Chapter 297: Teresa and the Bishop
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 297: Teresa and the Bishop
"I don't know who you are, but do you happen to know this?"
"Beg the One God for forgiveness for your sins, bitch," the Wolf Bishop spat.
At his gesture, the pack of demonic beasts surged forward.
Led by two massive wolves on either flank, about a dozen wolf-like demonic beasts thrust their heads forward, yellow eyes gleaming as they salivated. Their bared fangs looked more than capable of tearing through the flesh of a giant.
Teresa didn't budge.
She held her shield firmly in her left hand, while her right arm hung loose and relaxed at her side.
"There truly are many interesting things in this world," Teresa remarked, simply speaking her mind.
"Apostate, apostate... let us see if the color of your entrails is as beautiful as your face."
The Bishop, too, only said what he wanted to say. He snorted in derision.
He would tear this apostate to shreds right here and now. He would sever her limbs and pull out her intestines one by one just to shove them in her face.
The Bishop knew it was possible. He knew the sword that was Teresa. He was the one who had groomed her, employed her, and utilized her skills for the cult.
"I like fighting."
Madly so, at that.
Behind her mask, the corners of her mouth twitched upward. It was a smile—not a performance for anyone else, but a completely natural expression of joy.
The Wolf Bishop paid no heed to the apostate bitch's words.
Even so, Teresa continued.
"Have you ever seen a giant fighting with pure joy?"
He hadn't.
The Wolf Bishop’s eyes slowly began to bleed into a predatory yellow.
"Rotten bitch."
The Bishop remembered Teresa looking up at him with a blank, hollow expression while pinned beneath him in the past.
"Don't expect an easy death."
"I'll show you."
A single short phrase shone with her resolve.
Since when had it been? Was it after Encrid cut her hair, or sometime after that? Teresa no longer spoke with humility.
Was the opponent before her even worthy of respect? If not for bastards like him, it would have been much harder for her to escape the suffocating embrace of the cult. He was the one who had made her feel such profound skepticism toward life.
If there had been even one decent human being around her back then, she might have found faith instead of doubt.
In a way, should she call him a benefactor? If he was a benefactor, she ought to repay him—and she could do just that with her sword and shield.
She only needed to bestow an Audin-style blessing upon him.
Crraaaack!
Coarse fur began to sprout from the pores around the Wolf Bishop’s yellow eyes. The fur was so stiff that the sound of it piercing through his own skin was harsh and grating.
"Groooan..."
The Bishop groaned. Transformation always came with agony. A lycanthrope who retained his reason—that was the Bishop's true identity.
Stiff fur erupted across his entire body, and the claws on both hands elongated into wicked points. Sharp daggers—four on each hand, eight in total—had formed. They were hard, lethal claws capable of shearing through even the finest steel.
Awooooo!
The transformed Bishop threw back his head and unleashed a long, piercing howl. The cry of the lycanthrope reverberated through the gut, shaking the mind and sowing primal terror.
Teresa had been expressionless then, and she was expressionless now. Whether the Bishop was stripping his own clothes or hers, she had never worn any expression.
She held no grudge. She did not even resent him for directing his twisted lust toward her. Back then, that had simply been her life.
But now?
"This is going to be fun."
Her voice rang out—rough and hoarse, yet strangely pleasant.
She loved fighting Encrid. Swinging her sword under his command was equally delightful. Her blood boiled. The blood of a giant surged fiercely through her veins.
Ah.
There are people whose reasons for living are power, money, success, or love. Teresa had finally found her own. That was why she had left the cult.
"I was born to fight."
The moment the words left her mouth, two wolf demonic beasts lunged at her simultaneously from both sides.
Teresa slammed her shield to the left, while to her right, she brought her sword's pommel down like a crushing mace.
Thud! Crash!
"Hmm?"
To the Wolf Bishop, Teresa's movements looked different. They were faster and cleaner than the Teresa he remembered. Originally, her specialty was a defensive battle of endurance—holding her shield and weaponizing her innate physical strength.
Now, she fought differently. She had become a type of half-giant he had never seen before.
It was only natural. Look at who Teresa had been training with all this time.
"I have never fought you with my full strength, Bishop," Teresa said as she slaughtered the two wolves.
"What the fuck are you talking about, you apostate bitch?"
Even in his lycanthrope form, the Bishop's speech remained precise. He lunged forward alongside the remaining beasts.
Teresa grinned and swung her sword.
Whoosh!
A blast of wind pressure erupted, forcing the approaching beasts to recoil. It was the sheer force generated by the thick flat of her blade. Seizing the moment, Teresa held her shield horizontally and charged. She kicked off the ground with explosive power.
Boom!
The earth gouged open. The falling sleet swirled wildly in her wake. Charging forward, she angled her shield and swung it like a guillotine.
