Chapter 286: The Immortal Madman
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 286: The Immortal Madman
The words had barely left his mouth when a sharp spearhead lunged from above.
It was a vertical thrust. Rem kicked off the ground, throwing himself to the side, but the spear followed him as if it had eyes of its own. It changed direction midair with impossible fluidity.
A Descent Weapon?
Before he could voice his doubt, Rem swung his axes.
He batted the spear shaft away with his right axe and turned his left blade sideways, catching the spearhead against the flat of the metal.
Clang! Crack!
It was a partial success at best. He had blocked the strike, but the impact sent a jolt through his body that snapped his already cracked ribs. On the bright side, he had managed to shatter the spear’s shaft.
I was tricked.
It wasn't a Descent Weapon. Those were legendary relics passed down in the West—completely different from the artifacts found on this continent. A true Descent Weapon wouldn't have snapped so easily.
Rem had struck it with everything he had, hoping to sever the "connection" between the weapon and its master. After all, a Descent Weapon required a constant link to its wielder.
"Impressive that you..."
The word withstood went unsaid. Rem stared at the Westerner who had appeared before him.
"What the hell are you?" Rem asked.
He was stunned. A single exchange was all it took to realize the truth: this man was terrifyingly strong. His power, his speed, and the sheer precision of his technique—this was no mere mercenary.
"We’re standing on a battlefield of life and death. Why bother asking?" the man replied, tapping his shoulder with a distinctive javelin.
He was the picture of casual arrogance. His appearance was striking—clad almost entirely in leather, from his breastplate to the guards protecting his shins, thighs, and arms. His hair was streaked with gray, and his face was a grotesque contradiction: one half was deeply weathered and wrinkled, while the other was as smooth and fair as a child's.
The bastard released the spear he had been tapping against his shoulder. Instead of falling, the weapon hovered in the air at knee height.
What kind of trick is this?
Was it a technique? It didn't feel like a spell or sorcery. It reeked of the occult, yet Rem sensed no mana emanating from the spear itself. It wasn't a Descent Weapon, yet it floated of its own accord.
Hiding his weakness, Rem subtly shifted his left arm to cover his flank. Pain flared through his side, but he had survived far worse.
"Let's make this easy," the man said.
"Go where? Home? Why? You gonna give me a parting gift?" Rem jabbered out of habit, his eyes searching for an opening. Every time he prepared to hurl an axe, his opponent shifted his footing perfectly.
The floating spear was the real problem. It hovered within a fixed radius of the man, ready to strike at a moment's notice.
Where did this freak come from?
Rem’s ribs were already a mess thanks to a trio of wolf demonic beasts he’d just fought. It had been a brutal, exhausting struggle—one that had driven the cultist Wolf Bishop into a literal rage. But the beasts were the least of his worries now.
"I'll start by ripping out your tongue."
Whoosh!
The moment the man spoke, a javelin flew. It didn't come from the floating spear, but from his left hand, which he had hidden behind his back. Rem traced the trajectory and swung. It was a strike Encrid often described as a flash of light.
Clang!
The javelin was deflected with a deafening crash, the shock numbing Rem’s hand. Immediately after, the floating spear lunged.
Rem couldn't wrap his head around how the man was controlling it, but he didn't have time to think. He swung his axes in a desperate rhythm.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Steel met steel, spraying red sparks into the air. The heat was stifling. Sweat poured down Rem’s body, making the heating stone tucked into his shirt feel like an annoyance.
Clang-clang-clang-clang!
The spear retreated and thrust with relentless precision. No matter how many times Rem parried, it returned instantly. By the eightieth exchange, Rem slammed his left foot down, shattering a stone embedded in the earth.
A spray of rock fragments flew forward. A thick chunk of stone momentarily blocked the man's line of sight.
Thud!
The spearhead pierced the stone and snagged. Seizing the split-second opening, Rem used his right axe to knock the spear aside and hurled his left axe with everything he had.
The blade blurred toward the enemy’s head, but instead of splitting his skull, the axe froze in midair, vibrating violently.
"I finally figured out what you're using," Rem said, his breathing heavy.
The opponent tilted his head. "An incomplete one?"
Fair skin, white hair—Rem finally placed the face. He’d suspected it for a while.
"The madman chasing immortality. The ageless lunatic. That’s you, isn't it?"
"Knowing my name won't save your life," the man replied with a gentle, grotesque smile.
Rem recalled the legends he’d heard back in his tribe but pushed them aside.
"An incomplete brat who never learned the arts properly... tell me, how many ribs are broken on your left? Two? Three?"
He was right. Two ribs had snapped when Rem tensed his muscles to endure the last impact. If he hadn't, the bone shards would have punctured his lungs. He also couldn't deny being "incomplete." It was the truth. Rem had adapted his tribe's techniques into his own style, but he had abandoned the core heritage he was meant to inherit.
"You haven't even mastered the basics. You don't even possess an inherited soul."
Hummmmm.
The man pulled a small metal sphere from his shirt. A faint, blue, beast-like aura shimmered around his left arm.
Spirit possession.
With that sorcery, the man’s physical strength would be augmented by the power of a beast. Even a pebble in his hand was now a lethal threat. Rem hesitated. His ribs were broken, his ankle was strained, and he was facing a monster.
