see that again? That monster?
Rem immediately pulled back, retrieving his thrown axe on the way.
Let's see.
A gouge in his flank, and maybe a cracked rib? Rem calmly assessed his condition. It wasn't a major injury—a fair trade for slicing down three monstrous beasts.
A few of the cultists gave chase, but it was half-hearted.
"You want another taste of my axe?" Rem's words as he looked back were enough to make them falter.
Rem intended to catch up with Encrid soon and tell him the story of how he had cleanly chopped down three demon-like beasts. He wondered if the Boss would be so shocked that he'd ask for more training.
In the middle of his idle thoughts, Rem's body suddenly jerked to the side. Stamping his right foot and putting all his weight on his big toe, he braked his forward momentum and pivoted. It was an absurd maneuver, executed with superhuman leg strength and balance. He had veered at a sharp right angle mid-run.
Thud!
A forearm-length javelin slammed into the spot where Rem had been a split second before. Embedded halfway up its shaft, the javelin vibrated violently. No ordinary strength would be able to pull it out.
The shape of the javelin caught Rem's eye. It was a familiar shape—one that used to be very familiar to him in the past. It was a javelin favored by the tribes of the West.
"To think I'd run into a fellow tribesman here."
A voice followed. It wasn't the Imperial tongue, but the Language of the West.