Crack!
The edge of the shield smashed into a beast's skull. The creature's head shattered and exploded, its limp body clipping Teresa's thigh before tumbling aside. She felt no impact; her body itself was a deadly weapon.
"Where do you think you're going!"
Taking advantage of the moment she swung her shield, the Bishop thrust his claws at her back. The sensation of a sudden, piercing strike vibrated at the base of her skull.
The Wolf Bishop's claws dug into her back. Teresa dug her foot into the earth to anchor her center of gravity, twisted her torso with violent force, and swung her sword in a massive horizontal arc.
Whoosh!
The Bishop aborted his strike and retreated. Advancing and retreating, the Bishop displayed absurd athletic prowess through his movement alone.
But Dunchabel's movements were far more dynamic. The Bishop lacked the snappy, fluid grace of a true beastman. The ferocity of the claws he swung fell short of Rem's axe. And the savagery of the wolves lunging from the sides paled in comparison to Audin's fists.
"Hahaha!"
In the middle of the carnage, Teresa burst into loud laughter and slammed her sword vertically downward.
Crash!
As the sword struck the ground, dirt sprayed outward, blasting the falling sleet upward. Dust and snow mingled, surging up like a blinding screen. Their vision obscured, the demonic beasts momentarily lost track of her.
Thud!
Vanishing from sight, Teresa reappeared to kick another beast's head clean off. Black blood and brain matter sprayed from the ruptured skull.
"Let's keep going!"
Crushing and cutting down those who stood in her way—there was nothing more thrilling. She especially loved that this was a fight for Encrid.
Teresa followed her instincts.
The Bishop realized something was terribly wrong. He hastily summoned the dire wolves, but they were in no position to help him.
"What is wrong with this bitch?"
Teresa's abilities were far beyond the level he once knew.
Teresa also realized her own growth. Above all, her mind was at peace.
Struggle. Fight. Fight with everything you have. Pour your entire being into the blade. She did so because every single second of it was enjoyable.
After several exchanges, the number of demonic beasts dwindled to almost nothing.
Squelch!
The lycanthropic Bishop threw three demonic beasts forward as a distraction and managed to stab Teresa in the flank. Teresa took the wound without flinching and slammed her fist into the Bishop's head.
Crack!
The Bishop tucked his chin to absorb the impact, but it wasn't enough.
"Fuck..."
A portion of his skull caved inward. One of his eyeballs ruptured.
Teresa also bled profusely from her flank—bright, vibrant red blood. Dark, corrupted blood flowed from the Bishop's head and nose. It was the blood of one who, though born human, had ingested the blood of a lycanthrope to become a majin.
"Fine, let's die together," the Bishop growled.
Even as he spoke, he had a trump card. The mercenary bastard who used sorcery was approaching from behind.
But then he saw one more strange thing. Perhaps it was because one of his eyes had popped, but behind that mercenary, he saw another figure. Someone who looked absolutely nothing like an ally.
* * *
Ah, it's been a while.
It had been a truly long time since Rem had suffered injuries of this caliber. Even when he was on the run after killing a landowner's son, he hadn't pushed his body this hard.
He wondered if it was because he was next to Encrid, or if the surrounding situation had just gone to shit.
And here I was, trying to live a quiet life.
Rem genuinely believed that. Of course, to anyone else, it didn't look that way at all. For someone who claimed to want a quiet life, wasn't he far too violent, loud, and self-indulgent?
Encrid and the rest of the squad knew the truth: he was still the type of guy who would swing his axe the moment he saw someone he didn't like. Rem himself denied it.
At any rate, Rem slipped into the forest to hide. To erase his tracks, he used thick tree branches as stepping stones and moved with his back to the wind, carefully tracking its direction.
I think they're chasing me.
Even without looking, his gut told him. A prickling sensation ran down his spine.
Persistent bastards.
Should he just turn around and fight to the death? If he followed his temper, he would have loved to do just that. But if he beat them to death here, what next? This was enemy territory. Could he even make it back to the main camp alive? Would winning without preparation be easy? Wouldn't he just end up with even worse injuries?
Ah, I don't know. Should I just ram right into them?
No, he couldn't do that. Who would that benefit? If he died, that sly wildcat Dunchabel might wear a broad grin. The Praying Bear Audin would probably happily say a funeral prayer. And the lazybones would probably just sleep his life away.
But that bastard Encrid seemed to be swinging his sword without sleeping lately. A strange man indeed.
As he lost himself in thought, he reached the deep interior of the forest. If he resolved to run, he was confident he wouldn't be caught. Since childhood—whether in the wasteland bordering the desert, the forest, or the swamp—he had never been caught.