Should I go for the kill?
If he threw his life away, he might take the bastard down. But Rem wasn't a man who played by anyone else's rules.
"Hey," Rem called out.
The ageless lunatic—the man who had slaughtered an entire Western tribe and fled with their secrets—looked at him. "What?"
"See you around."
"...What?"
Rem pulled two paper-wrapped spheres from his shirt.
Thwip!
The man threw a javelin, but Rem had already triggered the spheres. They exploded with a sharp pop, instantly filling the area with thick, gray smoke.
Whoosh!
The javelin tore through the haze, but the sound of splintering wood confirmed it had only hit a tree.
"You little rat..."
The Immortal Madman strained his ears, but Rem was a master hunter. He knew how to vanish as well as he knew how to track.
The madman closed his eyes. When he opened them, they glowed with a predatory blue light. Sorcery. His vision pierced through the obstacles, locking onto a trail.
"Try and run."
He took off, his pace every bit as fast as Rem’s.
*
"Is he off playing somewhere again?"
Encrid’s question was mostly to himself. The rest of the company simply nodded.
"He'll crawl back when he's ready, I expect," someone muttered.
Encrid wasn't truly worried. This was Rem, after all—the man whose sheer lunacy had earned them the name "Mad Company."
"Maybe he just went back to his homeland," Sachsen added helpfully. It sounded more like a hope than a theory. The two of them had a famously "affectionate" rivalry.
"Right, nothing to worry about," Encrid said, focused on maintaining his sword.
"...Me? Worrying?" Sachsen’s killing intent flared. He looked ready to gut anyone who agreed with him.
"Haha, our barbarian brother is probably just taking a nap," Audin said, trying to smooth things over.
Encrid ignored the banter. Rem would return when the time was right. He was that kind of man.
Upon returning to the main camp, they learned that Krais’s operation had been a resounding success. Sinar had claimed the heads of four enemy commanders, and the cultists had lost a significant portion of their supplies.
"Rem? Probably off chasing something shiny," Krais remarked. Even the strategist, who usually worried about every possible omen, didn't seem concerned.
Encrid turned his attention back to the war map.
"The enemy?"
"Moving exactly as planned."
They were back in Graham’s tent. The strategic reality was simple: an all-out war against both the Black Sword and the cultists was a losing game. If they exhausted themselves, the neighboring kingdom of Azpen would simply sweep in and finish them off.
They couldn't pull reinforcements from Greenpearl because Azpen was positioned aggressively, waiting for a single moment of weakness.
Krais’s goal was to dismantle the enemy with minimal losses.
"We don't need to kill them all," Krais explained. "We just need to break their morale and force a retreat. We’re buying time while preserving our own strength."
The plan was to strike before the two enemy forces could coordinate, forcing them into one decisive, all-out battle.
"First, we must break the 'blade' the enemy has prepared. That’s your job, Captain," Krais said, looking at Encrid. He knew the enemy would have a trump card specifically for the Mad Company. They had to force the enemy to play it early.
"Second, Viscount Tarnin must die. We need to strip them of their political pretext."
"Third, the moment the battle ends, we race to Greenpearl. We have to finish this before Azpen moves."
Graham sighed. "If this fails, we’re all burying our bones in this dirt."
Krais nodded vaguely, though he had no intention of dying here.
As predicted, the cultists, deprived of their supplies, merged with the Black Sword’s main force. The combined army began its advance across the wide plains. The Border Guard Standing Army marched out to meet them; staying behind the walls would only invite a pincer attack from Azpen.
A biting wind swept across the frozen earth as the two armies faced off under a leaden sky.
"We must win," Krais whispered. He stayed close to the Mad Company, positioned near the center. If things went south, he needed to be near Encrid to make his escape. Encrid knew this, but he didn't mind. It was logical.
We must win.
Encrid chewed on the words. To him, it didn't matter who delivered the killing blow, as long as the victory was absolute.
As he prepared to step forward, a rider from the enemy camp galloped out. The rider threw something into the "no-man's-land" between the armies, just outside bowshot range.
"What now?" Vengeance muttered.
A scout rode out to retrieve the object. When he returned, he handed it to Encrid. It was a familiar weapon—a chipped, battered axe.
"It's the barbarian's keepsake," Ragna said, her voice flat.
"Hmm. I'll dig him a hole later. We can bury the axe in it," Sachsen added.
The soldiers nearby began to whisper.
"What? Is Captain Rem dead?"
"I heard he was burning cultist tents a few days ago..."
"He never came back."
Encrid ignored the stir, examining the axe. The blade was notched and the handle was gouged—the marks of a desperate, violent struggle.
"He's just playing around," Encrid said firmly.
"Or we could just assume he's dead," Dunchabel muttered.
The company’s dark humor was their way of coping, but their eyes remained fixed on the horizon. On one side stood the wolf demonic beasts; on the other, the ranks of the Black Sword.
Viscount Tarnin, looking ridiculous in oversized chainmail, rode to the front and bellowed, "I shall personally take the heads of these rebels and present them to the King! Strike down the traitors who dare plot against the crown!"
His voice, amplified by a magic artifact, echoed across the plains.
Krais watched the display with pure contempt. "That absolute idiot."