In the western tribes, there was a game called 'Chasing the Runner.' It was simple: one side chases, the other runs. Rem had never been caught once. It was the same when he grew older and went on real hunts. There was even a time when a war broke out with a neighboring tribe, and he had to survive in hiding for a fortnight.
What did he do back then? He survived by chewing and swallowing grubs. He survived by gnawing on tree bark. As he survived by hiding and picking them off one by one, he was given the nickname 'Death Sorcerer.'
Sorcerer, my foot. He was a half-baked one at best. He had run away before properly receiving the sorcery transmission.
Remnants of his past resurfaced. The guy he used to run around and play with. The guy who used to follow him around like a puppy for some reason. The bastards who believed they were superior. In the end, the one who stabbed him in the back. The betrayer, and the one who was naively betrayed. The rapidly changing situation, and the things he had to abandon because everything had fallen into disarray.
Those bastards.
Among them, Rem remembered the ones who used to get chased and beaten to a pulp by him.
Even as he reminisced, his body continued its practiced movements. He climbed a massive tree, plucked a few leaves, crushed them, and scattered them. The sticky green liquid coated his body, masking his scent.
If they're tracking me with sorcery...
He couldn't just run away half-heartedly. They wouldn't be tracking physical traces; they would be tracking the resonance of his soul.
In that case, I just need to run until I'm out of sight.
Literally. Just because it was a sorcerous eye didn't mean it could see everything. Once the distance widened, the connection would break.
Now that his preparations to evade human tracking were complete, it was time to shake off the sorcerous eye. Rem moved his feet nimbly. Once he had put enough distance between them, he dropped back to the ground and ran at a full sprint.
The forest was his domain.
And so, he shook off his pursuers. The prickling sensation at the back of his head vanished. If they managed to catch up in the end, he would just run again.
Having earned a brief moment of respite, he sat down on a large tree stump. Only now did he properly examine his body. It was a mess.
A few ribs on my flank are busted, too.
His side was bruised a deep, sickly blue. Even without touching it, he could tell from the pain alone. His ankle was swollen as well. It wasn't broken, but it would be difficult to fight at full strength for a while.
Well, pushing himself was nothing new. The moment Rem confirmed his injuries, he redrew the blueprint of his battle. No matter what anyone said, Rem was a genius in his own right. He planned to start by throwing a stone right into the face of the bastard he was bound to meet again.
It's been a while since I've been called a half-wit.
It wasn't wrong, but it wasn't pleasant to hear. Though, even as a half-wit, I've never lost.
Well, it was dangerous this time, though.
Rem scanned his surroundings and relocated. He walked slowly, his steps calm and measured to ensure he didn't strain his body. For now, it was time to patch up his broken frame. As he walked, he casually scanned the ground, gathering leaves and tearing off pieces of tree bark.
"Hurts. It hurts," he muttered to himself for no reason.
He crushed the leaves and slathered them over his wounds. Mixing Silk Grass with citrus-scented herbs made his skin sting like hell, but it was good for broken bones. To distract himself from the pain, Rem asked inwardly:
"Captain, listen up. What do you think I should do with that bastard?"
Encrid’s voice echoed in his mind.
Why are you asking me that?
I can ask, can't I? Why so prickly? I feel like you're only prickly with me.
Crazy bastard. Just do what you always do.
Well, if you say so.
Rem chuckled to himself. That bastard Captain Encrid would probably smirk back at him if he were here. A fascinating man, truly. An entertaining man to watch.
The Immortal Madman seemed to have come to kill that man, so Rem would have to deal with him as well while he was at it. Moreover, he was a guy whom several western chiefs had put a bounty on in the past. Though it was meaningless now.
Those who are meant to die must die.
Rem tended to his wounds, gathered more leaves, and set up a temporary camp. He searched the surroundings, caught a few hibernating snakes, and built a fire.
Crackle.
He struck his flint a couple of times to catch a spark, then blew gently on it to coax the flame to life. The fire quickly grew into a roaring blaze. It was an incredibly familiar routine.
After skinning the snakes, he held his axe short, using the long spearhead on its tip to puncture and remove the venom sacs before chopping off their heads. He quenched his thirst with the blood, split the bodies lengthwise, skewered them on branches, and roasted them.
"It's freezing."
He hated the cold. The flank of his Thermal Leather was torn, letting the chill seep in. No matter how much he bundled up, he was cold. He absolutely detested it.
Grease dripped from the well-roasted snake meat. He quickly devoured it, and while he was at it, he used his sling to catch a few wild birds. It would have been nice to pluck their feathers and wash them, but going all the way to the stream was too much trouble, so he just endured the gamey smell and roasted them whole.
Having filled his stomach, he slept soundly.
Rem rested fully for two whole days in the exact same manner. Sleeping in shifts to keep the fire going, he warmed his body, ate well, and recovered.